Is there a certain actress you imagine Louise looking like? (I know there’s that photo in the header but I can’t really tell who it is!)
OMG I was waiting for this questionn, soo...
I don't have a set reference for her, just because I like to give those reading the opportunity to build their own version of her, within her traits (around 1.56m, pale light skin, in spite being brazilian, long tight wave/ loose curled brown hair, big cheeks, dimples, long lashes, dark eyes...)
If anyone has an actress/ public figure that fits that description please send it my way! I’ll love to see how you imagine her like.
BUT!
While searching some things, back when I was starting to write I did find this baby girl that modeled to a brazilian clothing brand and gosh, she was my main inspo for grown up Louise.
I present you baby Lou...
I tried finding her name and search her now (the magazine was old-please ignore the sunfading page- like late 90's, so no luck there). But just imagine a mid twenties version of this cutie, and bam... you get Louise!
Summary — Relia avoids the subject of her soulmate mark like a curse. But between her mother’s new boyfriend, the constant mentions of his son, and the suddenly itchy mark, she's not sure how much longer she can outrun fate. No matter how much she wants to.
Warnings — Soulmate AU, ultra slow burn, parental loss, anti Jos Verstappen, forbidden relationship, step-siblings (no blood relation), angst, fluff, and eventually smut.
Notes — I've broken my writers block with this fic. At least, I hope I have. We're taking it one chapter at a time. And I want you guys to help me out with this one. Your thoughts, reactions, and what you want to happen next are greatly appreciated!!!!
There were roughly four billion men walking the Earth. Four billion faces, four billion personalities, and—well, maybe not quite four billion names, but close enough.
Actually… if Relia thought about it, there were probably more than four billion names. Maybe not all at once, but spread across time and languages and the countless phases humanity had limped, sprinted, and occasionally danced through. Humans were creative like that. And with the number of regions in the world—with their alphabets and Gods and scattered histories—names were endless.
Gwyneth Paltrow named her daughter Apple, for God’s sake.
So names were not quantifiable, Relia decided grimly as she stared across the table and tried to contain the anger bubbling in her gut at the sight of her mom’s new boyfriend.
The one she had chosen out of four billion possibilities.
Her mom was talking—rambling nervously about the drive into town, the “cute” café she’d spotted, the price of mushrooms at the Thursday market—but the words slid right past Relia.
All she could focus on was him.
Jos. Out of four billion names, four billion chances, her mother had landed on Jos.
A man who carried a reputation like a permanent stain. A man with a temper. She didn’t know the details, not really, and she didn’t want to. But she had googled him. She had read the articles. The ones that described court cases and headlines and a past filled with choices she didn’t want anywhere near her mother.
He was not the kind of man she wanted within a hundred kilometres of her family.
And yet he was sitting at the same table, in the same restaurant, and he was smiling.
Relia glanced down at her plate of roasted vegetables and scowled.
At least he wasn’t her soulmate.
He couldn’t be.
Her father would always retain that title.
“—so, do you watch any motor racing?” Jos’s voice cut through the static in her head. Dutch cadence, thick around the vowels. He leaned forward slightly, trying to capture her attention.
Relia blinked. He was talking to her.
Great.
“No,” she said flatly.
There was a brief silence before he tried again, a strained chuckle shaping his words. “Ah. Well… a lot of people don’t. But maybe you’ve seen—”
“No,” she repeated, sharper this time. “I do not like sports, and fast cars make me nauseous. I don’t follow any of it.”
Viviana shot her a warning look, but Relia ignored it.
She didn’t think Jos was dangerous, not in a sudden explosive way, but there was something about him that scraped at her nerves every time he shifted or spoke or breathed too loud.
He sat back, clearing his throat. “Right. Well. Different hobbies, then.”
Relia nodded once, lips pressed together.
Viviana jumped in with a too-bright laugh, launching into a story about all the dancing Relia had done as a child.
Jos watched her talk, and the lines around his eyes softened.
Relia bit her lip, grip tightening around her fork.
All she could think was, Dad would’ve hated him.
—
Relia barely made it up the stairs before the tears she had been fighting all night broke loose, flooding her vision until she had to catch herself against the wall.
She shut her bedroom door with a soft click. Trembling, she pressed her back to it.
Her whole body felt like it had been waiting for impact for over an hour, and now that she was alone, everything inside her had collapsed at once. Her chest hurt. Her jaw ached from clenching. Her hands were still curled into fists without her noticing.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Her mother’s sparkling laughter still echoed faintly in her head. That bright, pretty sound that attracted attention like a magnet. The one Relia had grown up hearing in every room of the house.
Relia sank to the floor, pulling her knees up and resting her forehead on her arms. She exhaled shakily.
It wasn’t fair.
None of it was fair.
Her father had been her mother’s soulmate. Truly and completely.
Relia had grown up watching the way they looked at each other, the way they moved around each other, the way everything between them seemed effortless. She had believed in soulmates because of them. She had wanted a love like theirs because of them.
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
Relia sniffed and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.
The universe didn’t care about fate.
Fate didn’t care about soulmates. Not in the way people pretended it did.
She knew that because she had watched her mother fall apart piece by piece. Losing a soulmate wasn’t just losing a person. It was losing something built into you. Something no amount of time could repair.
She’d had to grow up inside the emptiness that loss created.
So how was she supposed to sit at a table and watch her mother smile at someone else?
Someone who wasn’t meant for her.
Someone who wasn’t her soulmate.
Relia wiped her face again as a new sting gathered behind her eyes.
She refused to cry over Jos.
She clenched her teeth and looked at her wrist—the spot where the words had appeared on her tenth birthday. A mark she had spent years trying not to think about.
People talked about soulmates like they were blessings. Miracles. Gifts from somewhere above. But Relia had seen the reality behind all that. She had seen what happened when the universe took the one thing it had promised.
If she never met him, her so-called destined other half, then he would stay distant. He would stay hypothetical. He would never become someone she could lose.
Relia pushed herself off the floor and stood on unsteady legs. She walked into her bathroom, opened the cabinet, and pulled out the box of two hundred extra-large bandage plasters. Her hands shook as she peeled one open.
She pressed it firmly over her soulmate mark.
She wasn’t going to give fate the chance to hurt her again.
—
The next morning, the smell of coffee and toasted bread filled the kitchen, but it didn’t loosen the tightness in her stomach.
Relia slid into her usual seat quietly, trying to take up as little room as possible.
Viviana looked tired—shadows under her eyes, hair pulled into a loose braid that had clearly been slept in. She set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Relia, then paused.
Her gaze dropped to the bandage on Relia’s wrist.
A small frown formed.
But she didn’t say anything.
She turned back to the counter and stirred honey into a mug, her movements slow and careful. The silence grew heavier by the second.
Across the table, Jos noticed the bandage too. His eyes flicked to it, lingered, then he cleared his throat.
“Sleep alright?” he tried.
Relia stabbed at her eggs. “Sure.”
He nodded awkwardly. “So… uh… is your wrist okay?”
Her mom inhaled sharply. She spun around, eyes wide, silently begging him to stop talking.
Too late.
Relia didn’t hesitate. She lifted her wrist. “Oh, that? No. My soulmate’s first words to me are that I’d make a great prostitute. You can imagine how embarrassing that was for a ten-year-old.”
Jos froze.
Then he blanched.
“Relia—” Viviana nearly dropped the kettle. “No, no, she’s joking! Jos, she’s sixteen, she—Relia, please don’t—”
“I’m kidding,” Relia muttered. She took a sip of her tea without looking at either of them. “It was just a joke.”
Jos rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “Teenagers,” he said quietly. “My kids were the same.”
Viviana forced a tight smile and sat. “She’s… very unserious in the mornings.”
“Right,” Jos said.
“How many kids do you have?” Relia asked.
Jos shrugged, trying for jovial. “Just a few.”
“Right,” she muttered slowly, before pushing back her chair. “The bus will be here soon.”
She walked toward the front door quickly, hoping to escape before anything else could be said.
“Relia, wait.” Her mother caught up to her, dish towel still in her hand, worry written all over her face. “That was a bit much,” Viviana murmured gently.
“I was just joking,” Relia replied.
“Honey…” Viviana hesitated. “Jos doesn’t know you like to cover your mark sometimes. We can’t expect him too just... I should’ve told him. But I—” She looked down, then back up, voice soft. “He’s kind. He’s good to me.”
Guilt rose in Relia’s throat.
Viviana stepped closer. “I’m not asking you to like him. Just try to be nicer. A little. He wants to get to know you. He’s trying.”
Relia’s stomach twisted. She couldn’t say he’s not Dad. She couldn’t hurt her mom like that.
“I just want you to give him a chance,” Viviana whispered.
Relia swallowed. “Whatever.”
Viviana’s relief was immediate, gentle. “Have a good day at school,” she said. “We can get pizza tonight, if you want.”
“Yeah,” Relia muttered. “Sure.”
She stepped outside before the guilt became too much.
—
That night, Relia lay in bed, staring at the faint line of light under her door.
Her mother and Jos were watching a movie downstairs. Their voices drifted up the stairwell. Calm. Steady. Comfortable.
Relia pulled the blanket over her head.
It won’t last, she told herself. I just have to get through it. A few months. She’ll get bored. Or he’ll get annoying. Or they’ll disagree about something stupid. It’ll end.
She closed her eyes.
It won’t last forever. I just need to be patient.
She repeated the words until they blurred into the darkness around her.
She held onto them until sleep finally dragged her under.
—
Three Months Later
Relia stood in the hallway, arms crossed tightly as her mom fussed with her hair, smoothing down strands that didn’t need smoothing.
“It’s just a small gathering,” Viviana murmured, adjusting Relia’s jacket collar even though it was already straight. “Nothing formal. Just some family.”
Relia nodded once. “Okay.”
“And they’re all very excited to meet you.”
Relia didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice not to give away the small, restless knot stuck somewhere under her ribs.
She wasn’t scared. Not exactly. She was good with people. Could make conversation with a brick wall.
She just hated that this felt… official.
Like Jos wasn’t a temporary disruption but somebody her mother was actively folding into their lives.
She grabbed her shoes and followed them out the door.
Jos’s house was a little outside of town; too far to walk, too close to feel like a separate life. The house was loud before they even stepped inside. Voices, laughter.
As soon as they pushed inside, they were swarmed. A handful of faces turned toward them. Some older, some around Relia’s age, a few somewhere in between. They looked curious, not particularly warm but not unkind either.
Relia forced a small nod. “Hi.”
“Come, sit,” an unfamiliar face said, waving her toward a long table crowded with plates and bowls.
Viviana squeezed her hand before joining a cluster of adults. Jos drifted toward his children, greeting them with quick hugs and Dutch words and fond smiles.
Relia sat at the edge of the table. She kept her hands folded in her lap.
Jos’s oldest daughter, Victoria, slid into the seat beside her. “Hello,” she said, voice friendly enough, “You’re very pretty.”
Relia stared down at her plate. “Thanks.”
She smiled gently. “He said that you were shy.”
Relia just nodded, keeping her gaze downcast.
She wasn’t shy. She’d never been shy.
She just didn’t want to be there.
The room hummed with conversation. Food was passed around. Someone put a slice of cake on Relia’s plate before she could protest.
A woman across the table lifted her glass. “It’s a shame Max couldn’t come,” she said lightly. “He would’ve liked to be here.”
At the mention of Jos’ oldest son, a few people made small sounds of agreement.
Jos shrugged. “He’s training,” he said. “He’s a good boy. Focused. He doesn’t care about silly birthday parties.”
The comment passed easily through the room.
Relia bit her lip until it stung.
Because she liked birthdays. She liked the idea of them. She liked the little rituals her father used to do. She liked the way the day felt like it mattered, even if nothing changed.
She swallowed and looked down at her slice of cake.
It wasn’t even her birthday; it was Jos’s. A late celebration after a busy week. She’d helped her mother wrap his present. She’d watched Viviana write his name on the card with careful handwriting; even drawing a little heart.
She shouldn’t care that some boy she didn’t even know thought that birthdays were pointless.
But she felt something tighten in her chest anyway.
Jos laughed at something that somebody said. Viviana smiled at him, warm and easy.
Relia pushed a piece of cake around with her fork.
It had been three months.
And Jos wasn’t going anywhere.
—
Six Months Later
Relia lay on her stomach across her bed, the lights off, curtains drawn, her bedroom dim except for the soft blue glow of her phone.
Her headphones sat snugly over her ears.
She double-checked, again, that her door was shut.
Her mom thought she was doing homework.
Nobody had any reason to think she was streaming the final laps of a Formula One race she absolutely, definitely, completely did not care about.
She turned the volume down another notch anyway.
Her thumb hovered over the screen as the commentators’ voices filled her ears, fast and bright, building toward the end of the race.
She didn’t understand the rules.
She didn’t understand how the scoring worked.
She didn’t even recognize most of the names that flashed across the leaderboard.
Except one.
Verstappen.
Jos’s son.
The one who didn’t go to birthday parties.
The one who people always spoke about with a mix of fondness and awe.
The one Relia still hadn’t met, despite seeing his name printed across Jos’s travel itineraries on the kitchen counter. Despite overhearing calls late at night. Despite how often he drifted uninvited into conversations.
Her mother talked about him like he was already family.
Relia didn’t know what he sounded like.
What he looked like in motion instead of on a still photo frame on the mantle.
On the track, a flash of orange and black swept around the final corner, engine screaming through her headphones.
“Max Verstappen crosses the line to take an impressive second place,” the commentator said, adrenaline sharp in his voice. “Another incredible performance from the young Dutchman—”
Relia exhaled.
She didn’t know why she felt relieved.
She hadn’t even realised that she’d been holding her breath.
One by one, the rest of the cars crossed the finish line. The race ended. The screen filled with stats she didn’t understand. The drivers started climbing out of the cars.
She closed the tab. Cleared her browser history even though nobody checked her phone. Pulled her headphones off and let them fall beside her pillow.
In the quiet, her heart thumped.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
Then she scratched her wrist, sighing irritably as the skin there tingled beneath the plaster she still wore every day.
It wasn’t supposed to tingle.
Not unless—
No.
No, no, no.
It was nothing. Just nerves. Or fabric irritation. Or the fact that she’d been lying in one position too long. Or literally anything that wasn’t the reason people whispered about in soulmate forums and school stairwells.
She pressed her thumbnail hard into the edge of the plaster until the feeling dulled.
She wasn’t going to meet him.
She wasn’t looking for him.
And she sure as hell wasn’t getting pulled into whatever cosmic nonsense had broken her mother's heart.
“Stupid,” she muttered under her breath, flinging her arm over her eyes.
Across the house, she heard the front door open and close again as her mom ushered her book club inside.
Relia rolled onto her side, tugged her blanket up to her chin, and squeezed her eyes shut.
Her wrist kept tingling.
She ignored it.
She’d gotten very, very good at ignoring things that made her uncomfortable.
—
Relia’s seventeenth birthday arrived like any other day—just her phone buzzing against her cheek at 7:03 a.m. with a flood of messages from the people in her life who loved her enough to remember.
By the time she walked through the front gates of school, her friends had already gathered.
“Birthday girl!” Maren yelled across the courtyard, loud enough to turn several heads. She bounded over, nearly knocking Relia off the pavement as she threw her arms around her. “Seventeen! Welcome to the club! We’re, like, so close to adulthood.”
“I’m aware,” Relia muttered into her shoulder, but she didn’t pull away.
Behind Maren trailed the rest of their little cluster, Lina with her oversized football hoodie, Jin balancing a carrier of coffee cups, and Paul trying to wrangle his backpack shut.
Jin thrust a cup at her. “Here, we got your favourite.”
“Which resembles a cup of sugar and milk more than coffee,” Paul said.
“Which is why she likes it,” Lina said smarmily.
A small smile tugged at Relia's mouth. “Thanks.”
They walked toward the main building, the morning as loud as usual; sneakers squeaking against linoleum, lockers slamming open and closed.
Maren leaned close, nudging her. “So? Any special birthday plans tonight?”
Relia shrugged, her stomach twisting bitterly for some reason. “Just dinner at home with my mom.”
“Pizza?”
“Probably.”
Maren grinned. “Classic.”
Relia didn’t mention the unspoken variable in that dinner. She didn’t mention Jos or how unpredictable the house felt now depending on whether he was travelling or not.
She didn’t mention that she’d already told her mom that she didn’t want any kind of party.
She didn’t mention the tingling under her bandage that had woken her up again in the middle of the night.
“Hey,” Lina said, tugging gently at Relia’s sleeve. “You okay? You’re doing that... like, twitchy thing you do.”
Relia dropped her hand instantly. “Sorry. I'm fine.”
Maren threw an arm around her shoulder . “Anyway! At lunch we’re getting cake. The shitty cafeteria kind. It’s our tradition.”
“Our tradition tastes like drywall,” Relia said.
“And yet,” Paul replied, “we all still smile and lie and say that we love it. Which, by the way, is also part of the tradition.”
The bell rang overhead, echoing down the hall.
Everyone dispersed with quick goodbyes, and Relia headed to her first class—still smiling faintly, still warm from the attention, still very aware of the quiet electric buzz at her wrist she refused to think about.
Seventeen felt… different.
—
Relia expected the smell of tomato sauce to hit her the moment she pushed open the front door. Or at least the sound of her mom humming in the kitchen, or the TV playing a rerun.
Instead, the house was silent.
Completely silent.
Relia stepped inside, dropping her bag by the shoe rack. “Mom?”
No answer.
She checked the kitchen. Empty. The living room. Empty. Her mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway either.
A little prickle of confusion crawled up her spine.
Viviana wouldn’t forget her birthday. That was impossible. Even in the ugliest times, those awful years after her dad died, her mom had still baked the lopsided cakes and wrapped the handmade gifts.
Relia pulled out her phone.
Relia: hi. is mom with you?
It took a full minute for the typing bubble to appear.
Jos: Yes. She’s with me.
Relia’s stomach tightened.
Another bubble.
Jos: Max had an issue during training. Nothing severe, but she came with me to check on him. We will make it up to you.
Relia read the message twice. Then a third time.
Her hand felt stiff around her phone.
Relia: ok.
She didn’t add anything else. She didn’t ask what happened, or how bad it was, or why her mom hadn’t texted her herself.
She just set the phone down on the coffee table and lowered herself onto the couch.
The living room looked like it was waiting for a party that never arrived.
A cheap metallic birthday balloon hovered near the ceiling fan, bobbing slightly in the draft from the vent. On the counter sat a box of candles; unopened. And on the table was the stack of plates she’d set out that morning before school, too early, too excited, too hopeful.
Relia stared at the balloon.
The house hummed quietly around her. The refrigerator clicked on. A car passed outside. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.
Her chest hurt.
A slow, strange pressure that sat right behind her ribs, dull and warm and heavy.
She wondered if it was normal.
If seventeen was supposed to feel like this.
If other people spent their birthdays alone on the sofa, watching a balloon drift in and out of the overhead light while their mom took care of someone else’s kid who wasn’t even a kid anymore.
Relia pressed a hand against her sternum.
The ache didn’t go away. It pulsed.
She swallowed, blinking up at the balloon again.
Happy Birthday.
The words looked ridiculous floating above a room full of nothing.
Relia hugged her knees to her chest and waited for someone, anyone, to walk through the door and tell her that she wasn’t being forgotten.
Nobody did.
Not for a very long time.
—
Two days later, Relia sat at her desk with her homework laid out in-front of her.
A soft knock sounded on her door.
“Honey?” Viviana pushed it open before Relia answered. She held a grocery bag in one hand, the faint smell of roasted chicken drifting out. “I… I picked up dinner. Your favourite. I thought we could have a little birthday redo.”
Relia looked at the bag, then at her mother’s face. Something inside her twisted uncomfortably.
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
Viviana paused. “Sweetheart… we should celebrate your birthday.”
Relia shrugged. “It’s just a day.”
“That’s not true,” Viviana said quietly. “You used to love your birthday. You—”
“I said I’m not hungry, mom.” She snapped.
Viviana’s mouth trembled at the edges. Not a full wobble; just enough to make Relia feel like she’d kicked something fragile.
“I didn’t want you to spend it alone,” her mother said, voice shaking. “But I just... Jos was shaken up, and it just made sense to go with him, and I had no idea that we’d be gone for longer than a few hours.”
Relia felt the guilt settle in her chest, thick and heavy. But the pain was still there, stubborn and sharp.
“It’s fine. I don’t care. I’m just tired,” she said. “That’s all.”
Viviana nodded too quickly, brushing under her eyes. “Okay. I’ll keep the food warm.”
The door closed softly.
Relia didn’t move.
Later that night, she heard her mother crying quietly in the kitchen.
She didn’t go downstairs.
—
The next morning, the tension still lingered in the air, thin and uncomfortable. Viviana barely met her eyes as she handed over a travel mug of tea before leaving early for work.
Jos was waiting near the front door, keys in hand.
“You shouldn’t have to catch the bus,” he said. “I’ll drive you today.”
Relia stiffened. “I’d rather walk.”
“It’s raining,” he pointed out.
“…School has showers.”
“You’ll be late.”
She scowled. “How do you even know what time my classes start?”
He tapped his nose. “I know everything.”
Relia opened her mouth to say something snappy back, but she didn’t have the energy. She stepped past him toward the car without saying anything.
They drove in silence for several minutes, the sound of the wipers filling the car. Relia stared out the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She could feel Jos glancing at her every so often.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “About your birthday,” he said quietly. “I’m very sorry.”
Relia didn’t react.
“I didn’t mean to do what I did… I was selfish,” he continued. “I know that your birthday is important. I know that your mom wanted to be there with you.”
Relia felt her throat tighten. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” he said. “She was worried about you the whole time."
Relia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I was fine,” she muttered.
“I know that,” he said. “You’re almost grown-up, but that doesn’t mean you should have spent your birthday alone.”
She didn’t say anything.
After the silence had stretched for too long, Jos tapped the screen on the dashboard, and music began to play.
When they pulled up in front of her school, he put the car in park but didn’t look at her.
“Relia,” he said. “For what it’s worth… I hope your next birthday is better.”
She stared at the road for a long moment.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Me too.”
Then she got out of the car before he could say anything else.
—
Her mom had been talking about their trip back home for weeks, and Relia had let herself look forward to it.
Just a little.
Just enough to imagine a weekend without Jos in the picture.
But when she came downstairs Saturday morning, backpack ready, shoes tied, excitement tucked carefully behind a neutral expression—
Jos was already standing by the door.
Holding her mom’s suitcase.
“Ready?” he asked.
Relia froze on the last step.
