𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡. — !ex cl16, mv3+kelly piquet
charles leclerc x !ex antonelli popstar reader
max verstappen x !antonelli popstar reader x kelly piquet
love doesn’t break loudly. it cracks in private—through reassurances you cling to, a knock at the door that steals the air from your lungs, a future that suddenly isn’t yours anymore. the world keeps cheering while you learn how to bleed quietly. so you survive the only way you know how. you show up for your brother, for the rookies who look at you like home. you turn your heartbreak into music and let millions hear what he did to you. and somewhere between monaco nights and sleepless mornings, between people who watch you fall and people who refuse to let you, you find unexpected hands reaching for yours—steady, familiar, impossible to ignore. this isn’t just heartbreak. it’s the moment you flip the switch—and everything changes.
fc : luvstruck on ig (++ a few pictures of madison beer) (a/n) : omg the other day i was listening to my 21st century blues and so many ideas came to me! i fucking love raye UGH!!!!!!! warnings of infidelity, drinking, d*ug use, foul language, charles being horrible, etc etc. also someone asked for more max kelly poly and i will always come through!
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
yourusername
liked by charles_leclerc, kimi.antonelli, olliebearman, franciscagomes and 4,500,000 others.
yourusername : ⭐️🍒💋🪽
tagged : charles_leclerc
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charles_leclerc : ❤️❤️❤️ ma femme. always so proud of you.
liked by yourusername and kimi.antonelli
↳ yourusername : love you forever ♾️
liked by charles_leclerc
kimi.antonelli : THAT'S MY SISTER!!!!! (you wouldn't know because she is supporting the WRONG team)
liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and olliebearman
↳ yourusername : talk about overdramatic omg 🙄 you act like you aren't all over my ig
liked by kimi.antonelli and olliebearman
↳ kimi.antonelli : dove pensi che l'abbia imparato? (where do you think i learned that?)
liked by olliebearman and yourusername
↳ yourusername : 🤷🏻♀️
liked by kimi.antonelli and olliebearman
kellypiquet : stunner 🤍
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : miss you dearly 🪽
liked by kellypiquet
franciscagomes : absolutely obsessed 🩵
liked by yourusername
georgerussell63 : TRAITOR!!!!!! do not step on my side of the garage wearing that
liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc and kimi.antonelli
↳ yourusername : ahhh kimi got it from you
liked by georgerussell63 and kimi.antonelli
olliebearman : mother is feeding us again
liked by yourusername, isackhadjar and gabrielbortoleto_
↳ kimi.antonelli : pls stop inflating her ego even more
liked by yourusername, isackhadjar, olliebearman
↳ isackhadjar : you're just mad that she is the cooler sibling
liked by yourusername, kimi.antonelli and olliebearman
↳ yourusername : actually maggie beats us both
liked by kimi.antonelli and olliebearman
↳ kimi.antonelli : truth
babickovaeli : the most beautiful 🤩 😻
liked by yourusername
username005 : her and charles r my reason for believing in love
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You learn, very early on, how to exist in still photographs. How to angle your chin just enough that the light kisses your cheekbone. How to lean into Charles’s shoulder like it’s muscle memory and not a decision. How to smile softly instead of wide, because wide smiles are for people who are trying too hard.
With Charles, you never try. Vogue calls it effortless. The internet calls it soulmates. Ferrari’s PR team calls it gold.
The cover comes out on a Thursday. Black and white. You’re seated, long legs folded beneath you, silk slipping off one shoulder. Charles stands behind you, hands resting on the back of the chair like he belongs there—like he always has. The headline is something vague and romantic. Love at full speed. Something about balance. Something about fate.
Kimi texts you before it even hits your own phone.
why do you look like that
be normal please
also charles looks like he’s in love with you (gross)
You laugh out loud, curled into the corner of the couch in Charles’s Monaco apartment, feet tucked under his thigh. He’s scrolling through the comments already, thumb moving absently while his other hand rests on your knee.
“What?” he asks, smiling without looking.
“My brother is being annoying,” you say fondly.
“He adores me,” Charles replies easily.
“He tolerates you,” you correct, leaning in to kiss his jaw.
He turns his head just enough that your lips catch the corner of his mouth instead, and he laughs—soft, breathy, entirely unguarded. The sound still does something to you, even after all this time. Still makes your chest ache in that good, dangerous way.
At the track, you are untouchable.
You walk the paddock hand in hand, his fingers threaded through yours like a habit he doesn’t think about anymore. Ferrari red everywhere—your jacket with his number stitched into the sleeve, his hand warm at the small of your back when people stop you to talk. Cameras follow, always. You pretend not to notice.
Kimi trails behind you like a shadow, sunglasses too big for his face, trying very hard to look unbothered while absolutely basking in it. Sometimes Charles drapes an arm around his shoulders too, pulling him in like family, and Kimi pretends not to like it while leaning closer anyway.
With Kimi, comes the rookies. Naturally.
