Die With A Smile
Die With a Smile
Charles Leclerc x death!Reader
Summary: desperation is a dangerous thing — six seasons without a World Drivers’ Championship has left Charles willing to do anything for glory … even pay the ultimate price (or in which Charles Leclerc sacrifices everything for Ferrari and, thanks to you, learns that death is nothing like he expected)
Warnings: major character death
Charles Leclerc has always been one for precision. Calculated. Calm. But now? Now there’s nothing left. Precision has eroded into a recklessness that terrifies and excites him in equal measure. The pursuit of glory is the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
Melbourne is hot, the air thick and sticky with anticipation. He stands in the paddock, helmet in hand, eyes tracing over the sea of faces. Reporters, mechanics, engineers — all of them moving with purpose. The season begins here, but he can’t shake this feeling that something else is starting too.
He frowns, scanning the crowd again. Something — or someone — has caught his attention.
You stand there, leaning against a barrier, watching him. Quiet, still. You don’t belong in this chaos, yet somehow, you fit. It's not like the usual glances from fans or the admiring stares from strangers. No, this is different. He doesn’t know why, but the sight of you pulls him in, like a thread slowly unraveling.
His grip tightens around the helmet. “Who’s that?” He mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to anyone nearby.
Pierre, standing a few feet away, catches the tail end of his question and follows his gaze. “Who?”
“There.” Charles nods subtly toward you. You’re still there, eyes locked on him. Unblinking. He swallows hard.
Pierre shrugs, oblivious. “No clue. Probably a fan or something. You good?”
Charles doesn’t answer. You’re not a fan. You’re something else. His heart thuds in his chest, a slow, deliberate beat, like a countdown. He can almost hear it. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“I’m fine,” he says, but the words feel empty. He’s not fine. He feels like he’s balancing on the edge of something dangerous, and you’re the reason why.
Suddenly, the world around him — the voices, the clamor of the paddock — fades, and it’s just you and him. You, watching him with a calmness that unnerves him. And him, standing there, frozen, unable to look away.
“I’ll see you after the race,” Pierre says, giving him a pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. Charles doesn’t even register his friend’s departure.
He doesn’t move, his body rooted to the spot as if some unseen force has pinned him in place. It’s stupid. Ridiculous. Why can’t he look away?
There’s a flicker in your eyes — something fleeting, something dark. His pulse quickens. He knows that look. He’s seen it before, in mirrors, in the faces of men with nothing left to lose.
But you … you wear it differently. Effortlessly.
Charles takes a step toward you. His boots hit the asphalt with a dull thud, and suddenly, he’s walking, moving through the crowd without really seeing anyone. His focus narrows, sharp and deadly. He can feel it, the pull, the way his every step is dragging him closer to something he can’t explain.
And then he’s standing in front of you.
You don’t smile. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you’re waiting for something.
His throat is dry. “Who are you?”
For a moment, silence stretches between you, thick and unyielding. And then you tilt your head, ever so slightly, as if considering the question.
“Does it matter?” Your voice is soft, almost too soft, but it cuts through the noise around them like a blade.
He blinks, thrown off balance. He expected — he doesn’t know what he expected. Something more. Something less. But not this.
“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard, “I think it does.”
You shift your weight, crossing your arms over your chest, but your eyes never leave his. “And why is that?”
He hesitates. Why does it matter? He’s not sure. All he knows is that standing here, with you in front of him, he feels something heavy pressing down on him. Like time is slipping through his fingers, like he’s running out of chances, running out of-
“You’re in my head,” he says, more to himself than to you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you in my head?”
You don’t answer right away, but your gaze sharpens, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. “Maybe because you’ve been looking for me.”
His breath catches. “What?”
“You don’t realize it yet, but you’ve been waiting for this. For me.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He feels like the ground beneath him is shifting, like everything he thought he knew about himself is crumbling.
“You’re wrong,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. “I’m not waiting for anything.”
You raise an eyebrow, and for the first time, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. It’s not a kind smile. It’s knowing. Cold.
“Aren’t you?”
He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The world around them feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker, like it’s closing in on him.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
That sound again. It’s louder now, reverberating in his skull.
“You’re scared,” you say, and it’s not a question.
“I’m not scared.”
“You should be.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but no words come out. Because you’re right. He is scared. But not of you. He’s scared of what you represent. Of the way his pulse pounds in his ears, the way his chest feels tight with something he doesn’t understand.
And you know it. You see right through him.
“This season,” you say, your voice low, “it’s your last, isn’t it?”
He stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t expect to come out of this alive.”
He laughs, but it’s bitter, hollow. “I don’t have a choice. I either win, or …”
“Or you die.”
His breath hitches. The way you say it, so matter-of-fact, so final — it shakes him. Because it’s true. He’s been feeling it for months, this gnawing sense that if he doesn’t win the championship, there’s nothing left for him. He’ll push until he breaks. And he doesn’t care anymore.
But how do you know that? How could you possibly know?
“You don’t get to decide that,” he snaps, more harshly than he intends.
You don’t flinch. “You’re right. I don’t.”
The implication hangs between you, unspoken but loud. There’s something inevitable about this. Something neither of you can control.
He takes a step back, suddenly needing space, air — anything to break the tension building between you. But even as he moves, he can still feel the weight of your gaze on him, can still hear the ticking in his head, louder and louder, counting down to something he can’t escape.
“You’re wrong,” he says again, though this time, it’s more for himself than for you. “I’ll win. I’ll be fine.”
You don’t argue. You just watch him, that cold, knowing smile still playing at the edges of your lips.
“We’ll see,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
And just like that, you turn and walk away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as you appeared, leaving him standing there, heart racing, mind spinning.
He should be focusing on the race. On the championship. On everything he’s spent his entire life chasing.
But all he can think about is you. And the way his time feels like it’s running out.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
***
The roar of the engine fills his ears, drowning out everything else. The speed is intoxicating, the way the car moves beneath him, barely hanging on to the asphalt, the tires biting into the corners with every turn. He’s pushing harder than he should — he knows it, and he doesn’t care.
Spa is unforgiving today. The clouds hang low, threatening rain, and the track is slick, treacherous. Charles feels the tension in his body, every muscle taut, every nerve on edge. There’s no margin for error here. He’s on the edge, teetering, dancing with disaster. But that’s where he’s been living for months now — on the edge.
He downshifts hard coming out of Blanchimont, the rear of the car twitching beneath him. His heart pounds against his ribcage. He’s faster than he needs to be — faster than is safe. But he can’t let up. The rest of the field is closing in, and the gap between him and the car ahead is shrinking. Just a little more, just-
Then, suddenly, the car snaps.
A violent jolt sends him skidding off the track, the rear tires giving way, and for a brief, horrifying second, he loses control. The world tilts, and all he sees is the blur of gravel and barriers rushing toward him. Instinct takes over. His hands are a blur on the steering wheel as he fights to regain control. The tires scream against the ground, the car skidding sideways, throwing him against the seat belts with bone-rattling force.
“Come on, come on,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his heart pounding in his throat. He’s losing it, the car sliding further into the runoff area, the barrier looming closer.
But then — somehow — he recovers. The car snaps back into line, and he breathes out a shaky breath, his knuckles white from gripping the wheel. He’s back on the track, the car steady beneath him, but his heart is still racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Charles, are you okay?” His engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, tense and urgent.
“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice shaky. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
But he’s not fine. His hands are trembling, his vision is still blurred with the image of the gravel, the barrier — the almost crash. For a split second, he saw it. Saw what could have happened. What should have happened if his reflexes hadn’t kicked in.
He pulls the car to a slow halt, off the track now, coming to rest just inside the gravel trap. The engine hums, a low, steady sound that does nothing to calm him.
He sits there, breathing heavily, his head resting against the seat, eyes closed. He’s been reckless before, but this? This was different. He came so close to-
And then he feels it.
A presence.
His eyes snap open, and there you are. Standing just beyond the fence, not more than twenty feet from where his car rests. You’re watching him, the same way you did in Melbourne, your gaze locked on him with that unnerving calm that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
For a moment, he wonders if he’s imagining it. The adrenaline is still pumping, his mind is spinning, and maybe — just maybe — you’re a hallucination. But no. You’re real. You’re standing there, just beyond the track, watching him.
His breath catches in his throat.
“Charles, talk to us. Do you need assistance?” His engineer’s voice comes through the radio again, but he can’t respond. He’s frozen, staring at you through the shattered remnants of the race.
“Charles?” The voice repeats, more urgent now.
But he can’t tear his eyes away from you.
You tilt your head slightly, as if you’re considering something, as if you’re weighing his fate in your hands. And then, without a word, you take a step closer to the fence, your eyes never leaving his.
“Not yet,” you say, your voice somehow carrying through the din, through the chaos of the race and the pounding of his heart. It’s soft, almost a whisper, but he hears it as clearly as if you’re standing right next to him. “But soon.”
His blood runs cold.
He knows what you mean. He knows, deep down, that this is a warning. He can feel it, the weight of it pressing down on him, like the ticking of a clock in the back of his mind, counting down to something inevitable.
He swallows hard, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the words stick in his throat. “Who — who are you?” He manages to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.
You don’t answer. You never answer. Instead, you just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you already know how this ends.
The world around him feels distant now, like everything is moving in slow motion. The sound of the engines, the cheers of the crowd — it all fades into the background, leaving just you and him, locked in this strange, silent moment.
“Charles, we need you to respond,” the engineer’s voice cuts in again, breaking the spell for just a second.
He fumbles for the radio, his hand shaking as he presses the button. “I’m — I’m fine,” he says, his voice strained. “Give me a minute.”
There’s a pause on the other end, but they don’t push him further. Not yet.
He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, trying to make sense of what’s happening. He’s been reckless, yes. But this? This feels like more than just a close call. This feels like a warning. Like you’re here to remind him of something he’s been trying to ignore.
“Why are you here?” He asks, his voice barely audible over the hum of the car.
You don’t move. Don’t speak. But your eyes — they tell him everything. You’re here because of him. Because of the choices he’s making, the risks he’s taking. You’re here because he’s running out of time.
“You said … in Melbourne …” His voice trails off as he struggles to find the words. He remembers what you said. That he’s been looking for you, even if he didn’t realize it. That his time was running out.
And now, here you are. Again. Watching him.
“I don’t need you,” he says suddenly, his voice rising with a mixture of anger and fear. “I’m not done yet.”
Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t flinch. It’s as if you’ve heard these words a thousand times before.
“I will win,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I’m going to win.”
You take a step closer to the fence, your gaze unwavering. “We’ll see.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and final. He can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat. Maybe it’s both.
He clenches his fists around the steering wheel, the leather cool against his skin. He wants to shout at you, to demand answers, to make you go away. But deep down, he knows you’re not the kind of thing you can just wish away. You’re something else. Something bigger. Something he doesn’t understand.
And yet, you’re here. Watching. Waiting.
“I don’t have a choice,” he mutters, his voice breaking. “I have to win.”
You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The truth is already hanging between you.
Tick. Tock.
He can hear it again. That ticking. It’s louder now, more insistent, like the hands of a clock speeding up, racing toward some unseen finish line.
Charles shakes his head, as if trying to clear the sound from his mind. But it’s no use. The ticking is there, buried deep in his skull, a reminder that time is slipping away.
“I can still do this,” he whispers, almost desperately. “I can still win.”
Your gaze softens, just for a moment, and he wonders if you feel sorry for him. If you pity him.
“Maybe,” you say, and it’s the closest thing to compassion he’s heard from you. “But at what cost?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die in his throat. Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it will cost him. He doesn’t want to know.
You take one last, lingering look at him, your eyes scanning his face as if memorizing every detail, and then you turn, your figure disappearing into the haze of the track, swallowed up by the world beyond the fence.
He sits there, still trembling, still shaken. His fingers slowly unclench from the steering wheel, and he lets out a long, ragged breath.
“Charles?” His engineer’s voice again, but softer this time. “Are you okay? We’re ready to bring you back in.”
He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is still reeling, still stuck in that moment when you stood there, just beyond the fence, watching him. Judging him.
“I’m coming in,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.
The car hums back to life as he nudges it forward, back onto the track. But his hands are still shaking. His pulse is still racing.
And in the back of his mind, the ticking continues.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
***
The rain is relentless in Suzuka. Sheets of water hammer down on the track, turning every corner into a hazard, every straight into a test of nerve. The spray from the tires rises like smoke, blurring the lines between the asphalt and the dark sky.
Charles can barely see more than a few meters in front of him, but he doesn’t let up. His foot is heavy on the throttle, fingers gripping the wheel like a lifeline. He’s teetering on the edge of control, dancing that fine line between dangerous and deadly.
Every lap feels like a gamble. He’s driving blind, trusting the car to hold steady, trusting himself not to make a mistake. But the mistakes are creeping in. He can feel it. The tires are slipping, the rear end twitching beneath him as he pushes harder, faster. The rain pounds against his helmet, and the world outside the cockpit is a chaotic blur of water and noise.
“Charles, we need you to back off,” his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, thick with concern. “Conditions are getting worse.”
He doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, every muscle in his body tense, every instinct screaming at him to keep pushing. He knows the risks. He knows what’s at stake. But slowing down isn’t an option. Not for him.
“Charles, can you hear me?” The voice comes again, more insistent this time.