Her grip tightened on the railing.
“You’re coming with us?” She asked.
Viviana shot her a cautious look. “He just thought it might be nice to see… you know… where I grew up.”
Relia swallowed the sting in her throat.
“Right,” she muttered. “Of course.”
The flight was easy. The drive from the airport to the village was long, winding through hills and stray patches of fog. Viviana spent half of it pointing out familiar landmarks; old orchards, the fields where she used to sneak out with her cousins, the dirt road where her father taught her to ride a bike over the summer.
Jos listened politely.
When they reached the village, Relia felt the usual tug in her chest.
The houses were old and painted in faded pastels.
Vines curled around gates.
The church bell, rusty and slightly off-key, rang once as they stepped out of the car.
It always felt like stepping into a memory.
Relia inhaled the air; it smelled like damp earth, yeast, and wood smoke.
Like every summer of her childhood.
They walked toward her grandmother’s house together. Neighbours waved from their porches.
“Bine ați venit!”
Viviana beamed. “Bună ziua!”
Relia smiled.
Jos nodded awkwardly, lifting a hand to wave.
Inside, her grandmother greeted them with a hug that nearly cracked Relia’s ribs. Then she turned to Jos, gave him a long, appraising stare, and said something quick and sharp into her mom’s ear.
Relia walked straight to the fridge.
At lunch, the table was covered in dishes—sarmale, mămăligă, cozonac, roasted peppers, bread still warm from the oven. Viviana slipped easily back into her mother tongue, speaking faster than she ever did in English.
Jos looked lost.
He kept glancing at Relia, like she might help him follow the conversation.
She pointedly did not.
For almost a year, her mom had been making the effort to learn Dutch. It would be her third language.
Jos had made no such effort.
Relia dug into her food, answering questions from her grandmother, slipping back into Romanian without effort.
At one point, Jos leaned toward her.
“What is she saying?” he whispered, gesturing at Viviana.
Relia didn’t look at him. “Family stuff.”
“Right,” he said with a small, stiff laugh. “I, uh, I feel a bit left out.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Kind of the point.”
Jos blinked at that, his expression tightening for a second. Not hurt; irritated.
He covered it quickly, but she saw it anyway.
Her grandmother noticed too. She gave Relia a knowing look across the table, patting her hand once before launching into another story.
From that moment forward, Relia couldn’t help but notice the way Jos’s jaw clenched anytime the conversation excluded him.
She hated the way he corrected her grandmother when she handed him the wrong utensil, even though he didn’t understand a word she said.
She saw how his smile thinned whenever the attention shifted away from him.
Four days later, when they were packing to leave, Viviana hugged her mother tight and promised they’d visit again soon. Relia swooped in afterward, letting her grandmother kiss her cheeks and mutter a string of well-wishes and prayers under her breath.
When her grandmother reached out to hug Jos, he hesitated a little too long before leaning forward. Barely touched her. Pulled away fast.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Relia stepped between them without thinking, not willing to let him make her sweet grandmother self-conscious.
As they walked toward the car, gravel crunching under their shoes, Jos said, “Your family is… very lively.”
Relia shrugged. “We’re Romanian.”
“Right.” He paused. “Some people are too lively.”
Relia didn’t laugh.
“I had a good time,” Jos added, glancing at her. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“I didn’t,” Relia said quietly, not letting her mom overhear. “But you came anyway, didn’t you?”
Jos’s steps slowed behind her. Then stopped.
Viviana turned to look at him, confused. He recovered quickly with a tight smile and told her everything was fine.
Relia didn’t wait to see if he kept that tone or dropped it the second her mother turned her back.
She just got in the car and shut the door before anyone could say anything else.
—
“—I don’t understand why you keep doing this!” Viviana’s voice cracked as she slammed the drawer shut. “You’re rude, you’re cold, and you don’t even try. He has done nothing to deserve this.”
“He’s done plenty,” Relia snapped back. “You just don’t want to face the reality of any of it.”
Viviana spun around, face flushed. “Relia, stop. I am tired of this. You act like you know him better than I do—”
“I know what I’ve read,” Relia shot back. “I know the truth. The women who said he hurt them. The fights. The arrests. The way he treated his kids—”
Viviana’s expression hardened. “Those were allegations. Old ones. And most of them weren’t even true.”
“You don’t know that!” Relia threw her hands up. “You don’t! You’re just trusting him because he smiles at you and buys you flowers and pretends to be this perfect, harmless—”
“He is harmless!” Viviana shouted, her voice sharp enough to sting. “You’re repeating rumours. People love tearing down anyone connected to fame. You don’t know the whole story.”
“I don’t need to,” Relia hissed. “I know enough to know he was accused of killing someone—”
Viviana flinched.
Relia didn’t stop.
“—enough to know he went to jail. Enough to know the awful, borderline abusive things he did to his son just to make him a better athlete.”
“That is not fair,” Viviana said, shaking her head. “You’re taking the worst moments of hislife and acting like that’s the whole person. People change!”
“No. No, mom. People don’t change that much.”
Viviana’s breath hitched. “He’s good to me.”
Relia’s throat tightened. “For now.”
“For now?” Viviana repeated, stunned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“That you don’t know him.” The words came out low, shaking. “Not really. You’re so desperate to feel something again that you’re ignoring every warning sign right in front of you.”
Viviana stared at her, eyes wide and hurt.
Relia instantly regretted saying it—but she couldn’t take it back.
Viviana shook her head slowly. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
“I’m trying to protect you,” Relia whispered.
“I don’t need protecting from him,” Viviana said, voice flat.
Relia opened her mouth—but Viviana held up a hand.
“No. Stop.” Her voice was final in a way that made Relia’s stomach drop. “I won’t let you ruin this for me.”
Relia felt something in her chest twist.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Viviana said. “And I’m done arguing.”
She turned away, shoulders trembling.
Relia stood there, fists clenched, breathing too shallow, the rest of her protest trapped somewhere behind her teeth.
—
The sun was brutal, glaring off the rows of plastic chairs set up across the football field. Parents waved little paper programs like fans and the loudspeakers crackled.
Her name was called, mispronounced as always.
Relia walked across the stage, shook the principal’s clammy hand, and forced a smile for the camera. Her mom was in the crowd somewhere, crying openly, and Jos stood beside her with one arm wrapped around her waist.
Relia didn’t look at them.
After the ceremony she found a patch of shade by the bleachers, kicked off her heels, and scrolled through her phone, letting herself breathe for the first time all day.
Her notifications were exploding; classmates, cousins, a few teachers, people she barely talked to tagging her in their graduation pictures and quotes.
She scrolled through her camera roll to find a picture of her own to post.
She found one that Maren had taken. It was a shot of her from behind, in her cap and gown, her long dark hair falling in cascading waves down her back.
She didn’t caption it, just tagged her best friends and hashtagged it with her high school's name.
She locked her phone, shoved it in her lap, and leaned her head back against the bleacher.
High school was over.
She stared at the sky.
Two weeks ago, she’d promised her mother that she’d go to a race with her and Jos “as a family” after she’d graduated.
The promise had been wrung out of her on a night when her mom had looked tired and hopeful and so heartbreakingly in love that Relia couldn’t bring herself to say no.
She’d regretted it every day since.
—
That evening, when the sun was setting into an orange hue, her mom clapped excitedly. “Picture time! Come on. Let’s go outside for photos!”
“Yeah,” Relia muttered. “I just need to grab something first.”
She bolted up the stairs before her mom could argue, her pulse hammering hard enough to shake something loose inside her. On the wall beside her, more pictures of Jos’s kids. Smiling, posed, carefully framed.
At the centre, as always, Max.
Bright grin, confident shoulders, trophy catching the light.
She glanced away before irritation could curdle into something worse.
Her room was tidy. She crossed to her desk, slid open a drawer, and grabbed the small stack of documents she’d been quietly gathering. Early employment papers, scholarship forms, brochures for programs far from home.
Not escape.
Just preparation.
Just the knowledge that eventually, she’d have an out.
She tucked them into her backpack and zipped it shut just as footsteps thudded up the stairs. Heavy, deliberate.
Jos.
Her stomach tightened.
He stopped in her doorway, leaning against the frame. “Look at you,” he said. “Big day.”
She adjusted her backpack. “Yeah. Whatever. Mom wants pictures.”
“She does.” He nodded slowly. “You should appreciate how proud she is.”
“I do,” Relia said sharply.
He raised his eyebrows, amused in that quiet, condescending way. “Good. Because she’s been looking forward to the race this weekend too. First big trip after your graduation. Good timing, hm?”
Her jaw tightened. “I said I’d go. So I will.”
“You’re part of my family now,” he said, an edge of satisfaction threading through the words. “We do things together; and we support Max.”
Relia felt her skin prickle.
She stepped past him, close enough to smell the cologne he overused, but far enough to avoid brushing him.
“You’re not my family,” she said under her breath.
He heard her anyway.
His smile was thin. “You’ll come around.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” she muttered.
She walked down the stairs, her heart a wild, trapped flutter against her ribs. Behind her, Jos didn’t follow, but she could feel his eyes on her all the way to the front door.
Viviana was waiting outside with her phone, smiling wide, proud and tired and radiant in that way only mothers could manage.
Relia forced a smile back.
Because she had graduated.
And even though she wasn’t free yet, she would be soon.
—
Night had fallen before she finally escaped upstairs. She sat on her bed, diploma tossed aside, gown still tangled around her shoulders.
She pulled off the plaster that concealed her wrist.
Her soulmate mark sat there, as humiliating as ever.
Don’t cry about it.
She’d always hated those words.
Hated the implication.
Hated the way they made her feel.
And that night, with everything else pressing in around her, they felt like an insult.
She washed her wrist with water and mild soap to get rid of the tacky bandage glue before getting into bed and laying down flat, staring at her ceiling.
If the person fate had chosen for her was as condescending as his words made it seem, she wanted nothing to do with him.
The sound of the alarm pierced through your bedroom. You lifted your head off the pillow and moved to shut your husband’s phone, which only reminded you of what day it was. Flopping your head down on the pillow with a groan you internally cursed yourself.
Your husband was a Formula 1 driver. Best of the 20 drivers in the world, driving under the harshest conditions on track. While the 3 month break after the final race of every season brought a sense of normalcy, it did not leave any stone unturned to remind you of the life Lando had in Formula 1 beyond racing. Sponsor commitments, car development analysis and more importantly, fitness training.
But you couldn’t complain. This was more than enough time with Lando you could ever ask for.
You silently thanked the universe for every circumstance leading you to meet Lando, while running your fingers through his frayed mop of curls you had grown to adore as he lay there, before a day you would sure would take the life out of you.
Raising your head from the pillow your face slowly made its way towards his own, your lips peppering soft kisses to his face. “Lando, baby. It’s time to get going. Jon’s going to kill us for being late.” you whispered against his ear, while you stroked his hair. You could hear his low groan which only brought a smile to your face.
All that elicited was his arm grabbing your waist covered by the duvet and him burying his face between your neck, knowing no matter what he wants, he has to get up and leave the comfort of his bed.
“Mm, I don’t want to go” Lando said, with a whine to his voice, eyes still shut.
“I know, babe. But you have to. I promise, I’m gonna be there too.”
Your reminder to him about being present seems to have done the trick as you could feel him shuffle around and get the both of you to sit upright while still keeping you locked to himself.
You let out a soft “Good Morning” whilst stroking your thumb across his cheek, as he rubs the sleep off his eyes with his free arm.
Lando removes his hand from your waist, much to your chagrin and moves towards the cupboard, getting ready for the morning ahead, “You’re lucky I love you babe. Come on, let’s get going before Jon gets mad.” He said while shuffling through his clothes
The soft giggle you let out wasn’t missed by Lando, making him look forward to seeing you work out with him.
Lando’s PR Team wanted him to shoot a LandoLog for the training. It gave Swansea University and their training facilities great mileage and Lando’s image too since he was touted to compete for the championship in 2025.
You stood there in your trench coat, with a lopsided smile at Lando introducing himself in the LandoLog.
You always loved how the fans loved him for how he was - cute even he fumbles over his words at times, his crazy hand gestures when he was nervous of the attention he didn’t always like, and just… comfortable in his element.
“...and as you can see, Eleanor will be joining me too. Now, I’ll let you in on a secret…” he continued as he went behind your back and hugged you from behind “...She’s the reason we’re here. Ellie wanted to be here because I wasn’t really looking forward to training.” he said, in a mock whisper and looked at you “But I think I underestimate how much she’s willing to do anything to make my life easy, you know?”
You jerked your head up at his confession, turning your head towards him with your eyes expressing nothing but adoration for your husband who always made sure you knew how much he appreciated your support meant to him.
He didn’t say anything, the glint in his eyes doing the work for him.
“Okay, let’s move ahead for assessment!” bellowed Jon who adored seeing Eleanor and Lando together and after saw treated them like family.
Watching him test his body composition and metabolism was something you enjoyed just… watching.
Lando was never entirely open around strangers. He’s always kept to himself, weighing down and putting up a front to appease sponsors in the crazy and glamorous world of Formula One.
His personal team is whom he really opened up around, beyond his family and close friends. Lando didn’t have to pretend to be someone he’s not, which is what made assessment day much more relaxed than what you’d anticipated.
The best part of his assessment had to be Lando testing his grip. Leaning against the wall, now donning your Alo workout gear, your eyes were transfixed on Lando. The harder he gripped on the device, the more his arm flexed showing off his biceps which usually just looked like twigs, staying true to his lanky self.
You didn’t realise you’d been biting your lip till Jon gave you a nudge on your shoulders with his arms folded “Enjoying ourselves , are we?” while smirking. You could only let out a huff as you felt your neck warm up.
“Make sure he works out well, Jon.” You said while rolling your eyes in faux annoyance while patting his shoulder waiting to start.
Jon could only let out a snort, knowing the day had only just begun.
After a nice breakfast where you had a chance of catching up with Jon for the first time this year, and watching him and Lando have a go at the arcade game, the three of you moved to the area of Swansea’s campus that had the running track.
Lando and you respectively began working on your lower body exercises and warm-up while Jon recorded his bit for the LandoLog.
You tried out your stretches where you noticed Lando’s eyes lingering a little longer than what can be deemed as appropriate while he went through his own training regiment, at which you could only smirk at.
Once Lando was done, both of you took to the track. Starting with a light jog, you slowly went ahead until you heard Lando shout “the last one to cross the finish line does the dishes!” as he took off at a much quicker speed. You let out a small huff in amusement and made sure to work your legs, pushing as hard as you could during the winter.
After completing 3 rounds of the track, you and Lando sat next to each other taking deep breaths.
“This is what you do, times 10?” You asked while your chest was heaving while you sat on your butt.
Lando, who was lying on his back with arms covering his eyes next to you, just let out a chuckle and a small groan, expressing his struggle to complain about getting to do the thing he loves the most - driving cars even if the work behind it was grueling.
The next set of assessment is what every driver dreads the most - Neck Strength test.
This was the part you’d seen Lando struggle the most with. While Jon buckled the contraption around his neck, you scooted to where Lando was sitting and clasped his hand in yours.
You didn’t want to interfere in his training, but seeing him getting his neck pulled was a sight that was never pleasant to you, even if Lando had his mini sessions in your Monaco flat.
Lando grunted throughout the neck assessment and only gripped your hand tighter. Now, your husband might have his reservations about you ruining your day off from the office and accompany him for training but it was in these moments he was always really grateful for you being your stubborn self.
“Come on, baby. This is the last pull. I know it hurts, but you’re gonna get through it. I promise.” you softly encouraged while Lando heaved through the last set.
Lando let out a final grunt as he powered through the last pull before he relaxed his head against your shoulder. “Thank you for being here during the hardest bits of training, babe. I love you.” You could only coo at him while he laid his head on your shoulder which prompted you to leave a small kiss on his hair as he then lifted his head to remove the contraption.
Sometimes, it pained you seeing him go through the neck exercises. You understood it was the most crucial part of his training, helping him cope with the extreme G-forces he had to endure while driving around the circuits, at an ungodly speed, but that didn’t mean you enjoyed watching him go through gruelling amounts of training, only to feel as though he hadn’t done enough to deserve the position he’s in.
Which is why the LandoLog idea was spawned in the first place. To show every critic he’s taking the effort. But you’ve seen the effort he puts in for years now. Whether its assessment day, the usual training day or simulator day, Lando always gave his heart out to get the results on track, and you were damned if you would let anyone rain on his parade.
The last bit of assessment was left where Jon and his team were assessing Lando’s oxygen level and you had to practice every bit of self-control, although you were probably failing miserably.
You and Lando had a more than healthy love-life where you first hand got to experience what his endurance was truly like. It took all the effort in the world to not let the thought of your shared intimacy with Lando make you forget, you were in fact around his entire team, so there was some amount of restraint you had to practice. Even if it was against your will.
When Lando took a pause and filmed his bit for the Log, you made a stride towards him and just wiping the sweat away from his forehead. . Expressing the all consuming love you have for Lando sometimes gets difficult, compounded with the presence of other people watching over but your little gestures are what Lando has come to understand always help be a bridge to what you want to say. You were so proud of Lando. Seeing everything written about him online broke your heart. While you chose not to remain under the public eye in a way that invaded your entire privacy and individuality, you wished to scream to the entire world about the man you knew him to be.
Lando knew that. Which is why he just gave you his infamous toothy grin which only made butterflies erupt in your stomach, even after all these years.
As soon as you climbed inside Lando’s Spyder, you let out a sigh of relief and rested your head against the headrest. With Lando at his side of the car, you instinctively placed your hand on top of his. “Babe I don’t know if I can spend another one of my off days being tired out from a workout session as intense.” making Lando let out a chuckle at your frustration. “Yeah, but even Jon can confirm this is one of my best days because you were there." to which you couldn’t help but scoff as an indication of you knowing how dramatic he could get but both of you know — you secretly enjoy it just as much.
You could feel the thrum of the engine and feel yourself drift off, with Lando’s hand keeping you grounded as you looked forward to a day of rest and just spending time with your husband, as the new season of Formula 1 loomed over.
A/N : This is my first written piece ever when it comes to imagines and I hoped you enjoyed it, no matter how messy it really was - would appreciate all sorts of feedback but this idea was definitely spawned out of absolute boredom and absolutely enjoyed writing it & hope y’all enjoyed reading it!
Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.
But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.
But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.
Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault, themes of infertility.
Notes — Sighs happily: Things are going well, there's no impending doom, and we're getting some character/plot development!!!!!! Also.... smirky face. Winky face.
Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Wolff house was quiet in the late afternoon. Cicadas sang lazily from the hillside, and the air smelled faintly of salt and bougainvillea drifting up from the garden below. The balcony was bathed in warm honey light, the kind of light that made even the stone walls glow.
Ana sat curled in the deep chair, blanket tucked around her, coffee mug pressed to her chest. She still felt small in her own body sometimes—bruises fading but not gone, surgical scars tugging if she moved wrong, a deep weariness lodged in her bones—but here, with the sea stretched out before her, she could pretend that she was still whole.
Across from her, Jules sprawled like a queen, all dramatic angles and quiet command. Her black dress pooled like ink around her legs, and the rings on her fingers caught the light when she lifted her own mug. She was head-to-toe dark against all the light of the afternoon, and yet somehow she didn’t clash—she belonged, the way storm clouds belonged on the horizon.
“Still nursing it?” Jules’s lips curved, dark lipstick against pale skin, eyes glinting with amusement.
Ana glanced down at her mug, still half-full. She smiled sheepishly. “I like it hot.”
“You treat your coffee like foreplay,” Jules teased, taking a pointed sip of her own.
Ana flushed, ducking her head, and Jules laughed, rich and unapologetic. It was always like that between them—Ana shy, Jules sharp, but beneath it all was safety, a tether Ana hadn’t realised she needed until Jules had given it to her.
“You know it’s been four weeks today, right?” Jules said after a moment, her tone softening.
Ana stilled. She hadn’t said the number aloud, not once. But hearing it from Jules made it real: four weeks since the accident. Four weeks since the metal screamed and the world spun and Oscar’s car had crumpled around her like paper. Four weeks since the hospital walls.
“Four weeks,” Ana echoed, more to herself than Jules. She stared at the sea, at how endless it seemed. A month. Somehow, she had survived a month. Her thumb traced absently around the mug’s rim. “Oscar’s going to have a break soon. After Qatar.”
“You’re counting down.”
Ana gave a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “Of course I am. I miss him.” Her voice cracked a little on the confession. “Even when he’s here, I miss him. Because when he’s home, he’s tired or he’s focused or he’s…” She trailed off, biting her lip.
Jules leaned forward, one brow raised. “Or he’s kissing you, loving you, carrying you up the stairs like a princess—or whispering dirty things in your ear or—”
Ana’s blush deepened. “Stop.”
“I’m not wrong,” Jules smirked.
Ana laughed softly, shaking her head. Her heart ached in the way it always did when she thought about him. “I just want… the quiet. No planes, no press, no schedules. I want mornings where he makes coffee, and nights where he falls asleep next to me without an alarm set for 4 a.m.” She hesitated, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “I want him. Just him. Oscar.”
For a beat, the only sound was the sea. Then Jules reached out, her hand cool and grounding against Ana’s. “Pretty sure you’ve already got him locked down.”
Ana blinked hard, eyes burning. She looked down into her mug, at the swirl of coffee. “You always know what to say.”
“That’s what best friends are for,” Jules said, voice even, unflinching.
Ana smiled.
Jules sat back, watching her carefully. “When was your last meeting?”
Ana didn’t flinch. “Last night.”
“How’d it go?”
She traced her thumb over the mug’s handle, grounding herself. “Okay. Better than okay, actually. The cravings are there—always there. But I mean—I survived the accident. The surgeries. I got through it all that. If I can do that…” She let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “I think I can handle anything.”
Something flickered in Jules’s eyes—pride, sharp and fierce. She nodded once, decisively. “Good.”
Ana looked out at the sea again. The sun was sinking lower now, bleeding orange into the water, and she thought about all the ways she’d almost lost this. The balcony. The coffee. Jules. Oscar. The ache in her body was still there, the craving still whispered at the edges of her mind, but so was this: the proof that she had survived, and could keep surviving. She smiled faintly. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a coffee that tasted this good.”
“It’s not the coffee,” Jules said, smiling over her mug. “It’s because you’re happy.”
Ana bit her lip and let her head fall back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Maybe.”
—
The study smelled faintly of leather and paper, the kind of smell Ana had always secretly loved. It reminded her of safety, of permanence. The world could spin, crash, break—but Toto’s study was always the same: shelves lined with books, trophies gleaming in the corner, the heavy oak desk stacked with papers in tidy chaos only he could make sense of.