You take them out after the race—no team polos, no cameras, just a quiet restaurant tucked away from the marina. Charles orders for the table like he always does, knows everyone’s preferences by heart. You sit beside him, thigh pressed to his, his knee nudging yours whenever he laughs.
Isack argues with the waiter about wine pairings he doesn’t understand. Ollie steals bread off everyone’s plates and grins like he’s gotten away with something. Gabriel listens more than he talks, eyes bright, taking everything in.
“They are so spoiled,” Charles murmurs to you at one point, watching you reach across the table to fix Kimi’s collar without thinking.
“They’re kids,” you say. “Someone has to.”
He looks at you like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.
The night is easy. Loud. Warm. Wine stained and golden. Charles kisses your temple when you stand, pulls your chair out without being asked, keeps his hand on your lower back like a promise.
When you get home, he doesn’t rush you. You change into his hoodie—one of many that have become yours—and curl into his side on the couch while he watches race replays he’s already seen a dozen times. He presses a kiss to your hair, breathes you in.
“This,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “This is everything.”
You believe him. You believe him because there has never been a reason not to.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
f1gossipgirls
1,250,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : charles caught cheating AGAIN? rumors are spreading after charles leclerc was seen with a mystery girl a few weeks ago that was most definitely not his fiancée, yn antonelli. the two have been together for over 3 years and just recently got engaged in the last year. however, with charles' track record, we wouldn't be shocked if this is true. 👀 stay tuned!
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The rumors start small. A blind item. A tweet. A comment buried three replies deep under a photo of you smiling in the paddock. Someone suggests something careless, something ugly. You don’t see it at first—your fans are ruthless, protective, fast.
By the time it reaches you, Charles already knows.
“They’re nothing,” he says immediately, phone in his hand, expression calm. Too calm, you might realize later. “People talk.”
You nod. Of course they do. They always have.
“Look at me,” he says, turning your chin gently until you meet his eyes. “You know me.”
“I do,” you say, without hesitation.
He smiles then, relieved, kisses you slow and sure like he’s sealing something. You melt into it because you want to. Because loving him has always felt like stepping into warm water.
Over the next few days, the noise grows louder.
Paparazzi shots you don’t recognize. Anonymous accounts claiming things they can’t prove. Your name trending next to his in ways that feel wrong.
Charles never falters.
He calls you between meetings. Sends you photos of his espresso like he always does. Texts you goodnight even when he’s exhausted. When you ask—carefully, quietly—he answers without defensiveness.
“One time,” he says gently, shaking his head. “I didn’t even speak to her. They’re lying.”
You want to believe him so badly it almost hurts.
So you do.
You hold onto the way he reaches for you in his sleep. The way he still kisses your knuckles absentmindedly. The way he talks about the future like it’s a given—tours, albums, houses you joke about buying someday.
When he leaves for the Ferrari event, he kisses you longer than usual in the doorway.
“Don’t let the internet get in your head,” he says softly.
“I won’t,” you promise.
You mean it.
Three days later, someone knocks on the door.
It’s late afternoon. The light in the apartment is soft, diffused, catching on the edges of everything Charles owns—and everything you thought you shared.
She’s younger than you expect. Nervous. Hands clasped tight like she’s holding herself together.
“Is Charles here?” she asks.
“No,” you reply easily. Calmly. “He’s away.”
Her face falls. Just a fraction.
“Oh,” she says. Then, after a beat, “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Something inside you tilts.
You don’t raise your voice. You don’t cry. You don’t ask the question you already know the answer to.
Instead, you step aside.
“Come in,” you say.
You sit across from her at the kitchen island, legs crossed, posture perfect. She tells you her name—Valentina. She tells you she’s been trying to reach him. That she didn’t know about you at first. That she wouldn’t have come if she had another choice.
When she says the word pregnant, your stomach drops so hard you think you might be sick.
You don’t let it show.
You ask questions like you’re conducting an interview. Dates. Timelines. Certainty. You nod. You listen. You don’t interrupt.
When she finishes, you take a breath.
“Thank you for telling me,” you say calmly. “He’ll be back next week.”
She looks at you like she expects anger. Tears. Something loud.
You give her none of it.
“Come back then,” you add. “We’ll talk together.”
She nods, stunned.
When the door closes behind her, you stand very still in the quiet apartment. Your world hasn’t shattered yet. It’s just… shifted. And somewhere deep inside, something you loved without question has started to crack.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You become very good at pretending. It’s not hard, at first. You’ve been performing your whole life—on stages, in interviews, in love. You know how to keep your voice even, how to laugh at the right moments, how to answer I miss you with I miss you too and mean it just enough to survive.
You call him like you always do.
You text him updates you don’t need to share—what you ate, a lyric you scribbled down, a photo of the view from the balcony at sunset. You see him like a picture of yourself in public, engagement ring catching the light.
You don’t take it off. You tell yourself it’s strategy. Control. You tell yourself it’s so he won’t suspect a thing. But sometimes, when you catch the diamond in the mirror, you swear it burns.
To keep from unraveling, you work.