He blinks, his vision briefly clearing through the rain. And then he sees it.
A figure. Just beyond the barriers, standing at the edge of the track, half-obscured by the downpour. At first, it’s just a blur of motion, but as he hurtles closer, the figure sharpens into focus.
His breath catches in his throat. It can’t be.
Jules.
It’s impossible, but there he is — Jules Bianchi, standing on the side of the track, just where the runoff ends and the grass begins, his face calm, serene. Just like Charles remembers him. His heart leaps into his throat, a wave of emotion crashing over him, threatening to overwhelm him.
“Jules?” He whispers, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.
He blinks, just for a second. But when his eyes open again, Jules is gone. And in his place, there’s you.
Charles’ chest tightens, his hands shaking on the wheel as the car skids slightly on the wet track. You’re standing where Jules was, your gaze locked on him, calm and unyielding. The rain pours down around you, but you don’t move. You don’t blink. You just watch him, lap after lap.
“What the hell …” His voice cracks, his heart pounding harder than it should.
He can’t take his eyes off you, not even as the car barrels down the straight. The rain is coming down harder now, a relentless torrent that threatens to drown him in its fury. His mind spins, struggling to make sense of what he’s seeing. First Jules, now you — both of you standing there, on the edge of the track like ghosts from different parts of his life, haunting him.
Lap after lap, you’re there. Always in the same spot, just beyond the barrier, watching him. He blinks through the rain, but you never leave.
“Charles, please, respond,” his engineer’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with worry. “You need to slow down. The rain’s too heavy. We’re going to box.”
“I’m fine,” Charles snaps, his voice strained. “I’m staying out.”
He can hear the hesitation in the silence that follows. They don’t want to argue with him — not now, not when he’s like this. But he knows they’re watching, knows they can see the telemetry, knows they can see that he’s pushing the car beyond its limits.
He doesn’t care. He has to keep going. He has to — for Jules.
But why are you here? Why now? Why after Jules?
His hands shake on the wheel as he takes another corner too fast, the rear tires sliding out before he regains control. His heart is racing, his mind a mess of emotions, and still — you’re there. You’re always there.
Charles grits his teeth, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “What do you want from me?” He mutters under his breath, his voice trembling. He knows you can’t hear him, not through the roar of the engine and the crash of rain, but it doesn’t matter. You’re in his head now. You’ve been in his head since Melbourne.
And now, Jules too?
It’s almost too much. The memories of his godfather crash over him, a flood of grief and guilt he’s been pushing down for years. Jules’ voice, his smile, the way he believed in Charles even when Charles didn’t believe in himself.
But Jules is gone. Has been for a long time.
So why did he see him?
“Charles, box, box,” the radio crackles, cutting through his thoughts again.
“I said no!” He snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. His breath is coming fast, too fast, his chest tight with something he can’t name.
He takes the next corner harder than he should, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, his body tense, rigid. His mind is racing — too fast, too chaotic. The rain pounds harder against the car, and visibility is almost zero now, the track a slick, treacherous river beneath him.
And then, as he speeds past the spot where you stand, something shifts.
He swears he hears your voice. Soft, almost a whisper, but unmistakable. “Charles.”
It’s like ice down his spine. His heart skips a beat, his grip faltering for just a second.
He jerks the wheel, the car sliding as he corrects it, narrowly avoiding the barrier. His pulse is racing, his breathing erratic. He glances toward where you’re standing, but you don’t move. Don’t say anything else. Just watch. Always watching.
“Damn it,” he mutters, his heart pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else. “Damn it!”
The ticking is back. That familiar, maddening sound in the back of his mind. It’s been there for months now, growing louder, more insistent with every race, every lap. And now it’s deafening, drowning out everything else, a reminder of the time slipping through his fingers.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“You’re running out of time.”
Your voice echoes in his head, soft and calm, but laced with something darker. Something inevitable.
“I know!” He shouts, his voice hoarse, desperate. He knows he’s running out of time. He’s known it for months. Every race, every moment, feels like it’s pulling him closer to the edge, closer to you.
But he won’t stop. He can’t stop.
Jules wouldn’t want him to.
The thought of Jules — of his godfather, watching him, believing in him — gives him a surge of strength. He clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he pushes the car harder, faster, through the rain-soaked chaos.
“I’ll win,” he mutters, his voice fierce. “I’ll win for him.”
The car slides again, the tires struggling for grip, but he doesn’t care. He pushes harder, faster. The track is a blur beneath him, the rain blinding, but all he can think about is Jules. About you. About the ticking clock in his head.
And still, you’re there. Lap after lap, you watch him. Unblinking. Unwavering.
“You don’t have to do this,” your voice whispers in his mind, soft but relentless.
“I do,” he growls, his teeth gritted against the storm. “I have to.”
There’s a flash of lightning overhead, illuminating the track for a brief moment, and in that instant, he sees you clearer than ever. Your eyes meet his, and for a split second, everything falls away. The rain, the track, the car — it all disappears, leaving just the two of you, suspended in time.
“You can’t outrun this,” you say, and there’s something almost sad in your voice. “You know that.”
He shakes his head, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles are white. “I can try.”
You don’t argue. You never do. You just watch him, like you always do, waiting. Waiting for him to understand.
He takes the final corner, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall, and as he crosses the line, the checkered flag waving in the rain, he feels it.
The ticking stops.
And for the first time in months, there’s silence.
But it’s not a relief.
It’s a warning.
Because he knows — deep down — that this isn’t over.
Not yet.
You’re still watching. And he’s still running.
But he can’t run forever.
***
The lights of Abu Dhabi shimmer under the night sky, illuminating the track like a stage set for the final act. The crowd is a sea of red, Ferrari flags waving in anticipation, in hope. This is it. The final race. The decider.
Charles sits in his cockpit, the engine vibrating beneath him, the roar of the crowd a distant hum behind his helmet. He’s been here before — so close — but this time, it’s different. This time, he feels it. The championship is within his grasp. The ticking in his head has been growing louder all season, but tonight, it’s almost deafening.
Lap after lap, corner after corner, he’s been inching closer to victory. Every second matters, every move counts. His heart pounds in sync with the car, the pressure of the moment squeezing at his chest, but he doesn’t let it crack him. Not now. He can’t. Not when everything he’s fought for is just beyond the finish line.
“Stay focused, Charles,” the voice of his engineer comes through the radio, calm but urgent.
“I’m focused,” Charles mutters, his voice tight with determination. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirrors — no one behind him. He’s clear.
The laps tick down, and with each one, the championship feels closer, heavier. The car is holding together, despite the heat, despite the pressure he’s putting on it. Ferrari has given him everything, and now he’s about to repay that faith. The Tifosi will finally have what they’ve been waiting for.
The last corner comes too quickly, but his hands are steady on the wheel. He navigates the turn, his body leaning into it as if willing the car to stay glued to the track. And then he’s there — the straight before the finish line, the end of the race.
“Go, go, go!” His engineer’s voice rises, the excitement breaking through. “You’ve got it, Charles!”
The chequered flag waves ahead, and in a breathless moment, it’s over.
Charles crosses the line. World Champion.
For a second, he’s still. Then the realization crashes into him like a tidal wave. He’s done it. He’s won. The championship is his.
The radio crackles again, his engineer’s voice cutting through the noise. “Charles — Champion of the World! You’ve done it! We’ve done it!”
A shaky laugh escapes Charles’ lips. “We did it. We actually did it,” he breathes, disbelief and euphoria blending together.
He can hear the team screaming over the radio, their joy contagious. “Grazie, Charles! Grazie! You’re the World Champion!”
He laughs again, more freely this time, his body shaking with adrenaline. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”
His eyes well up as he glances at the sea of red in the stands. It’s everything he ever wanted. Glory. History. His name etched forever in the annals of the sport. He lifts a hand, a small wave toward the crowd, though they can’t see him from inside the cockpit.
“I can’t believe it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I actually did it.”
His heart is racing, but it’s not the same as before. This time, it’s relief. It’s joy. It’s everything he’s sacrificed for, everything he’s given to this dream.
He presses the brake pedal gently, ready to slow down for the cool-down lap, to take it all in, but-
Nothing happens.
A frown creases his brow. He presses again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
Panic flickers at the edge of his mind. “No … No, no, no …”
He pushes the brake pedal to the floor, but the car doesn’t respond. It doesn’t slow. The speedometer remains steady — too fast, too uncontrolled.
“Brakes aren’t working,” he says into the radio, trying to keep his voice calm, but his heart is pounding again, this time for a different reason. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.
“What? What do you mean?” His engineer’s voice is sharp, laced with fear.
“The brakes!” Charles snaps, his breath quickening. “They’re not working. I can’t slow down.”
He can feel the car resisting him, the engine still pushing forward, the barriers coming closer. The panic is rising now, clawing at his throat, tightening around his chest. He tries to steer, to find some way to slow the car, but there’s nothing. The barriers are closing in, the speed too high, too dangerous.
“Charles, try the emergency system-”
“I already have!” His voice cracks, desperation breaking through. The car is screaming beneath him, the speed a deadly weapon now, not a tool of victory.
And then he sees you.
You’re standing right by the barrier, just ahead, as if you’ve been waiting for him all along.
His heart stops for a second, time freezing around him. You’re so still, so calm, watching him. Watching him as the car barrels toward you, toward the barrier, toward the inevitable.
“No …” Charles breathes, his voice barely a whisper. His hands are shaking on the wheel now, his vision blurring from the speed, from the fear. He can see the crash coming, can feel it in his bones.
But you don’t move. You just watch.
His chest tightens, and the ticking is back, louder than ever. It’s all he can hear now, that maddening, relentless ticking.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
You don’t have to say anything. He knows. He’s always known. He’s been running toward this moment, toward you, since the beginning.
“Charles, try to-” His engineer’s voice cuts in again, but it’s too late.
The car slams into the barrier with a deafening crash, metal crunching, glass shattering. The world explodes around him, spinning, breaking apart. Pain flares through his body, white-hot and sharp, and then everything goes dark.
He’s still. Silent. The only sound is the faint crackling of the radio, his engineer’s voice distant, broken by static. “Charles? Charles, can you hear me? Charles?”
But Charles can’t move. He can barely think. The pain is numbing now, his body heavy, unresponsive. His vision is blurry, the world around him fading in and out of focus.
And then, through the haze, he sees you again. You’re walking toward him, slowly, steadily, through the wreckage of the car. The world is quiet now, eerily still, as if time itself has stopped.
Charles’ breath is shallow, his heart struggling to keep up. He can feel it — the end. It’s here. It’s always been here, waiting for him.
You come closer, your footsteps silent, your face calm, almost peaceful. You stop just beside the cockpit, your eyes meeting his.
“Is this it?” Charles whispers, his voice barely audible, his chest tight with the effort of speaking. His vision is fading fast, the darkness closing in. But you’re the only thing he can see clearly.
You don’t answer. You don’t need to. He knows.
You kneel beside him, your hand reaching out, and for the first time, you touch him. Your fingers brush against his skin, cold and soft, and in that moment, everything stops.
The ticking in his head goes silent.
The world fades.
And Charles Leclerc, World Champion, breathes his last breath.
He’s gone.
But his name — his glory — will live on forever. He gave everything. Sacrificed everything.
For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. For the dream.
And now, he is part of that legacy, forever written in the stars.
He won.
He died for glory.
***
The streets of Maranello are overflowing with grief.
Charles stands next to you, or at least what’s left of him does. His soul, untethered from the wreckage, feels weightless, though the weight of the moment is crushing. He can’t feel the ground beneath him anymore, can’t feel the warmth of the sun or the bite of the wind. All he can feel is the suffocating sorrow of the crowd, pressing in from every direction.
And the crowd. Dio mio, the crowd. Thousands — no, hundreds of thousands — of Tifosi flood the streets, a sea of red and black, their flags raised high, but there is no joy in their colors today. No triumphant cheers. Just the sound of sobs, muffled by hands pressed to faces, by the raw weight of a collective heartbreak that can’t be put into words.
The Ferrari factory looms behind them, draped in mourning banners, the Prancing Horse emblem hanging in black, somber and silent. The air is thick with the scent of incense, flowers — and death.
It’s impossible to look at them, and yet Charles can’t tear his eyes away. Grown men, hardened by life, stand with tears streaming down their faces. Fathers and sons alike, clutching each other as if holding on will somehow stem the flood of loss that grips them.
Charles looks at you, his breath — if he had any left — shuddering in his chest. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
You’re silent, standing beside him, your presence both a comfort and a reminder. This is what it means to be gone. To be remembered, but no longer part of the world.
“Do they …” He trails off, his voice thick with disbelief. “Do they miss me this much?”
You glance at him, your eyes calm but unreadable. “What did you expect?” Your voice is soft, but there’s an edge of inevitability to it, as if the scene before him was always written in the stars, just like his fate.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Or at least, he tries to. The motion feels more like a memory than a reality. “I thought … I thought they’d move on.”
You tilt your head, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across your lips. “They won’t. Not from this. Not from you.”
His eyes flicker back to the crowd, his chest tight. There’s no end to them. They fill the streets, every inch of space, like blood rushing through the veins of this small Italian town. He sees children on their fathers’ shoulders, wearing tiny Ferrari caps. Women clutching scarves, their eyes red from crying. He’s never seen this kind of devotion, not like this. Not for him.