Ana lingered in the doorway for a moment, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, hesitant. Her papa sat at the desk, glasses perched on his nose as he tapped at his laptop. He looked so entirely in his element that she almost turned back. But then his head lifted, sharp blue eyes finding hers instantly.
“Ah,” he said, voice softening. “Mädi. Come in.”
Her chest loosened. She padded across the room, sinking into the chair opposite him. He studied her for a long moment, and then he leaned back, folding his arms.
“You look much better today,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Ana smiled faintly. “Four weeks.”
He nodded once. “Four weeks. A swift recovery.”
There was silence, but it was the kind of silence that felt safe. She traced a finger over the armrest of her chair, hesitating, then whispered, “Thank you for never giving up on me.”
His expression softened, just a flicker at first, then fully. He pushed back his chair, stood, and crossed the room. In seconds he was crouched in front of her, far too tall to fold down neatly, but making the effort anyway. His large hands closed around hers, warm and steady.
“Listen to me, Anneliese,” he said, voice low, accented, every word deliberate. “You have made it this far because you are strong. Because you are a fighter. Do not give that credit away. Not to me, not to anyone.”
Tears pricked her eyes. She shook her head. “But you—”
“But me,” he interrupted gently, squeezing her hands. “I am your papa. My job is simple. I protect you.”
Her throat burned. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his chest. He held her immediately, arms wrapping around her like iron but careful, always careful of the still bruised ribs beneath her blanket.
For a long time they stayed like that, her breathing slowly syncing with his steady heartbeat.
Finally, he murmured into her hair, “When you were a baby, I used to hold you like this. I was so afraid I would break you. But you—” He gave a soft, rare laugh. “You always had this stubborn look, even then. Like you were telling me, ‘Don’t worry, Papa. I am unbreakable.’”
Ana smiled against his chest, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. “Unbreakable feels a little generous.”
He leaned back, tilting her chin up so she had to meet his eyes. “No. Not generous. True. Even now, with everything—you bend, you stumble, but you do not break. And I am so proud of you, Maus. More than you will ever understand.”
Her voice cracked when she whispered, “I love you, Papa.”
His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek, his own eyes glistening though he blinked it away quickly, the way he always did. “I love you.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering, grounding. The silence between them was easy, heavy with love, the kind that didn’t need filling. Then, softly, Toto asked, “And Oscar?”
Ana’s lips curved, her eyes lighting despite the damp streaks on her cheeks. “He’s… good. He’s everything.”
Toto exhaled through his nose, a faint huff of acknowledgement. “You know… in my world, I would never for one single moment advocate for a driver—a rookie, no less—to miss a race. It is unthinkable. The calendar moves forward whether their lives crumble or not. That is the way of this machine.” He paused, brows furrowing faintly, as though weighing words. “But Oscar—he did not hesitate. He put you before his career, before everything. That is rare. And it surprised me… but pleasantly.”
Ana’s throat tightened. “I knew he would,” she said softly. “I—I was selfish to ask for him. But I knew he’d come. I didn’t doubt that for a second.”
Toto’s large hand enveloped hers, firm, grounding. “Then he understands what it means to love you. That, I respect.” His gaze softened, but beneath it, the mind of the strategist flickered to life, sharp as ever. “A man like that… he has loyalty. And loyalty, Ana, is as valuable in a team as it is in a marriage.”
Ana blinked at him, half amused through her tears. “Papa, are you trying to make Oscar into a Mercedes driver?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, the faintest smirk betraying him. “Well,” he drawled, “I like to keep my eyes open. He is young, talented, level-headed. And now I know he has the character, too. If McLaren does not see his worth, perhaps it is their mistake.”
“Papa,” she groaned, nudging him with her elbow, though her cheeks warmed with pride. “He’s not just… a prospect. He’s my boyfriend.”
“Ja, Mädi,” Toto said, softer now, cupping her cheek again. “And I am grateful for him. Grateful that he saw you, chose you. That is not something I take lightly.”
Her chest ached in the sweetest way, caught between laughter and tears. “You sound like you’re planning to sign him just to keep him close to the family.”
His smirk returned, fleeting but real. “Would that be so terrible?”
Ana laughed weakly into his shoulder, the sound wet with emotion. “Papa…”
“Rest, Maus,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head again. “Oscar has already proven himself—to me as a father, not just as a team principal. And that matters more than anything.”
—
Jack wriggled under the covers, clutching his stuffed elephant to his chest, eyes wide as Ana turned the page.
“And then,” she said in her most dramatic, booming voice, “the dragon stomped his big, scaly foot and said, ‘Who dares to enter my cave?’”
Jack giggled, burying his face into the elephant’s ear. “Do the knight’s voice now!”
Ana cleared her throat, sitting up straighter, and pitched her voice higher, steadier. “I am Sir Cedric the Brave! And I’m not afraid of you, dragon!”
Another giggle burst out of him, bright and unrestrained, the kind of laugh that made Ana’s chest ache with warmth. She softened the dramatics just enough to smooth through the next few lines, lowering her voice until it was gentle and lulling. Jack’s eyes fluttered, his giggles fading into yawns. His grip on the elephant loosened, and his breathing began to even out.
Ana glanced down at him, at the sleepy curve of his mouth and the way his hair stuck up in soft tufts, and her heart clenched. She smoothed his blanket up to his chin, brushing her hand once over his hair.
When she looked up again, she stilled.
Oscar was there.
Leaning against the doorframe, his shoulders slouched in the way they always were when travel had worn him down—rumpled T-shirt, sweatpants creased from the plane, curls messy and shadow under his eyes. But his gaze… his gaze was clear and steady, locked on her like she was the only thing in the world he wanted to look at.
Ana’s breath caught, heat rushing to her cheeks. She pressed a final kiss to Jack’s forehead, whispering, “Goodnight, little dragon,” before slowly, carefully slipping off the bed. She took each step with patience, making sure the little boy’s even breathing didn’t falter.
And then—then she walked straight into Oscar’s arms.
He caught her without hesitation, pulling her close, burying his face in her hair with a sigh that sounded like homecoming. Ana curled into him, clinging, breathing in the familiar mix of travel and warmth that was all him.
“You made it,” she whispered against his chest, voice hushed for Jack’s sake but thick with relief.
“Of course I did,” Oscar murmured, his hand sliding up and down her back in slow strokes, grounding her. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
Ana closed her eyes, let herself melt into him, let his steadiness replace the exhaustion tugging at her bones. The house was quiet, Jack safe and asleep, and Oscar was finally—finally—home.
—
Ana barely remembered how they made it down the hallway. One moment she was clinging to him in the doorway of Jack’s bedroom, and the next Oscar was nudging her bedroom door shut with his foot, carrying her like she weighed nothing.
He set her down gently on the edge of the bed, then crouched in front of her, his tired eyes scanning over her.
“You’re still hurting,” he murmured, his thumb ghosting over the faint bruise that peeked from beneath the neckline of her shirt. His brows drew together, his jaw tight. “Shit. It’s still bad.”
Ana swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. “It’s a lot better than it was,” she whispered, brushing a curl back from his forehead. “And you’ve had enough to worry about, Oscar. I didn’t want to—”
He silenced her with a kiss. Just the softest press of lips, nothing demanding, but it rooted her in place, unraveled all her excuses. When he pulled back, his voice was rough, low, trembling with everything he hadn’t said on the phone. “You’re mine, Ana. I don’t care how much I have to worry—” He broke off, shaking his head, and bent forward again, pressing his lips to the bruise on her collarbone. “—I’d do it a thousand times over if it means you’re still here.”
Ana’s breath stuttered. His mouth trailed lower, tender and slow, following every faded mark, every scar. Where their play was usually fire and edge, this was water—soft, cleansing, endless. His kisses weren’t about claiming her—they were just about cherishing her.
She tipped her head back, closing her eyes, a quiet sound breaking free when he kissed just above the bandage on her ribs. “Oscar…”
“Shh.” His voice was tender. “Just let me take care of you, pretty girl.”
Oscar’s hands were steady, but his eyes were anything but. They roamed over her skin like he was memorising a map, his gaze catching on each bruise, each angry line of healing scar tissue.
He kissed every place that hurt, every place she still flinched to touch herself. Down her chest, over the curve of her stomach, feather-light on the healing line along her hip. His hands steadied her thighs, and when he looked up at her, his eyes gleamed with something fierce and unyielding—love, so much love it almost hurt.
“Let me show you,” he whispered, “how much I missed you.”
Her pulse skipped. She reached for him, fingertips tangling in his curls, and gave the smallest nod.
Not the way he usually did—not the commanding dominance that left her gasping and trembling—but with a reverent intensity that made her ache with need. Every touch was careful, deliberate, and worshipful. His fingers traced the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, teasing the hollow of her waist. Ana shivered under his fingertips, heat coiling low in her belly, nerves singing with anticipation.
He leaned down, lips brushing her neck, soft kisses that dragged along her skin like fire. She tilted her head, lips parting, gasping as he found the hollow beneath her ear, sucking gently, teasing.
“You taste like heaven,” he murmured, voice low, rough, intoxicating. “Every inch of you is mine.”
Ana moaned softly, knees pressing against him, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. His mouth moved with a measured, worshipful hunger—kissing, licking, sucking, each motion coaxing a tremble from her she couldn’t hide.
Oscar cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples. She arched into his touch, gasping, biting her lip. His tongue flicked over one nipple, then the other, dragging moans from her throat. “God, Ana… you drive me insane,” he groaned, his hands sliding down her sides to cup her thighs, spreading her slowly, deliberately.
Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, body trembling. “O-Oscar… please…” she whispered, voice thick, needy, soaked with desire.
“Please what?” he asked, voice low and teasing, lips ghosting over hers. “Tell me. Say it, Ana. I want to hear you.”
“I… I need you,” she gasped. “I need you to make me… feel—” Her words caught in a moan as his fingers brushed the wet heat between her thighs.
He chuckled softly, lips pressing to her temple. “Oh, I will, baby. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
His fingers trailed, teasing, circling, coaxing soft whimpers and gasps. Ana arched into him, nails digging into his shoulders, body trembling with every touch. “Oscar… please…” she begged, breathless, desperate.
He obeyed, slow at first, teasing, worshiping her with every lick, every press of his tongue, every glide of his fingers. Her back arched, hips pressing into his movements, moans spilling uncontrollably. “You taste so good… God, Ana, you’re so fucking wet,” he groaned, voice deep and hungry. “Dripping. Such a messy girl.”
She gasped, “Yes… oh yes… please, Oscar… don’t stop…” Her thighs shook, fingers clutching at his hair as her body coiled tighter and tighter with need.
He whispered her name, low and rough in her ear, fingers and mouth driving her higher. “That’s it… let go for me… all of it… you’re mine, Anneliese Wolff.”
And then he sucked her clip into his mouth and hummed.
Ana’s body betrayed her entirely. She came apart beneath him, shuddering, trembling, moaning his name over and over, every nerve ending alive, every breath stolen in ragged gasps. Oscar groaned, pushed himself up her body and let his lips brush hers, holding her close, murmuring, “Don’t you taste so good, baby? Hm? Can you taste yourself on my lips?”
Even as she came down from the wave of pleasure, he didn’t stop, didn’t release her. Fingers, lips, hands—all worshiping, teasing, coaxing, driving her wild again, each touch sending shivers through her already-sated body.
She curled against him, gasping, lips trembling, body slick with heat and sweat, utterly spent. And yet, she felt fully alive, fully seen, completely cherished. Oscar’s lips brushed her hairline, hands cradling her body like a treasure.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. “So perfect, sweet girl.”
Ana trembled.
She was his.
Completely, utterly, irrevocably.
—
The sunlight streamed through the wide windows of Jules and Lucian’s apartment, spilling across a brunch spread that could have easily passed for a weekend feast at a five-star café. Plates of croissants, fresh fruit, avocado toast, and perfectly golden scrambled eggs were scattered across the low table, while mugs of coffee steamed softly in their hands. The room was warm, lazy, and filled with a comfortable kind of chaos—the soft hum of the city below, laughter bouncing off the walls, and the faint scent of butter and espresso lingering in the air.
Ana leaned back against Oscar, head resting lightly on his shoulder, her pink-painted toes brushing against the edge of the soft rug. Jules sprawled across the other side of the sofa, black-painted nails idly tracing abstract patterns across her mug as she laughed at the trashy reality show playing on the television. Lucian sat upright beside her, arm draped casually across the back of the couch, his presence both protective and relaxed, a quiet counterbalance to the giggling girls.
On the screen, a contestant had just declared some absurd ultimatum, sending Ana and Jules into a fit of shrieks and laughter. Oscar chuckled quietly, watching Ana’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the sound warm and effortless.
“You two are ridiculous,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from Ana’s face. She looked up at him with a mischievous grin, hiding a laugh behind her hand.
“Don’t judge,” Jules shot back, tossing a croissant at Lucian, who caught it absentmindedly. “It’s good TV. The trashier, the better.”
Lucian raised an eyebrow, mock stern, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Ridiculous. That’s the word for it.”
“Please,” Jules rolled her eyes dramatically, giving Lucian a pointed look. “You’re enjoying every second, big bro. Admit it.”
Lucian leaned back comfortably, watching the girls lose themselves in the ridiculous TV show, but Oscar’s gaze shifted, subtle and deliberate, toward him. He lowered his voice, careful, private.
“So…” he began, casual but with a quiet seriousness, “I’ve been thinking about Valhalla. Are you still looking for investors?”
Lucian blinked, caught off guard. “You want in on the business side of things?” His brow arched, curiosity sharp beneath his usual calm.
Oscar relaxed his shoulders, a faint, controlled smile tugging at his lips. “I make good money,” he said quietly, eyes flicking briefly to Ana, who had wriggled off the couch and settled on the rug with Jules, giggling at the screen. “Need to start investing somewhere smart. I like Valhalla. Why not start there?”
Lucian considered him long and hard, unreadable, weighing not just the money but the man. After a moment, he leaned back, a small smile forming. “Jules,” he said, catching the girls’ attention. “You okay with Oscar investing in Valhalla?”
Jules squealed softly, clapping her hands. “Really? Hell yeah!”
Ana beamed at Oscar, who winked at her, subtle and knowing, and she snuggled a little closer to Jules on the floor.
Lucian chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, there you go.” His gaze returned to Oscar, sharp, assessing. “You been thinking about the future?”
Oscar tilted back slightly, pretending casual ease, though the edge of confidence in his tone betrayed him. “Yeah. More recently. Racing won’t last forever. I need to think long-term.”
Lucian’s smirk widened, a low rumble of amusement in his chest. “And you trust Valhalla? Enough to put real money into it?”
“I do,” Oscar said simply, steady and sure. “I like what you’ve built. I want in.”
For a brief moment, the apartment seemed to split into two worlds: the girls’ carefree laughter and shrieks at the TV, and the quiet, deliberate strategy, trust, and subtle power forming between the men.
Lucian leaned back, satisfied, though his sharp eyes never left Oscar. “Alright. You know how much of a stake you’re looking for?”
Oscar tilted his head casually, shrugging as though it were the easiest question in the world. “Fifty percent?”
Lucian chuckled softly, a low, deliberate sound, shaking his head in disbelief. “You got ten million euros stashed somewhere, Piastri?”
Oscar’s smile was faint, unflinching. “I can have it wired to you by the end of the day.”
Lucian’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “You might be a Formula One driver, but I know your contract isn’t worth that much.”
Oscar inclined his head, voice calm. “No. But I’ve got savings. Investments that went well. If that’s what it’ll take, you can have it.”
Lucian leaned forward slightly, the faintest edge of challenge in his low, controlled voice. “You want equal partnership in my club, Piastri?”
“Might make things easier,” Oscar said. “To know you only have to deal with me. No outside investors who don’t understand what they’re dipping into. And…” His tone softened just slightly, eyes flicking toward Ana across the room, crouched on the rug with Jules. “My girl likes it there. We intend to spend a lot of time there, so it’d be nice to have a say in how the place runs.”
Lucian’s eyes lingered on him, slow, deliberate, appraising every nuance. He leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips. Quietly impressed. “Hmm. Thought there might be a personal angle,” he said, almost teasing, though his respect was unmistakable.
“Maybe a little,” Oscar admitted lightly, tone casual, though the weight of it wasn’t lost. “Fifty percent, Lucian,” he said, voice easy, steady.
Lucian shook his head, amusement and disbelief mingling in the line of his jaw. “You’re insane, Piastri. Eight million. Forty-five percent. I still want a controlling majority.”
Oscar’s lips quirked, calm as ever. “Eight million, forty-eight percent.”
Lucian’s eyes narrowed, sharp, considering every angle. “Forty-six percent.”
“Done.”
Lucian leaned back, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. “Shit.”
Across the rug, Ana and Jules were whispering excitedly.
“This is going to be so great,” Jules breathed, eyes sparkling. “We’re basically… princesses of Valhalla!”
Ana giggled, nudging her friend. “I know, right? I mean, you already are kind of the queen…”
Jules grinned slyly. “Queen, princess, whatever.”
Oscar, catching snippets of the whispers, glanced at Lucian with a raised brow.
Lucian smirked faintly, voice dry but amused. “Priorities, eh?”
Oscar’s smile was quiet but knowing. “Yeah. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The girls stifled their giggles as the men returned to their calm, measured conversation, the contrast between business and delight filling the apartment. It was a perfect, chaotic harmony: the serious, calculating energy of Lucian and Oscar in one corner, and the carefree, conspiratorial excitement of Ana and Jules in the other.
Lucian’s gaze softened just slightly at the sight of the two girls whispering. “Well,” he murmured, “I suppose someone has to enjoy the perks while we handle the boring stuff.”
Oscar chuckled, shaking his head. “Leave the fun to them, then. We’ll manage the rest.”
Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.
But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.
But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.
Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault, themes of infertility.
Notes — This chapter kind of leads into a much softer section of the fic where the focus is on healing and growing and falling in love. So... enjoy <3333
Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
She was in Valhalla.
Somewhere warm, golden, impossibly safe. Somewhere her chest wasn’t tight and her stomach didn’t twist itself into knots.
Oscar had booked a private room—no beeping machines, no smell of antiseptic. No tense, expectant nurses hovering. Only him. Only Ana.
He had her tied up all pretty, ribbons in soft pink silk tied around her wrists and ankles, delicate enough to loosen if she pulled hard enough—but she wouldn’t dare. She was far too aware, far too fragile, far too caught up in the sensation of him.
She was naked, yes, and she was dripping, her skin warm and sticky with the aftermath of their play, but it didn’t matter. He was there, wearing nothing but Calvin Kleins, his body tense and alive, a predatory softness in his gaze.
He held a feather between his fingers, teasing it along her ribs, along her thighs, along the places she had never known could feel this electric. Every brush sent shivers up her spine, every flick made her breath hitch, made her giggle uncontrollably, the sound spilling from her lips like water.
Her mind drifted further. She was giggle-drunk, cum-drunk, loopy, deliriously happy. She didn’t care about the hospital room, about the beep of the monitor in her head, about the fear that had been creeping along her skin since her mother stepped into the doorway.
He kissed her then, slow, insistent, hands cupping her face. His lips were warm, soft, grounding. Ana’s fingers tangled in his hair, and for a moment, she thought she might dissolve into him entirely. She could feel the steady heat of his chest under her palms, the rise and fall of his breath against hers, and for the first time in hours, she felt safe. Real safe, not the brittle, trembling kind of safety she thought she could never have.
She drifted further still, feeling his hands explore her curves, feeling the press of his hips, the gentle weight of him holding her in place, and her thoughts tumbled into fantasies, half-memory, half-wish. She laughed into a kiss, tears she didn’t know she’d been holding slipping down her cheeks. The room spun, golden and heavy with warmth, every nerve ending alive.
And then, just at the edge of it, she felt it—the tug of the present. The soft shuffle of footsteps. The shadow at the doorway. Her mother.
Ana’s chest tightened, and for a split second, the warmth of Valhalla faltered. The ribbons in her mind frayed, the feather disappeared, the perfect smirk on Oscar’s lips dissolved into the cold reality of her mother’s stare.
Her heart thumped, frantic. She wanted to stay in the daydream, to cling to the heat of him, the laughter, the softness. But the real world pressed back, harsh, cruel, unyielding. She blinked rapidly, trying to steady herself, trying to push the fantasy away just enough to meet her mother’s eyes without crumpling.
Her lips quivered. She tried to breathe. She tried to anchor herself—but her mind, stubborn, rebellious, clung to Valhalla a little longer.
She whispered, more to herself than anyone else, “I’m here…”
The phantom warmth of Oscar’s hands lingered on her skin as her mother’s shadow stretched fully into the room.
Ana’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her chest tightened, her stomach coiled, but her mind fought to stay adrift, to keep Valhalla alive just a second longer. She felt Oscar’s lips on hers, the soft press of his body, the gentle weight of him holding her safe—but the sound of a quiet shuffle, the sharp intake of breath, pulled her back.
She blinked. Her eyelashes wet. Her ribs cramped from holding her breath.
And there she was. Standing in the doorway, framed by the fluorescent hospital lights, impossibly real and impossibly threatening. Her mother.
Ana’s mind splintered between the impossible comfort of his hands and the crushing weight of the present. She could feel herself shaking, small and fragile, tears brimming, her lips parting before her brain could stop them.
“Mum?”
The word left her like a surrender. Her voice was small, fragile, trembling—but full of recognition, of dread, of a hope that this was some mistake.
Her mother’s eyes flicked over her, cold and unyielding, and Ana felt herself shrinking into the bed, wishing she could dissolve into the warmth of her daydream, wishing she could pull Valhalla around her like a shield.
The nurses in the room gave small, polite smiles, hesitant, sensing tension but unsure of its depth. Jack squirmed against her side, Susie’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and Toto hovered close, protective—but none of them could stop the icy shock that wrapped Ana in its grip.
Her hands trembled. Her chest tightened. She wanted to run, to flee into the warm arms of her fantasy, to pretend her mother wasn’t real, wasn’t here—but she couldn’t.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway, heavy and deliberate, and suddenly Nate appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening as they took in the familiar figure standing there. “Mom? What are you doing here?” His voice was incredulous.
Their mother straightened, folding her arms with a rigid composure that only made the tension in the room thicken. “I got a call from the family lawyer,” she said, her tone defensive, almost clipped. “He still has access to Ana’s records, since the rehabilitation. He let me know that she’s been admitted, and… well, you can imagine what I thought.”