You lock yourself in the studio and pour everything you’re not allowed to feel into sound. You don’t write about him—not directly. Not yet. You write around the ache, around the rage, around the nausea that still hits you out of nowhere. You layer vocals until your throat hurts. You stay busy so you don’t have to think about the way your life split open the moment a stranger said pregnant in your kitchen.
When Charles tells you he’s flying home on Friday, you say, “I can’t wait.”
And you almost mean it—because at least then this waiting will end.
Valentina arrives right on time. She looks smaller in your living room than she did at the door days ago. Nervous again. You thank her for coming, offer her water, gesture for her to sit. The two of you wait together, side by side on the couch, an almost unbearable quiet filling the space between you.
When the door opens, Charles is already smiling.
He drops his bag, steps toward you out of habit, leaning in for the kiss he’s greeted you with a thousand times—
And stops. He sees her first. Then he sees you. Then he sees the ring. It’s on the coffee table. Placed there carefully. Intentionally. A small, glittering thing that once meant everything.
“—what is this?” he asks, voice thin.
You don’t stand. You don’t rush. You don’t soften your expression.
“Sit down,” you say.
He doesn’t want to. You can see it all over him—the panic, the denial, the instinct to charm his way out. But he does it anyway. Because something in your voice tells him this isn’t a conversation he gets to control.
You ask questions calmly. Methodically.
When did it happen? How long did you know her? How many times?
You look at Valentina when you speak to her. You look at Charles when you need confirmation. You don’t accuse. You don’t insult. You take notes in your head like you’re preparing a statement. When he finally says it—quiet, rushed, desperate—
“It was one time.”
You laugh. It slips out of you before you can stop it. A short, disbelieving sound. Almost amused. That laugh will follow him for the rest of his life.
“One time,” you repeat, shaking your head slightly. “That’s what you’re going with?”
He reaches for you then, finally losing his composure.
“Please,” he says. “I made a mistake.”
You stand.
“Get out,” you say, flatly.
“What?” he breathes.
“This conversation is over,” you tell them both. “You,”—you nod at Valentina—“thank you for telling me. He’ll contact you.”
Then you look at him.
“You,” you say quietly, “need to leave.”
“This is my apartment,” he says weakly.
You smile. Not kindly.
“Not tonight.”
You walk away before he can stop you. Down the hall. Into the bedroom. You shut the door and lock it, your hands shaking for the first time all day.
The moment you slide down against it, the sound rips out of you.
He’s at the door immediately.
“Please,” he says, voice breaking. “Let me explain. I can fix this.”
You scream for him to leave. You scream until your throat burns, until your chest hurts, until he finally goes quiet.
When the apartment is empty, you lose control.
You throw things. Pillows, books, clothes. You rip hangers from the closet and sob into the mess. You collapse onto the bed and cry until your body aches, until your face is wet and unrecognizable, until the room feels too big to breathe in.
Your phone buzzes. A text from Kimi. Something stupid. A joke. A picture of his dinner. Oblivious.
Your hands shake so badly you almost drop the phone. You scroll. You hit your mother’s name. She answers on the second ring. You don’t say hello. You just break.
The words pour out of you between gasps—rumors, lies, the door, the pregnancy, the ring on the table. You don’t filter. You don’t protect anyone. You tell her everything.
She talks you down with the steadiness only a mother has. Tells you to breathe. Tells you this isn’t your fault. Tells you to come home.
“I can’t,” you say hoarsely. “I just— I need space.”
She pauses, then agrees. Asks you to promise to check in. To not disappear completely.
You promise.
That night, you don’t sleep.
You pack. You write. You drink too much. You do things you know you shouldn’t. You leave behind anything that feels like him. You move quietly, like you’re already a ghost.
Before the sun comes up, you’re gone. You go somewhere very few people know about. Somewhere safe. Somewhere empty.
Your phone lights up constantly. You don’t answer. Except for Kimi.
When he finally calls, you pick up. He hears it immediately.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
You swallow.
“Nothing,” you lie gently. “Just… a rough spot.”
He doesn’t push. He trusts you. Always has.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I’m here.”
After the call ends, you open your laptop. You finish the song. The one you’ve been circling for days. And for the first time since everything shattered, you are able to hear the truth.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
yourusername
liked by kimi.antonelli, olliebearman, isackhadjar, lando, charles_leclerc and 7,777,000 others.
yourusername : once you see my black mascara, run from you into my mama's hands, you selfish man.
black mascara out everywhere. more to come. xx
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˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Isack sees it first. He’s scrolling through his phone half asleep, feet kicked up on a chair in the hotel dining room, when your name pops up on Instagram. No warning. No countdown. Just a still frame— red, mascara already smudged beneath your eyes, mouth parted like you’ve just finished crying.
black mascara out everywhere. more to come. xx
He sits up straighter.
“Kimi,” he says slowly. “Your sister dropped.”
Kimi looks up from his coffee. “Dropped what?”
They listen together.
All of them do—Isack, Ollie, Gabriel—crowded around a phone that suddenly feels too small to hold what’s coming out of it. The first verse plays, your voice low and cracked in a way Kimi has never heard before.