He spots an elderly man near the front, his face weathered and lined, but the tears falling down his cheeks are fresh. He’s holding a photo of Charles — young, smiling, a memory of a better time. A time when the world still held onto hope.
Charles feels his throat tighten, his eyes burning despite the fact that he can’t cry anymore. “Why …” He swallows hard, his voice cracking. “Why are they all here? Why does it hurt them this much?”
You turn to face him fully, your expression steady, knowing. “Because you were theirs. Il Predestinato. The one they believed in. You gave them hope, and you gave them your life. They will never forget that.”
The title rings in his ears. Il Predestinato. The Chosen One. It always sounded so heavy, a burden he could never quite shake. And now, he wonders if it was ever truly his to bear.
A sudden commotion pulls his attention back to the crowd. The sea of red parts for a moment as a car rolls slowly through. Charles recognizes it immediately — a Ferrari, sleek and dark, the hearse that will carry his body through the streets of Maranello. It’s draped in the Italian flag, and atop it sits his helmet, the red and white standing stark against the backdrop of mourning.
The Tifosi bow their heads, some reaching out as if trying to touch the car, as if touching it will bring them closer to him. The car stops in front of the factory, and Charles watches, numb, as his casket is pulled out, carried by men he’s known for years. Faces he recognizes, but that seem distant now, like shadows from another life.
“They’re broken,” Charles whispers, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean for this.”
You don’t respond immediately, just watching the procession with the same stillness you always carry. Finally, you speak, your voice low and quiet. “Sacrifice always leaves something behind. Even if it’s pain.”
Charles inhales sharply, though the air doesn’t fill his lungs the way it used to. He’s not sure how to process what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling. There’s a weight in his chest, heavy and suffocating. It’s not like the fear he felt in those final moments before the crash, but something deeper. Something that feels permanent.
The casket reaches the steps of the Ferrari factory, where the company’s executives, drivers, and engineers are gathered. They stand in silence, heads bowed, their faces etched with sorrow. Charles feels a pang of guilt, sharper than he expected.
“Was it worth it?” His voice is barely a whisper, almost lost in the overwhelming noise of the crowd.
You turn to him, your expression unreadable. “That’s not for me to decide.”
He clenches his fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But I gave everything! I died for this!” He gestures toward the casket, the crowd, the broken faces of his friends and family. “I sacrificed everything for Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”
You meet his gaze, unwavering. “And now, you have to decide if that sacrifice was worth it.”
Charles looks away, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — aching. He doesn’t know the answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
As the casket is carried up the steps, a priest steps forward. Charles recognizes him immediately. The Pope. The sight would almost be surreal if it weren’t for the gravity of the moment. The leader of the Catholic Church, come to bless his body, to give him the final rites. It’s more than Charles ever expected, more than he ever thought possible.
The Pope raises his hand, his voice carrying over the crowd in solemn Latin, offering a prayer for Charles’ soul. The crowd is silent now, the only sound the soft rustle of flags in the wind and the distant sobs of those too broken to hold back their grief.
Charles watches, his chest tight with emotion he can’t quite name. “Will they remember me?” His voice is small, almost childlike in its vulnerability.
You don’t hesitate. “They will never forget you. The Tifosi will name their children after you. They will pray for you, mourn for you, even as they themselves fade. Your name will live on, even when their names turn to dust.”
He blinks, trying to process your words. It’s everything he ever wanted, everything he worked for. To be remembered. To be loved. To be immortal in the eyes of those who mattered most to him.
“But will it be enough?” He asks, his voice barely a whisper. “Will it ever be enough?”
You turn to him, your gaze softening just slightly. “That’s something only you can answer.”
Charles looks back at the crowd, at the faces of the people who loved him, who believed in him, who now grieve for him. He doesn’t know the answer yet. Maybe he never will. But for now, all he can do is watch as the people of Italy — his people — mourn the loss of their hero, their champion, their Il Predestinato.
And perhaps, in their grief, in their endless love for him, he will find the answer he’s looking for.
As the Pope finishes his prayer, the crowd begins to chant.
“Forza, Charles! Forza Ferrari!“
The sound rises, a wave of devotion and heartbreak that crashes over the streets of Maranello. Charles listens, his heart aching with a mixture of pride and sorrow.
He is gone. But his name, his legacy, will live on forever.
And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.
***
The afterlife is nothing like Charles imagined.
For one, it isn’t dark. There are no flames licking at the sky, no eerie fog swirling at his feet. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel either. Instead, there’s an odd stillness, like time has stopped moving but everything else remains in place. It’s hard to describe, really — neither peaceful nor unsettling, just … different.
He’s not sure how long he’s been here. Time doesn’t seem to exist in the way it used to. Days blend into one another, or maybe there are no days at all. Just moments strung together in an endless loop.
The one constant in this strange new reality is you.
You’re always close by, never too far, but never imposing. It’s a strange sort of companionship, one that Charles hadn’t expected to find in death. He watches you sometimes, your presence steady, your movements fluid and quiet. You’re not like anyone he’s ever met. And it’s no wonder — how could you be? You’re death.
But there’s something else about you, something he can’t quite put into words. You’re not cold or distant, despite the weight of your title. There’s a kind of sadness that clings to you, something that pulls him in even when he tries to resist it.
He’s sitting beside you now, his back against an old stone wall, looking out into the expanse of … wherever this place is. It’s quiet, as always, the only sound the faint rustling of something distant. Neither of you speak, but the silence between you is comfortable, not awkward.
After a while, Charles breaks it.
“Do you ever get lonely?”
Your head tilts slightly, as if the question surprises you. You don’t answer right away, and for a moment, Charles thinks you won’t. But then you shift, your eyes focused on some point in the distance, and your voice, when it comes, is soft.
“I suppose I do.”
It’s not what he expected you to say. He always thought of you as solitary, but not necessarily lonely. You were death, after all. You weren’t meant to have attachments, were you?
“How could you?” He asks, genuinely curious. “You’re … you. Death doesn’t get lonely.”
You let out a soft sigh, one that’s more resigned than sad. “Death doesn’t exactly allow for much companionship.” You glance at him, your eyes steady. “Most souls don’t stick around for very long. They move on. They’re not meant to linger.”
Charles absorbs your words, turning them over in his mind. It’s true — he’s the only one here, the only soul who hasn’t moved on. But the idea that you might be lonely, after all this time, unsettles him in a way he can’t explain.
“Do you know why I haven’t moved on?” He asks, his voice quiet.
You shake your head, your expression soft but unreadable. “No. I don’t understand it.”
He leans back against the wall, his mind racing. Why hasn’t he moved on? There’s no reason to stay, no unfinished business, no regrets strong enough to tether him to this place. And yet … he’s still here. With you.
You shift slightly beside him, your gaze drifting out into the distance again. “I’ve never had anyone stay this long,” you say, almost to yourself. “Most souls are eager to move on. They want peace, or closure, or something more.”
Charles frowns, looking over at you. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you want them to stay?”
You pause, considering the question. “No,” you say eventually. “That’s not how it works. They’re not meant to stay. Neither am I.”
“But you get lonely.”
Your lips press together, and for a moment, Charles thinks he might have pushed too far. But then you nod, just once. “Yes.”
There’s something in your voice, something quiet and raw, that tugs at something deep inside him. He doesn’t understand why, but it matters to him. Your loneliness matters to him.
“Is that why you’re still here?” You ask, turning the question back on him. “Because of me?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. He’s not sure. Maybe it is. Or maybe there’s something else at play, something neither of you understands.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I don’t think I’m ready to leave.”
You look at him then, really look at him, and there’s a softness in your gaze that catches him off guard. He realizes in that moment how much time you’ve spent alone. You, the embodiment of death, the one who has seen everything end but never experienced the simplicity of someone choosing to stay.
He leans forward, his voice quieter now. “Have you ever-”
He hesitates, the question hanging in the air between you.
“What?” You prompt, your voice gentle.
“Have you ever … I don’t know. Experienced anything like this?” He gestures between the two of you. “With anyone else?”
You shake your head, almost sadly. “No. Death doesn’t leave room for that.”
Charles watches you for a moment, his mind spinning with the weight of it all. It seems so unfair, that you should be condemned to an eternity of loneliness, of watching others move on while you remain.
“Everyone deserves at least one thing,” he says softly, almost to himself.
You tilt your head, confused. “What do you mean?”
He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours. “Everyone deserves to experience their first kiss.”
Your breath catches ever so slightly, your eyes widening just a fraction. “Charles …”
“I’m serious,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “You should have that. You deserve it.”
You don’t respond, but your eyes search his, and for the first time since he met you, he sees something flicker there. Uncertainty. Vulnerability.
He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. But you don’t. You stay still, watching him, waiting.
And then, gently, Charles presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is soft, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it’s enough. Enough to make the world tilt on its axis for a moment, enough to make the weight of everything around you both fall away.
You don’t pull back immediately. Neither does he. For a few seconds, it’s just the two of you, suspended in the stillness of the afterlife, sharing something fragile and beautiful.
When he finally does pull away, your eyes are still closed, your lips parted ever so slightly. Charles watches you, his heart — or whatever it is that beats in his chest now — pounding in a way that feels almost human again.
You open your eyes slowly, blinking as if coming out of a dream.
“I-” You falter, your voice soft and uncertain. “Why did you …”
He smiles gently, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Because I wanted to. And because you deserve it.”
You don’t say anything for a long moment, just looking at him as if trying to make sense of what just happened. But there’s a warmth in your gaze now, something that wasn’t there before. Something new.
“I don’t understand you, Charles,” you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He laughs quietly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t understand myself, either.”
You stay like that for a while, in the stillness of the afterlife, the weight of the world no longer pressing down on either of you. There’s no rush, no need for answers right now.
For the first time, in a long time, neither of you feels alone.
***
Time is strange in the afterlife.
Charles doesn’t know how long he’s been here — whether it’s days, months, or even years. There’s no ticking clock, no sun moving across the sky. It’s just … still. He’s gotten used to the quiet, to your presence nearby, and to the sense that nothing is rushing forward like it used to.
But something shifts one day. You’re sitting beside him, as usual, but there’s a new energy in the air, something that tugs at the quietness and pulls at the stillness. You turn to him, your eyes meeting his with a softness that he can’t quite place.
“I have something to show you,” you say, your voice quiet but clear.
He blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”
You don’t explain. Instead, you stand, offering him your hand. He hesitates for a second, but then he takes it. There’s always been an unspoken trust between you — something that keeps him tethered to you, even in death.
The world shifts around him, the stillness breaking apart. For a moment, everything spins, the ground slipping from beneath his feet as if he’s falling — but it’s not unpleasant. It’s more like drifting. And then, as suddenly as it starts, it stops.
Charles finds himself standing in a hospital room.
His breath catches, his mind scrambling to make sense of where he is. The sterile smell of disinfectant clings to the air, and the beeping of machines fills the silence. He looks around, trying to orient himself, but nothing feels real.
“Where-”
You don’t answer his question directly. Instead, you nod toward the center of the room. “Look.”
Charles follows your gaze, and his heart — if he still had one — stumbles in his chest. His older brother, Lorenzo, stands by the bed, his face soft with emotion. He’s holding someone’s hand. Charlotte, his wife, is lying in the hospital bed, her expression tired but glowing. But it’s the small bundle she holds against her chest that steals Charles’ breath.
A baby.
It takes him a moment to fully process what he’s seeing. Lorenzo’s wife. His brother. And a baby.
Charles steps closer, his movements slow, almost cautious, as if he’s afraid the scene will shatter if he gets too close. He watches as Lorenzo reaches down to stroke the baby’s tiny head, his face filled with a tenderness that Charles hasn’t seen in years.
“Lorenzo?” Charles whispers, though he knows his brother can’t hear him. His eyes are fixed on the child in Charlotte’s arms, a strange sense of awe and disbelief washing over him.
You step beside him, your voice soft as you speak. “I wanted you to meet Charles Tolotta-Leclerc.”
He freezes.
“What?” His voice barely makes it past his lips, and he turns to look at you, his eyes wide, searching your face for any hint of a joke. But you’re serious.
You nod toward the baby again. “They named him after you.”
Charles stares at the tiny bundle, his mind struggling to catch up with what you’ve just said. They named the baby after him? His head spins, a strange mix of emotions swirling through him — shock, disbelief, and something that feels dangerously close to pride.
Before he can fully process it, Lorenzo’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“I miss him,” Lorenzo says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I wish he could be here. I wish he could’ve met him.”
Charlotte smiles up at him, though there’s a sadness in her eyes. “He would’ve loved him,” she says, her voice gentle. “He’ll be watching over him, I’m sure of it.”
Lorenzo’s expression tightens, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I hope he’s watching over us. Over Charlie.”
Charles stands frozen, his entire body — or soul, or whatever he is — going still. The weight of Lorenzo’s words crashes into him like a tidal wave, leaving him breathless. He watches as his brother’s eyes fill with unshed tears, and it breaks something inside him.
“I wanted him to be here,” Lorenzo says, his voice cracking. “I wanted him to be part of this, to see my son …”
Charles can’t take it anymore. He feels the pressure building inside of him, the ache in his chest growing unbearable. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes — not physical tears, but the kind that burn and sting nonetheless.