Nate’s jaw tightened. “Imagine what you thought?” he repeated, incredulous. “Do you even hear yourself? You should’ve just called.”
Her mother’s lips pressed together. “Well, nobody bothered to call me! I have every right to be concerned about my daughter. She’s my child.”
Ana’s chest heaved, and she buried her face into the pillow, wishing desperately for the warmth of Valhalla to pull her back, to let her dissolve into the memory of Oscar’s arms, of safety and laughter and light. But here, now, reality pressed down on her fragile body.
Jack squirmed beside her, Susie’s hand found hers again, firm and grounding, and Toto’s presence at her side radiated quiet, protective strength. Still, nothing could erase the icy dread of her mother’s gaze, or the tremor in Nate’s voice as he demanded, “You can’t just waltz in here.”
Her mother’s defences flickered, but only slightly. “I have the right to know that my daughter has relapsed,” she said, softer now, but still firm.
Ana’s fingers curled into the sheets, nails digging in as her mind struggled to balance between panic and dissociation, clinging desperately to the fantasy of Valhalla, to the one place she had felt untouchable and safe. She could feel her pulse hammering in her temples, her chest constricted, her thoughts scattering like smoke. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Valhalla still existed—Oscar’s hands on her, his teasing smirk, the warmth of him pressing into her skin—but here, in this room, reality was heavy and cruel.
The room felt impossibly small, every heartbeat loud, every breath shallow, as mother and son faced off.
“She didn’t relapse!” Nate exploded, his voice reverberating against the sterile walls. Ana whimpered, the sound small and raw, and her body flinched as if the words themselves could shield her from the fear and shame curling in her chest.
Then Oscar appeared.
Real. Tangible. Present.
He crouched in front of her bed, knees brushing the side, and cupped her face in his hands, thumbs running gently under her eyes. His touch was firm but careful, and his gaze—a mix of concentration, worry, and tenderness—pinned her attention like a lifeline.
Ana’s chest heaved against the weight of panic, and her eyes, still brimming with unshed tears, searched his face like a lifeboat in a storm. “Oscar…” she whispered, barely audible.
“Shh,” he murmured, leaning closer, his forehead almost brushing hers. “I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
The words were simple, but they carried a gravity that sank into her like sunlight through clouds. For a fraction of a second, the hospital room melted away. She could feel his heartbeat against her palms, his warmth radiating through her trembling body. She wanted to fold into him, to vanish into the security he offered, to forget the accusation, the fear, and the shadow of her mother looming over her.
Nate’s voice faded, distant and hollow in her ears. Her mother’s glare became a blur of edges, sharp and frightening, but muted under the anchor of Oscar’s presence.
He tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Look at me, Ana. Not her. Not anyone else. Just me. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re not alone.”
Ana’s knees tucked under her, shivering as her breath hitched in short, uneven gasps. She felt raw, exposed, and every nerve in her body seemed to scream. “I—I don’t…” she tried to speak, but her voice caught, ragged and trembling, a fragile whisper that barely carried across the room.
“You don’t have to,” Oscar murmured, pressing a soft, warm kiss to her temple. His hands lingered on her face, grounding, steady. “Just breathe. Right here, right now. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her panic loosened slightly, though the nausea still churned, coiling in her stomach like a living thing. Her gaze flicked between Oscar and her papa, her lips quivering. “Please… I—I don’t want her here,” she whispered, tears brimming. “She… she thinks—I didn’t… Papa—”
Her voice broke entirely, and a hiccup shook her small frame. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, seeking any anchor in the storm of emotions inside her.
Susie’s thumb stroked her knuckles, warm and reassuring, and Jack’s small hand brushed against her side, grounding in its own innocent way.
Oscar leaned forward, lowering himself until his chest pressed gently against hers, his arms enveloping her. “Hey,” he whispered, his lips brushing her hair, “If you want her to leave, then that’s what’s going to happen. You’re an adult, and you are allowed to tell her that you don’t want her here. Okay?”
Her body sagged into him, knees folding further beneath her as she let herself finally exhale a trembling, shuddering breath. The tears she’d been holding back spilled freely, wet trails against her cheeks. “I can’t… I can’t…” she sobbed, burying her face into his shoulder.
“You can,” Oscar soothed, his voice low, unyielding. “You can, baby. You’re so strong, and you’ve got me here to back you up, haven’t you? Hm? And your papa. Susie. Jack. Nate. No one else matters.”
For a moment, the room became a bubble of safety. Her mother’s presence faded at the edges, distant and powerless against the warmth pressing in from all sides. Ana’s trembling slowed, her body slackening as she let herself sink into the cocoon of protection Oscar provided.
“I’m here,” he whispered again, nuzzling her hair, letting his words sink into her bones.
Her mother’s face tightened, jaw rigid, eyes flashing. “How was I supposed to know? You can’t blame me for assuming!” she snapped, defensive now, the sharp edge of anger masking a sliver of fear.
“Mum, just leave,” Nate said, voice firm. “Go. Come back when you’re invited.”
“I flew all the way from England for no reason?” her mother protested, her hands flailing slightly. “I had—”
Ana’s voice, small but steady, cut through the tension, trembling as she spoke but full of raw honesty. “I was in a car accident. I totalled Oscar’s car. The—the detectives said that the other driver was speeding or using his phone—I can’t remember which one it was—but look around. It’s Sunday. Everyone is here, Mum. Oscar is here. He’s missing a race. Do you know how insane that is? That he chose me?”
Her eyes flickered toward Oscar, clinging to the man who had become her anchor, before returning to her mother, voice quivering now with exhaustion, hurt, and sadness. “And you’re here now, and you’re complaining because you wanted… what? For this to be a relapse so that you can shove my failure in my face again?” Tears welled, sliding down her cheeks as her voice softened, raw and vulnerable. “God… just… please. Just go. Go away.”
Oscar tightened his arms around her, pressing her face into his chest. Susie’s hand squeezed hers gently, grounding.
“Leave.” Toto said. One word.
Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, nostrils flaring, but she said nothing more. The tension in her shoulders faltered as Nate’s glare pinned her in place. Finally, with a bitter huff, she spun on her heel.
Ana sagged instantly, the weight of exhaustion pressing her into the mattress. She let out a shaky breath, tears slipping freely now as she collapsed fully into Oscar’s arms.
His hands cradled her—one on her back, steadying her, the other threading through her hair, stroking gently as if he could erase every ounce of pain with his touch. “Shh… it’s over,” he murmured, lips brushing the crown of her head. “She’s gone. You’re okay. You’re here with me.”
Susie’s hand remained firm in hers, grounding, offering steady reassurance, while Toto’s presence at her shoulder radiated quiet, protective strength. Jack squirmed beside her, curling into her side, his warmth a tiny, perfect comfort.
“I… I’m so tired,” Ana whispered between ragged sobs, voice cracking. “I just… I don’t want to be strong anymore.”
“You don’t have to be,” Oscar replied softly, his voice unyielding in its certainty.
Ana tilted her head up, pressing her lips to his chest, drawing in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The sound anchored her, made her feel tethered to something safe and real.
Toto leaned down then, brushing a hand across Ana’s forehead before giving a slight nod toward Oscar—a silent approval.
Ana’s eyes flicked to her papa, and he leaned down, placing a soft, tender kiss on her forehead. “My tiny maus,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Such a brave girl.”
—
Discharge felt strange.
The nurses had helped her dress, folding her clothes carefully into the little overnight bag Susie had brought. There were papers to sign, instructions for rest, follow-up appointments, prescriptions clutched in her Papa’s neat, precise hand. The hallways of the hospital smelled sharp and sterile, but every step toward the exit felt like a breath of fresh air.
Oscar walked close beside her, his hand never straying far from her back, steadying her even when she insisted she could manage the walk herself. The others—Papa, Susie, Nate, Jack—trailed not far behind, carrying flowers and balloons and the small stack of cards.
By the time they reached the front, a sleek black rental was waiting at the curb, polished and anonymous. Oscar opened the passenger door for her like it was muscle memory, like the most natural thing in the world, and leaned in to clip in her seatbelt before he circled around to the driver’s side.
Ana’s stomach knotted as she relaxed into the seat. The door shut with a soft thud, enclosing her in the car’s clean, faintly leathery scent. For a moment, she froze, hands fisted in her lap. It hadn’t even been four days since the crash. Glass and screeching metal still lingered in her dreams, jolting her awake.
But then—Oscar’s hand found hers. His fingers warm, sure, twining with her own like they belonged there. She looked sideways, and he was already watching her, quiet but certain. “You’re fine,” he said softly. Not a question. A truth.
The engine hummed to life beneath them. She exhaled slowly. The tension in her chest began to loosen—not because she trusted the car, but because she trusted him. With Oscar behind the wheel, she wasn’t afraid. Not even a little.
They pulled away from the hospital, and in the side mirror she glimpsed the second car: her papa’s rental, Susie in the passenger seat, Jack in the back, Nate’s tall frame beside him. A whole convoy, her family trailing behind, as though they were the safety net holding her up.
The road unfurled ahead, smooth and sunlit. Ana tilted her head against the window, but her gaze slid down to Oscar’s hand clasping hers. Her throat tightened.
She’d ruined it—his first ‘dream’ car. She knew how much he’d loved it, how much it had meant to him.
The guilt burned hot in her chest, but before it could spill out, Oscar brought her hand to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, light, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. Then he set their hands back on the console, his thumb rubbing slow circles against her skin.
Her words withered before they could form. She didn’t need to speak them; somehow, he already knew.
So she sat quietly instead, holding onto him as the kilometres slipped away, the Mediterranean glittering somewhere just beyond the hills.
She thought she might hate this—being back in a car so soon, the seatbelt pinning her chest, the engine humming underfoot. But no. Not with him.
With Oscar at the wheel, she could almost forget the crash, the hospital, the shadow her mother had cast across her. With Oscar, she wasn’t afraid of anything.
The drive blurred into a quiet lullaby of motion. The hum of the engine, the rhythmic sweep of tires on the road, the steady heat of Oscar’s hand wrapped around hers—it all worked to soften her edges. Ana drifted in and out, heavy-limbed, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that came after too many nights of fear and adrenaline.
When they reached Monaco, the city glittered in its late-afternoon light, the sea throwing golden reflections onto buildings she’d known since childhood. The car curved up the familiar streets that led to the Wolff home, perched gracefully above the harbour.
Ana stirred faintly as Oscar slowed the rental. The second car pulled in behind them, and through the haze of her half-sleep she heard the muffled shuffle of doors opening, voices carrying—Jack chattering excitedly, Susie’s gentle laugh, Nate’s low murmur, Papa’s grounding baritone.
But she didn’t move. Didn’t even try. Because Oscar was leaning over, murmuring, “Hey, sleepyhead,” with a smile tucked in his voice, and then—without waiting for her to rouse—he slipped from the driver’s seat and came around to her side.
The door opened, and cool air brushed her face. She blinked sluggishly up at him, her lips parting as if to protest. But before she could, his arms were around her—strong, certain, effortless. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing at all, tucking her against his chest.
Ana buried her face in his shoulder, her body yielding with a soft sigh.
Behind them, Jack’s delighted voice piped up. “He’s carrying her like a princess!”
Susie shushed him gently, but her smile was audible. Nate’s low chuckle followed, and Papa—ever composed—simply said, “Very good,” in approval as he moved past to open the front door for them.
The Wolff home welcomed her back with the scent of polished wood and faint lavender, the familiar hush of high ceilings and wide windows. Oscar’s steps echoed softly as he carried her inside.
Susie swept ahead, setting down Ana’s overnight bag, murmuring something about putting on a pot of coffee. Jack trailed after them, already planning which drawing he’d make for his big sister. Nate hung back to bring in balloons and cards, his dark brows furrowed just slightly.
Oscar, though—Oscar didn’t stop until they reached the staircase. He shifted her gently, his hands careful at her back and knees. “Almost there,” he whispered against her temple.
The climb felt dreamlike, each step carrying her further from the sterile brightness of the hospital, from the icy dread of her mother’s gaze, from the hollow pit of fear she’d been trapped in for days. By the time they reached the landing, Ana felt as though she’d floated there, borne up entirely by him.
Her bedroom door creaked open with a push of his shoulder. The room was just as she’d left it—soft light spilling through gauzy curtains, the bed neatly made, the familiar shelves lined with books and mementos. Home. Hers.
Oscar lowered her onto the bed with infinite care, easing her down against the pillows. His hands lingered, brushing hair from her face, tucking the blanket around her with quiet tenderness.
Ana blinked up at him, heavy-eyed, her throat tight. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, I did,” he murmured, leaning close enough to press a kiss to her forehead. “Always will.”
Her chest ached, full and warm and trembling all at once. She reached for his hand, pressing it against her cheek, needing the anchor of his touch. The warmth of his skin grounded her, the weight of his presence steadying the fragile pieces of her heart.
“I love you,” she whispered, the words small but fierce, spilling out before she could second-guess them.
For a moment, Oscar froze. His gaze searched hers, brown eyes wide and shining as though he’d been waiting his whole life to hear it. Then, slowly, his expression softened, melted, until every line of his face seemed etched with reverence.
He dipped down, his lips brushing hers—gentle, deliberate, not a kiss to claim but to promise. It was soft, sweet, careful, but it lingered just long enough for her to feel it pulse through her chest, reverberating in her ribs.
When he drew back, his forehead rested against hers, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her cheekbone. His breath was warm, his voice even warmer. “I love you too, baby.” The words came steady, sure, no hesitation.
Ana’s eyes burned, tears pricking at the corners, but it wasn’t sadness this time—it was relief. It was the weight of safety and love pressing down on her in the best way.
Oscar kissed her once more, softer still, then tucked her hair back from her face with tender fingers. “Now go to sleep,” he whispered, and it wasn’t a command but a lullaby, his tone thick with affection.
Her lashes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion and comfort. Her body curled toward him instinctively, finding its rest in his nearness. As her breathing slowed, she felt the faint brush of his lips on her hairline, the steady thrum of his thumb still stroking her hand, anchoring her even as she slipped into dreams.
—
The conference room was tense, air thick with unspoken frustration. Zak sat at the head of the table, his expression polished but tight, while Andrea leaned back, arms crossed. Lando lounged in his chair with a deceptively casual slouch, but his eyes tracked everything like a hawk.
Oscar sat opposite them, posture straight, jaw set. He wasn’t fidgeting, wasn’t breaking eye contact. Calm, but sharp-edged.
Zak folded his hands. “Oscar, no one’s questioning your talent. You’ve proven yourself over and over again. But missing a race can affect the way sponsors, partners, and frankly the board see your reliability. Formula 1 is… unforgiving. You know that.”
Oscar nodded slowly, absorbing it, his face unreadable. “I do.”
Zak hesitated, then continued, carefully. “We’re not saying you can’t have a personal life. Of course you can. But you’ve got to find balance. The sport requires—”
“Balance?” Lando cut in suddenly, sitting up straighter. His voice was incredulous, sharp with heat. “Are you seriously saying that if your wife was in a life-threatening accident, you’d still be able to smile for the cameras and go out racing like nothing happened?”
Zak blinked. “Lando, come on, that’s not—”
“No.” Lando’s voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t ‘come on’ me. Oscar isn’t a robot. He’s not some plug-and-play part you swap out when it’s convenient. He’s a human being. His girlfriend nearly died.”
The silence that followed was heavy, charged. Andrea shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Zak, who looked caught between irritation and unease.
Oscar finally spoke, voice calm but cutting through the tension like glass. “I’m going to win a world championship,” he said simply. No bravado. No arrogance. Just fact. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locked on Zak’s. “And I would like it to be with McLaren. I believe in this team, and I believe in what we can achieve together. But let me be clear—I’m not above doing it with another team if that’s what it comes down to.” He let the words sink in, his tone steady, unshaken. “I’m not sacrificing my humanity for a contract. If you want a robot, you’ll have to build one. If you want me—then you need to understand that racing is my priority—it always will be—but it’s not the only one.”
Lando sat back with a satisfied little smirk, shooting Oscar a look of solidarity.
The room was silent again, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. This one was heavy with realisation, the kind that shifted the ground beneath everyone’s feet.
Zak cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair. His lips pressed thin, but his nod was subtle, reluctant. “Message received.”
—
The door to the conference room clicked shut behind them, sealing Zak and Andrea inside with the silence they’d left behind. Oscar exhaled slowly, shoving his hands into his pockets as he started down the corridor. The adrenaline of holding his ground was still humming in his veins, but underneath it was something steadier—resolve.
Lando jogged a few steps to fall in beside him, bumping his shoulder lightly against Oscar’s. “Mate,” he said, shaking his head with a half-smile. “Honestly. I’ve never seen anyone shut Zak down like that before. Thought he was gonna choke on his own tie.”
Oscar’s lips twitched into the barest ghost of a smile. “Didn’t feel badass,” he admitted quietly. “Just… necessary.”
“Necessary can be badass,” Lando countered, grinning. Then, softer, his smile fading. “How is she?”
Oscar’s pace slowed a little. “She’s… better,” he said, and his voice caught slightly on the word. “Still shaken up. Tired. But she’s home now, and… safe. That’s what matters.”
Lando nodded, gaze steady, and didn’t fill the silence with anything unnecessary. He just let it sit for a beat before clapping Oscar’s shoulder. “Good. That’s good.” They walked a few steps more before Lando smirked again, trying to lighten the weight. “Still can’t believe you threatened to walk if they didn’t stop being dicks. You, the polite, nice one. Gave me chills.”
Oscar shook his head, though his lips curved with quiet amusement. “Wasn’t a threat.”
Lando hummed, then glanced sideways at him. “I dunno. I think it might’ve been.”
Oscar snorted. “Not sure I’ve actually got that many options, mate. I’m still a rookie.”
Lando rolled his eyes.
No options. Sure.
—
The Wolff house was quiet when Oscar finally got back from MTC a day later, the spare key that Toto had given him clicking softly in the lock. He toed his shoes off and padded straight up the two sets of stairs, every bone in his body humming with exhaustion, but his chest already lightening at the thought of seeing her.
Ana’s bedroom door was cracked open, a warm lamplight glowing inside. He pushed it open gently.
She was curled on her side, propped against pillows, her hair falling loose around her face, her expression intent as she tapped quickly on her phone.
He smiled, slipping inside and closing the door behind him. “You’re supposed to be resting,” he murmured, climbing onto the bed beside her, his arm immediately looping around her waist.
Ana squeaked in surprise as the mattress dipped. “I am!” she argued, snapping her phone close to her chest like it was contraband.
Oscar raised a brow. “Mhm. Sure. You’re smirking. That’s suspicious.”
She bit her lip, eyes wide and far too guilty. “Nooo,” she said slowly, her cheeks pink.
Which was exactly what convinced him.
He leaned over, reaching for her phone. “What are you hiding from me, pretty girl?”
Ana let out a horrified laugh, rolling onto her side, away from him, her phone clutched tight against her chest. “Nothing! Literally nothing.”
“Uh-huh,” he said dryly, already sliding closer. “Hand it over.”
“No!” She squealed, kicking her feet when he tried to pry her arms open.
Oscar grinned, enjoying this far too much, and with one quick twist, he had her pinned beneath him, straddling her thighs as he pried the phone from her grasp.
“Oscar!” she yelped, wriggling uselessly. “You’re mean!”
He held the phone aloft, well out of reach, smirking down at her. “I’m resourceful.”
A couple of taps and the screen unlocked. His brows furrowed as he scrolled, then shot up in disbelief. “Anneliese Wolff. You made me a fan account?”
Her entire face went crimson. “I was bored! And lonely! And we talked about it, remember? I said I wanted to be your biggest cheerleader—so I did it!”
He blinked at her, then burst out laughing, his body shaking above hers. “These are all thirst tweets!”
“They are supportive,” she protested hotly, burying her face in her hands.
“Oh my god,” he wheezed, scrolling further. “ ‘If Oscar Piastri doesn’t win a race this year, I will burn down Zak Brown’s house.’ … Ana.”
“That one was funny!” she tried weakly.
“ ‘Oscar could tie me up in a basement and I would thank him.’” He tilted the phone down, grinning wickedly. “That one’s a bit on the nose. Care to explain?” Ana groaned and tried to snatch the phone, but he easily caught her wrists and pressed them into the pillows above her head. “Nope. You’re not getting out of this.”
Her voice was muffled against his shirt. “I hate you.”
“Really?” he teased, lowering his face until his lips brushed her temple. “Because your fan account says otherwise.”
“Shut up!” she whined, kicking her heels against the mattress.
He scrolled again, cackling. “ ‘Oscar’s hands. That’s the tweet.’ … ‘McLaren should give him a bonus just for existing. Look at his face.’”
Ana was half laughing, half groaning now, her embarrassment unbearable. “Stop reading them out loud!”
“ ‘He is the standard. Everyone else is just noise.’ Wow, poetic. Didn’t know my girlfriend was a Shakespearean.”
“You’re evil.”
“And you’re adorable.” He finally set the phone aside and leaned down, catching her mouth in a soft kiss that melted her protests into nothing. He lingered, slow and warm, before whispering against her lips: “Best cheerleader ever.”
Her chest ached, full of affection even through her embarrassment. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”
“Not a chance,” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. Then, with a wicked grin. “Now, explain the hand tweet. You like my hands on you, little miss PrincessPiastri?”
She squealed again, shoving his chest, but her laughter filled the room, ringing bright and easy, the kind of sound Oscar would fight for every single time.
Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.
But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.
But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.
Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault, themes of infertility.
Notes — Hi. Missed ya. Keeping asks on non-anon for a while but I hope you're all doing okay <3 - Peachy x
Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The room was still dim when Ana stirred, hours after the second surgery. The ache inside her was different this time—heavier, sharper, like her body knew what had been taken even before her mind caught up.
She lay propped up, blankets tucked too tight, staring at the blank hospital ceiling until her vision blurred. She didn’t notice the therapist at first—quiet, soft-spoken, sitting in the corner like she’d been waiting for Ana to come back to herself.
“How are you feeling?” the woman asked gently.
Ana let out a low, bitter laugh. “Which part? The body that feels like glass shards? Or the fact they’ve just cut out half of my chance at having kids in the future?”
The therapist didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away, either. Just waited.
Ana’s throat closed. She dragged a shaking hand through her hair, eyes fixed on some invisible point far away. “I knew it after the crash. Knew something was wrong; more than just the bones. And now it’s official. One ovary gone. The other hanging on by stitches and, what, hope?” She swallowed hard. Her voice cracked. “I never thought about kids. Not really. I mean—how could I? I’ve spent almost half of my life in active addiction. You don’t think about nurseries and baby clothes when you can’t even get through a week sober. What kind of mother would I have been? The kind who misses birthdays because she’s in rehab? The kind who ruins every milestone because she can’t hold it together?”