Once you see my black mascara Run from you into my mama’s hands—
Kimi’s jaw tightens.
By the time the chorus hits, no one is pretending this is just another breakup song. This isn’t clever. This isn’t vague. This is a confession dressed up in couture and bloodied eyeliner.
You selfish man. You’d understand.
Kimi feels sick.
The visuals start circulating next—screenshots, clips, people dissecting every line. You in black designer, bags under your eyes unapologetic. You alone. You breaking.
He tries to call you immediately. No answer. He texts. Nothing. Then the photos start appearing.
Paris, first. You stumbling out of a club at three in the morning, sunglasses on despite the darkness, mascara streaked, dress clinging to you like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. London. Laughing too loud. Head thrown back. Someone’s hand at your waist that isn’t familiar. Monaco. Red heels in the early morning light. Your hair wild. Your eyes empty.
You’re everywhere and nowhere all at once—moving so fast no one can catch you.
The internet calls it iconic. Kimi calls it terrifying. Seeing the one person who had always been strong for him, cracking at the seams in front of the entire world.
At the track, he doesn’t look at Charles. Not once.
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t yell. He simply… removes him from his world. Walks past him like he’s invisible. Laughs with the rest of the drivers, answers questions, does his job—and never acknowledges the man who used to feel like family.
Charles hears the song alone.
He listens in his car, parked somewhere quiet, hands frozen on the steering wheel. Every lyric lands like a blow.
You made your bed. Lied your lies. And fucked my mind up.
He turns it off halfway through, chest tight, regret blooming so violently it almost knocks the air out of him. He didn’t know it could feel like this—to hear himself reflected back in your pain.
He tries to call you. You don’t answer.
Days later, Kimi finally gets through. Your voice is hoarse when you pick up, like you haven’t slept in weeks.
“Hey,” you say, too casually.
“Hey,” he replies, swallowing hard. “You okay?”
You pause. Just long enough that he knows the answer.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t call you out. Instead, he says softly, “You don’t have to come this weekend. If it’s too much.”
“No,” you say immediately. Too quickly. “Nothing will keep me from supporting you.”
When you show up to the paddock, the air shifts.
You’re dressed in black from head to toe. Tailored. Sharp. Sunglasses oversized, hiding whatever’s left of your eyes. You walk like you’re made of glass and steel all at once.
Kimi feels relief and heartbreak in equal measure. The rookies notice too.
Isack snaps when a journalist asks about Charles, his voice cold. “Ask him,” he says. “Not her.”
Charles tries to catch your eye. Tries to speak to you. Tries to apologize again and again in the quiet spaces between chaos.
You don’t look at him. Not once.
You catch Kelly’s eye across the paddock. She doesn’t approach. She doesn’t intrude. She just watches you carefully, like someone who knows what it looks like when a woman is drowning in plain sight.
That night, you sit on the bed in Kimi’s hotel room like you always have.
He watches you work—headphones on, laptop balanced on your knees, fingers moving like muscle memory. He listens to demos you’ve never played for anyone else. Dark. Heavy. Honest.
Finally, he asks, “What actually happened?”
You stop. Take a breath. And then you tell him. Not the PR version. Not the softened version. The truth. The constant lies. The girl. The pregnancy. Your diamond ring left on the table.
Kimi doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t rage. He just listens, eyes shiny, hands clenched tight in the sheets beside you.
When you finish, he pulls you into him like he did when you were kids. Like he still needs you to be his big sister—but right now, you need him more.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should’ve known.”
“You couldn’t,” you say quietly. “I didn’t want to.”
He stays with you until you fall asleep sitting upright, your head on his shoulder.
The weeks after blur together. You’re a headline. A wreck. A spectacle. Heartbroken popstar spirals. Iconic post breakup era. She’s never looked better. Inside, you’re hollow.
At the event, the lights are too bright. The music too loud. You’re drunk, high, gone in the way only people who don’t want to feel anymore can be.
Kelly sees you immediately. Not as a wag. Not as gossip. As a woman who’s been here before.
She doesn’t judge you. Not once. She doesn’t ask questions. She just takes your arm gently, steers you out, gets you home.
She tucks you into a guest bed like you’re something precious. Fragile. You don’t remember any of it. But for the first time in weeks, you sleep.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You wake up slowly. Not with a headache. Not with panic. Just… awareness. The room is unfamiliar but calm—neutral colors, clean lines, the faint smell of coffee and something citrusy. Sunlight filters in through sheer curtains, landing gently across the bed like it’s afraid to touch you too hard.
You sit up, disoriented. For a moment, you can’t remember how you got here. Then the door opens. It’s Max.
He freezes when he sees you awake, clearly unsure if this is the right moment—or if there ever is one. He’s dressed casually, hair still damp, hands awkwardly shoved into his pockets.
“Hey,” he says softly. Not surprised. Not judgmental. Just there.
Your throat tightens.