You’re beside him before he even realizes it, your presence calm and steady. You don’t say anything, but you don’t need to. He can feel your understanding, your quiet reassurance.
“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I’m watching.”
But no one can hear him.
Lorenzo’s voice cracks again as he continues. “I named him Charles because … I want him to be like you. I want him to grow up knowing who you were. What you stood for. And maybe … maybe he’ll feel like you’re with him, even if you can’t be.”
Charles presses a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatens to escape. The emotions are too much — grief, pride, love, all tangled together in a way that feels like it’s tearing him apart.
He looks at the baby again, the tiny life cradled in Charlotte’s arms, and something breaks open inside him. He didn’t know it was possible to feel so much after death. He thought everything would fade away, that he wouldn’t have to feel the weight of the world anymore.
But watching his brother, watching this moment … it’s almost unbearable.
You step closer, your hand resting gently on his shoulder. “It’s okay to feel it,” you say softly. “It’s okay to cry.”
Charles lets out a shaky breath, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. “I-I didn’t think it would be this hard,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “I thought … I thought I was ready to move on.”
Your hand stays steady on his shoulder, grounding him. “You gave everything for glory,” you say gently. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to let go.”
Charles shakes his head, tears streaming down his face as he watches his brother, his nephew. “I don’t know if I can,” he chokes out. “I don’t know how to say goodbye.”
You don’t rush him. You let him stand there, watching, crying. He can feel your quiet strength beside him, your understanding. You’ve seen it all before, but for him, it’s new, raw, overwhelming.
Lorenzo leans down, pressing a kiss to his newborn son’s head. “He’s going to know all about you,” Lorenzo murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Charles can’t stop the sob that escapes him this time. He crumples forward, his hands covering his face as the grief finally spills over, uncontrollable. He feels like he’s breaking apart, like everything he’s held inside for so long is crashing down around him.
And then, you’re there. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him close, letting him cry into your shoulder. You don’t say anything, but your presence is enough. It’s steady, grounding, and for the first time since he’s been here, Charles feels like he isn’t alone in his grief.
He cries for a long time, the emotions pouring out of him in waves. He cries for the life he left behind, for the family he didn’t get to see again, for the child named after him who will never know him. And through it all, you stay with him, holding him, comforting him.
When the sobs finally subside, Charles pulls back slightly, wiping at his eyes. He feels raw, drained, but there’s a sense of release, too — like something heavy has been lifted from his chest.
“He’s going to be okay,” you say softly, your voice gentle. “Lorenzo will take care of him. He’ll grow up knowing who you were, what you meant.”
Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. He looks back at the hospital bed, at Lorenzo and Charlotte, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something like peace in his chest.
“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.
You smile softly, brushing a tear from his cheek. “You don’t have to thank me.”
But he does. Because in this moment, he knows he couldn’t have faced this alone. Not without you.
Charles watches his brother one last time, his heart heavy but full. And though he knows he can never return to the life he once had, there’s a strange sense of comfort in knowing that a part of him still exists in the world — in the form of the tiny child cradled in Charlotte’s arms.
“I’ll watch over him,” Charles says softly, his voice steady now. “I promise.”
***
The air between you is different today. Charles can feel it before you even say a word. It's in the way your eyes linger on him a little longer, the way your silence stretches. You’ve been together for what feels like an eternity, yet time is meaningless here.
He looks at you, waiting for the explanation, the gentle unspooling of whatever truth you’re about to offer him.
Finally, you speak. “I think you’re ready.”
Charles frowns. “Ready for what?”
“To move on.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than he expected. His chest tightens, and he shakes his head, the instinctual reaction coming out almost before you finish speaking.
“I don’t want to move on.” His voice is sharp, edged with panic. He doesn’t fully understand what “moving on” means, but he knows it sounds final. It sounds like goodbye, and he’s not ready for that. Not now. Not after everything. Not after you.
You watch him quietly, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “Charles, you’ve already moved on in so many ways. This-” you gesture between the two of you, “-this isn’t goodbye.”
He stares at you, his mind racing. “Then what is it? You’re telling me I have to leave, but I can’t — I can’t leave you.”
You laugh softly, the sound rich with irony. “I’m death, Charles. You’re dead. Why would you have to leave me?”
The realization hits him, and his protest falters. His hands fall to his sides as he processes what you’re saying. You’re death, and he’s already passed beyond life. There’s no need to fear separation, because you are intertwined with whatever comes next.
“So, I’m not really going anywhere?” He asks, cautiously hopeful.
“Not in the way you think,” you assure him, your voice softening. “But this place — it isn’t where you belong anymore. There’s something else waiting for you.”
Charles exhales slowly, relief and uncertainty swirling in his chest. “Something else?”
You step closer, your hand reaching out to brush against his arm. “You’ve done everything you needed to do here. You’ve won. You’ve found peace with your family. Now … it’s time.”
He looks into your eyes, searching for something — reassurance, maybe. He’s been with you through all of this, and yet, the idea of leaving this limbo, this stillness, feels daunting.
You tilt your head slightly. “Trust me.”
He wants to. He does. But there’s a tightness in his throat, a reluctance that refuses to fade. “What if I don’t want to go?” He murmurs, almost to himself.
You give him a knowing look. “Charles, you’re not going anywhere that I can’t follow.”
Something in him eases at your words. He nods, but there’s still a lingering hesitation. His life — his death — has been defined by choices. Choices to race, to sacrifice, to push past every limit. Now, there’s nothing left to fight, no championship to chase. This is the last choice he’ll have to make, and the finality of it shakes him.
“Okay,” he says, his voice quieter than he expects.
You smile, your fingers wrapping around his hand. “Come with me.”
The stillness of limbo shatters. The world around them changes, the coldness and vast emptiness giving way to something warm and vibrant. Colors he hasn’t seen in years flood his vision — deep blues, rich greens, and the golden light of a sun he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever.
Charles blinks, trying to make sense of where he is. There’s no pain, no exhaustion, just … peace. He stands there for a moment, taking it in, but then, something — someone — catches his eye.
He freezes, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — stopping in his chest.
Jules.
Jules is standing just a few feet away, watching him with that same familiar smile. The smile Charles grew up with, the one that got him through the hardest days.
His breath catches, and before he can stop himself, he runs.
It’s instinctive, like muscle memory, like he’s a kid again chasing after his godfather. His feet carry him faster than he thought possible, and when he reaches Jules, he throws himself into his arms without hesitation.
The warmth of the embrace floods through him, and Charles buries his face in Jules’ shoulder, a sob catching in his throat. He clings to him like he’s afraid to let go, the weight of everything — of life, of death, of everything in between — finally crashing down on him.
“I missed you,” Charles chokes out, his voice thick with emotion.
Jules laughs softly, holding him tight. “I missed you too, mon caneton.”
It’s overwhelming, this feeling of reunion. The tears fall freely now, and Charles can’t stop them, doesn’t want to stop them. He’s never cried like this before, not even when he won, not even when he died. But now, in the arms of someone who meant so much to him, it feels like everything is breaking free.
He pulls back, wiping at his face, but before he can say anything else, another voice breaks through the haze.
“Charles.”
Charles turns, his breath catching again as his eyes land on his father. He’s standing there, just a few feet away, watching his son with eyes full of pride.
“Papa …” The word slips from his lips, almost a whisper.
And then he’s running again, straight into his father’s arms. He feels like a child, all over again, seeking comfort and love and everything he’s missed. Hervé holds him, strong and steady, and for the first time in years, Charles feels like he’s truly home.
“I’m so proud of you,” Hervé murmurs, his voice full of emotion. “You did everything you said you would.”
Charles pulls back, his hands gripping his father’s shoulders as he looks at him, tears still streaming down his face. “I did it, Papa. I won.”
“I know,” Hervé says softly, his eyes shining. “I always knew you would.”
Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. The pride in his father’s eyes is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever worked for.
But then, he turns.
You’re still standing there, watching quietly from a distance. Charles’ heart twists at the sight of you, at the thought of everything you’ve been through together. You’ve guided him, stayed with him, and now … now he understands.
“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with gratitude.
He steps forward, closing the distance between you, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your skin as he leans in.
His lips meet yours, soft and gentle, and in that moment, everything else fades away. There’s no race, no championship, no death. Just the two of you, together, in this place beyond life and time.
When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and he knows.
You smile at him, your eyes soft. “Glory was worth it, wasn’t it?”
Charles nods, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It was worth it.”
And somewhere, in the distance, the ticking starts again.
For someone else.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
He knows what he has to do. The weight of it settles into his chest like a stone, cold and heavy, suffocating the brief warmth of your kiss. His hands tremble as they slip away from your face, his fingers lingering for just a second longer, as if he can’t quite let go.
But he has to.
His breath shudders, a ragged thing that cuts through the silence. His lips part, but no words come out. There’s nothing left to say. You see the understanding in his eyes — he knows the truth now, the path that’s been laid out in front of him since the moment he died.
He belongs with them.
With Jules. With his father.
Not with you.
He turns, slowly, his back to you now. And just like that, the warmth is gone. It’s like the sun has disappeared from the sky, leaving nothing but the cold, endless void.
You want to stop him, call out his name, reach for him, something, anything, but the words die in your throat. He doesn’t belong to you. He never did.
“Charles …” you whisper, though you know he can’t hear you anymore. He’s already too far away. Already slipping through your fingers like sand.
He walks toward them — Jules and Hervé — his pace steady, purposeful. The space between you grows wider with every step, a chasm opening up that you can never hope to cross.
Jules smiles at him, that same familiar smile, the one that Charles would have given anything to see again. And his father … God, the pride in Hervé’s eyes is almost too much to bear. It’s everything Charles ever wanted. Everything he fought for, died for.
But you …
You stand there, watching.
Helpless. Silent. Alone.
Charles doesn’t look back. Not once.
You knew he wouldn’t.
You knew this moment was coming from the second you saw him in Melbourne, when his time started ticking. You were never meant to keep him. You were just a part of his story — a brief chapter in the long, winding tale of his life and death.
And now, that chapter is closing.
The void stretches before them, a vast expanse of nothingness, and as Charles reaches the edge, Jules and Hervé step forward to greet him. They wrap their arms around him, pulling him into their embrace, and for a moment — just a moment — Charles is home.
He glances over his shoulder, but not at you. His eyes skim past you, unseeing.
“Thank you,” he whispers, but the words aren’t for you. They’re for the life he left behind. The glory. The fame. The endless pursuit of something more.
And then he steps into the void.
You feel it before you see it — the pull, the way the world shifts as he crosses the threshold. It’s like a part of the universe is being torn away, a piece of the puzzle you’ve held together for so long is finally gone. And you’re left behind, standing on the edge, watching as they fade into the distance.
The ticking stops.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re alone.
It’s funny, in a way. You’ve spent eons like this — watching souls come and go, guiding them from one world to the next. But with Charles, it was different. He stayed. He stayed longer than anyone else, long enough for you to feel something you weren’t supposed to feel.
Loneliness. Loss.
You told him you couldn’t be left behind, that death doesn’t experience separation, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?
Because now, as you stand there in the cold, empty void, watching the space where Charles once stood, you feel it — truly feel it — for the first time.
Heartbreak.
It’s a strange, hollow thing, the way it grips your chest, squeezes your lungs until you can’t breathe. You’ve seen it a thousand times, watched as humans crumbled under the weight of it, but this is different. This is personal.
This is yours.
He’s gone. He made his choice. And even though you knew it would end this way, it doesn’t make it any easier.
You take a step back, your feet moving of their own accord, retreating from the edge of the void. There’s no point in staying here. There’s nothing left to hold on to.
Charles is gone.
You close your eyes, trying to push down the ache in your chest, but it won’t go away. It lingers, sharp and raw, reminding you of what could have been, of the brief moments you shared that weren’t supposed to matter but now feel like everything.
For a second — just a second — you wish things had been different. That you could have kept him. That maybe, just maybe, you could have been something more than death. Something more than a shadow in the background of his life.
But that’s not who you are.
You open your eyes, the void still stretching out before you, endless and unforgiving.
Somewhere, far in the distance, the ticking starts for someone else. Another life, another death, another story to watch unfold.
But none of them will be Charles.
You’ll carry him with you, even if he never looks back. Even if he forgets your face. You’ll remember the way he smiled at you in the moments between life and death. You’ll remember the way his voice cracked when he thanked you.
And you’ll remember the way he kissed you, soft and brief, like a goodbye he couldn’t quite say.
You’ll remember it all.
And that, perhaps, is the cruelest part.
More Posts from Dazecrea and Others
Down The Road (F1 x Reader) SMAU Season 1
>> Down The Road 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩
➡ Previous Part : Next Part
Taglist: @raizelchrysanderoctavius , @laura-naruto-fan1998 , @jpg3 , @tsukishimawhore , @minkyungseokie , @roseseraj , @bbhyuneee , @omgsuperstarg (If you want to be added in this fic, just tell me in reply )
A/N : I'm trying to write in time for the #QatarGP because I want the storyline in Part 2 to continue in real-time (spoiler alert: from Episode 3 onwards, there will be a one-year time skip). I hope you enjoy the racing and the fic too. If you do, don't forget to like and reblog. It's great encouragement for me, who has been sitting with a sore back at the computer for hours to write this SMAU fic
note ; age-gap, a bit of mentor/student relationship
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Season 1 : ── 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐬 ── (Lewis Hamilton x Reader) S1 : E02 𝐾-𝑝𝑜𝑝 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟
Beyond the thrilling competition on the F1 track, the off-track relationships of F1 drivers have also become an exciting topic for fans. That's precisely what's happening with Y/N, a rising star in motorsport, whose relationship with Lewis Hamilton, a seven-time World Champion, is being closely watched. Is it real, or is it just a theory from fans? It's a tough question to answer definitively, as only they can shed light on the situation.