Her hands clenched in the blanket. Her chest shook with the weight of it. “I thought that was my punishment, you know?”
She shut her eyes, and the tears slipped free anyway. “But then—But then I met Oscar. And suddenly—I could picture it. Us. Him holding a baby with his eyes and my hair. A little girl with his smile. A boy with his laugh. For the first time I let myself believe I could be that woman. That maybe the world wouldn’t punish me forever. That maybe I could give him something good.”
Her voice faltered into silence. The monitor beeped steadily, betraying the storm inside her chest. “And now…” She shook her head, a broken sound leaving her throat. “Now it’s been cut out of me. Just like that. Gone. And I hate that it feels like the universe is laughing, taunting me. Telling me I should never have dreamed in the first place.”
The therapist’s voice was calm, grounding. “You haven’t lost everything. One ovary is healthy—the Fallopian tube is healthy, and your uterus showed no signs of trauma. It may not be easy, but it’s not impossible. Medicine has advanced in ways we couldn’t have dreamed even ten years ago. And even if biology puts up walls—there are other ways to build families. Adoption. Surrogacy.”
Ana pressed her face into her hands, her voice muffled. “I feel sick.”
“Okay,” the therapist said softly, “I’ll bring you some ginger tea.”
Her bottom lip wobbled. “I—How am I supposed to tell him?”
The therapist exhaled quietly. “Right now, Ana, the only person who knows that is you.”
Ana let her hands fall back to the sheets, her face streaked wet. Her whole body trembled, as if it couldn’t hold the grief inside her skin. For the first time, she whispered it aloud. “I want it. I want him. And I want his babies.” Her chest caved with the words. “And I’m terrified I’ll never have any of it now.”
The therapist didn’t try to soothe her with platitudes. She simply sat there, steady and present, letting Ana cry until the sobs wrung her empty.
—
Ana was still trembling when the door clicked open. For a second, she thought it was another nurse, another round of vitals, another lecture about pain medication. But then she saw him—broad shoulders filling the doorway, curls messy from running his hands through them, eyes wild with sleeplessness.
Oscar.
Her breath caught. She hated that her first instinct was to hide her face, to wipe the evidence of tears away—but it was too late. He was already at her side, dragging the chair close, his hand covering hers in a grip that was steady, grounding.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispered, voice low, fierce. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, rough and protective. “Don’t ever do that again.”
She laughed, watery and broken. “Like I had a choice.”
His jaw flexed, and then softened. He bent, pressing a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat like he could breathe her back together. “You’re okay. I’m here. That’s what matters.”
Her throat burned. The words clawed their way out before she could stop them. “Oscar—I have to tell you something.”
He pulled back just enough to see her face, his gaze sharp, unwavering. “Okay.”
Her chest rose and fell too fast. “They—after the surgery—” She bit down on her lip, hard, until she tasted blood. “One ovary is gone. The other’s… they saved it, but it’s weak. They don’t know what it means for me. For us. For kids. And I just—” Her voice cracked. “I thought I was okay with never being a mother. I thought I didn’t deserve it. But with you, I—” Her eyes flooded, blurring him. “I could see it. I wanted it. And now it feels like it’s been ripped away before we even had a chance.”
The silence that followed felt endless. Her heart thrashed. She wanted to take it back, to cover her face, to choke on the words and swallow them down where he couldn’t see her break.
But then his hand slid up, firm on her jaw, tilting her face to his. His thumb brushed away a tear with startling gentleness.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low but commanding.
She did.
“You think this changes how I see you?” His brow furrowed, like the very idea offended him. “Ana, you are the future I want. You. That’s not a fact that’s reliant on whether our kids have my nose or your eyes. If it’s babies one day, then we’ll find a way. If it’s adoption, if it’s nothing but you and me—I don’t give a damn. What I won’t do is let you sit here thinking you’re less, or broken, or that I’ll love you any less than I do right now.”
Her lip trembled. “Oscar—”
He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers, his voice a rough whisper. “You are mine. Do you understand me? And I don’t plan on walking away from you ever again. You could lose everything in the world, be reduced to a single atom, and you’d still be enough. More than enough.”
The sob ripped out of her before she could stop it, her hands fisting in his shirt like she’d drown if she let go. And he let her cry, strong and steady, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other anchoring her to him.
When her breathing finally slowed, he kissed the crown of her hair. “We’ll deal with the future when it comes. But don’t ever think I’m going anywhere. Not for this. Not for anything.”
She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of him seep into her bones, drowning out the sterile chill of the hospital. For the first time since the accident, she believed him. Believed that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t standing on the edge of losing everything.
Because Oscar had already chosen her.
—
The lights were too bright, the coffee too bitter, and the linoleum floor hummed with the quiet drag of shoes and nurses’ whispers.
Oscar sat hunched over a cup. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but adrenaline kept him upright.
Across from him, Jules sat cross-legged on the chair like it was a sofa, hoodie drowning her small frame, eyeliner smudged in jagged wings. Lucian towered beside her, silent and unmoving, fingers wrapped loosely around a paper cup he hadn’t touched. He was a statue, unreadable as ever.
No one spoke.
Not until Jules leaned forward, chin on her palm, narrowing her eyes at Oscar. “Oh,” she said softly, almost accusing. “You’re here.”
Oscar blinked—they’d been sat together for hours. “Yeah, Jules.”
Her brow furrowed, and her exhaustion was visible. “But—it’s Saturday. Singapore. How are you here?”
Oscar swallowed, straightening slightly. “Because my girlfriend was in a car accident.” His voice was low, steady. “And there’s nowhere else I want to be right now.”
Jules softened, lips pressing into a small, crooked line.
And Lucian—though his face didn’t shift much—let out the smallest exhale through his nose. His eyes flickered to Oscar’s, and for just a second, there was something there. A glint. Not approval exactly, but something close. Respect.
Oscar felt it. Let it settle in his chest like an anchor.
Jules broke the quiet again, more hesitant now. “We were in St. Lucia with our parents. Supposed to be a family trip.”
Oscar nodded faintly. “You dropped everything too.”
“Obviously,” Jules said, almost offended at the suggestion they wouldn’t. “She’s ours.”
Lucian gave a sharp nod, confirming.
Then Jules sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Our parents weren’t thrilled, though.”
Oscar frowned. “Why?”
“They were introducing Lucian to someone,” she muttered, picking at the corner of her paper cup. “Some… potential wife.”
Oscar blinked. “What?”
“Yeah,” Jules said dryly, rolling her eyes. “Apparently my brother is incapable of finding someone good enough on his own, so they’re trying to orchestrate this weird, twisted arranged marriage thing.”
Oscar’s jaw dropped, glancing instinctively at Lucian. “You’re joking.”
Lucian’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. His voice, when it finally came, was deep and even. “I wish.”
Jules snorted. “He also doesn’t date, so they think they have to intervene before he dies alone and ruins the Vincent bloodline or whatever.”
Oscar blinked between them, trying to gauge if this was really happening. “That’s insane.”
“Tell me about it,” Jules said, tossing her spoon into her coffee like she was stabbing it.
Lucian said nothing more, but his silence wasn’t empty. It was deliberate, a wall he built brick by brick, the way he always did.
Oscar sat back, watching the siblings bicker in low tones, feeling that odd shift in the air again. His coffee was long cold, untouched, but his pulse thrummed as if he’d downed five espressos.
And then it slipped out of him, quiet but certain. “I want kids.”
The words hung there, stark against the hum of the hospital café. An admission, raw and unpolished, tumbling into the space like a secret he hadn’t meant to say aloud.
Jules froze mid–eye roll. Her gaze snapped to him, wide and sharp. “Oscar—”
But he pushed on, voice firmer now, his eyes fixed on the scratched table between them.
“But I’d go without them. For her.”
Silence.
The weight of it pressed into his chest, made his throat ache. He finally lifted his eyes. Jules was staring at him, her mouth parted, words stolen clean away.
Lucian’s face, as always, gave almost nothing. But Oscar caught the barest flicker in his eyes—the faintest tremor, like the ripple of a stone dropped in still water.
“I mean it,” Oscar said, softer now, almost to himself. “It wouldn’t matter.”
Jules blinked hard, her jaw tightening, like she wanted to scoff, to tease—but couldn’t quite manage it. Her lip wobbled instead.
Lucian’s voice finally broke the silence, low and deliberate. “You understand what you’re saying.”
Oscar met his gaze, steady. “Yeah. I do.”
Another pause. Then Jules let out a shaky laugh, rubbing at her eye with the sleeve of her hoodie. “God, you’re gonna make me cry.”
Oscar exhaled a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, shaking his head.
Lucian, though—Lucian just studied him, long and unblinking, like he was measuring the words for weight. And in that moment, Oscar knew the man wasn’t testing his love. He was testing his resolve.
And for once, he didn’t feel the need to defend himself. The truth was there, bare and unshakable.
He’d already chosen her.
And he would chose her again and again. For the rest of his life.
—
The corridor outside Ana’s room was quiet, the kind of late-night hush that hospitals seemed to swallow the world in. Oscar leaned against the cold wall, phone in his hand, thumb hovering over his mum’s name. His chest was tight, his throat raw. He’d been strong all day—for Ana, for Toto, even in front of Lucian fucking Vincent—but right now, he didn’t feel strong at all.
He pressed call.
It rang once. Twice. Then a familiar voice, warm and gentle even through the speaker. “Ozzy? Darling, it’s late. Everything alright?”
The lump in his throat broke him. His head dropped forward, eyes burning. “Mum…” His voice cracked. “She—Ana—she’s in hospital.”
There was a sharp inhale on the other end. “Oh, Oscar.” The softness was immediate, instinctive. “What happened?”
He told her. Not everything—he couldn’t get all the words out—but enough. The car accident. The surgeries. The fact that he’d dropped everything, an entire race weekend, risked the security of his contract, just to be with her.
His voice was low, halting, but his mum never rushed him, never interrupted, just let him get it all out until he was choking on silence again.
“Oh, poor baby girl,” Nicole whispered finally, grief heavy in her tone. “She must be so frightened.”
“She’s been so brave, Mum,” Oscar said hoarsely. “She’s in so much pain, but she’s… fighting it. She’s terrified they’ll drug her. She keeps—she keeps apologising to me like she’s done something wrong.” His hand slid over his face, damp with tears he hadn’t realised were falling. “And I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know what to do for her.”
“Shhh, darling.” His mum’s voice was a balm, steady, sure. “You’re doing it. You’re there. You love her. That’s all she needs.”
“But what if it’s not enough?” The words tore out of him before he could stop them
“Oh, Oz.” He could hear the ache in Nicole’s voice, the way she wished she could reach through the line and hold him.
His shoulders shook. “I can’t… I can’t stand watching her hurt like this. I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life.”
There was a pause, then his dad’s deeper voice filtered in faintly, like Nicole had put him on speaker. Chris, calm and solid as ever. “Mate, listen to me. You’re stronger than you feel right now. You’ve always had that in you. And she’ll see that. She’ll see how much you love her. That’s what will carry her through this. Not medicine. Not doctors. You.”
Oscar shut his eyes, tears slipping free, and for once, he let himself not be the calm, collected one. He let his parents be the strong ones.
Nicole spoke again, gentle but certain. “She’s lucky, that girl. Lucky to have you. And we’ll love her too, Oscar. However she comes to us, whatever she’s been through. We’ll love her.”
His breath shuddered out, relief and grief tangled together. “Thanks, Mum.”
“No thanks needed,” she said softly. “Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t try to do all of this on your own, honey. We—I know that you’re used to being independent, okay, but now is not the time to take all of this on yourself. So she’s got you, but just remember that you’ve got us, okay?”
Oscar pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, a broken laugh slipping out. “Yeah. Okay.”
—
“Annie!” Jack’s little voice rang out, too loud for the quiet ward, and before anyone could stop him, he was scrambling onto the bed.
Ana’s arms opened instinctively. He smelled like soap and biscuits, his hair a messy halo against her chin. She folded him tight against her chest, her ribs aching, but she didn’t care. The weight of him, solid and real and warm, filled something raw inside her.
“Hey, little dragon. I love you so much,” she whispered into his hair, voice trembling. He giggled, burrowing closer, his little hand fisting in her gown.
Her throat closed, hot tears pressing at the back of her eyes, but she pressed a kiss to Jack’s crown and held him tighter.
Susie was there in the next breath, soft and steady, moving like a tide around them. She smoothed Jack’s hair, then Ana’s. “He was desperate to see you,” she murmured, her Scottish lilt low and soothing. “Kept asking all night. We told him only for a little while—his sister needs to rest.”
Ana nodded, unable to speak. Susie sat on the edge of the bed, her hand finding Ana’s and holding it. The warmth of it—the utter calm she carried—felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
“You’re okay,” Susie said gently, reading her without Ana having to explain a thing. “He’s okay. And so are you.”
Ana blinked hard, tears spilling now, and Susie brushed them away with a mother’s thumb. It was so natural, so effortless, that Ana let herself lean into it. No judgement, no sharp edges. Just warmth. Just love.
The door opened again, and her Papa stepped in. He looked far too big for the sterile little room, his shoulders filling the doorway, but his expression softened when he saw her. He carried a paper bag in one hand, awkward and endearing.
“I found these in the little shop downstairs,” he said, almost gruffly, holding it out. “German chocolate biscuits. The good kind.”
Ana’s chest cracked open. She set Jack gently aside and reached her arms toward Toto like she was a child again. Her voice broke.
“Papa,” she whispered. “I think I need a hug.”
He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in two long strides, set the biscuits on the side table, and folded her into his arms as carefully as if she were made of glass. He smelled like aftershave and coffee, steady and familiar.
Ana pressed her face into his chest and let herself sniffle. And Toto held her, solid and unshakable, while Susie stroked her back and Jack curled up by her side like a small anchor.
—
The hospital room was quiet, save for the steady hum of machines and the faint, grainy glow of Oscar’s phone. They were curled together on the narrow bed, Ana half draped across his chest, her hospital gown bunching where his hoodie-covered arm wrapped tight around her waist.
Qualifying footage played muted on the screen, tiny flashes of colour in the dim light. Ana’s body was sore, aching, but she clung to him anyway, her fist clutching the fabric over his ribs like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.
She was only half-watching until the papaya car filled the frame. Her breath caught, the air thick in her throat as the camera zoomed closer to the helmet inside.
Not Oscar’s.
Her chest tightened. Her fingers curled harder into him. “That’s Mick.” Her voice was thin, almost breaking.
Oscar looked down, his jaw softening. “Yeah. He stepped in.”
It hit like a blade slipping under skin—sharp, then spreading. Mick. She hadn’t let herself think about him in weeks, not properly.
It still hurt.
Childhood afternoons blurred by grief, and then the silence after she destroyed everything with her addiction. He’d been part of the life she’d lost, ripped away from her. And he was driving Oscar’s car.
She pressed her face into Oscar’s chest, hot tears soaking the cotton there. “God,” she whispered, the word trembling out of her. “I’m so grateful for you.” Her shoulders shook. “I don’t— I don’t deserve you.”
Oscar stilled. Then he kissed the top of her head, slow and deliberate. “Don’t start that.”
“I’m sorry,” Ana rushed, choking on it. “I’m sorry I crashed your car—the first time I ever really got to drive it. It’s so typical, isn’t it? You gave me that chance and I ruined it.” She gave a broken, watery laugh that made her chest ache. “That’s what I do. I ruin things.”
Oscar chuckled then, low and dry, cutting through her spiral like a blade. His hand came to her chin, firm but gentle, tipping her face up until she had to meet his eyes in the dim light.
“Ana.” His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the steel in it. “If I ever hear you say that again, I’ll put you over my knee and spank your ass red.”
Her lips parted, eyes wide. Heat spread across her face, sudden and dizzying, even through the fog of pain. She couldn’t help the sharp inhale, the way her body betrayed her, shivering with something that wasn’t fear.
Oscar’s mouth quirked, but his gaze didn’t waver. He leaned down, kissing her—slow, grounding, with the kind of quiet authority that made her toes curl beneath the hospital sheets. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his voice was softer but no less commanding.
“You hear me?”
Ana swallowed, her pulse hammering. “Y-yeah.”
“Good.” His arm tightened around her waist, dragging her that fraction closer like she belonged to him, no questions asked. “Because you don’t ruin things.”
Her throat closed, tears slipping fresh down her cheeks. She burrowed into his chest, clinging tighter, and for the first time since the crash, she let herself believe he might actually mean it.
On the phone, Mick streaked around the track, but Ana didn’t see it anymore. All she could feel was Oscar’s arms, steady and unyielding, and the weight of his promise wrapping around her like armour.
—
Oscar’s breathing had evened out beside her, the weight of his arm still slung protectively across her waist, his face turned into the pillow. The phone had slipped from his hand as he drifted off, and Ana carefully eased it into her own.
Her body still ached, but she forced herself not to think about it, not to linger on fractures and scars and the words doctors had whispered. Instead, she pressed play on the last bit of qualifying, letting the familiar noise of engines fill the sterile hospital room.
When the chequered flag fell, and one by one the cars came crawling into parc fermé, she found herself staring at the screen with a strange ache in her chest. They both should have been there. She should have been cheering Oscar from the paddock, not lying in a hospital bed with an IV taped to her arm.
The phone buzzed suddenly in her hand. A WhatsApp notification lit up the screen.
Ana’s lips twitched into a wobbly smile. Slowly, she turned the camera to selfie mode. Oscar was still dead asleep beside her, his lashes unfairly long, his mouth soft and relaxed. She shifted slightly, ignoring the tug of pain in her hip, and snapped a picture: her face close to his, a tired but genuine smile breaking through, and Oscar peaceful in the background.
She sent it before she could overthink.
A moment later, the typing bubbles appeared.
Lando: You two are so cute. GROSS.
Ana laughed softly, clapping a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t wake Oscar. The sound bubbled out anyway, warm and light, cutting through the heaviness that had been sitting on her chest all day.
She tucked the phone back against her chest and glanced at Oscar again, brushing a stray curl from his forehead with her fingers. “You’re mine,” she whispered, voice catching.
He stirred faintly but didn’t wake, just pulled her a little closer in his sleep.
—
The next morning, Oscar finally let Susie practically push him out of the room with a firm hand on his shoulder and a soft, “Go home and shower, darling. Sleep in a proper bed for an hour. We’ll watch her.”
Ana didn’t argue. She knew he’d be back in a blink. And besides, she wasn’t alone for long.
The door cracked open, and a flurry of black fabric and jangling jewellery slipped through first—Jules, of course, balancing an armful of balloons. They knocked against the frame with a loud squeak. “Don’t say I don’t spoil you.”
Behind her, Lucian filled the doorway like a shadow, expression set in that unreadable mask he wore. He carried no flowers, no balloons, no soft edges—just her chart, plucked neatly from its hook, his sharp eyes scanning as though he owned the hospital.
Ana blinked up at them, already smiling despite the ache in her body. “You two look like… death and death’s larger, scarier bodyguard.”
Jules grinned and dropped the balloons at the foot of the bed. “Perfect. Exactly the vibe I was going for.”
Lucian didn’t look up from the chart. “Her meds are staggered too far apart. No wonder she looks exhausted.”
“Hello to you too,” Ana murmured, but her chest warmed. This was their language—Jules bringing chaos and noise, Lucian bringing scrutiny and control. And both of them loving her in their own crooked ways.
For a moment, they hovered—Jules perching on the edge of the chair, Lucian still looming. Ana’s throat grew tight. “Can you both just… I don’t know. Can I have a cuddle?”
Jules’ eyes softened instantly. “Course you can, gorgeous.”
Lucian hesitated, just for a beat. Then he set the chart down and lowered himself onto the mattress with careful precision, his bulk dipping the bed. Jules kicked off her boots and clambered up from the other side, curling into Ana’s shoulder.
It shouldn’t have worked—hulking Lucian, sharp-edged Jules, and Ana’s small, bruised frame between them. But somehow, pressed tight together under the scratchy hospital blanket, it did. For a while, there was only quiet, Jules’ black-painted nails tracing patterns on Ana’s arm, Lucian’s steady hand heavy against her blanket-covered hip like an anchor.
Then Jules broke it, her voice musing and wicked. “You’ll never guess what our parents are up to. They’ve decided to marry Lucian off.”
Ana tilted her head back to look at him, startled. “Marry you off? To who?”
Lucian’s grunt was noncommittal. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Is she pretty?” Ana pressed, curious despite herself.
Lucian didn’t answer at first, his jaw tightening.
Jules smirked at the silence, then waggled her brows.
Ana turned her head, studying him until finally he muttered, almost begrudgingly. “She’s young.”
Ana stilled. “…Oh no. How young?”
Lucian grimaced, eyes dark. “Nineteen. Too fucking young for me.”
Jules immediately burst out laughing. “Hypocrite. The last girl you dated was our age. That’s hardly different.”
“It’s different,” Lucian snapped, turning his glare on her. “Because she’s a fucking teenager.”
Ana let their bickering fade around her for a moment, chewing at her lip, mind tugged in a different direction. “Why do her parents want to marry her off so bad?”
Jules shrugged, twisting one of her silver rings around and around, the metal catching faint hospital light. “Power, probably. Image. Our parents love parading us around like trophies. Makes them look good.”
Lucian was quiet. Too quiet. His broad shoulders, already stiff, drew tighter, his jaw locking as though every word was being considered and weighed. Finally, he exhaled, low and rough. “…I don’t know. But she didn’t look well.”
Ana’s stomach tightened. Her pulse thrummed under fragile skin. “Oh no. Like—cancer or something?”
His mouth pressed flat, eyes narrowing as though the memory was sour. “No. I don’t think she’s fucking eating. Skin and bone. Hollow eyes. That’d be the first thing I take control of.”
The words dropped into the silence like heavy stones.
Control. He didn’t mean it carelessly, Ana knew. It wasn’t the way someone else might throw the word around. With Lucian, control was both shield and sword, both protector and punishment. If he said he’d take control, he meant he’d see to it that someone thrived, whether they liked his methods or not.
Ana stared at him for a long beat, throat working. That was Lucian—ruthless and merciless, but with an undercurrent of brutal, inconvenient care.
Ana swallowed hard, shifting slightly so she was pressed more fully between them. The ache in her body flared, but she didn’t care. She tucked herself into the hollow made by Jules’ slight frame on one side and Lucian’s immovable bulk on the other.