“Kelly’s out for a bit,” he adds quickly, like he doesn’t want you to think you’ve been abandoned. “She… wanted you to sleep.”
You nod. Your body feels heavy, like gravity has been turned up.
“I can make coffee,” he offers. “Or tea. Or—uh—toast?”
The way he lists options like he’s afraid to choose wrong nearly breaks you.
“Coffee’s fine,” you murmur.
He nods and disappears without another word.
He doesn’t try to fill the silence. Doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t ask if you remember. He just sets a mug down near you, adds a small plate with fruit and toast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You sip. It grounds you.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “And… thank Kelly. For me.”
He hesitates as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, reaching for your shoes.
As you head toward the door, he clears his throat.
“Hey.”
You turn.
“Just—” He pauses, searching for words. “Keep yourself safe, yeah?”
You swallow.
“And if you need somewhere to crash,” he adds, gentle but firm, “this place is always open.”
You nod. You don’t trust your voice.
Outside, Monaco feels too sharp. Too awake. You walk until your chest stops tightening, until you reach the building Kimi and Ollie share. Before you can knock, the door opens.
They’re already there. Neither of them say anything.
Ollie steps aside immediately. Kimi just pulls you in, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
You don’t speak. You just collapse onto the couch, curling in on yourself.
They follow.
Ollie stretches out on one side, solid and warm. Kimi settles on the other, instinctively pulling you closer. He reaches for the remote and puts on the show you used to watch together when you were kids—the one you all quote, the one that makes no sense now but still feels safe.
They don’t force jokes. They don’t ask questions. They just exist with you.
For a while, it almost works. Then there’s a knock. Sharp. Insistent.
Kimi and Ollie exchange a look. Kimi stands.
“I’ll get it,” he says, already knowing.
When he opens the door, Charles is standing there.
He looks wrecked. Hollow-eyed. Unshaven. Like someone who hasn’t slept and doesn’t deserve to.
The moment his gaze flicks past Kimi and lands on you, something in Kimi snaps.
“No,” Kimi says, stepping fully into the doorway. “Absolutely not.”
“I just want to talk,” Charles says quietly. “Please.”
Ollie moves without thinking, positioning himself between you and the door.
Kimi doesn’t hold back. His words are sharp, furious, protective in a way only a younger brother can be when he’s done pretending to be polite.
You sit up slowly.
“It’s fine,” you say hoarsely. “I’ll talk to him.”
Kimi turns, eyes wide. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” you say gently. “But I will.”
He studies your face, searching for cracks. Then he steps aside—barely.
In the hallway, Charles talks. He explains. He apologizes. He says words he should have said weeks ago. None of it helps. Every sentence just makes the ache worse.
“Please,” he says at the end. “I love you.”
You look at him for a long moment.
Then, quietly, “You need to leave.”
His face crumples. You don’t stay to watch.
Back inside, you collapse again, tears finally spilling over. Kimi sits on the floor in front of you, gripping your hands. Ollie wraps an arm around your shoulder and your head falls onto his.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. They fall asleep around you. You wait until the room is dark and quiet. Then you slip out.
The nearest club is loud and bright and wrong in every way—but it’s open.
You lose yourself in the crowd. In strangers. In noise. You don’t notice Max at first. He notices you immediately.
Sees the way you’re swaying. The unfamiliar faces around you. The little bag exchanged between hands. That’s enough. He’s beside you before you can protest.
“We’re going home,” he says, not unkindly.
You try to argue. You really do. But you’re too tired. Kelly is waiting when you arrive. The moment you see her, you break.
You cry and scream and sob into her shoulder like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks. Max stays close, steady, grounding.
Kelly takes you to the bathroom. Gently washes your face. Helps you change. She tucks you into her bed like it’s where you belong. When Max joins you, and Kelly curls in on the other side, you finally let go. They stay until your breathing evens out. Until you sleep.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You wake up slowly, blinking at the ceiling, disoriented again. For half a second you don’t know where you are, don’t know whose bed this is, don’t know why your chest feels tight in that awful, anticipatory way—like your body remembers before your mind does.
And then it all floods back. Being too gone to stand on your own. Max’s hand steady at your elbow. Kelly’s voice in your ear, calm and unafraid. Crying so hard your throat burned. Being held without questions. Without disappointment.
You inhale sharply and push yourself up on your elbows, panic flaring. You look left.
Max is asleep, turned slightly toward you, arm bent above his head, face bare and unguarded in a way the world never sees. No armor. No edges. Just a man sleeping.
You look right. Kelly, curled on her side, hair fanned across the pillow, one hand resting near yours like it had been placed there intentionally. Like she’d meant to stay close even in sleep.
Shame crashes over you all at once.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, already scrambling upright. “I’m so sorry—”
Kelly stirs immediately, eyes opening as if she’d been waiting for it. “Hey,” she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. “No, no. Stop.”
You’re already halfway into an apology spiral, words tumbling over each other. “I shouldn’t have—last night was so inappropriate, I was a mess, I don’t even remember half of it, I—”
Max groans softly and rolls onto his side, blinking awake. He takes one look at your face—panicked, glassy, already bracing for rejection—and sits up.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Breathe.”