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Source : GQ Sports (On YouTube)
On this episode of "Actually Me" Formula 1 driver Y/N goes undercover on the internet and responds to real comments from fans on Twitter, Instagram, Wikipedia, Reddit, YouTube, and TikTok. How does it feel to be the only woman racing in Formula 1 today? How does she handle the pressure of competing in a male-dominated sport? Which driver is she closest to? And the most pressing question everyone wants to know : What is the true nature of her relationship with Lewis Hamilton? Are they friends, colleagues, competitors, or something more?
For this final question, she simply laughs and replies cryptically, “You guys should ask him (rather than asking me), because I’m curious too.”
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Source : Formula 1: Drive to Survive (On Netflix)
In the show “Formula 1: Drive to Survive” Lewis Hamilton finally opens up about his relationship with Y/N for the first time after it became a hot topic on Twitter world recently. Hamilton said “It’s hard to explain, but we have a very special bond because we’ve known each other for a long time,” He further defined her as the ‘special one’ in his life, yet he still remained enigmatic regarding whether their relationship contains romantic aspect or not.
Additionally, he delves into their personal closeness, mentioning that Y/N is very much a Gen Z personified, enjoying Twitter and often sending funny memes to everyone. He humorously reveals that she sometimes replies to him "OK Boomer," when he doesn't quite grasp the memes she sends.
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Source : Lewis Hamilton's Instagram Story (update)
Lewis Hamilton posted a picture of himself wearing friendship bracelets and tagging @Y/N on Instagram Story before deleting it 11 minutes after
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Source : Twitter (update)
Rumors about a romantic relationship between Y/N and Lewis Hamilton started circulating after a Twitter exchange between the two, leading fans to speculate and gather evidence suggesting they might be dating.
This wave of speculation has received both positive and negative reactions from fans. Some fans disagree with the dating rumors, while others support them. drawing parallels to the F1 version of Tom Holland and Zendaya
While the rumors have been hot topics among F1 fans on Twitter, there has been no confirmation from either Y/N or Hamilton.
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Source : Y/N’s instagram (update)
"Get in, loser We're going to do hotlap"
Y/N posted on Instagram that she will be doing a hot lap for the team's VIP guest in #QatarGP There's speculation that the guest might be a fellow racing driver like Alex, Albon, or George Russell, especially after she previously did a hot lap with Russell without any sign of Lewis Hamilton
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Source : Lewis Hamilton's instagram (update)
"Ready to go with the winner @Y/N"
Lewis Hamilton posted on Instagram, confirming that he is the VIP guest who will get a hot lap with Y/N. Followed by a massive response from fellow F1 drivers and fans who are closely watching their relationship.
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Source : Y/N and Lewis Hamilton's instagram (update)
Y/N and Lewis Hamilton have arrived at the Lusail International Circuit to prepare for the #QatarGP race tonight. The media has been informed by their respective teams that there will be no interviews or comments regarding the rumors about them. They will solely focus on their performance in this race.
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Source : @PopBase
Reportedly the famous spanish singer Úrsula attended the Formula 1 race at #QatarGP amidst fresh rumors among fans that she might be rekindling her relationship with Y/N. This comes after her recent divorce from the Hollywood actor last month.
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𝙏𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙚𝙙 (in the next chapter)
If you like it, don't forget to like and reblog for me.
Cr.https://x.com/PopBase/status/1708629114025116047?s=20https://twitter.com/GridRivalhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b025AznQiGk&ab_channel=GQSportshttps://www.instagram.com/p/CyBimW-Ocyr/
When I go read a fanfic, but then see it was last updated over two years ago
— The Heart That Remained (Vander x f!Reader)
Summary: A monster, once a beloved protector, now haunts the tunnels of Zaun. The creature is revealed to be Vander, twisted by pain and rage, leaving his daughters Vi and Jinx to grapple with the truth. As a battle unfolds, past memories and present dangers clash, forcing a choice between saving Vander’s humanity or ending his torment. Love, guilt, and hope intertwine in this intense, emotional confrontation.
Word Count: 5.2k (im a jerk for angst)
Content/Warning: Angst to Fluff, less mention y/n until the ending, a bit bloody?, AND VERY ANGSTY
🖋️ Author’s Note: AS I PROMISED I WOULD MAKE A ANGSTY FIC ABOUT VANDER, and i promise you its worth the while i did my best to put into detail of the character’s personality and the places. It took me 3 days and i’m very happy how it turned out! Before yall read this maybe someone you haven’t watched S2, there will be spoilers obv— and i recommend yall listen to Dead Island Trailer Theme song while watching this cause personally it juST MATCHED THE SCENE IT- i hope yall enjoy my writing this is my 2nd fic! Please comment your feedback and simply support me by like and reblogs! Thank you very much yall!<3
After the chaos of the Piltover Council meeting, guilt gnawed at you like a relentless, suffocating force. Deep down, you knew Jinx—Vander’s daughter—was the cause of the devastation that had torn through the heart of the city. You couldn’t escape the weight of the promises you’d made long ago: to protect Vi and Powder when they were still just children. Those vows now felt like shattered glass, each piece embedded in your soul. You had failed them. And now, hidden behind the mask of an investigator, you carried your shame like a cloak. It was the only armor that allowed you to survive, to push down the searing ache that never seemed to go away. Months passed, and you thought you had found your rhythm in the cold, distant monotony of your work. Then Ambessa hired you. The aftermath of the beast’s rampage in the prison—the blood, the carnage—shattered that fragile peace. It was the most grotesque thing you’d ever seen. The nightmare still burned in your memory, its horrors etched into your mind like permanent scars. The beast, its monstrous presence a cruel reminder of the violence lurking in every shadow, had torn through the fragile walls of your life, dredging up the dangerous ties to the past you couldn’t outrun.
“How could this beast come out of nowhere?” You whispered, the question hanging in the air like a death sentence. Ambessa’s gaze locked onto you, icy and unyielding. The weight of her authority pressed down on you, suffocating. She leaned forward, her voice low, controlled—laced with quiet menace. “You’re asking the wrong question,” she said, her words like a blade. “It doesn’t matter how it got here. What matters is that it’s here now. And we don’t have the luxury of waiting for answers. We deal with it. We don’t waste time wondering why or how—it’s already cost us too much.” She paused, her eyes narrowing, a flicker of impatience cutting through her otherwise steady demeanor. “If you want to stay in this game, you’ll find out who—or what—created this monster. And you’ll do it fast. Before it costs us more.” You nod, the weight of Ambessa’s words settling heavily in your chest. Without a second thought, you move past the cells, your gaze flicking over them with practiced detachment. You push down the swirling thoughts threatening to overwhelm you, focusing on the task at hand. But as you walk, something pulls your attention—a cell, its door locked with an unnerving sense of finality. Something about it doesn’t sit right, a tension building in your gut.
Before you can step closer to investigate, the soft, rhythmic chime of the elevator cuts through the silence. The doors slide open, and out steps Commander Caitlyn Kiramman, her posture rigid, her face set in the same steely expression you’ve come to recognize. She doesn’t glance at you immediately, but when she does, her eyes flicker with a mixture of curiosity and caution. “Commander,” you murmur, your voice steady but carrying the weight of the unspoken. You can’t help but wonder if she’s here to speak of the very thing that’s been gnawing at your thoughts—the beast, the violence, the past that refuses to stay buried. “How is your investigation?” Caitlyn’s voice was steady, her usual sternness masking the exhaustion you knew she carried. Her sharp blue eyes flicked over you, searching for any hint of progress. You hesitated, your gaze drifting back to the closed cell. “It’s… ongoing,” you replied, the words clipped, as your unease bubbled beneath the surface. She followed your line of sight, noticing your fixation. Without waiting for an invitation, Caitlyn strode past you, her footsteps purposeful, echoing in the silence as she approached the cell. “What is it about this one?” she asked, her tone even, though her curiosity was evident. You didn’t answer immediately, the heaviness in your chest growing. “It’s locked,” you said finally, the words feeling too small for the weight of your unease. “But it’s too quiet. Too… deliberate.”Caitlyn reached out, resting her hand lightly on the cold metal bars. “Let’s open it,” she said decisively, her command leaving no room for argument. The tension in her voice betrayed her own unease, though her face remained calm and unreadable.
As the cell door creaked open, the air grew heavy with an acrid, chemical tang. There, sitting upright in the dim light, was a figure that made your breath hitch—Dr. Reveck. His sunken, hollow eyes locked onto yours, recognition flashing briefly across his face. Then came the cold, calculating glare of someone who had already weighed and dismissed your worth. “You’re persistent,” he murmured, his voice low and rasping, as though it hadn’t been used in days. “But persistence doesn’t make you immune to mistakes.” His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile that never reached his eyes. “What are you here for? To make another mistake?” Before you could respond, Caitlyn’s sharp footsteps echoed through the corridor, her tone cutting the tension. “Dr. Reveck,” she began, her words laced with authority, “you’re going to answer for what you’ve done. Whatever experiments you’ve been running—whatever monsters you’ve unleashed—it ends now.” Reveck’s expression didn’t waver, though his gaze shifted to Caitlyn with a disconcerting calm. “Answers,” he said, almost mockingly. “The only people who demand them are those too weak to seek the truth themselves.” The sudden clang of metal doors opening at the end of the hall signaled Ambessa’s arrival. Her towering figure filled the space, the weight of her presence silencing any retort Caitlyn might have had. Her eyes swept the scene before resting on Reveck. “This is the man responsible?” she asked, her voice an authoritative rumble. Reveck tilted his head slightly, observing Ambessa with a detached curiosity. “And you are?” he asked, his tone clinical, as though dissecting her existence. Ambessa took a step closer, her imposing frame making the cramped cell feel even smaller. “I’m the one deciding whether you’re worth keeping alive,” she said, her voice unwavering. “And right now, you’re not making a good case.”
The tension in the room was palpable, your pulse pounding in your ears as you stood frozen, caught between these forces of will. Caitlyn glanced at you, her expression tight, as if silently willing you to act or speak. Dr. Reveck finally turned back to you, his gaze sharper now, as though seeing past your mask of authority to the pain you’d been carrying. “Tell me,” he said softly, almost conversationally, “are you here to find answers, or are you just running from your own failures?” Before you could answer Dr. Reveck’s cutting remark, the sharp clink of handcuffs broke the silence. Caitlyn had stepped forward, her features stern as she clasped the restraints over Reveck’s thin wrists. “You’ll answer for your crimes,” she said coldly. “But your cooperation might still buy you a sliver of mercy.” Reveck barely flinched, his pale eyes darting between Caitlyn and Ambessa as if calculating the odds of survival. He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Mercy,” he echoed, his voice dripping with disdain. “A curious word coming from Piltover’s enforcers. Tell me, Commander Kiramman—how does mercy reconcile with the blood already on your hands?” Caitlyn’s jaw tightened, but before she could reply, Ambessa’s voice rumbled from behind her. “Enough.” Her tone brooked no argument as she stepped into the cell, her towering figure filling the cramped space. “Your investigation isn’t finished here,” she said, her eyes locking onto yours with a commanding weight. “You’ve uncovered the man, but not the monster.”
Reveck’s lips curled faintly, a reaction as subtle as it was unsettling. “The beast,” he murmured, as though savoring the word. “You think you’re hunting it, but it’s already closer than you realize. Closer than any of you would dare admit.” Ambessa ignored him, her gaze still fixed on you. “Find it,” she said firmly. “Before this trail goes cold and more lives are lost.”
Reveck’s smile widened slightly, his voice taking on a cryptic edge. “And when you find it,” he said, his tone almost taunting, “you might not like what you uncover.” The weight of his words hung heavy in the air as you exchanged a brief, tense glance with Caitlyn. Without another word, Ambessa turned and walked toward the cell door, her presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Caitlyn followed, her hand lingering on her holstered weapon as if still on edge. You stayed behind for a moment longer, your gaze locked with Reveck’s, searching for something in his unflinching expression—a hint of truth, or maybe just an answer you weren’t ready to face.
You stepped out of the cell, the cold air biting against your skin. The echo of Ambessa’s commanding words and Reveck’s cryptic warnings swirled in your head, mixing with Caitlyn’s sharp presence. Every step away from the cell felt heavier, the pressure of what you’d just witnessed settling into the pit of your stomach. Reveck’s words wouldn’t leave you. “You think you’re hunting it, but it’s already closer than you realize.” They repeated in your mind like a haunting refrain, twisting your thoughts into knots. What did he mean? And why did it feel like there was more truth in his taunts than anyone cared to admit? The sterile prison corridor seemed darker now, its shadows crawling up the walls like something alive. A prickle of unease traced up your spine. For a moment, you paused, glancing back at the dim outline of the cell. It felt as though something—or someone—was watching. The air was too quiet, heavy with an unsaid warning. You shook your head and looked down, trying to steady your breaths, but your heart stopped cold. There, lying on the cold, stone floor just ahead of you, was a strand of blue hair. It glimmered faintly in the pale light, its color unmistakable. Powder. Your knees threatened to buckle, but you forced yourself to stay upright. A rush of memories flooded back—her laughter, her wide, curious eyes, the promises you made to her and Vi. And then the explosion, the chaos, and everything that came after. Your breathing quickened as you knelt down and gingerly picked up the strand, its texture soft but alien, almost too delicate for something so steeped in blood and tragedy. How did it get here? And why now?