For a while, the three of them just breathed together, the strange little pile-up absurd in its own way.
The unease that had spiked through her at the mention of arranged marriages and hollow-eyed girls eased slowly, tempered by the safety of their bodies bracketing hers. They were sharp, jagged people, both of them—but right now, those edges weren’t cutting her. They were cutting for her.
Ana’s voice was a whisper, almost childlike against the beeping monitors. “Thank you.”
Jules hummed, pressing a light kiss to Ana’s temple. “For what, sweet?”
“For being here.”
Lucian didn’t answer, not verbally. But his hand, still resting on top of the blanket near her hip, shifted—large, warm, grounding.
Ana closed her eyes.
—
Oscar moved quickly through the hospital corridors, his sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor. His bag was slung over his shoulder, his hair damp from the shower he’d forced himself to take before coming back. Every step felt like an ache in his chest—he’d hated being away from her for even a few hours.
He was rounding the corner toward Ana’s ward when he almost collided with a woman. Mid-forties, hair pinned neatly, expensive scarf at her throat. Her perfume was strong, and made his nose twitch uncomfortably.
“Sorry,” Oscar muttered, barely glancing at her, too single-minded to care. He slipped past, heart hammering now that he was close.
The nurses at the desk smiled when they saw him, already knowing where he was headed. Oscar nodded back distractedly, pushing through the door into Ana’s room.
It was warm, softly lit. Jack was propped up on a pillow beside Ana, his little head tilted toward the book she was reading aloud in her soft, careful voice. Susie sat nearby, hands folded in her lap, while Toto stood with arms crossed, towering and protective as always.
Ana looked up when Oscar entered.
Her whole face lit, like it always did for him—eyes shining, mouth curving in that smile that made him feel like he was anchored again, like everything made sense. He felt the knot in his chest loosen, just at the sight of her.
But then—her expression faltered. Dropped. Her smile vanished, her blue eyes sliding past him, widening.
Oscar froze.
Slowly, he turned, pulse skittering in confusion.
Standing just inside the doorway, framed by the sterile white of the hall, was the woman he’d brushed past. Same hair, same perfect posture. But now, her gaze wasn’t on him. It was on Ana.
Ana’s lips trembled, her voice paper-thin, cracking open a silence that felt like it had been waiting years.
Max Verstappen x Maya Hamilton (OFC) x Lando Norris
Summary — What started as a mistake—a tangle of limbs and too much vodka—had become something else. Something dangerous. Something that hurt in ways she hadn’t expected.
She loved them both. She didn’t know how it happened, only that she had cracked open somewhere along the way and they had poured into her—bright and brutal and absolutely unavoidable.
And they—God help them—loved her back.
Warnings — Polyamory, secret relationships, complex relationship dynamics, d/s undertones, strong language, cheating, lack of communication, protective big brother lewis.
Notes — Guys..... I'm obsessed with them.
Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3
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mayahamilton ready to get back to business!
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lewishamilton Another year of gratitude for your support and dedication babygirl🩷
user17 LETS FUCKING GOOOO ANNUAL MAYA POST MEANS F1 IS BACK FOR REAL
user2 me foaming at the mouth: maya hamilton pls just give me a chance one chance i’ll treat you so good
user11 bro she’s not gonna pick you lmaoooo
vogueuk Your reminder that Maya was voted the most beautiful woman in the 2020 F1 paddock—and we can’t see that changing anytime soon!
mayahamilton mwah kisses <3
--
Maya Hamilton had mastered the art of slipping through the paddock unnoticed—or at least she thought she had.
Tote bag slung over one shoulder, she flashed a practiced smile to a couple of Sky Sports reporters, weaving her way past the McLaren motorhome. The Bahrain sun burned low, casting the desert in gold, and if she tilted her head just right, she could pretend her heart wasn’t racing at a thousand beats per minute.
Because somewhere behind that locked hospitality door, Lando Norris and Max Verstappen were probably already arguing.
Again.
She knocked once, paused, then entered without waiting.
Inside, Lando sat on the edge of the leather sofa, fidgeting with the ring on his finger—the one she’d given him, stupidly, sentimentally, back in Monza. Max stood against the far wall, arms crossed, every inch of him taut with restrained fury.
The air was sharp. Tense. Familiar.
Maya shut the door behind her with a quiet click, as though silence might hold the tension at bay. “Okay. Who’s going to snap first?”
Lando looked up, his mouth twitching into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Depends. Do I get a kiss before or after Max accuses me of stealing his girlfriend again?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Max said sharply, his voice like flint.
Maya blinked. “Wow. Nice to see you too.”
Silence settled over them like desert heat—thick, slow, suffocating.
It had been like this for months. Since Abu Dhabi. Since that night in Monaco when Max kissed her in the dark behind the Red Bull garage like he couldn’t help himself. Like she hadn’t left Lando’s bed four hours earlier and her lipstick stain still marked his neck.
What started as a mistake—a tangle of limbs and too much vodka—had become something else. Something dangerous. Something that hurt in ways she hadn’t expected.
She loved them both. She didn’t know how it happened, only that she had cracked open somewhere along the way and they had poured into her—bright and brutal and absolutely unavoidable.
And they—God help them—loved her back. In their own impossible ways.
Lando loved her like sunshine. Like laughter and late-night voice notes and clumsy fingers trying to memorise her. Max loved her like gravity. Like drowning in deep water. Like claiming, not asking.
And maybe, if either of them had the courage to admit it, they loved each other too.
But Lewis could never know.
Her big brother would lose his goddamn mind.
Lando broke the tension first—he always did. “Okay,” he said, standing, pushing both hands through his hair. “Let’s just be grown-ups about this.”
“Says the child,” Max muttered under his breath.
“I heard that,” Lando snapped.
“Good.”
Maya groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m not doing this again. We talked about this. Nobody owns anyone. This works because it’s balanced. Max, you get me. Lando, you get me. And when you let your egos chill out for five seconds, you get each other.”
Lando looked away, jaw tight. Max didn’t.
Max never looked away. He watched her like she was the only fixed point in a spinning world. And sometimes, it scared her—how much of herself he saw. How much of her he wanted.
His intensity was magnetic and terrifying, like he wanted to consume her whole.
Lando, in contrast, gave her room to breathe. He held her by the hand, not her throat. He kissed her slowly, let her laugh during sex, wiped tears off her cheeks when the world outside their bed got too loud.
She needed both. She wanted both.
And that’s what made her feel like the worst kind of woman.
Selfish. Greedy. Slut. Liar.
She’d called herself all those things in the mirror more than once, brushing her teeth with a guilty mouth and red-raw lips.
Max stepped forward, slow, gaze locked on her. “Lando gets to joke with your brother. Walk beside you—play the best friend act. And I have to stand in corners like a dirty secret.”
“You are my dirty secret,” she teased weakly, voice trying to lift the weight between them. “Both of you.”
But neither of them laughed.
Max’s voice dropped to a low rumble. “It’s not funny anymore, Maya. When Lewis finds out—”
“He won’t,” she snapped, more harshly than she meant. She swallowed, instantly regretting the heat in her tone. “Because we’re careful. Because I’ve spent my whole life being suffocated by him, and for once, I want something that’s mine. Without having to ask for permission.”
The confession left her breathless.
Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts. Her throat ached.
She blinked away the sting in her eyes. “I don’t want to be Hamilton’s little sister every time I walk into a room. I want to love who I want. I want to make my own mistakes. Even if it means—” Her voice cracked. “God—I don’t know.”
Lando moved first, always soft when she started to spiral. He approached, voice gentle. “We’re not saying you can’t have that, baby. We’re just… we’re heading into the season now. It’s not like winter break. Everything’s more intense. The media. The pressure. The rivalry.”
“Yeah,” Max added, his tone unreadable, his eyes unreadable. “And you think Lewis is overprotective now? Wait until he finds out his sister’s in bed with the man who’s going to steal his eighth title.”
She flinched.
It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight behind them.
Max meant it.
He wanted that title. That legacy. That history.
Even if it tore Lewis apart.
Even if it tore her apart.
And that was the part Maya couldn’t reconcile—the cruel irony of loving the man who wanted to undo the one person who had built her entire world. Who had raised her. Protected her. Carried her through every storm she didn’t have the strength to face alone.
Max didn’t just want to win.
He wanted to win against Lewis.
And maybe that should’ve been enough to make her walk away.
But instead, she stepped forward. Always forward.
Heart hammering. Hands trembling.
She moved like a magnet drawn to flame, unable to stop herself as she slid between them, reaching out—fingers wrapping around Max’s left and Lando’s right.
Their skin was warm. Familiar. Her anchors in a world that shifted beneath her feet every day.
She could feel Max’s pulse against her palm, steady and strong. Lando’s hand twitched slightly in hers, like he didn’t quite believe she was still choosing them—still choosing this—despite the inevitable fallout.
“I know this isn’t ideal,” she said softly. Her voice barely carried in the hush between them. “I know it’s selfish. And maybe I don’t deserve either of you—”
“Don’t say that,” Max cut in, sharp and immediate. His frown deepened, not out of anger but frustration. “Don’t ever say that.”
She glanced up at him, startled by the intensity in his eyes. Not cold, but burning. Like he’d set himself alight just to prove her wrong.
“You’re allowed to want something for yourself,” he said, quieter now but no less fierce. “Even if it’s us.”
Lando leaned in then, pressing his forehead to hers, grounding her with the kind of softness Max could never quite manage. “We chose this too, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing her hairline. “You’re not the only one risking something.”
Maya exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed.
The guilt was always there, curling in her stomach like smoke. For lying to Lewis. For keeping secrets from the team that had always treated her like family. For loving so recklessly, so expansively, that she hadn’t even tried to contain it.
But this—this twisted, complicated, sacred thing between the three of them—it was hers. Untouched by anyone else's judgment. Untamed by logic or permission.
Max kissed her temple then—slow and uncharacteristically sweet. “Until it burns down around us,” he whispered.
She swallowed.
And maybe it would.
Maybe they were building something doomed to collapse under the weight of scrutiny and legacy and bloodlines.
But when she looked at Lando—still holding her hand like it was a lifeline—and at Max, standing close enough to feel his heartbeat echo in her chest…
She couldn’t bring herself to care.
Maybe it would burn.
Maybe she was the one holding the match.
--
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mayahamilton beautiful bahrain 🇧🇭 bring on the first quali of the year tomorrow morning!
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mickschumacher that pasta looks sooooo good
user22 🫵 @/lewishamilton
mickschumacher YO WTF???????
mercedesf1 We are so excited to have you with us this year, as always!🩷
mayahamilton so much love for you all!!!!!
user62 did you get seasick??!?? i will never forget that vlog where you were rocking back and forth on toto’s yacht begging them to put you back on solid land😭😭😭😭
mayahamilton we were actually still docked in this pic i just made lewis take it at an angle that make it look like we weren’t😭😭😭😭😭
user15 STOP IM CRYING THATS SO FUNNY
user83 catfishing being out at sea as a seasick person is insane😭💀
lewishamilton Great pics!❤️
mayahamilton he says like he didn’t take 3 of them loooooool
lewishamilton I didn’t wanna steal your shine!
mayahamilton not possible 👸🏾✨
--
The Mercedes garage buzzed with its usual pre-qualifying electricity—monitors flickering, radios crackling, engineers darting between laptops and tire carts. Controlled chaos.
Maya stood near the back wall, familiar lanyard hanging from her neck, sipping lukewarm coffee from her battered Mercedes-branded flask. She wore the team polo, like always, but today it felt a little tighter across the chest. Or maybe that was just her guilt constricting her ribcage.
It was the first qualifying of the year. Normally, she’d be excited—grinning, making jokes with the engineers, sneaking pictures of Lewis warming up in the driver room to post to his private Instagram. She’d grown up in these garages. Crawled under tool benches. Learned how to curse in five languages by age ten.
This was home.
But today, the air felt different. Or maybe she did.
She caught sight of Lewis through the windowed partition, arms folded, head bowed in conversation with Bono. Focused. Calm. Her chest ached.
She hadn’t looked him in the eye all morning.
Not since she woke up tangled in sheets that weren’t hers, with Max’s hand resting heavy on her hip and Lando’s sleepy voice murmuring something soft against her spine.
She shouldn’t be here. Not like this.
“Good morning, trouble,” a familiar voice called, breaking through her spiral. Maya looked up to see Toto striding toward her, tall and purposeful in his signature white shirt. “You hiding out back here?”
She forced a smile. “Just observing.”
Toto narrowed his eyes. “You observe better when you’re harassing strategy with your silly questions and stealing the gummy bears from my desk.”
“Are you calling my questions dumb, Mr. Wolff?”
He grinned. “Only the ones about if we can put glitter on the tires.”
She smiled, grateful for the distraction.
But before she could relax, Angela slid up beside her, slipping a cool water bottle into her hand like she always did. Maya blinked at her. “I’m not the one doing quali.”
“No, but you’ve looked like you’re gonna faint twice today, and it’s bloody hot. So hydration it is,” Angela said lightly, squeezing her elbow. “You okay?”
Maya nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah. Fine. Just… pre-season nerves, I guess.”
Angela didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press.
Then came Shov, arms full of data printouts, offering her a warm nod as he passed. Jasmin, the comms girl, gave her a hug and whispered, “Lewis looked over the data. Reckons he’s got pole in him.” Even Roscoe ambled over and flopped at her feet.
Lewis finally stepped out of his drivers room, race suit half-zipped, headphones around his neck. His eyes scanned the garage automatically—and landed on her.
His smile lit up instantly.
“’Bout time you showed up,” he called, making his way toward her with long strides.
Maya smiled, but it wobbled at the edges. “Thought I’d let you warm up without me distracting you.”
“You’re my good luck charm,” he said, pulling her into a hug without hesitation. “You’re supposed to be annoying my engineers and doing your anxious pacing routine by now.”
His grip was strong. Familiar. Steady.
Her stomach twisted.
Lewis pulled back to look at her properly. “You alright?”
She hesitated.
It was just a second, barely more than a breath. But his expression shifted—just slightly. The concern cracked through.
“I’m okay,” she said quickly, too quickly. “Just a bit tired. The AC in my hotel room wouldn’t work properly last night, so I’m knackered.”
He studied her. The way she avoided his eyes. The way her fingers curled too tight around her coffee cup. The way she was wearing the necklace he gave her last year—the tiny ‘44’ pendant, but there was a second thin chain tucked under her t-shirt.
“Is it something with the media team?” he asked. “Toto said some people from F1TV have been pushing harder this year. If they’re giving you shit, I can talk to them.”
“No—God, no. It’s nothing like that.” She forced a laugh. “You don’t have to solve everything for me.”
He raised a brow. “Kind of my job.”
Her heart cracked a little more.
Because he meant it. Lewis had always made her problems his to carry. And here she was—carrying one she couldn’t let him anywhere near.
“I’m fine,” she said again, softer now.
He studied her for a long beat, then pulled her in for another hug. Longer. Tighter. One hand gently cradling the back of her head like she was still his baby sister and the world was still simple.
“You’d tell me, right?” he murmured. “If something was wrong?”
Maya closed her eyes.
She thought of Lando’s soft kiss on her collarbone.
Max’s voice growling mine into her skin.
The way her body was marked with secrets her brother would never forgive. The way his ’44’ necklace was now layered with a pendant engraved with ’334’.
She nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah,” she lied. “Of course I would.”
—
The garage held its collective breath.
Maya stood pressed between Angela and one of the data engineers, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, trying to look like any other team member—calm, collected, focused.
But her insides were twisting.
Q3 had been chaos. Max was flying. Lewis had just put in a near-perfect lap and yet—Maya could feel it before the final sector even lit up red on the screens.
He’s going to do it, she thought, not with pride, but dread.
And then it happened.
"Verstappen goes fastest by nearly four-tenths of a second!"
The words echoed out from the broadcast feed just as the live timing confirmed it: 1:30.499.
Max Verstappen, P1. Pole in Bahrain.
The Red Bull garage erupted somewhere down pit lane, a ripple of cheers and fist bumps and exhaled adrenaline.
Inside Mercedes, there was only silence.
Not disappointment—no one would ever dare call P2 disappointing—but something close. Tight-jawed restraint. The kind that came from knowing the fight had already begun and this year, it wasn’t going to be easy.
Maya stared at the screen as Max’s name flickered to the top.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.
Max. Her Max. Standing in the spotlight that had been Lewis’s for so long. Not as a fluke. Not as a surprise. But as a credible championship threat.
She swallowed hard.
Beside her, Lewis was still in the car, helmet on, visor down. No reaction. Just silence, his hands resting still on the wheel as if he could slow the rotation of the world through sheer will.
Toto muttered something low into his headset. Bono nodded, already making notes.
And Maya?
Maya just stood there, eyes glued to the monitor, like if she blinked, maybe she’d give herself away.
Because she wasn’t just watching a race for pole.
She was watching everything she loved begin to unravel.
—
“Not bad,” Lewis said later, climbing out of the car, voice steady but clipped. “But he’s quick.”
“Too quick,” Toto said under his breath, eyes narrowed toward the Red Bull pit wall.
Maya stayed quiet, biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to hurt.
Lewis yanked off his helmet, hair damp with sweat, face unreadable. “I’ll get him tomorrow.”
And he meant it.
There was no panic in him. Just fire.
Maya wanted to feel proud—did feel proud—but it tangled in her chest with something darker. Max had wanted this so badly. Had trained, obsessed, studied every weakness.
He’d told her last night, all cocky and sure, “I’m taking pole tomorrow. Watch me.”
Around her, the team started to reset. Engineers filed data. Tires were rolled back into the bays. Lewis ducked into the cool-down room. The day went on—qualifying melting into race prep.
But Maya stood frozen, staring at the screen as they showed a replay of Max climbing out of his car, grinning, waving, drinking in the roar of the crowd.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. One message.
Max: That one was for you, mooi meisje ;)
Her thumbs hovered over the screen.
She didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Not when every part of her felt like it was fraying.
—
The private dining room at the Four Seasons was as beautiful as it was unbearable.
White linen, glinting crystal, plates arranged like art installations. Half the Mercedes team had shown up in tailored shirts and watches worth more than her apartment. Lewis looked sharp in dark navy, his jewellery glinting under the lights, all confidence and quiet authority.
Maya sat two seats down from him, nursing a glass of sparkling water and trying to ignore the way her skin felt too tight.
Everyone was celebrating Lewis’s P2. Quiet jabs at Red Bull. The conversation flowed easily, punctuated with champagne flutes and inside jokes.
She smiled when she needed to. Laughed at the right times.
But her food sat mostly untouched.
“Not hungry?” Lewis leaned over during a lull, his brow creasing with concern.
Maya shook her head lightly. “Just a bit of a headache. Might head back early.”
“You sure?” His eyes narrowed slightly, protective mode flickering to life. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
“It’s fine, Lew.” She smiled softly, touched his hand. “Just tired. Too much sun today.”
That placated him—for now.
Still, when she excused herself a little after dessert, she felt his eyes on her all the way to the elevator.
—
Her heels clicked quietly through the marble halls of the hotel. She peeled off her pink sequined jacket, fingers already itching to wipe off her lipstick.
Room 1608. Keycard in. Heartbeat loud.
She pushed open the door.
And there they were.
Lando and Max.
Barefoot on the carpet. Dressed in old shirts. A paper bag of Bahraini takeout between them on the low coffee table. The room smelled like garlic and lemon and cardamom.
Lando lit up the moment he saw her. “Hey, gorgeous.”
Max didn’t say anything. Just looked at her. Took her in like he always did—like he was seeing past the makeup and the silk and the smile she’d worn like armour all evening.
“We thought you might be hungry,” Lando said, lifting the paper bag. “You hate fancy food, eh? The shit with the tiny portions and the—what did you call it? Sea foam?”
She laughed before she could help it. “God, yeah. I do hate it.”
“We got your favourites,” Max added, his voice low. “That lemon rice thing. And the roasted chickpeas.”
Her eyes stung instantly.
It was stupid, really.
They hadn’t bought her diamonds. They hadn’t swept her away on a platinum vacation with cabana’s and champagne on tap.
They just… noticed things. And then remembered them.
Maya shut the door quietly behind her and toed off her heels.
“You alright, baby?” Lando asked, watching her closely.
She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Just—long day.”
Max stepped forward, reaching out to take the jacket from her. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
“And kind of exhausted,” Lando added, frowning as he set out the containers.
She exhaled, breath catching in her throat as she stood there, bare feet on plush carpet, in a beautiful, lavish hotel room lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp.
Maybe she didn’t deserve them. Either of them.
But in that moment, with the scent of home-cooked spices and two pairs of eyes watching her like she mattered—
She felt seen.
She crossed the room, curled onto the floor between them, let Lando tuck a pillow behind her back and Max pass her a container with a plastic fork.
They didn’t ask about the Mercedes dinner.
Instead, Lando handed her a can of Diet Coke and said, “Max, I swear to God, if you eat all the hummus again—”
“That was one time,” Max muttered, stealing a bite from her rice.
She laughed through the tears that slipped down anyway.
And no one said a word when she wiped her eyes on Lando’s sleeve and whispered, “Thank you.”
—
The penthouse smelled like eucalyptus and lemon disinfectant. Again.
Maya stepped into the foyer, kicking off her shoes before she could even call out, already knowing the routine by heart.
“Lew?” she called gently, balancing a tote bag and her phone as she tiptoed further into the open-plan space.
“Bathroom!” came his voice, muffled.
She heard the sink shut off, followed by the hiss of the automatic soap dispenser refilling. A moment later, Lewis emerged, wearing joggers and a loose black hoodie, dreads tied back in a bun, hands freshly dried on one of his eco-cloth towels.
He opened his arms wordlessly, and she walked right into the hug.
“You good?” he murmured into her hair, holding her a little tighter than necessary.
“Fine,” she lied, letting her head rest on his shoulder. “Just needed this.”
“Same.” He let her go reluctantly, stepping back and scanning her face like he could see a fever if he looked hard enough. “Did you wear your mask on the flight?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Double. Plus visor.”
“Proud of you.” He grinned, but there was that edge of real concern in his voice, always there since 2020. “I wiped down the groceries. There’s ginger tea in the kitchen. You hungry?”
Maya dropped her bag by the couch and sank into the corner of the sectional. “Starving. But not for quinoa, so don’t even try it.”
He chuckled, already padding toward the kitchen. “Fine. I’ll do that chickpea pasta you like. But no dairy.”
“God forbid.”