Kelly reaches up and brushes your hair back from your face, slow and deliberate, grounding. “You don’t need to apologize for surviving,” she says quietly. “Not here.”
Your throat tightens. “I dragged you into it. I was drunk and high and—”
“And heartbroken,” Max adds, not unkindly. “And not okay. That’s allowed.”
Kelly shifts closer, thumb tracing a soothing line along your cheek. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says, soft but firm. “Max found you. You are safe. That’s all that mattered to us.”
Your shoulders slump as the fight drains out of you, replaced by something fragile and raw. Tears well again, but this time they don’t feel desperate. They feel… relieved.
“I don’t want to be like this,” you whisper.
Max nods. “Then don’t be alone while you figure out how not to be.”
Something settles then. Something quiet and warm.
From that moment on, things change.
You stay.
One night turns into two. Two into a few. Your suitcase gets unpacked in the guest room without ceremony, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No one makes a big deal out of it. No one asks for promises. They just… keep you.
You stop going out. The clubs fade into the background, their neon pull losing its grip. Instead, you wake up early with Kelly, drink coffee at the kitchen counter while she scrolls through recipes. You sit on the balcony with Max in the evenings, watching the light change over the water, not talking much at all.
You start writing again.
At first it’s ugly. Angry. Notes app paragraphs that read like open wounds. Lyrics scribbled and crossed out and rewritten until your hand cramps. You pour everything you swallowed into it—betrayal, grief, rage, disbelief. The humiliation. The love that didn’t disappear just because it was destroyed.
Eventually, it sharpens. You book studio time.
The breakup EP takes shape piece by piece, song by song, each one carving something out of you and leaving space behind. It hurts, but it hurts in a way that feels purposeful. Controlled.
One afternoon, the studio door creaks open and familiar voices fill the space.
“Well, this place smells expensive,” Ollie announces.
You laugh before you can stop yourself, turning to see Kimi, Ollie, and Isack crowded into the doorway like they’ve been dared to enter a haunted house.
“We were checking on you,” Isack says, suspiciously defensive for someone grinning that wide. “Professionally.”
“You are incapable of being subtle,” you tell them.
Kimi shrugs. “You love us.”
You do. You play them a bit of Flip a Switch. Just a snippet. Not even the full chorus.
Isack’s jaw drops. Ollie lets out a low “oh my god.” Kimi just stares at you, eyes dark and proud and a little furious on your behalf.
“That’s insane,” Ollie says. “Like… criminal.”
“You’re going to end careers,” Isack adds, delighted.
Kimi pulls you into a one armed hug. “You’re going to be okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hear it.”
When you get back to Max and Kelly’s that night, they’re exactly where you left them.
Kelly at the stove, hair tied up, music playing softly. Max on the couch, legs stretched out, watching old race reruns with the volume low.
They both look up when you walk in.
Kelly smiles first. Real, unguarded. “Hey.”
Max’s eyes scan you quickly—posture, expression, energy—and something eases in his shoulders. “You look good,” he says simply.
Healthier. Calmer. Less hollow.
Dinner is quiet. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that doesn’t beg to be filled. Plates clink. Someone reaches for the salt. Kelly talks about a recipe she wants to try next week. Max comments on a corner he still thinks he could’ve taken better in 2019.
Afterward, you help Kelly clean up. Water runs. Dishes stack. Conversation drifts easily, from nothing to everything and back again.
She presses a kiss to your temple before sending you off to rest. “Go sit,” she says. “You’ve done enough today.”
You curl up on the couch beside Max. The TV hums softly. You don’t really watch it. You just exist.
You feel his eyes on you and glance over.
He’s already smiling.
Not sharp. Not guarded. Just… fond.
He shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours. No rush. No pressure.
Kelly joins you a moment later, tucking herself against your other side, flipping on a movie and draping a blanket over all three of you like it’s second nature.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
yourusername (several weeks later)
liked by kellypiquet, franciscagomes, maxverstappen1, kimi.antonelli, isackhadjar and 9,100,000 others.
yourusername : baby, i bounce back.
my ep, escapism, is now yours. enjoy the beautiful sounds of my heartbreak and finding myself again.
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˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
f1gossipgirls
liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli, lando and 2,450,000 others.
f1gossipgirls : so...yn antonelli just released her ep and ended charles leclerc's career. just within four songs. HELP. many people are speculating that the "best friend" mentioned in flip a switch is none other than max verstappen, after the two have been seen together recently and he was spotted in one of her instagram posts.
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username007 : all the rookies in the likes PLEASE
username110 : if she is with max and kelly I WILL LOSE MY FUCKING MIND. how is someone this iconic???
username500 : the wag line- HELP.
username050 : "tell him im dead if he callin" your honor i love her.
username714 : the speech at the beg of flip a switch is my new life motto
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
A few weeks later, the world feels quieter in a different way. Not numb—never that—but steadier. Your breakup EP is out now, living its own life without you. The reception is overwhelming in the strangest, gentlest way. People hear themselves in it. They thank you for putting words to things they couldn’t say. You read messages late at night with Kelly’s legs draped over yours on the couch, Max half listening from the kitchen, pretending not to hover while still hovering.