The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly before you, the walls pressing in tighter. Your pulse thundered in your ears as a hundred questions screamed in your mind, all vying for answers. But one thought rose above them all, clear and sharp as a knife:
She was here.
And if she was here, then what had you missed? What was waiting just beyond the next shadow? You clutched the strand tighter, a knot of fear and determination tightening in your chest. You couldn’t let this go. Not now. Not after everything. With trembling hands and racing thoughts, you turned and walked toward the exit, but every step away from that cell felt like stepping deeper into the unknown.
You pulled your coat tighter around you, the cool night air biting at your skin. Your feet moved again, this time carrying you toward Zaun. If there was even the faintest chance she was there, you had to follow it. Whether you were ready or not, the path ahead was clear. You had to find her. And this time, you couldn’t fail. You had been at it for hours—no, days—piecing together fragments of evidence that felt more like whispers in the dark. Each lead took you deeper into Zaun’s underbelly: a blood trail smeared across cracked pavement, scorch marks that didn’t belong, and the eerie testimonies of those too afraid to say much at all. The closer you got, the more everything started pointing to one place. You’d seen the tunnel marked on old maps of Zaun—a forgotten artery deep within the district, barely mentioned anymore except in hushed tones. Something had happened there, something people were afraid to talk about. Standing at its mouth now, you could feel the weight of the place pressing on you like a physical force. The green chemfog swirled thickly, the heavy air carrying a stench of rust, decay, and something faintly metallic. It was quiet, unnervingly so, the usual hum of Zaun’s machinery conspicuously absent. You stepped forward cautiously, every instinct screaming at you to turn back. But the faintest trace of blood along the ground caught your attention, leading you further in. Whatever had been here—or was still here—wasn’t human. And yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a hunt for a monster. This was something personal, a shadow from your past reaching out to drag you back. As you stood at the edge of the tunnel, Dr. Reveck’s voice echoed in your mind, his words heavy with warning.
“You think you’re hunting it, but it’s already closer than you realize.”
The memory of his cold, detached tone sent a shiver down your spine. You tried to brush it off, focus on the task at hand. But it wasn’t easy. There was something about the way he’d looked at you, almost pitying, that gnawed at your resolve.
“You might not like what you uncover.”
The blood trail led further into the shadows, growing thicker, fresher. Each step you took seemed to confirm the truth of his cryptic warning. This wasn’t just a trail—it was a trap, a path carved by something that knew you’d follow. Despite yourself, fear clawed at the edges of your mind. You gripped your weapon tightly, the sound of your own breathing loud in the suffocating silence. If Dr. Reveck was right, if it was closer than you realized, then maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t the beast you were hunting anymore. Your heart pounded in your chest as you ventured deeper into the tunnel, every nerve on edge. The oppressive darkness seemed alive, pressing down on you as if the walls themselves wanted to swallow you whole. Then, breaking through the suffocating silence, you heard it—a voice. A familiar cry echoed through the hollow passage, carrying a name you hadn’t heard in years.
“Powder.”
Your breath hitched, and without thinking, your feet carried you toward the sound. The cry was raw, desperate, and unmistakable. It clawed at the memories you’d buried deep—days spent in the smog-filled streets of Zaun, promises whispered in the dead of night. You turned a corner, and there they were. The sight stopped you cold. Vi was locked in a brutal struggle, her movements sharp and relentless as she fought the towering monstrosity before her. Jinx—no, Powder—was nearby, her chaotic energy radiating even in the chaos, her laughter twisted with something between joy and pain. The beast, its hulking form both animal and something far worse, loomed over them. You stood frozen for a moment, unable to reconcile the scene before you. The two sisters you had sworn to protect were here, together again, fighting a nightmare brought to life. This wasn’t just a fight—it was their fight. But as the beast’s roar shook the walls of the tunnel, you knew you couldn’t just stand there. Not this time. You swung your electro-baton again, sending a crack of electricity through the beast’s thick hide. It staggered back, growling low, but you were ready to strike again. Then, a voice you hadn’t heard in what felt like ages cut through the chaos, sharp and frantic.
“Y/N?”
Your heart skipped a beat, and you turned, breath catching. There, standing in front of you with wide, shocked eyes, was Jinx. But it wasn’t just her surprise that caught your attention—it was the frantic energy radiating from her as her gaze flickered between you and the monster. Before you could even process the situation, Vi’s voice rang out, filled with desperation. “Get out of the way!” she yelled, her eyes locking onto the beast just as it made a move in your direction. The words barely registered before you heard the guttural growl of the creature, its monstrous form lunging toward you, faster than you could react. Your instincts kicked in just in time as you dove to the side, pushing Jinx out of the way and out of the path of the beast. In the chaos of the moment, you felt a sharp pang in your chest—Jinx’s face, twisted with a mixture of fear and resolve, flashed in your mind for just a second. She wasn’t ready to lose him again. But the situation was slipping further from control, and you couldn’t afford to wait any longer. Before you could strike, a hand shot out, gripping your arm with surprising strength. You whirled around, heart pounding, only to find Powder standing there. Her eyes were wide, frantic, pleading. “Stop!” she cried, her voice desperate, barely above a whisper. But it was enough to freeze you in place, your pulse hammering in your ears. The world seemed to slow as Powder’s frantic cry echoed in your mind.
“It’s Vander.”
For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. The name hung in the air, shattering everything you thought you knew. Your heart pounded against your ribs, memories of Vander flooding your mind—his hands, strong yet tender, holding you close during the darkest times. His laugh, the warmth he exuded when the world around you seemed so cold. He had been your everything. You had loved him with every fiber of your being. But this thing, this beast, it was not the man you had known. This creature, with its bloodshot eyes and twisted form, was not Vander. It couldn’t be. Your hands shook as you tightened your grip on the electro-baton, but it felt wrong—so wrong. The memories of him, so vivid and painful, clashed with the grotesque beast standing before you. You felt sick to your stomach, a wave of guilt crashing over you. You had failed him. Failed to save him. And now, you couldn’t even bring yourself to end the nightmare he had become. Your breath hitched as Powder stepped forward, desperation in her voice. “Please, Y/N, stop. I know it’s him. I can feel him in there. I won’t let you hurt him again.” Her words were a plea, a fragile hope in the storm. But your heart twisted with doubt. You could still hear the screams, the way the beast had ravaged everything in its path. And yet… something in Powder’s eyes, something in her raw desperation, made you falter.
The beast—Vander—lurched forward, its eyes locking onto you with an intensity that nearly paralyzed you. Every memory you had ever shared with him felt like it was being ripped from your chest.“Vander,” you whispered, the word slipping from your lips before you could stop it. The weight of it crushed you. You had spent so many years believing that Vander was lost, that the man you loved was gone. But here he was, in some twisted form, and it was as if everything you had been through had led you to this moment. Powder’s voice trembled as she pleaded once more. “Please, Y/N. Trust me. It’s him. Don’t hurt him. He’s still in there.” The battle inside you was unbearable. Every part of you screamed to fight, to destroy the beast before it could hurt anyone else. But Powder’s face—the vulnerability, the fear—held you in place. Your heart ached for her, for the girl who had once been Powder, the girl who had believed so deeply in the man who had been Vander. And for a long moment, you did nothing. Your body, your mind, were paralyzed by the weight of it all. You wanted to believe her, wanted to believe that Vander was still there somewhere beneath that monstrous exterior. You swallowed hard, the tears threatening to break free. Slowly, shakily, you lowered the electro-baton, letting it fall to your side. It felt like an eternity, the weight of the decision heavier than any battle you had ever fought. The beast—Vander—let out a low growl, and for a split second, it seemed to hesitate, its glowing eyes softening. And then, before you could process what was happening, it lunged. In a split-second, you shoved Vi out of the way, your body reacting faster than your mind could follow. You felt the beast’s claws rake across your shoulder, pain searing through your skin. The world blurred for a moment, your vision flickering as you stumbled backward, feeling weaker by the second.
You wanted to believe her, wanted to believe that Vander was still there somewhere beneath that monstrous exterior. You swallowed hard, the tears threatening to break free. Slowly, shakily, you lowered the electro-baton, letting it fall to your side. It felt like an eternity, the weight of the decision heavier than any battle you had ever fought. The beast—Vander—let out a low growl, and for a split second, it seemed to hesitate, its glowing eyes softening. And then, before you could process what was happening, it lunged. In a split-second, you shoved Vi out of the way, your body reacting faster than your mind could follow. You felt the beast’s claws rake across your shoulder, pain searing through your skin. The world blurred for a moment, your vision flickering as you stumbled backward, feeling weaker by the second. And then, amidst the chaos, the word tore from your chest.
“Vander…”
The sound of his name was a raw, guttural cry, one that echoed through the tunnels, through your soul. The pain hit you harder than any wound could. Vander, that name, those memories—they tore you apart. You had vowed to protect Vi and Powder, to keep them safe from the horrors of the world, yet here you stood, helpless. The love you had for him, for both of them, never faded. But now? Now you wondered if you'd failed them all. Could you ever undo the damage, or was it too late to save any of them? This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be this. But here he was, and you couldn’t turn away. Not now. Not after everything.
As the beast—the twisted, monstrous form of Vander—pins you to the ground, his massive claw digs into your shoulder, a searing pain that nearly overwhelms you. Your body is trembling, pinned beneath his weight, but you find the strength to cry out. “Vander!” The word escapes your lips like a prayer, a cry full of pain, longing, and grief. For a fleeting moment, the ferocity in his bloodshot eyes falters. There’s a flicker of something, a split-second recognition that makes your heart ache with hope, even as your breath hitches in terror. The claws dig deeper, and for a second, you wonder if it’s all over. The beast’s heavy breaths rattle through your chest, but you can’t stop. This has to be the moment. This has to reach him. With what strength you have left, you lift your free hand and place it gently on his massive claw, the very one that could end your life. You speak the words that have haunted your thoughts, words full of both love and desperate sorrow, knowing they might be the last you ever speak to him.
“It’s me... your sunshine.”
The words hang in the air, fragile and raw, and for a heartbeat, time seems to stop. The beast’s gaze flickers—just for a moment—as if the sound of your voice stirs something deep within him. There’s a trembling hesitation in his claw, as if he’s hearing something buried beneath the rage and the pain, something that reminds him of who he was. In the chaos of your heart, you realize your words are more than a plea. They’re a lifeline thrown into a sea of darkness, hoping that some part of Vander will catch it. For a heartbeat, you feel the world shift, the crushing weight of the beast’s form loosening as something human flickers in the depths of his eyes. His growls soften, his body stills, as if struggling against the flood of memories. Then, as if through a fog, his voice—gravelly, strained, broken—rumbles from the depths of his throat, just a whisper but heavy with a history that neither of you could erase.
“Y/N…?”
The name feels like a weight lifted off your chest, like the first breath after drowning. His voice is there, faint, but real. Vander is still in there. You can feel it—the man you loved, the one who had promised to always protect you, the one who had once held you close during the darkest nights, is right here in front of you. Tears blur your vision, and your body trembles, caught between the raw pain, the disbelief, and a flood of emotions you never thought you’d face again. With a trembling breath, you whisper, “It’s me, Vander… it’s your Y/N…” In that moment, his once ferocious red eyes flicker. A slow shift begins, and your heart seizes in your chest as you see something break through the fog—a glimmer of blue and green cutting through the fire. For a single, fleeting second, you see Vander there, in his eyes. The man you loved. The protector who had once carried you through the worst storms. It’s real. He’s still in there. The grip around you tightens, not with violence, but with a deep, consuming desperation. His body trembles with something far greater than rage—something more human. His chest releases a low, guttural breath, the growl that once shook the air now softened, trembling with the weight of all that he has become, all he’s lost.
He’s no longer the man you remember, not entirely. But he’s not the beast either. No longer fully consumed by it. It’s somewhere in between, and in that space, you cling to him like you’ve never clung to anything before. You feel his hands, so monstrous and terrifying in their size, holding you close— holding you. He pulls you in with a desperation that makes your chest ache, his form trembling as if he’s afraid you might slip away again, as if this might all vanish in an instant. The sheer weight of him, the warmth of his touch, releases everything you’ve buried deep inside—the fear, the questions, the pain, the grief. Every memory of him, of what you lost, surfaces and consumes you. Your sobs come, raw and uncontrollable. The sound fills the air between you, as you let go of everything you’ve carried alone all this time. And in the grip of this agony, in the midst of your sobbing breaths, you feel Vander—the man who once loved you—is still fighting to hold onto you, still fighting to be the protector he once was. His arms, still massive, still deadly, are now filled with tenderness. He doesn’t need to speak, not yet. His embrace says everything. He’s still here, he’s still fighting, and he hasn’t forgotten you. In that moment, you realize that the beast, the rage, the monstrous form—none of it can take away who he was, who he still is to you. Tears blur your vision even more, but you no longer try to stop them. You let them fall freely, because in the midst of the devastation, the pain, and the years you spent wondering if this day would ever come, you know— he’s here. Not just in body, but in soul. And you’ll hold on to him, no matter what form he takes. You’ll fight for him, just as he fought for you.