The apartment was all clean lines and natural light. Candles flickered on nearly every surface—lavender, sandalwood, some obscure eco brand she’d never heard of. Plants climbed up the balcony railings, and soft music played from the built-in speakers—Snoh Aalegra, probably.
It was safe here. And calm.
“You sanitised your phone, right?” he called.
“First thing.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.” She mocked.
He laughed again, but she heard the tension behind it.
The thing was—her big brother really was scared. Ever since COVID nearly derailed his 2020 season—and long after he recovered—he’d become almost fanatical about health. He didn’t just follow protocols; he added his own layers. Masking between hotel rooms. Distancing in the garage. No hugs. No parties. No exceptions.
Maya understood. But she also knew she’d broken almost every rule last weekend.
She’d kissed Max Verstappen without a mask. She’d fallen asleep in Lando Norris’s hoodie. She’d snuck back into Lewis’s hotel suite in Bahrain with aftershave clinging to her scarf.
And now here she was, sipping herbal tea, while her brother made her dinner like she was still ten years old.
“How’s your jet lag?” Lewis asked as he chopped shallots.
“I’m holding up.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Just… weird being back here. Monaco.”
“It’s your home.”
“I know,” she said quickly, guilt climbing up her throat like smoke. “I just meant… after being back in the paddock. It’s quiet.”
He smiled, gentle. “That’s the point. This place is your reset button.”
Right. Reset.
Wipe away the lies. The longing. The way Max’s touch lingered like a bruise. The way Lando’s laughter followed her into her dreams.
She watched Lewis light another candle at the table. He was so careful. So loving. So damn sure he was doing what was best for her.
“Hey,” he said, sitting across from her once dinner was ready. “You doing okay with all the traveling again? Like mentally, not just physically.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
And then she smiled. “I’m okay.”
Because what else could she say?
--
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mayahamilton my love letter to italy—this year was very different, but i still got my gelato, so life goes on💘
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lewishamilton Beautiful!❤️
landonorris Yummy!!🤤
mercedesf1 Our girl is glowing in Italy!🇮🇹
--
Imola was one of Maya Hamilton’s favourite places in the world.
There was something about the way the trees bowed over the track like silent witnesses, the ghosts of legends hanging heavy in the air. It felt older than the sport itself, reverent and raw. The air smelled of wet grass and motor oil, and the soft murmur of Italian from the paddock staff always made her feel like she was drifting through some hazy dream of a life that wasn’t hers.
But it was.
Sort of.
She sat tucked into a corner of the Mercedes hospitality unit, sunlight slanting through the sheer white awnings, her iced water sweating against her palm. The Friday debrief had been going on for almost forty minutes, and she hadn’t contributed more than a nod. Not that she needed to—she wasn’t on payroll. But they liked having her here, the team. The kid sister. The emotional barometer.
Lewis, seated at the head of the table in his black team polo and braided bun, was deep in conversation with Bono and Shov about tire degradation in Sector 2. His voice was calm, clipped, surgical. Every word deliberate. The energy around him buzzed with intent.
Maya leaned back in her chair, legs crossed at the ankle, trying to look engaged without letting her mind drift. Toto sat on her right, scanning a data tablet, occasionally muttering to the race engineers. Angela was on her left, chewing absently on a granola bar and highlighting something in her notes.
Maya’s phone, face down in her lap, buzzed once.
Then again.
She glanced down—quick, subtle—and felt a flutter rise in her chest.
Lando: Max just told an Italian journalist to fuck off because he said he preferred twisty pasta to spaghetti
Max: It’s called fusilli
Lando: Twisty tho ain’t it
She smothered a laugh behind her water glass, keeping her face neutral as Lewis debriefed something about tire temperatures to Bono and Shov.
Another buzz.
Lando: You staying at the team hotel or Lew’s villa?
Maya: Team hotel.
Max: Can I see you tonight?
Lando: Can we see you tonight he means
Maya: 🙃
She tucked her phone under the table for a second and exhaled slowly.
They were relentless. Sweet, stupid, hers. And so, so dangerous.
Maya startled a little too hard. “Yeah—just George texting. He wanted the link to that yoga app I told him about.”
Angela nodded, satisfied.
Another buzz.
Max: I’ll be in the parking garage at 9. Left side, by the back entrance.
Lando: I’ll bring u some of the cannoli you like yh
Maya: You two are going to get me killed.
Max: Then we’ll die smug.
Lando: I’ll die holding your hand bb
She typed slowly, carefully.
Maya: I can’t stay long
Max: Five minutes. Just to see you.
Lando: Five minutes or forever. Up to you <3
She stared at the screen until Toto asked her if she had any insight on Lewis’s sleep patterns this week, and she made something up about melatonin and magnesium.
Later, she’d sneak out the hotel’s back door, hoodie pulled low, mask snug on her face.
But for now, she smiled politely, tucked her phone into her lap, and pretended she wasn’t being pulled in a million directions.
—
It started slow.
Imola was chaos—wet and wild and unpredictable. Max won. Lewis made a heroic recovery drive from the gravel trap to second, and everyone called it one of the best races of his career.
Maya sat in the Mercedes garage, clapping along, smiling for the cameras, while her phone buzzed with a single message from Max.
Max: For you. Always.
And she’d felt it like it was exactly that—for her. Every lap. Every snarl of the Red Bull carving through spray like it was born in the rain.
She met him that night. Hotel room. No lights, just hands and breath and whispered I missed yous.
Lando came the next day. Brought her espresso and chocolate and that stupid charm that made everything feel okay—even when it wasn’t.
—
Portugal was another battle. Lewis took pole. Max hunted him like a wolf. The lead switched, again and again. Maya could barely breathe as she watched it all from behind tinted garage screens, Mercedes crew around her cursing and cheering and pacing like caged animals.
After the podium, Max didn’t text. He called.
“I hate him,” Max said, voice hoarse.
She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “No you don’t,” she whispered. “You just want to win.”
—
Spain.
Another Mercedes win. Another Max podium. The tension between the two teams had become nuclear. The smallest remarks in the media turned into grenades on Twitter. Every glance, every gesture, was interpreted as strategy.
Maya stopped sleeping properly.
Lando noticed first.
“You’re not built for keeping secrets,” he told her softly, tracing her knuckles with his thumb. “You’re too good. Too honest.”
“I’m not,” she whispered, curled against him in a Monte Carlo flat she didn’t live in. “Not anymore.”
“You love us?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. Immediately. No hesitation.
“Okay,” he said, kissing her like he didn’t care that she had to sneak out before sunrise to make breakfast with Lewis.
—
Monaco should have been the breaking point.
Lando podiumed.
Max won.
Lewis finished seventh, livid.
Maya nearly lost it.
She spent half the night arguing with Lewis—about Red Bull, about Max’s aggressive driving, about how close the championship was becoming.
“I don’t trust him,” Lewis had said flatly. “I don’t trust them. And I sure as hell don’t want you anywhere near that garage anymore.”
Maya bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.
She couldn’t tell him she’d already been in Max’s garage that night—wrapped in his arms, pressed into a wall, his victory champagne still clinging to her skin.
She couldn’t tell him about the messages she and Lando had exchanged during the team dinner, the silly hearts and fire emojis and shared glances no one else seemed to catch.
She couldn’t tell him anything.
So she just hugged him and waited for the next race.
—
And now, it was Baku on the horizon.
Red Bull had the momentum. Max was leading the championship for the first time in his career.
Lewis was angrier than she’d seen him in years—sharp-edged, distrustful, more obsessed than ever with precision and control. Maya couldn’t blame him. He felt the walls closing in. The weight of history. The eighth title slipping out of his reach.
The hotel room was too warm.
Not hot—just humid in the way that made the silk of Maya’s blouse cling to the small of her back, her wine glass sweat in her hand, and her thoughts fuzz at the edges.
Max had the balcony door open, a breeze occasionally lifting the edge of the curtain. Lando sat cross-legged on the bed, a sandwich half-eaten in his lap, scrolling through TikToks on mute and barely pretending to watch.
Maya stood near the dresser, drink in hand, watching the city glow.
She’d come here for quiet. For a few hours off-grid from the Mercedes camp, from Lewis.
And yet, somehow, the silence had only made things worse.
Behind her, Max leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, face unreadable.
He spoke without looking at her. “Who do you want to win the championship?”
The question hit the air like a spark.
Maya turned slowly. “Max—”
He looked up, eyes sharp. “No games. Just say it.”
“Maya,” Lando said quietly. “Don’t—”
“She’s allowed to answer,” Max snapped.
“And you’re being a dick,” Lando shot back.
“Don’t do this,” Maya said, more tired than angry. “Not tonight.”
But Max stepped forward, jaw tight. “Because you want it to be him? Lewis?”
She held his gaze, not flinching. “You know I can’t answer that.”
“Yes, you can,” Max insisted, something desperate creeping into his voice. “You love him. He’s your brother. I get it. I do. But I need to know—do you want me to win?”
The silence cracked.
Maya opened her mouth—then closed it. She set her glass down carefully on the dresser, walked over to the bed, and sat beside Lando. He leaned into her instinctively, hand brushing her knee.
She didn’t look at Max when she spoke.
“Lando.”
The word was soft. Certain.
Max blinked, thrown. “What?”
Maya finally looked up at him, face unreadable. “You asked who I want to win. It’s Lando. I want Lando to win it.”
“That’s not an answer,” Max said.
“It’s the only one I have,” she replied, voice thick now. “Because he’s the only one who hasn’t tried to make me choose. Not once.”
Max flinched, but only slightly.
Lando’s hand slid into hers, steady and warm.
She went on, quieter now. “I love Lewis. I love you. But this thing… this fight between you two—it’s war. And I can’t be involved, okay? I won’t survive it.”
Max didn’t speak.
Then he crossed the room slowly, like a storm winding down to a drizzle. And when he reached her, he didn’t argue. He dropped to his knees in front of her, hands resting on her thighs, forehead bowed to hers.
“I don’t want to be at war,” he said. “Not with you.”
Her breath caught. “Then don’t ask me to choose.”
Lando leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.
Max’s hands slid up to her waist.
And then it unraveled—not with fire, but with something gentler. Like gravity. Like inevitability.
They fell into each other—Max and Maya and Lando, tangled up in silk sheets and half-spoken promises. The world outside kept spinning: titles and telemetry and history waiting to be written.
But in that room, just for the night, none of it mattered.
—
The paddock buzzed with tension.
Maya stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality unit, arms crossed, heart pacing faster than it should’ve been this early in the afternoon. Everyone was on edge. The engineers, the pit crews, the team principals. No one trusted Baku, and Baku had no interest in being tamed.
The street circuit wound through the city like a razor-blade. Tight. Twisty. Unforgiving.
She watched the pre-race build-up from her usual spot in the garage, pressed behind a row of monitors. Angela stood beside her, sipping ginger tea, eyes locked on Lewis’s helmet cam.
Eventually her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Max:Love you no matter how this ends.
It wasn’t directed at either her or Lando specifically. And Maya knew he’d done that on purpose—because it wasn’t a message for only one of them.
Then, seconds later,
Lando: Guys do either of u have tummy aches I think the food was weird last night
She nearly laughed.
Max: I feel fine mate.
Maya: Ask Will for a gaviscon Lan <3
—
The race started clean.
Lewis got the jump. Max surged. Lando held his own. The first half blurred—strategies playing out, overtakes and tire management. Maya held her breath for most of it, eyes flicking between timing screens and team radios.
Then: chaos.
Lap 47.
Max’s Red Bull was leading. Confident. Controlled.
And then it snapped.
A straight-line blowout at over 300kph. No warning. Just a cloud of smoke, a violent skid, and silence.
Maya didn’t scream—but she felt something inside her crack, hollow and sharp.
The garage fell into chaos.
Maya’s hands trembled around the edge of her chair.
He was okay. He was okay.
They showed the replay. Again. Again.
Max kicking the tire barrier. Furious. Frustrated. Alive.
Then came the red flag.
She texted him, not caring who saw.
Maya: Are you okay?
Max: I’m fine. Just want to punch the fucking world.
She exhaled.
—
The restart.
Two laps. One shot.
Lewis surged forward at lights out—and then, unbelievably, went straight. Turn One. Brakes on. Magic brake settings not switched off. A lock-up. Gone.
He dropped out of the points in one breath.
Maya sat frozen.
It wasn’t joy she felt. Not relief. Not even horror.
Just... confusion. The kind that made her feel weightless and sick at once.
She looked around. The garage was in shock. Toto shouted something unintelligible into a headset. Bono cursed. Lewis’s voice over the radio—calm, too calm—sounded like grief.
—
After the race, she didn’t go looking for anyone.
She walked the paddock like a ghost. Ignored the Sky Sports crew. Brushed past her brother’s darkened driver room. Didn’t go to Max. Didn’t go to Lando.
She ended up at the far end of the paddock, sitting on the edge of a generator crate.
Her phone lit up.
Lando: Want me to come get you?
Max: Where are you?
Lewis: Waiting for you in the garage
She stared at the screen.
Because for all her talk about not choosing, about balance and control—Baku reminded her of the truth.
In Formula 1, everything comes undone eventually.
—
Maya’s trainers hit the pavement in rhythmic thuds. Early morning sun poured over the marina, glinting off the sea like shattered glass. She’d taken this route a hundred times—around Port Hercule, through the quiet streets of La Condamine, past the curve of the Fairmont hairpin.
She ran to feel empty. Or maybe to feel anything.
But today, she came to a full, breathless stop at a corner café tucked under the awning of a designer boutique.
Max was sitting at a table by the window.
And he wasn’t alone.
The girl was beautiful, effortlessly so. Model-beautiful. Laughing at something Max said, tucking her hair behind her ear like she knew exactly who he was and what he was worth. His hand rested on the table between them. Close. Comfortable.
Maya didn’t move for a long moment.
Then she turned, walked back the way she came, and ran until her lungs burned.
—
She didn’t speak to him until three days later.
—
It was Lando’s flat in Monaco.
Safe territory. Neutral ground. Or at least, it used to be.
Maya had barely stepped inside before she said it. Couldn’t keep the words inside any longer. “I saw you.”
Max, standing by the window with a glass of water, turned slowly. “What?”
“At the café,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake, but her heart did. “With her.”
Lando looked between them, confused. “Wait—what café? What’s going on?”
Max’s expression shifted, just barely. But Maya knew that look. That wall slamming down behind his eyes. “Nothing happened,” he said. Too fast.
“You were on a date.”
He didn’t answer.
Maya crossed her arms, holding herself together with sheer will. “Say it.”
Max set the glass down with a soft thud on the table. “Fine. Yeah. I went out. Had a coffee. It was nothing.”
Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, what the hell, Max?”
Maya’s voice cracked. “We say we love each other. Max, we say it all the time.”
“Do we?” Max snapped, too loud now. “Do we actually say it? Or do we just whisper it in dark rooms?”
Maya flinched.
Lando froze. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.
Max started pacing, running a hand through his hair, every movement too sharp. “Your loyalty is with your brother—okay, I’ve accepted that. But this relationship? It’s always going to be a secret, isn’t it? I can’t hold your hand in public, can’t kiss you in the paddock, can’t even look at you for too long without someone putting two and two together and ruining everything. You want me to believe that that’s enough?”
Maya’s eyes welled up. Her throat burned. “So that’s it?” she whispered. “You’re not happy, so you just go and—what—punish me by going on a date with somebody else?”
Max’s mouth opened, then shut.
“I wasn’t punishing you,” he said, but it didn’t matter. His voice was like gravel now. “I just… I needed to breathe. Just once. To not feel like some shameful little secret you keep locked away.”
“I didn’t know you felt like that,” Lando said quietly, and this time his voice wasn’t gentle. It was tight. Controlled. Dangerous.
Max turned to him, faltering. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Too fucking late,” Lando said, his voice slicing through the room.
Maya backed away a step, her hands trembling now. “You told me you loved me. You said that and meant it. And I believed you.”
“I did mean it,” Max said, stepping forward.
She shook her head hard. “No. You don’t do this to people you love. You don’t humiliate them. You don’t cheat on them and call it ‘needing air’.”
Max’s face crumpled—just for a second. Then he looked away.
“I didn’t think it would matter,” he said, and that, more than anything, made her knees almost buckle.
“You didn’t think I would care?” she asked, blinking fast. “You didn’t think this—us—was real enough to matter?”
“I didn’t think this was forever,” he said, barely audible.
Maya’s face twisted in pain. “But we said it was. I was building something with you. With both of you.”
Lando stepped in now, chest heaving. “And I was all in, man. I’ve been all in since Monza. You think I haven’t wanted more? Think I didn’t wish we could walk into a fucking restaurant and just exist like normal people? But I never once even considered bailing. Never looked at what could possibly exist outside of this. Us.”
Max swallowed hard, guilt rising like bile. “I wasn’t bailing—”
“You were,” Lando said, sharp. “You fucking were.”
Max turned to Maya again. “I didn’t think. I was—I didn’t think—“
“I don’t know what to say, Max,” she whispered, tears running freely now. “Because I don’t know how to come back from this.”
—
The air smelled like burnt rubber and heat haze.
Everything was too bright—too clean—and Maya Hamilton felt like she was made of broken glass.
She stood in the back corner of the Mercedes garage, arms folded tightly over her chest, watching Lewis climb into the W12 with that same focused fire in his eyes. It used to make her proud—used to make her heart swell with something close to worship.
Now, it just made her feel small.
“Alright, Maya?” Bono asked as he passed her, clipboard in hand, offering her a quick smile.
She nodded, managed a soft, “Yeah, all good,” even though she hadn’t really eaten since Monaco, and the bags under her eyes were hidden only by genius makeup artistry.
She was not all good.
She hadn’t spoken to Max.
And Lando—God, sweet, loyal Lando—he’d been checking in with quiet texts.
Across the paddock, Max stood like a statue in front of his car, arms crossed, face unreadable. But she could feel it—his gaze drifting toward the silver garage, like maybe if he stared hard enough, she’d appear and forgive him.
She didn’t.
Lando passed her in the hospitality zone earlier, sunglasses on, jaw tight. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even look at her. But he’d brushed her hand as he passed—so quick, so light she almost thought she imagined it.
And she almost cried right there in the corridor.
“Three minutes to lights out,” someone called. The garage snapped into life.
Maya flinched at the sound, as if the race could somehow shake her loose from everything she was holding inside.
She shifted closer to Angela, who gave her a knowing look. “You okay, babe?”
She nodded. Lied again. “Yeah.”
The lights went out.
And the world moved forward, even if her heart hadn’t.
—
The race was brutal.
Max won. Again.
It wasn’t just a victory—it was a statement. He took it from Lewis in the final laps, overtaking with a precision that Maya knew would haunt her brother for days.
And it gutted her.
Not because Max didn’t deserve it.
But because she couldn’t tell him congratulations.
Could only share the grin with Lando when he finished fifth—she'd seen it bloom behind his helmet visor on the cool-down lap.
All she could do was stand in parc fermé, arms folded, watching Lewis climb from the car and throw his gloves down, jaw tight, too angry to talk.
Toto clapped him on the back. Shov muttered something to him in his ear. Maya didn’t move.
And from across the way, Max caught her eyes for just a second.
One second.
And in it, she saw the win meant nothing to him.
Not really.
Because she wasn’t there to congratulate him.
—
The apartment was quiet when they got home.
Maya toed off her shoes, kicked her bag under the hallway table, and tried to make it to her bedroom without being stopped.
No such luck.
“Hey.”
She halted.
Lewis had leaned against the frame of the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest.
She forced a small smile. “Hey. I thought maybe I’d get an early night—”
He didn’t return it. “Yeah—no. You thought wrong.”
Maya sighed, rubbed her temple. “I’m really not—”
“Don’t,” he cut in, voice quieter than she expected. “Don’t give me that I’m fine crap. You haven’t been fine for weeks.”
She turned away, walking toward the fridge just to give her hands something to do. “I’m just tired.”
“That’s not all it is,” Lewis said, stepping closer. “You’ve been checked out. You barely talk to me anymore. I don’t even know if you’re sleeping. It’s like… it’s like when you were sixteen all over again.”
That landed like a punch. She turned, slowly, eyes wide. “I’m not—” Her throat tightened. “I’m not there, Lewis. It’s not like that.”
“Then talk to me,” he said, voice breaking now. “Because I know you, Maya. And whatever this is, it’s not good. And I don’t want to wake up one day and realise I didn’t see it happening again.”
She looked at him. Her big brother. Her protector. The man who had pulled her back from the edge more times than she could count.
And her heart just gave out.
“I fucking fell in love, Lew,” she said suddenly, voice cracking like glass. “And he’s an asshole. And I hate him. But I love him so much.”
Silence.
She didn’t know what reaction she expected. Anger? Confusion?
Lewis’s eyebrows drew together, slowly. “Who?”
Her lip trembled. She blinked fast. “Max.”
He just stared at her.
“And Lando,” she added, barely above a whisper.
His mouth opened, then shut again. “Jesus Christ.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said, tears falling freely now. “I didn’t. It started out… I don’t even know. It wasn’t serious. Then it was. And I love them both. And I know how messed up that sounds. And Max—he—he did something, and I don’t know if I can forgive him, and it broke me, Lewis. It really fucking hurt me.”
Lewis stepped forward, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.
He wrapped his arms around her without a word, held her so tight she could barely breathe. But she didn’t fight it. She just buried her face in his chest and let the sobs shake out of her.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I didn’t want to lie to you.”
“I’m not mad,” Lewis murmured into her hair. “I’m not. I just wish you’d told me.”
She nodded against him, fingers fisting into the soft fabric of his hoodie like she might fall apart if she let go. His arms were a wall around her, warm and steady, and for the first time in weeks, she let herself stop holding it together.
But the silence didn’t last.
“What did he do?” Lewis asked after a beat, his voice lower now. Sharper.
“Max. What did he do?”
Maya froze.
Pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her lips parted, but no words came.
Lewis’s jaw ticked. “Did he hurt you?”
“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “No, not like that.”
“But he did something,” he pressed, not letting go.
Her throat worked around the answer, heavy and aching. “He went on a date.”
Lewis blinked. “A date?”
Maya nodded once. “I saw him. At a café with some girl. Laughing. Holding her hand—kind of.”
Lewis was quiet for a long time. “You’re not together, though. Not properly. Right?”
“No,” she whispered. “But we were… we are something. We’ve said we love each other. All three of us. It’s messy, and it’s complicated, and it’s so stupid, but it’s real, Lew.”
Lewis’s brow furrowed. “And he knew that?”
She nodded. “Yeah. He knew.”