Healing doesn’t come in waves anymore. It comes in inches. This morning, it comes in the form of tiny footsteps and a door flying open.
“GOOD MORNING!”
You barely have time to lift your head before Penelope barrels into the guest room and launches herself onto the bed, giggling wildly. Seven years old and made entirely of joy and chaos, she curls into your side like she’s been doing it her whole life.
“Hi,” you laugh, voice still sleepy. “Someone’s energetic.”
She nods furiously. “Do you wanna play Barbies with me?”
There isn’t even a second of hesitation. “Obviously.”
She cheers and drags you out of bed by the hand, pulling you down the hallway to her room. Barbie chaos ensues—tiny shoes everywhere, outfits strewn across the floor, dramatic voices and even more dramatic storylines.
Kelly peeks in a little while later, leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile. “Breakfast is ready.”
Penelope gasps like this is the best news she’s ever heard and sprints out toward the kitchen. You stay behind, kneeling to gather up the mess, lining dolls back up neatly.
Kelly watches you for a moment before stepping inside. “You’re really good with her,” she says gently.
You shrug, smiling to yourself. “I have a little sister. Comes naturally, I guess.”
She hums, crosses the room, and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another to your temple. “I’m proud of you,” she says quietly. “For getting through all of it. You look… lighter. Healthier. And you’re so beautiful.”
Your chest tightens, but in a good way.
Breakfast is warm and noisy and normal. Penelope talks a mile a minute. Max listens with exaggerated seriousness, asking questions like her answers are the most important things in the world. You catch Kelly watching the two of you with something soft in her eyes.
Later, Penelope leaves with her father, and the apartment settles into a slower rhythm.
Max leans back in his chair. “Dinner tonight,” he says casually. “Somewhere nice.”
Kelly nods. “I’m in.”
He slides his card across the counter toward you. “You two go get ready. Salon, shopping. Make a day of it.”
You hesitate immediately. “You don’t have to— I don’t want to intrude on your date night.”
Kelly shakes her head before you can finish, stepping closer and kissing your cheek. “You’re not intruding. You’re invited.”
The day is light and easy. Hair, nails, laughter. Shopping turns into trying things on just to be silly. In one boutique, you freeze mid rack when you see a familiar face.
“Pascale?”
She turns, eyes lighting up instantly. “Oh, mon ange.”
She pulls you into a hug without hesitation. “You look so much better,” she says softly. “I’m so happy to see you like this.”
You swallow. “It’s good to see you.”
Her expression shifts—gentle but honest. “I’m so sorry for what he did,” she says. “I will always support you. Always.”
The hug lingers. When Kelly returns, Pascale squeezes your hands once more before leaving, smiling warmly at both of you.
Back at the apartment, Max watches from the couch as the two of you get ready. Kelly zips you into your dress, hands warm and steady. You stare at your reflection—really look at yourself—for the first time in a long while.
Kelly meets your eyes in the mirror. “Stunning,” she murmurs, then leaves a kiss—and a lipstick mark—on your neck.
The car ride is quiet in that comfortable, anticipatory way. Monaco at night glows outside the windows—golden streetlights, the harbor shimmering like it’s holding secrets. Max drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on Kelly’s knee. She keeps her fingers laced with his for a moment before reaching back to squeeze your hand instead.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
You nod. “Yeah. I am.”
And you mean it.
When the car stops, you realize immediately that the restaurant is… empty. No valet bustle, no voices drifting through open doors. Just warm light spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Max kills the engine. “I rented it out,” he says simply, like it’s no big deal.
You blink. “Max.”
He shrugs, a little bashful despite himself. “Didn’t want any noise. Or people watching.”
Kelly smiles at him fondly. “You always do this,” she murmurs.
Inside, the space feels intimate rather than grand. Candles flicker on every table, soft music hums in the background, and the windows look out over the water. It feels like a pocket of time carved out just for the three of you.
The waiter greets you quietly, already aware this is a slow night by design.
You sit between them. Kelly’s hand finds your thigh almost immediately—not possessive, just grounding. Her thumb traces small circles, absentminded, affectionate.
Conversation starts easy. Food. Music. A story Max tells about a race rerun he watched earlier that afternoon, animated in the way he only gets when he forgets to guard himself. You laugh more than you have in weeks. Real laughter. The kind that surprises you halfway through.
At one point, Kelly leans closer to murmur something in your ear about dessert, her breath warm against your skin, and you shiver—not from nerves, but from awareness.
She notices. Smiles.
Dinner stretches. Plates are cleared. Wine glasses refilled.
Eventually, Kelly grows quiet.
She squeezes your thigh a little more firmly. “There’s something I want to say,” she begins gently. “And you don’t have to respond. Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want to.”