As Vander’s gaze shifts toward Powder and Vi, his monstrous form trembles slightly, and the flicker of recognition in his eyes softens further. Despite the beast he has become, there's a tenderness in the way he moves, his massive arm opening wide, offering a place for them to find solace in his embrace. The look in their eyes is a mix of agony and hope, the weight of everything they've endured written across their faces. It’s clear they’re torn between fear of what he’s become and the desire to believe that the father they once knew is still inside.
Without a word, you reach out, your voice quiet but full of emotion.
“Go to him. He’s still your father. He’s still here with us.”
The words are simple, but they carry the weight of years of grief, the ache of a lost family and the hope of its fragile restoration. Powder’s eyes fill with tears, and Vi, standing beside her, slowly steps forward. The two of them move together, drawn toward Vander’s open arms, like a long-buried longing finally being met. They collapse into his embrace, and the world around you seems to pause. Vander, in his monstrous form, holds them close, his massive arms gentle yet desperate, as though he’s afraid they might disappear if he holds them too loosely. The pain, the fear, all of it melts away in this moment, replaced by something simple—love. He’s still their father, still the protector who had raised them. Even now, with all the darkness and the destruction surrounding them, Vander is here, alive, and for this moment, whole.
And you stand back, watching them hold each other. The tears in your own eyes sting as you witness the reunion, knowing that, despite everything, the heart of the man you loved is still present. He is their father— your Vander—and for that, you are thankful.
Last Kiss
Pairing : Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader
Summary: A freak accident took you away from your boyfriend, and he doesn't know what to do with himself, he's never faced a loss like this in his life.
Warning: Reader death (car accident), lots of suicide ideation (overdose, driving a car into a lake), suicide notes, swearing, Billy and reader are still in high school (entering their senior year), Billy says lots of hurtful stuff to his family (due to grief), vomit, substance abuse (drugs and alcohol), suicide (overdose), no happy ending
Word count: 3,151
A/N : Grab your tissues, this made me cry until I dry heaved. Loosely inspired by Pearl Jam's cover of Last Kiss (X) These are extremely heavy triggers please proceed with caution.
August 12, 1985
Billy laid in his room, cigarette between his lips, exhaling the smoke before doing the same thing. School was starting in three days, he was finally a senior and as soon as he would graduate in May 1986, he'd leave Hawkins with you, going back to California. He was on babysitting duty once again, Neil and Susan were who knows where, and Max was in her room with her weird friend, as he heard them giggling.
Music blared in his bedroom; he didn't even realize anyone was at the door until Max's fist banged on his door. He rolled his eyes, fixing the black shorts on his hips. He got up, putting the cigarette in an old beer can, shaking it a little before putting it in his trash can. He opened the door, "Need money for pizza?" Max shook her head, she looked odd, he noted the way her eyes were teary, Jane in the hallway, looking at Max.
"Chief of police is here, he needs to talk to you." His mind began racing. He was trying to figure out where to hide his ounce of weed. "Tell him I'm not here." Max shook her head, "You really need to talk to him." Billy sighed and nodded, leaving his room, shutting the door behind him. Max went to her bedroom, Jane following right behind her. Billy went to the front door; Jim Hopper was sitting on the railing of Billy's porch. Billy shut the front door and Jim looked up, hit hat off of his head.
"What'd I do?" Hopper shook his head and Billy raised a brow, sitting on the steps of the house and Jim joined him. "My dad and Susan?" Jim shook his head once more, clearing his throat. He reached into his back pocket, grabbing his wallet and he pulled a small clear bag out of it, handing it to Billy.
A bloody picture of you and Billy was in the bag, he looked at it, his stomach churning. He put it down, looking at the grass, trying to contain what he had eaten that day. "I don't know how you guys know each other, but that was in her car. It was a freak accident; a truck driver was falling asleep and didn't see her car." Billy grew increasingly nauseated, Jim putting the image in his head. He began to sweat, pushing his hair back.
"She's not okay, is she," he asked, choking on his words and the bile building up. Jim shook his head, "She passed a few hours ago, her parents didn't want anyone there." Billy leaned over the railing, throwing up in Susan's flowers and Jim put his hand on Billy's naked back, patting gently.
Billy spit a few times, trying to get the taste out of his mouth and he pushed his hair back again, wiping his mouth on his hand, wiping the liquid on the wooden railing. "Is your dad here?" Billy shook his head, "No, I don't know where he's at." Jim nodded. "When's her funeral?" Jim looked at Billy, "I'll come by when I find out." Billy nodded, looking at the picture again.
They were pictures from the Funfair from a photobooth, he remembers exactly how the night went. "Her mom said you were around a lot, even met them." Billy nodded, those were the first and would be the last set of parents he ever met. "Yeah, she was my girlfriend, was gonna be a year in December." Jim nodded and a static voice came through his radio, someone needing him at the station. "Take care of yourself, Billy. If you need anything, you know where to find me or ask my kid in there for our address.
Billy nodded, quietly thanking Jim and he got up, putting his hat back on his head and patted Billy's shoulder and walked to his car. Billy watched Jim leave, looking up at the sky, doing his best to contain his tears. He got up, going back into the house, Max and Jane on the couch. He handed Max money, "For your dinner," he said before going to his bedroom, slamming the door shut and he locked it.
He carefully took the strip of pictures out of the baggy, putting it on his bedside table that held a picture frame of the two of them at prom. He looked through his room, finding the black box that held a locket, his name engraved into the pretty heart locket, your guys' first picture in it. He snapped it shut, hoping you'd have an open casket service so he could put it with you.
He laid back down, letting his mind run rampant with memories of the two of you. Hours must have passed as he saw Neil's truck headlights pull into the driveway. He hoped for his sake that Max had ordered dinner and had cleaned up afterwards. He heard Neil's heavy footsteps go through the house and then he heard Max's door open as he heard her cry, most likely in search of her mother.
He heard a soft knock on his door before he heard Susan's voice, "Billy, I'm so sorry." He heard her soft footsteps leave his door and his brain finally came to terms that you were gone. He curled up, stuffing his face into his pillow as he cried, his body shaking with his cries as he struggled for air, gasping through his hiccups and sniffles.
Almost two weeks after he found out about your death, the funeral was held, Max joined him along with Susan, Neil out of town for his job. Your mom hugged him, rubbing his back and your dad hugged him, something he had never done before that day. It was an open casket and as everyone left the room, preparing to go to the cemetery, he walked to the front of room. He stood above your body, more tears falling, and he held the locket in his hand.
He felt someone's presence, someone was behind him, probably Max or Susan waiting for him since he drove them to the service. He unclipped the locket and put it around your wrist, clipping it back together. He looked down at the silver ring on his finger, something his mom gave him. At this moment, he didn't care, his mom never left a hole in his heart like this, he'd forget about his mom with time, but he'd never forget you and the mark you left on his heart.
He slid the silver ring off of his finger, holding your cold left hand as he slid it onto your ring finger, where the diamond ring he would've bought you, would sit. He looked at you, you didn't look any different than you usually did. He grabbed one of the chairs, moving it closer to your casket and he sat down.
"What am I supposed to do now," he asked, "I haven't gone to school, I think I'm going to drop out. I haven't left my house either until today, because I needed to say goodbye to you. I keep taking it out on Max and everyone else, I've never been this angry before, I think I'll always be like this. I know if you were still here, you'd tell me that you would want me to move on, but I can never do that, no one is going to treat me like you did."
He gulped, trying not to choke on his tears, "I decided to stay here so I can be close to you, I'm gonna come see you every day, just like I did when we were dating." He wiped his face with the back of his hand, "I love you, and I'm gonna love you forever, because you're doing the same for me." He moved the chair back, letting his fingers touch yours, trying not to react to the coldness of your body.
He turned around to leave the room, your mom standing in the doorway of the vast viewing room. "We have something for you." He nodded, following her out of the room, and out of the building, to the car where your dad was standing at the trunk. Billy walked over, wiping his face, his eyes burning from crying so much. Your dad opened the trunk, two boxes in it. "We kept what we wanted to, this is everything that has you two in it, your clothes that she took from you, and other stuff we thought that you would like to have." He nodded, thanking your dad and your mom hugged him again.
"You're still family and welcome to our house whenever, Billy." He nodded and thanked her, and your dad helped Billy take one of the boxes to the Camaro and Billy opened the trunk as your dad put the box into the trunk and Billy shut it, placing the other box in the backseat beside Max. Her hand went to reach out, "No, that's not for you. Keep your damn hands to yourself." He moved the driver's seat back to its regular position as he started the car.
He looked in the mirror, sighing as he saw Max looking out of the window, "Look, I'm sorry, alright? I shouldn't have snapped at you." She shrugged, "It's fine, I get it. That's her stuff." He nodded and he followed the black hearse to the cemetery. They all arrived, and he fixed his black dress shirt, throwing a blazer on and Max and Susan got out of the car. Billy met up with your dad, your brother that was a few years older than you, and other family members that he never got to meet.
Billy didn't want to be a Pallbearer, but your dad had asked him, and he couldn't say no to him. The six of them talked as the funeral director opened the back of the hearse. "Okay, so Billy and I will be in the middle since we're going by height." Everyone nodded at what your dad said.
Your dad introduced Billy to your uncle, grandfather and cousin and he shook their hands. Your grandfather and uncle grabbed the back of the casket as Billy and your father grabbed the handles on the middle and your brother and cousin grabbed the front handles. Your casket moved to everyone's shoulders, their other hands grabbing onto the handles as they all began walking to your grave site.
Susan held Max's shoulders as Max wiped under her eyes. They all put your casket on the contraption and took their seats, Billy sitting with your parents, Max and Susan on the other side of your mom. The funeral director began speaking before your dad got up and gave a speech. Your mom gave a speech as well, along with your brother and Billy stood up as your brother left the podium, your brother putting his hand out and Billy clapped his hand to his, leaning in and their shoulders touched, and your brother sat back down.
Billy grabbed the crinkled, tear-stained notebook paper out of the pocket of his blazer. He pushed his hair back, clearing his throat. "I'm Billy, I'm," he cut himself off, "was her boyfriend." He couldn't bring himself to say your name. "I had a whole speech prepared, but nothing I say will ever amount to how much I truly love her, how she made me feel during tough moments. We met on my first day at Hawkins High, I asked her to be my girlfriend in December and I met her family in January. I had never had a girlfriend before her, she made me feel like everything was okay during family problems, like nothing could hurt me. She was always so happy to see me, there was never a dull moment with her. She was the first person to tell me that they loved me and actually mean it. We did everything together; we were glued at the hip. We would have graduated together in May 1986 and then we were going to move to California and start our new life there, get married and have kids later on in life."
He wiped his face with his index finger, looking at your casket. "The Funfair was one of our last dates, she hated heights, but I was somehow able to convince her to go on the Ferris Wheel with me. She freaked out the first two minutes were on it." Your brother laughed with your dad and Billy chuckled at the memory, "We used to go on late night drives to the diner on the outskirts of town, we'd go to the lake just to go sit on the dock and look at the stars." He looked at your casket one more time, this last sentence for you and you only, "I love you more than I can ever say, I just wish I got to tell you one more time." He cleared his throat, a single tear slipping from his right eye, onto his paper.
He thanked the crowd and sat back down at his seat and your dad put his hand on Billy's shoulder. Everyone watched your casket get lowered into the dirt before someone began covering it with dirt, your headstone showing to everyone the more the dirt pile shrunk. People began leaving, your brother and Billy talking behind a tree as they smoked cigarettes. "You're still my brother, even though she's not here anymore. You need anything at all, you know where to find me." Billy nodded, thanking him.
"Is it hard for you?" Your brother nodded, "Very, I moved out because I couldn't sleep next to her room anymore knowing that she wasn't in there." Billy nodded. "How's school?" Billy hummed, "I don't go, haven't left my house since Jim Hopper came to my house to tell me that she passed." Your brother hummed, nodding in understanding. They finished the conversation and Billy saw Max and Susan at the car, ready to leave. He sighed, not ready. "I can take them back to your house, I know where it's at. Cherry Lane, right?" Billy nodded, thanking him and your brother walked to the girls, and they got into his car.
Soon, Billy was the last one left, and he was to your headstone, sitting right beside it, the dirt still too soft on top of your casket. He took a deep breath, "This is fucked up, I was supposed to go first from natural causes." He put his hand on top of the headstone, rubbing a ridge just like how he used to rub your skin. "I wonder how much these plots are, might as well put my down payment for the one right next to you," he chuckled before sighing.
Many weeks passed and not a day went by where he wasn't high or drunk. He was able to get ketamine, weed, and some type of pills. He was hoping that something would be laced with something that would kill him. He was mean now, to everyone he knew. Max did her best to breakthrough to him, but she ticked him off weeks ago when she said she understood the feeling and he freaked out, leaving his house and ending right back at your burial sight. She didn't understand, no one in his family knew how he felt.
