Summary-: oscar and lia were one the last segment of the whole shoot.. just the two of them diving the coast as they were out in the ocean things went too far and now oscar was the world's biggest idiot
Warnings-: mentions of assault and drugs, open talk of insecurity, slight downward spiral for oscar [we love him suffering]
Chapter seven - "wish I could unrecall how we almost had it all"
The final day of the feature felt like a stay of execution.
Oscar stood on the shore of the secluded cove, his surfboard tucked under one arm. The crew had stayed back at the ridge to capture long-lens B-roll of the coastline, leaving only Oscar and Lia to venture into the water for the "active conservation" segment. It was just them. No mics, no lighting rigs, just the rhythmic pulse of the Ocean and the salt spray that felt like needles against his skin.
And a go pro for when they would dive in the reef to show that oscar was so one with the ocean
He watched Lia zip up her wetsuit, her movements familiar and efficient. She didn't look like a journalist today; she looked like the girl who used to challenge him to paddle-races until their lungs burned.
"Ready to get humbled, Piastri?" she asked, her voice light, though her eyes held a weight he couldn't quite name.
"In your dreams, Lia," he countered. The banter felt easier now, a rhythmic back-and-forth they had fallen into like they’d never been apart.
They paddled out in perfect synchronization. It was an unspoken language, a muscle memory that seven years of distance hadn't managed to erase. They moved through the break with the same timing, duck-diving under the turquoise rollers at the exact same second, emerging on the other side to shake the water from their eyes and grin at each other.
In the water, Oscar wasn't the man who had lost a world championship. He wasn't the "Iceboy" or the celebrity ambassador. He was just a guy in the surf with the only person who had ever truly known the rhythm of his heart.
"Look," Lia whispered, treading water as they reached the calmer swells. She pointed down through the crystalline surface.
A green sea turtle was gliding beneath them, its flippers moving like wings through the kelp forest. Oscar submerged, diving down without a second thought. He felt Lia right beside him. They swam in a silent, underwater ballet, hovering over the reef, their shadows mingling on the seabed. For a moment, the world of weddings and silver rings didn't exist. There was only the pressure of the sea and the shared breath they took when they broke the surface together.
They sat back on their boards, the boards drifting close enough that their leashes tangled for a second. Oscar reached down to untangle them, his fingers brushing the fiberglass near her feet.
"You're still slow on the takeoff," he joked, looking at her with a lopsided grin. "All that time in the bush has made you soft."
Lia splashed a handful of saltwater at his face, laughing. "I'm not slow, I'm 'methodical.' You're just a speed demon who doesn't know how to enjoy the scenery."
"I enjoy the scenery just fine," he said. He looked away then, staring out at the horizon where the blue of the water met the blue of the sky.
He didn't say what he was thinking. He didn't ask her about the lie or why she was marrying a man who had built a wall between them. He didn't tell her that he was set for life and ready to come home. He just sat there, the "Iceboy" mask firmly back in place, shoving every jagged feeling into the quietest part of his chest. He looked at her and saw a girl who was happy with her life, a girl who had moved on to a stable man in a stable house.
Lia sat beside him, her gaze fixed on the same horizon. She didn't say that her life felt like a house of cards. She didn't tell him she was terrified. She just balanced on her board, watching the light dance on the water.
They stayed there for a long time, two silhouettes against the vastness of the Ocean, perfectly in sync and miles apart.
The ocean was dead calm, the only sound the rhythmic slap of water against the fiberglass of their boards. The silence was safe, a familiar barrier they both knew how to maintain. But as the sun began to dip, casting long, bruised shadows over the swells, the weight of the last forty-eight hours finally crushed the "Iceboy" protocol.
Lia cleared her throat, her voice small against the vastness of the Indian Ocean. "You don't have to come, you know. To the wedding. If you don't want to."
Oscar didn’t move. He kept his eyes on the horizon. "Why would I not want to?"
"I know you and Logan fought," she said, her fingers tracing the wax on her board. "I know it’s... complicated."
"Well, we did too," Oscar countered, his voice rough. "You and me. We fought."
Lia let out a jagged breath. "We didn't fight, Oscar. We broke each other's hearts because I was insecure."
Oscar finally turned his head, his brow furrowed in genuine, sharp confusion. "Huh? What do you mean you were insecure? Insecure of what?"
Lia looked at him, her expression a mix of disbelief and mounting frustration. She was confused by his confusion. How could he not know? "Are you serious right now?" she squealed, a sound of pure, high-pitched exasperation that echoed off the water.