He pulled away slightly, pacing toward the kitchen counter with his hands on his hips. “So what, he just... he fucking cheated on you?”
“I think he thought I wouldn’t care,” she said softly. “Or maybe he wanted me to care. Maybe he wanted to prove a point. I don’t know. He said he was tired of being hidden, of always being the secret. And I get it, Lew, I do—but it still fucking hurt.”
Lewis’s eyes narrowed. “So instead of talking to you like a man, he decided to break your heart and play the victim.”
Maya sighed, wiping her cheeks. “It wasn’t that simple. Nothing with Max ever is.”
Lewis leaned forward against the counter, silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “I don’t like him.”
She let out a humourless breath. “I know.”
“I mean it,” he said. “You’re my sister. I’ve seen you at your worst, and I know how long it took for you to feel whole again. And now you’re risking all of that for… for him?”
Maya looked down, voice small. “It’s not just him. Lando too. And he’s been… perfect, honestly. Patient. All in. But this thing with Max is like--I don’t even know how to describe it. It pulls at me even when I don’t want it to.”
Lewis’s shoulders dropped a little. “Then why not just be with Lando?”
“Because I love Max too,” she whispered. “Even when it hurts. Even now. And Lando, he—he loves Max too. In his own way.”
Lewis stared at her for a long time, and then walked back over, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t deserve halfway love, Maya. Not from anyone. You hear me?”
“I know.”
“And if either of them—either—ever makes you feel like you’re hard to love, you come to me. Because I will bury them in the goddamn gravel.”
A shaky laugh broke out of her. She leaned forward again, pressing her face into his chest. “Thanks, Lew.”
He held her tighter this time. “Always, baby girl. Always.”
—
Lewis shut the door to his bedroom harder than necessary. The click echoed in the quiet Monaco penthouse. His chest was still heaving, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
He paced once, twice.
Then grabbed his phone off the desk and hit the number he'd called more times than he could count.
“Hey,” came Bono’s voice, calm as always. Familiar. Safe. “Everything alright?”
“No.” Lewis’s voice cracked like a whip. “No, Bono. It’s not.”
There was a pause. “Talk to me.”
He closed his eyes. “He hurt her. Max. He fucking hurt my sister.”
Bono was quiet again. But not surprised. “How bad?”
“She was crying in my arms,” Lewis snapped. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve seen her like that? Since she broke down like that?”
Bono’s voice dropped, gentle. “What happened?”
“She fell in love,” Lewis bit out. “With both of them. Norris and him. Max. And Max—he went on a date. With someone else. While telling Maya he loved her. Like she’s some disposable thing and not the most precious girl in the entire world.”
Bono sighed softly. “Shit.”
“I’m serious, man.” Lewis raked a hand through his braids. “I swear to God, I’m two seconds away from getting in the car and going over there. I don’t care if it loses me the championship. I’ll put him in the fucking wall if he even looks at her again.”
“Lewis—”
“No, Bono, I mean it. You didn’t see her. She was shaking. And she’s still trying to defend him. Still trying to make it make sense in her head, because she loves him. And he—God, he’s a fucking idiot.”
“I know,” Bono said gently. “I know you’re angry. You’re her big brother. That’s your job.”
“Then let me do my job,” Lewis growled. “Let me protect her. I can fight him and win—easy.”
“And what happens after?” Bono asked calmly. “You go over there, punch him in the face, make headlines around the world, maybe get suspended from the next GP? You think that fixes anything for Maya?”
Lewis was silent.
Bono continued, voice firm but warm. “You’ve been the anchor for her, always. You can’t lose that now. Don’t let your anger speak louder than your love.”
“I just…” Lewis rubbed his eyes. “I just hate seeing her like this. And I hate that I didn’t know. That I didn’t protect her soon enough.”
“You’re protecting her now,” Bono said. “Just by being there. That’s what matters.”
A long silence passed between them.
Lewis sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the tension in his body slowly bleeding out. “She deserves better.”
“She does,” Bono agreed. “But she has to be the one who makes that choice.”
Another silence. Then, quietly, Lewis said, “If he hurts her again, I’m not calling you first next time.”
Bono chuckled. “Fair. Just… give me a warning before you end your career, yeah?”
Lewis huffed a laugh, bitter but real. “Yeah. Deal.”
Daphne Girard was many things. A designer, a cat mom, a certifiable love island connoisseur, and kept a secret for most of her life.
Being the bastard sister of Max Verstappen was the least interesting of them all, if you asked her.
content: a semi-slow burn friend's little sister romance, with a side of found family drama and real family angst.
warnings: Jos Verstappen's terrible parenting, anxiety attacks, self-image issues, eating disorders (soft mention), content warnings to be updated with chapters.
Chapter one under the cut!
This story can also be found on Wattpad & Ao3!
2016.
HERTFORDSHIRE
A silent dorm. A window ledge seeped in water as the rain came down gently outside. She never quite remembered to shut it.
Her dorm mate Lily slept down the hall, her breaths soft and steady. Daphne pulled the blanket up over her head, cocooning herself in the warmth of the fabric as her laptop screen lit up the now hideaway of her bed.
She wished she could have watched it live, but she knew the risks of being asked too many questions she couldn’t answer. It was also easier to pause the stream when she began to feel her pulse in her own ears as the tension ramped up.
“And welcome back to FORMULA 1, and welcome to the 2016 SPANISH GRAND PRIX! We have what is shaping to be a very exciting race today-“
He didn’t even look nervous.
She watched as he stepped into the car, various straps and belts surrounding him. Watched as he flexed his fingers once, twice. Glimpsed down at her own as they mirrored the habit subconsciously.
Five lights out, and he was off like a bullet. Lap after lap, a pit stop 34 laps in. Daphne picked at her fingers, wincing when she finally drew blood.
He drove like he had something to prove. Maybe he did. So young and yet a raw talent, they were calling him the “one to watch”. To expect great things from the son of two racers. Like he was prophesized. Promised.
He looked like he could carry the weight of worlds on those shoulders. Even so young. She envied that.
A screech of tire and burnt rubber, and shit, both Mercedes were gone.
He was going to—
Max was going to win his first Grand Prix.
“Shit–!.”
Five laps to go. Four, three, two, a bump as he exits too sharply-
“The sun is out, the smiles will be out, at 18 years and 227 days old, MAX VERSTAPPEN WINS A FORMULA ONE GRAND PRIX, WINS THE SPANISH GRAND PRIX, AND IS THE YOUNGEST DRIVER EVER TO WIN A FORMULA ONE GRAND PRIX!”
“You did it.” She whispered, fingers brushing across the screen as his fists pumped in elation.
His first race in Formula 1, and he was a winner. Her eyes were wet, shiny with the weight of all he’d accomplished two countries away. His first on the top step, certain it wouldn’t be the last this season.
It was odd to be so incredibly proud of a boy she didn’t truly know. Knew she’d assigned her dreams and hopes on him, on what a brother could be. She also knew they’d never actually come to reality.
The rest was a blur. The anthems at the podium, the champagne spraying, the look of pure thrill on his face. She fell asleep to the sounds of cheers, his name echoing across the country as if to lull her to his side.
“Max, max, max, max!”
2015.
LONDON. BEFORE
Daphne Girard still dreamt of the hazy warmth of Monaco.
England was cold and dreary, and when the heat finally arrived, it was stifling in its dry, cloying way. Five years living in London hadn’t dulled the melancholy of her homesickness, hadn’t lessened the pain of its loss like some phantom limb.
“We cannot go back there, cherie. Not now.”
She hadn’t understood the depth of her maman’s words at nine. Still didn’t understand it now, not really. How someone could be ruled by another so completely. Had cried silently as her nanny helped pack up her pink room with the clouds on the walls. Told over and over how it would be wonderful, a new start, a nice change.
They could start over in London. But why the need for a new start when she hadn’t even grieved an ending to this one?
But her father had convinced her mother it was time to go. A strong argument from a man she saw about three times per year. Even less now that she held opinions more and her tongue less. Anything to make him just look at her.
But Jos Verstappen usually got what he wanted. And he had wanted them out of Monaco.
Five years later, and she was fourteen when the phone rang. “Papa” across the phone screen. He would miss the latest visit, as a work requirement had come up. As if they weren’t both aware that he was in Canada for the Grand Prix.
It was the next point of topic, however, that had her reeling. Daphne had been enrolled at Haileybury boarding school and would start in six weeks. Another choice made for her, another box ticked.
She had never truly enjoyed her new school in London, but she had a few friends, enough of a life here that being uprooted to Hertfordshire felt like yet another starting line she’d missed.
A part of her rebelled at the idea, at yet another paradigm shift in the facets of her life and its stability. But the bigger part knew of certainties she couldn’t say aloud.
One, her mother had very little desire to parent her. Boarding school would rid her of that obligation.
Two, there would be no changing her father’s mind. Not when he still bankrolled a large portion of her very comfortable life, her mother’s trust fund aside.
Not when having her hidden away and quiet in the country would keep his secrets just a little longer.
And then three, the smallest, faintest feeling she identified as hope unfurling in her chest. An ounce of new identity, a freedom to be herself, to explore.
She could take art classes or dance as her athletic class. Sign up for a new foreign language.
Did they offer Dutch?
It would be nice to share a language with her siblings.
Jos only ever let the curse words slip. Everyone knew languages learned by shouting never truly stuck.
2018.
HERTFORDSHIRE
Lily Zneimer was an angel in small, British form.
She’d been half terrified and half exhilarated at the thought of a dorm mate. What if they stole her clothes? Or hated how she’d set up her portion of the room? What if they hated reality television? Hiding a Love Island addiction would be difficult for an entire two months out of the year.
Lily had swept in and destroyed each worry before they could bloom. Their decor had matched somehow, their clothing soon becoming one communal closet.
Daphne smiled brighter, laughed longer. She had her first real friend, someone she knew, if given the chance, would stick around for life.
She didn’t believe in higher powers, but she thanked whichever one had brought her Lily. Even if it meant lying to her every day by omission.
At that moment, however…
“I hate you so bloody much,” Daphne muttered, groaning as she felt another tug on her ankle where it stuck out from under her sheets.
“You love me, you lying little liar.” Lily mused with what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “I’m not the one who set up a 10 A.M study session on our one free Saturday morning. I’m also not the one who decided to stay up late doing god knows what. I saw the light under the door at three, Daph.”
“Got caught up in a rerun.” The blonde whined aloud and burrowed deeper into her pink sheets. The rerun had been the free practices she’d missed that day. It had rained in Spa. She’d been worried, sue her.
The reminder of the study session had her shooting up in bed, every ounce of exhaustion gone from her frame. Lily startled, immediately suspicious of the look on her face.
“What have you done?”
“Whatever could you mean? Am I not allowed to be thrilled for my own education?”
Lily scoffed, eyeing her as Daphne reached for a hoodie to pull over her frame. “You’re not even getting fully dressed? You once said pajamas as day clothes were for those who felt a little too dead inside.”
“Who am I impressing? It’s language tutoring.”
“You aim to impress when we sneak out to the shop down the road, Daph. Suddenly, we’ve stopped caring? Who’ve you got tutoring you in Dutch?”
“Japanese.”
“…..what?”
“I’m being tutored in Japanese today.”
“You don’t take Japanese.”
“That is correct. But Oscar does.”
“Daphne!” She managed to dodge the pillow pelted her way by a hair, though it did skim said hair and make the blond strands stand on end with static. “Lily!”
“You didn’t!”
“I very much invited Oscar to tutor me in Japanese. If he can’t remember that I don’t actually take it due to being too busy staring at you, I am not to blame.”
Lily’s cheeks reddened, the flush high and bright as she slumped onto the bed. “The second he realizes you don’t actually need help, he’ll just—“
“Just what? Find an excuse to sit with you and discuss yet another random topic for far too long? Lils, yesterday at dinner, he managed to discuss a boy band his sister seems to love for an hour. He didn’t even remember the name of the band!”
“But he tried so hard, even described their colorful hair in detail,” Lily muttered, eyes on her fingers as they twisted anxiously in her lap. Daphne rejoined her amidst the unmade blankets, her head finding the brunette’s shoulder.
“He likes you. So, so much. Why you two keep toeing around one another…”
“It’s hard, he’s gone so often for his races.”
“That’s an excuse. He rarely misses class, just Fridays or weekends, and even when he does, he asks for your notes. Even though mine are far superior.”
“Color coding with too many highlighters doesn’t make them better, Daphne.”
“Yes, it does, and you’re avoiding it now. Lils. I won’t push if you don’t feel that way, but the only person stopping you from being happy with him is you. What’s really going on?”
As Lily lay back against the sheets, Daphne followed her down. The two girls stared up at the tiled ceiling in silence.
“He’s going to be someone someday. Soon.” Lily’s voice was almost a whisper, soft and filled with a weight. Daphne felt her chest tighten with a kind of understanding she could never admit, could never really express, that she wanted to relate more than anything.
“And he’d be lucky to have you in his corner when he is. He isn’t like the other rugby boys. Seems…steadier. And like he could use someone like you. Everyone could, let’s be real. But we can settle for just Oscar for now. You’d be the hottest WAG there is. Like Posh Spice.”
Lily rolled onto her side, smile hesitant.
“You’re such a pain, Daph. I love you so much.”
“I love you more. Now go brush your hair, it’s giving pillow fight and not in a cute coming-of-age-film way. I will of course, remain here in my shabbiness.”
When 10 A.M arrived, so did one Oscar Piastri. Daphne swung the door open with a grin, smirking at the deadpan look on the boy’s face.
“Piastri.”
“Girard.”
“You are an angel for doing this, I really have been struggling quite a lot with—“
“Daphne, you take Dutch. You have been taking Dutch since we met. Almost three years ago.”
“So there is a brain in that head full of luscious hair!” She laughed at his harumph, gesturing for him to come inside. As he entered, he spotted Lily in the common area, curled on the sofa as she offered a soft wave. He was quick to offer his own in return, a soft hello to accompany. Her gaze returned to the small screen of her computer in her lap, and his gaze remained on her.
It was Daphne’s soft cough that startled him from it.
“Right, right— sorry.”
“Oscar.” Amusement tinged her voice now, watching him with the look he knew meant she was about to get her way. Daphne was just like that. A smile, a grin, and you were agreeing before you’d even heard the question. She reminded him of his sisters so often it ached. Hattie’s stubbornness, Mae’s sweetness. Edie’s vivacity.
“You don’t need tutoring in Japanese.”
“I do not need tutoring in Japanese. But you should stay.”
They stared each other down, his lips twisting into the soft smirk that mirrored her own. He sighed, one of defeat, tinged with the nerves he worked so hard to hide.
“Well alright then.”
_____
They’d raided the commons for snacks, Daphne even breaking out her emergency stash she had her nanny bring from her trip to Sweden during the last family visitation weekend. Bubs could solve any problem if you ate enough of them.
They’d air-played Lily’s laptop to the small TV on the wall, the three debating what to watch. Oscar was arguing valiantly for last week’s GP, wanting to prove a point he’d been rambling on about with Lewis’ tire strategy. Lily was voting for the terrible reboot of Charmed that she and Daphne had begun the week before.
Daphne had tuned them both out, too busy saving ideas to her theme list for the end-of-year ball.
“You have to see it, Lily, it was mental! He managed to make the one stop last twenty-six laps! Though I sort of do think a two-stop might’ve—“
“Not with how they botched Bottas’ stop so poorly. The man was preserving his sanity. The tire deg alone–” Daphne muttered to herself, freezing in realization as silence settled over the group for a lingering pause.
“What was that?” Oscar sounded far too pleased.
“I don’t care for your tone, Piastri.”
“Fuck my tone, Daphne. You know about Valterri Bottas’ tire strategy from Monza.”
“I saw an article somewhere, it lingered apparently.”
“Sure, nice try.” He’d leaned forward to study her, glimpsing at Lily for assistance but finding only confusion in her gaze. New information for them both, then.
“Daphne—“
“Oscar.”
“—Did I just discover your special interest?” She grimaced, locking her phone and sitting up to meet his gaze as he continued, thrilled. “I did! You watch Formula 1! Who’s your team? Your driver? You’re French, so either Grosjean or Gasly, I’d reckon.”
“I am Monegasque, you cretin! And neither. I don’t watch.” She could feel a tremble begin in her fingertips, the telltale shake in her voice as her chest grew tight.
“But you just…”
“I don’t watch!”
“Oscar.” Lily cut in, her eyes not leaving the now anxious form of her roommate. “Let’s leave it for now. Please? If she says she doesn’t watch, she doesn’t watch it.” She didn’t understand where Daphne’s anxiety was stemming from, but she’d never push her into revealing it, not in front of someone they hadn’t agreed upon.
Oscar glanced between the two of them, taking in Lily’s concern, noting Daphne’s anxious picking at her fingernails. Neither girl would meet his gaze. He softened, the blonde before him reminding him fiercely of his youngest sister. He remembered Mae’s anxiety vividly, the scratching, tinge of hysteria in her laugh when pressed about school, the girls there.
If Oscar was anything down to his core, it was an older brother. He softened, nodded in agreement.
“Right, my mistake. But I still refuse to watch the shitty Charmed reboot. New Girl instead, then?”
Daphne took a deep, shaky breath. And then another. Lily’s hand met her own and squeezed, a nice regulation.
“You’re speaking my language now, Oscy boy.”
_____
The moon’s glow lit the room in eerie softness. The hour was already plenty late as Daphne felt Lily slide into her bed with her. She couldn’t move from where she faced the wall, couldn’t bear to turn around and find disappointment in her face.
“I’m sorry.” The blonde whispered tremulously. It was all she’d been able to focus on for hours. The confusion on Lily’s face, the tremble of her own fingers. The pity in Oscar’s gaze.
“For what, D?” Lily’s hand met Daphne’s shoulder, a silent plea for the girl to turn around. She gave in, and Lily saw the way her blue eyes shone with wetness in the dim light.
“I made it weird. I wanted him here for you, and I spoiled it.”
“You spoiled nothing. ” Daphne felt her fingers held within the other girls and squeezed them back before she could process the shift. “We still had a great time today. I had a great time today. And that was because of you. Oscar understands an awkward moment. He had four today alone, babe.”
Daphne laughed, a wet sound. Lily pushed a bit, hesitant.
“Do you want to talk about what that was, though? You don’t have to, it's just...” She broke off, letting the silence buoy her onward. “I am never one to fault someone for wanting their secrets. But it’s you and me, and whatever it is isn’t new, isn’t recent. You’ve been carrying things since the day we met. And I feel like lately it’s gotten worse.”
Shame filled Daphne at the words. She was supposed to be better than this, supposed to be strong enough to carry the weight of the lies. Because that is what they were. Lies. She was lying to everyone. All the time. And it felt like a foot on her chest, pressing down more and more each day, every minute sometimes.
“I’m sorry.”
“No apologies, you never have to apologize for that, okay? I just want to help if I can. You help everyone around you all the time, Daph. I watch you put every single person before you. But not with me. Let me carry some of what this is. If you can.”
The clock in the hallway ticked its cadence like a death knell in the pause. Daphne could feel the words rise in her, feel the ache to share them and not be alone in her grief just this once. But could she?
Wasn’t she allowed someone? She was supposed to have her mother in this, but there was no depth of love felt for her daughter these days beyond how she looked in photos, how impressive she was on paper.
She reached into the sheets for her phone, opening the photos to her favorites tab. It was a good picture; she was six and her blonde braids gleamed in the light of Monaco’s summer. Her back garden, in front of the fairy village she’d created from sticks and ribbon, where she’d whispered secrets to the small creatures she imagined to be inside.
It was her beaming proudly at the camera, leftover ribbon tied to her braids. Her father had an arm wrapped around her, not smiling but not quite the normal frown he wore in her presence as the years dragged on. It was the kindest he ever looked, the most at ease he’d felt to her that day.
“This is my father.”
“That is Jos Verstappen. Your father….is Jos Verstappen?”
Daphne’s eyes shot up to meet Lily’s, surprise and terror wide in her gaze. “You know who he is?”
“Have you met Oscar? He’s given me a rundown on every driver and their history like the nerdiest F1 quiz show there is. Plus, my dad was a big Schumacher fan. Used to play the races on Sundays. Back to the point, Daphne.”
“Right.” She sat up, needing to lean back against the headboard. “He was married when he met my mother. I was not…planned. Wanted? I never fully cared to know the difference. But no one could know. Not back then when he still had his wife. And not now, with—“
“Max.” Lily finished with a grimace.
“He has his whole career ahead of him. A scandal of a bastard sister he’s never even met would mess with that.”
“First of all, you’re not a bastard, and if you say that again about my best friend, we’re gonna have words. But how is any of that fair to you, though?” Lily fumed, sitting up with her and shoving her hair from her face. There was no moment to try and believe her, nothing but absolute faith in what Daphne said. That realization shouldn’t have felt so warm in her chest at the thought.
“You get to spend your life as some dirty secret? You have a whole extended family you don’t get to have because he’s what, scared? It’s not as if your mother is ever caring enough to—“
“Lily.” It was a plea, a whisper of a beg for understanding.
“—Sorry, sorry. That’s not fair of me. Your mother is…your mother.” Neglectful, she wanted to finish. Absent, she wanted to scream out. Never around for you when you need her, when you need someone in your corner. Celia Girard was not in Lily’s good books.
Lily let the anger drain with each breath, each steadying moment. Someone deserved her anger, but it wasn’t her best friend in front of her. The girl who owned so much of her heart and expected nothing in return.
“You have a family, Daphne Helene.”
“I….know? I just showed you my dad. You’ve met Maman.”
“No, not them. They are DNA and financial security. I mean family, family. You still have a family. Me, and Lexi too. My mom adores you, and Dad still asks after you when we chat on Tuesdays.”
“You have me, okay? Oscar, too, even if I drag him kicking and screaming. He’ll appreciate a way to repair the vibes after shoving his foot so far down his throat.”
The tears were swift, a cough that could have been either a laugh or a sob. “You’re insane.” She mused, reaching to collapse into Lily in a hug. “Mental. Certifiably.”
“Nope. I am determined. I’ve decided to adopt you, but like, sisterly. Who needs Jos fucking Verstappen when you have me? I outrank him now.”
Daphne reached into her nightstand drawer, a pink Swedish sweets packet held out in apology. “You absolutely do.”
Lily snagged two from the packet, holding one back out to Daphne for a toast.
They smushed candies amidst giggles, tears slowly drying on Daphne’s pale cheeks. “To family, being what we make it. We build our own here, babe.”
The blonde could only nod, smiling too widely in the dim room to ever deny her.
“To family.”
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