Max turns slightly toward you, attentive but calm.
Kelly continues, voice steady. “I’ve always found you stunning. That’s not new. But what is new… is how deeply I’ve come to care about you. Watching you survive something that could’ve broken you—” Her voice softens. “It changed something for me.”
You swallow, throat tight.
Max nods slowly. “Same for me,” he says. “I didn’t expect it. Didn’t plan it. But you feel… right. Safe. And I know you’ve had enough people make promises they couldn’t keep.” He pauses. “We’re not asking for anything. We just want you to know you’re wanted. And protected. However you need.”
You stare at the table for a moment, then lift your gaze to them.
“I’ve never felt more safe than I do with you,” you admit quietly. “From the very beginning.”
Kelly’s eyes soften immediately. She lifts your chin with two fingers—not forcing, just asking—and presses a slow, gentle kiss to your lips. It’s unhurried. Tender. When she pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours.
Max waits until you look at him. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye like he’s memorizing you.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
You nod.
His kiss is just as careful. Just as warm.
The rest of the night is soft and sweet—shared desserts, quiet laughter, shoulders brushing, fingers intertwined. Kelly leans against you. Max rests his hand at the small of your back. No one rushes. No one asks for more than you’re ready to give.
When you finally leave, the world feels gentler. You don’t feel like you’re rebuilding alone.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
several weeks later...
You’re healthier now. Not in a fragile, tentative way—but in a way that feels earned. Your laugh comes easier. Your shoulders sit lower. Your anger no longer drives the car; it just rides quietly in the backseat, acknowledged but no longer steering.
You’re still sharp. Still powerful. Still you. And you’re happier than you ever thought you’d be—with Max and Kelly.
The three of you are a unit now. Not loud about it, not performative. Just… obvious. Easy hands. Shared looks. The way Max automatically reaches for your coffee order when he’s already up. The way Kelly tucks herself into your side without thinking, fingers lacing with yours like it’s muscle memory.
Kimi noticed first. He’d been suspicious—deeply so. He grilled Max like he was prepping for a cross examination, asked Kelly questions with the intensity of someone who loved you fiercely and wasn’t afraid to show it. Ollie, Gabriel and Isack followed suit, circling like overprotective satellites.
But what sold Kimi wasn’t words. It was watching Max step in front of you when things got overwhelming. Watching Kelly read your body language better than anyone else in the room. Watching them protect your quiet the way others had once taken it for granted.
He adores them now. Because they don’t just love you—they keep you safe.
You’re not “over” what happened. You don’t pretend it didn’t carve something into you. But it no longer defines you. It doesn’t shrink you. It doesn’t own your reflection when you catch yourself in mirrors.
You arrive at the race weekend calm. Grounded. You’re in Mercedes gear for Kimi, black and silver clean against your skin—but you’re walking hand in hand with Kelly, Max on your other side. It feels right. It feels real.
Charles sees you from across the paddock. And it’s like the air leaves his lungs.
He doesn’t hear the engines. Doesn’t hear the voices. All he sees is you—healthy, radiant, whole in a way he hasn’t seen since before everything shattered. And then he sees them. Your fingers intertwined with Kelly’s. Max leaning in to murmur something that makes you smile.
Then he sees Kimi with Max—easy, familiar, close. It hits him twice as hard.
Max wins the race. The moment the car stops, he’s already looking for you. He crosses the barriers, still breathless, helmet off, eyes bright—and kisses you first. Then Kelly. Quick, joyful, unashamed. The cameras catch it, but neither of you care.
On the podium, Max and Kimi stand together. Champagne sprays. The crowd roars.
You’re with family now—your family. Kelly at your side. Penelope clutching your hand. Kimi bouncing on his heels. Your little sister Maggie, all limbs and excitement, chattering nonstop.
Max finds you again after, lifts Maggie effortlessly onto his shoulders like it’s second nature. She squeals with laughter. Kelly squeezes your hand. Kimi and Max talk animatedly beside you, completely at ease.
And that’s when you see Charles again.
You slip away quietly.
He nearly jumps when you speak—like he doesn’t quite believe you’re real.
“You look…,” he starts, then stops. “You look happy.”
“I am,” you say simply.
There’s no anger left in your voice. No accusation. Just truth.
“I wanted to tell you,” you continue, “to forgive yourself. And live the future we thought we were building. I want you to be happy.”
His eyes shine. He nods, unable to speak. You press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Familiar. Final. And you walk away. Back to where you belong.
He watches Max kiss your temple. Watches Kelly lean into you. Watches Maggie laugh from Max’s shoulders. Watches Kimi throw an arm around both of them.
And it finally hits him. He didn’t lose you to revenge. He lost you to love. And you don’t look back.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
yourusername
liked by kellypiquet, maxverstappen1, kimi.antonelli, isackhadjar and 14,500,000 others.
yourusername : i lied...i'm a wag again
tagged : kellypiquet + maxverstappen1
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unblock user @/charles_leclerc?
user @/charles_leclerc is unblocked.
˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