She buried her face in her hands for a second, then looked back at him, her eyes bright. "I thought the minute you left, you’d just find someone prettier. Someone better. Someone more mature and prepared for a global stage than some local girl from Melbourne. And then at the party... when I saw you with that girl... it was just everything I believed coming true. It was the proof."
A flicker of heat—real, unfiltered anger—flashed across Oscar’s face. He wasn't the calm F1 driver anymore; he was the boy who had been robbed of his own truth.
"Lia, I was shitfaced," he said, his voice rising. "I was distorted. I didn't even know who that girl was. The second she touched me, I pushed her back so hard she literally fell into the pool. It wasn't a 'goodbye kiss,' it was a disaster."
"Dude, the whole thing got posted on a karting gossip channel back then," Oscar said, shaking his head in disbelief. "It was humiliating. Surely Logan told you? He saw the whole thing. He was standing right there when I crawled out of the crowd to find you."
Lia felt the world go silent. The water seemed to stop moving. A sad, jagged smile touched her lips as the last piece of the lie fell into place. "No," she whispered. "Logan was so mad about your fight... he let me believe you’d been kissing girls all night. He let me believe you were already gone."
Oscar’s jaw set so hard it looked like it might crack. The betrayal from Logan was a dull ache he’d lived with, but seeing the wreckage it had caused in Lia’s eyes made him want to burn the whole coast down. He took a long, steadying breath, shoving the rage down because there was something more important he had to say. Something he’d been holding for 2,555 days.
"Lia," he said, his voice dropping to a low, steady frequency. "I have not been with a woman in seven years."
She looked up at him, her breath hitching.
"There has been no one," he said, his gaze locked onto hers, refusing to let her look away. "No one after you."
The statement hung between their boards, heavier than the ocean itself. For seven years, he’d chased a championship to prove he was the best in the world. But sitting there, watching the realization shatter her expression, Oscar realized he’d just lost a race he didn't even know he was still running.
The sun was a dying ember on the horizon, turning the water into a sheet of bruised purple. The confession sat between them, heavy and raw, but instead of the soft moment Oscar had imagined for seven years, the air turned jagged.
Lia’s grip on her board tightened until her knuckles were white. "It’s getting late," she said, her voice brittle. "We should paddle back."
Oscar stared at her, stunned. "Are you serious? You’re just going to shut me out? After what I just told you?"
"What do you want me to say, Oscar?" she snapped, finally looking at him, her eyes flashing with a mix of panic and fury. "I’m getting married. To someone else. It’s not my fault you didn’t move on!"
"Oh, and you did?" Oscar countered, his voice rising over the sound of the swell.
"You’re marrying a liar, Lia!"
She let out a harsh, dry scoff, shaking her head. "He was a teenager! We were all kids, Oscar! You can't hold a grudge over some high school drama when I have a whole life built with him."
"You’re going to regret this," Oscar said, "You don’t love him. Not like that."
"You don’t know anything about me!" Lia screamed back, the sound echoing across the empty water. "How do you know who I love? You haven't been here! You don't see my life!"
"I know that you don’t wear silver," Oscar said, his voice suddenly dropping to a low, lethal calm that stopped her breath.
"I know that you like gold jewelry. I know that’s what looks good on you, that it matches your skin, so that’s all you ever wear. But your ring? Your ring is silver, Lia. I know that you think the best way to get something you want is through good food. I know you still have that anklet on. You haven’t taken it off for one second since we were twelve."
He leaned forward, his eyes boring into hers. "I know that you have three freckles scattered around your left inner thigh. I remember everything, Lia. I know you better than anyone. I know you better than he ever will."
Lia’s face went deathly pale. The intimacy of his words felt like a physical touch, stripping away every defense she had spent seven years building. She looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, the reflection of the girl she used to be stared back.
Without a word, she spun her board around, digging her arms into the water with a frantic, desperate strength. She didn't look back. She didn't check to see if he was following. She just paddled, her heart hammering against her ribs, trying to outrun the truth that was currently drowning her.
The drive back to the sanctuary was a vacuum of sound. Oscar kept his eyes fixed on the dark road, the steering wheel slick under his palms, while Lia sat pressed against the passenger door as if trying to merge with the glass. Every time the tires hit a bump and their shoulders brushed, she flinched.
It was the kind of silence that didn't just feel empty—it felt heavy, like they were both carrying the weight of the words he’d thrown at her in the water. Three freckles. Gold jewelry. I know you.
When they reached the camp, she was gone into the shadows of the cabins before the crew could even ask her for the footage of them diving
The next morning, the "stay of execution" was officially over.
Oscar stepped out of his cabin, the early Australian sun already biting at his neck. He had expected to see the crew packing up crates or Lia reviewing the final shots. Instead, he walked straight into a staged nightmare.
He wasn't just there; he had seemingly annexed the entire communal area of the film site. He was leaning over a rustic wooden table, a set of floor plans and floral arrangement sketches spread out over the space where Oscar and Lia had shared their quiet, bantering lunch two days ago.
"No, I think the white lilies," Logan was saying, his voice loud and possessive in the morning air. He looked up, spotting Oscar, and flashed a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Hey, Oscar! Glad you’re up. Lia was just telling me how great the surf segment went."
Lia was standing right beside him. She looked exhausted, her eyes rimmed with red, but she was tucked firmly under Logan’s arm. Logan’s hand was draped over her shoulder, his fingers idly playing with the collar of her shirt—a casual, domestic gesture that screamed ownership.
"We’re just finalizing the seating chart," Logan continued,
Oscar felt a hot, prickly wave of humiliation crawl up his throat. He stood there in his team gear, the elite athlete, the world-famous driver, and he felt like a child being scolded. He saw the silver ring on Lia’s finger catching the light as she reached down to adjust a photo of a three-tiered cake.
She wouldn't look at him. Every time Oscar tried to catch her eye, she’d find a sudden interest in a swatch of lace or the font on a sample invitation.
"Lia said the surf was a bit rough yesterday," Logan said, his tone mocking. "I told her she should’ve stayed in. But you know how she is—stubborn. Always trying to prove she can keep up with the big boys."
He pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head. Lia didn't pull away. She leaned into him, a move that felt less like affection and more like a desperate attempt to anchor herself to the lie she had chosen.
"I'll leave you to it," Oscar said, his voice flat, sounding like a stranger to his own ears.
"Don't be a stranger, mate!" Logan called out after him.
Oscar didn't answer. He kept walking toward the equipment truck, his chest tight. He had spent his whole life winning—finding the gap, taking the corner, coming out on top. But as he watched Logan whisper something in Lia’s ear that made her force a small, brittle laugh, Oscar realized he wasn't even in the race. He was just the audience, watching the crash happen in slow motion.
The drive back to his family home felt like a victory lap through a graveyard.
Oscar pulled his rental into the driveway, the engine ticking as it cooled in the humid afternoon air. For a world-class driver, he’d never felt more like he was idling in neutral. He stepped into the house—the house that was supposed to be his sanctuary—and headed straight for his bedroom, the one place where he didn't have to pretend he was okay with being the guest at his own heartbreak.
He stripped off the McLaren team polo, the bright papaya orange feeling like a neon sign for a life he suddenly didn't want. He threw it into the corner and collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling fans as they whirred in a monotonous circle.
His chest felt tight, the skin on his palms still sensing the ghost of the water’s pressure from the day before.
“I know you better than anyone.”
The words he’d spat at her in the water felt less like a triumph now and more like a confession of his own stupidity. He had remembered the freckles, the jewelry, but he had forgotten the most important thing: Lia didn’t want to be known. Not by him. Not anymore.
The image of Logan’s hand on her shoulder—the casual, heavy ownership of it—was burned into the back of his eyelids. Logan knew he’d won. That smug grin hadn’t been about the wedding; it had been a victory lap over Oscar’s seven-year silence.
Oscar reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He looked at the lock screen—a generic photo of a racetrack—and felt a wave of pure, unadulterated sulkiness wash over him. He was one of the twenty best drivers in the world. He had millions in the bank. He had a career people would kill for.
And yet, he was sitting in his childhood bedroom, feeling like the same seventeen-year-old kid who was a nervous wreck
He rolled onto his side, his gaze landing on an old trophy on his bookshelf—a karting championship from years ago. He and Logan had shared that podium. He remembered the heat of the sun that day, the smell of burnt rubber, and the way Lia had jumped into his arms afterward, smelling of salt and sunscreen.
He’d gone to the other side of the world to make sure they’d never have to worry about money or security. He’d done everything "right." He had played the long game, and all it had gotten him was a front-row seat to her marrying a man who didn't even know she hated silver.
“Stupid,” he muttered into his pillow, his voice muffled and thick. “So incredibly stupid.”
He didn't want to go to the wedding. He didn't want to wear another suit and smile while Logan toasted to a future that should have been Oscar’s. He wanted to get on a plane and fly back to Woking, bury himself in telemetry data, and pretend that the girl with the gold anklet didn't exist.
But he knew he wouldn't. He’d show up. He’d wear the mask. Because if he didn't, he’d have to admit that he had lost the only race that actually mattered.