He had gone through loss before, his mom leaving, his grandparents passing away, but nothing fucked him up like your death did. Now, he sat in his bed, weed in his system as he wrote notes, sealing them in envelopes as he wrote names on the front of the envelopes. He wrote one for his entire family, your brother and parents, and one for you. He had dreamt about his death, sometimes when he drove by Lover's Lake, he wondered if he'd be able to crash his car into the water, but determined he was too good of a swimmer to go through with it.
He knew that his drug supplier wouldn't give him anything laced, so it was in his hands. He finished his notes, coming to terms that he wanted to die. He left his bed, putting clothes on and making sure he had his wallet, making sure his driver's license was in it. He made his bed one last time, quietly making his way to Neil's bedroom as he found the high strength pain meds from a past surgery, he hoped they would still work.
He walked back down the hallway, shutting his bedroom door, walking past Max's bedroom, sliding the envelope under her door, leaving Neil and Susan's envelopes on the coffee table in the living room. He grabbed the keys to his Camaro, driving to your parent's house, putting their envelopes in the mailbox before he made his way to your brother's apartment complex, talking to the person at the front desk as they slid it into his mailbox.
Billy made his way back to his car, making his last stop at your grave, wedging your envelope between the vase and the headstone. He rubbed the top of the headstone before going back to his car. He looked at the plot right next to you, hoping that Neil would respect his last wish to be buried right next to you.
Billy made his way to Lover's Lake, the last place the two of you spent time at. He looked at the pill bottle, popping the top and started off with four pills, swallowing them with water from a bottle that had stayed in his car for days. He took more, and more until the bottle was empty.
1 AM
Max walked into her bedroom, seeing the white envelope on her floor and she picked it up before she heard the front door open, hearing Neil speak to someone before the door shut and she heard Neil scream like he was in pain. She tore her envelope open, and her eyes welled up at the opening words.
"I'm sorry for everything I put you through."
She felt sick to her stomach, clutching it as she read the letter as she heard her own mother cry, Neil's cries were the loudest. Someone knocked on her door before it opened, Susan standing in the doorway before she walked into the room and wrapped her daughter into a tight hug. Max sobbed into Susan's neck and Susan tightened her hold on Max's body, swaying them. "He was in pain, baby, he felt like he had no other option." Max cried harder, wishing she had tried harder to help him.
That night, two families were broken, your family dealing with two losses and Billy's family having to come to terms with his death, Max taking it the absolute hardest, because maybe just maybe, they could have been best friends and do what normal siblings do.
Not enough vander fics on here, I’m kinda concerned guys
LOVER OF MINE (01)
SYNOPSIS note to self, don’t break a singer’s heart. their next album will be about you. charlie bushnell can speak from experience.
CONTENT 1 death joke and maybe a sexual joke if u see it that way
NOTE set before pjotv airs, but the cast have been announced for awhile, honey is only just now seeing it. tatertitty = tate
DISCLAIMER i don’t own these pictures, i found all on pinterest! also the reader’s fc is asian and reader does play cindy moon, aka silk, in the marvel universe but feel free to change that to something that fits you!!
charlie bushnell/fem. reader smau
series masterlist. prev.
hanihoney just posted to instagram!
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hanihoney hey
View all 72,839 comments.
ethanitup heyyyyy
user0 lmaoo not the 5 y’s…
user1 i love women
jennaortega 😳😳
hanihoney heyyyyy
user2 HELLO???? i miss u guys aww
oliviarodrigo matter of fact where’s everybody from
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user3 does anyone know what happened between her and her ex she never posts him anymore 😭😭
user4 guess they broke up. which is so saddd they were so adorable
user5 who even was her bf
user6 we dont know 😭 she never posted his face
ynupdates so pretty :(
hanihoney no, you :(
user7 YN1 WHEN ITS BEEN MONTHS…
user8 i have a feeling in my boob that its soon
user9 u mean heart…? user8
user8 no user9
rachelzegler FACE CARD NEVER DECLINES
user10 this is a face economy actually
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shessogone tell me why i just saw that my exbf is gonna be playing luke castellan in the percy jackson series
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ethanitup i thought there already was a pjo series
ethanitup lmao i just realized why is ur exbf playing ur childhood crush😭😭
shessogone my childhood crush was book percy actually 🖐️ get ur facts straight ethanitup
tatertitty u could play silena
shessogone id rather die!
olivvy pls tell me this means yn1 coming sooner than later
shessogone 🤔
🧾 © timefight
Forced | Max Verstappen Ver
WC: 22.2K
Max x reader
Summery: Jos made a deal years ago that he can't get out of, and Max is the one to see it through.
Warning ⚠️: abuse(mental, physical), a little naive reader, slight ptsd, eating disorder implied, depression and suicidal thoughts, mention of parent death, family abandment, cursing, Jos being an ahole, injuries
AN: Dark one. Read the warnings.
SAT THERE EDITING SINCE THE RACE JUST SO I COULD GET IT OUT TODAY!!
Masterlist
Max Verstappen
Charles Ver., Carlos Ver.
How he ended up here was a mystery to Max, but here he was, sitting in a private room at some overpriced restaurant, his father on one side and a stranger across from him. Across from him sat the man he only knew as Mr Wilkins, his sharp eyes practically dissecting Max with every glance.
Max prided himself on being observant. He noticed the little things, the subtle shifts in behaviour, the unspoken tells. And tonight, Jos Verstappen was a man he barely recognised. His father, usually so confident and composed, was jittery, avoiding Max’s gaze, his hands restless against the polished table. Jos had been skittish for days, dodging every question Max had thrown at him. And now, this.
“Have you told him?” Wilkins’s voice cut through the tension, cool and unwavering. His question was directed at Jos, but it hit Max like a stone.
Max glanced at his father, his stomach twisting, this is what his dad has been dodging all week. “Told me what?”
Jos’s gaze fell to the table. He didn’t answer.
“I see you haven’t.” Wilkins said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Looks like I’ll have to do it myself.”
Jos shifted uncomfortably, his hand reaching for his glass of water but stopping halfway. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do?” He asked, his voice low and almost pleading.
Max froze. Pleading? Jos Verstappen didn’t beg. Not for anyone. Wilkins, however, remained unmoved, his lips curling into a faint smirk.
“You knew the price all those years ago.” His tone was ice-cold, unyielding.
“Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Max’s patience snapped, his voice cut through the room, loud enough to draw attention if there had been anyone else around. Wilkins chuckled, clearly amused by Max’s agitation.
“Relax, Mr Verstappen.” He said smoothly, as if the situation was nothing more than a business transaction. “You’re about to receive some… life-changing news.”
Max didn’t relax. He braced himself, his instincts screaming that whatever was coming next would flip his world upside down.
“I’m sorry.” Jos’s voice was barely a whisper, and when Max turned to him, his father’s face was pale, his eyes fixed on the table.
“Well, congratulations are in order.” Wilkins announced, his smirk widening. “You’re a groom.”
Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the room. Max blinked; certain he’d misheard.
“A groom?” He laughed, but it was hollow, a sharp bark of disbelief. He pointed at himself. “Me? You must be joking.”
“Oh, I assure you, I’m quite serious.” Wilkins’s expression didn’t waver. Max’s laughter died instantly. His body stiffened, his hands curling into fists on the table.
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not even seeing anyone!” He turned sharply to his father, his voice rising. “What is he saying? What’s going on? And what did you do?”
Jos flinched, his hand shaking as he reached for his son. “L-look, Max, I-I didn’t—”
“Oh, but you did.” Wilkins leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as if settling in for a long story. “Let me make this simple, since it’s clear your father hasn’t explained. Many years ago, Jos and I made a deal. I did him a favour, quite a significant one, might I add, and now it’s time for him to repay it.” Wilkins slid a crisp document across the table. Max barely glanced at it. His glare was fixed on the man who’s trying to upend his life. “My business is failing.” Wilkins continued smoothly. “And I need investors. Your father, with his connections and not to mention his three-time world champion son, can help me secure them. And what better way to cement that relationship than a marriage?”
“And what does that have to do with me?” Max’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep his voice steady.
“Everything.” Wilkins said, his eyes gleaming. “Because you, Max, are the key to this entire arrangement. And let’s be honest, you’d do anything to protect your father, wouldn’t you?”
The insinuation hit like a slap. Max’s gaze darted to his father, whose face crumbled under the weight of guilt.
“I don’t get it,” Max muttered. “What could you possibly have over him?”
Wilkins’s smirk turned razor-sharp. “Oh, I have plenty. How about the fact that Jos embezzled money to secure his career in Formula 1? Or that he cheated his way into a few deals? One word from me, and the media would have a field day. And prison? Well, Jos knows what that’s like already, doesn’t he?”
Max’s stomach churned. He pushed back his chair, the screech of metal against wood cutting through the tension. Grabbing his phone, he stood, his movements sharp and final.
“I’m not doing this.” He said, his voice firm, resolute.
“Max, wait!” Jos half-rose from his chair, grabbing his son’s arm. “Please, just… think about it. Please.”
Max wrenched his arm free, his glare slicing through his father’s desperation. “Think about what? Selling myself off like some business transaction? No.”
“It’ll be good for your image,” Jos added hastily, his tone desperate. “And Wilkins’s daughter—she’s beautiful. Maybe just… meet her. Talk to her.”
Max’s head snapped towards Wilkins, his eyes narrowing. “Your daughter? You’re offering her up like some bargaining chip?” He scoffed, the disgust in his tone cutting deep.
Wilkins shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Believe me, she’ll be happy. And I know she’ll make you happy.”
Max’s gaze flicked between the two men. His father looked like he was on the verge of breaking, while Wilkins appeared positively delighted with himself. The chaos fuelled him; it was written all over his face.
Max exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ll think about it.” he said finally, his tone clipped. Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room, ignoring the sound of his father pleading with Wilkins behind him.
Max went back to his house, the penthouse he shared with his cats. His mind was swirling with emotions and ideas. There must be another way, there had to be. How could they expect him to marry someone he’d never met before? They were acting as if it was as easy as picking up groceries.
His phone pinged with a notification.
It was from his dad. Clicking on their chat, Max barely glanced at the attached picture of you before reading the text below it:
He gave us one week before you have to get married.
Max cursed under his breath and threw his phone, watching as it clattered against the floor, startling his cats.
The week crawled by painfully. It took Jos a few days to show up at Max’s door, trying to convince him. Jos pleaded, guilt-tripping Max at every opportunity. He even showed Max your Instagram profile, scrolling through pictures and pointing out that you weren’t a forever commitment—that marriage didn’t mean he had to be faithful. Jos insisted that Max could continue living his life as usual.
In the end, it wasn’t the arguments or assurances that drove Max to the courthouse; it was the love he had for his father.
Max sat stiffly in front of the officiant’s office, dressed in a blazer, a white shirt, and jeans. He refused to dress up more than that for what felt like a mockery of a commitment. Jos sat beside him, restless, while Max’s thoughts churned. The clock ticked away, but you and your father were nowhere to be seen.
Max glared at the door. Power play, he thought bitterly. Being late was a way to assert control, to make them wait, to show who was in charge.
When Wilkins finally arrived, his booming voice preceded him, pulling Max out of his thoughts.
“Oh good, you’re here.” Max stood without sparing a glance at the group, opened the door to the officiant’s office, and walked in.
You entered moments later, your smile soft but strained when your eyes met Jos’s. Wilkins’s hand gripped your arm tightly as he led you inside, his fingers digging into your skin. You kept your head high and your posture straight, despite the discomfort. When he lets go, you instinctively rubbed your arm but quickly stopped, aware of everyone’s eyes.
Max didn’t look up. He sat rigidly in his seat, staring at the officiant, his jaw set.
“I won’t take long.” The officiant began, sliding a paper in front of Max. He’s clearly paid by your dad. Max grabbed the pen and signed without hesitation, not sparing you a glance. When the paper was passed to you, your hands trembled slightly as you picked up the pen. You signed where indicated, your expression composed, but there was a flicker of hesitation before each stroke.
“Good, nice and easy. Now exchange the rings.” The officiant said.
Max hadn’t brought rings. It hadn’t even crossed his mind. Jos, however, handed him a pair of simple bands, evidently having planned for this.
Max took a steadying breath and turned to you. His gaze faltered for a moment. He hadn’t expected this. You were... breathtaking.
For a moment, he hated that it mattered.
The smile you wore didn’t waver, though it was faint and polite, not reaching your eyes. Max took your hand. Your fingers felt fragile in his grip, trembling slightly, yet he didn’t notice the faint pressure marks on your skin from Wilkins’s grip earlier. He just slid the ring on, his movements mechanical.
You took his hand with quiet care, slipping the ring onto his finger with the same delicate precision, avoiding his gaze. When it was done, Max pulled his hand back quickly, rising from his seat.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Wilkins’s voice was sharp. Max froze mid-step, his shoulders tense. “You forgot your wife.” Max turned slowly, glaring at Wilkins. His father’s chuckle grated against his nerves. “You didn’t think just signing papers was enough, did you? You’ll take my daughter with you.”
Wilkins placed a heavy hand on your shoulder, making you flinch slightly before quickly composing yourself. Your smile shrank further, barely there.
Max’s eyes flicked to you. Your white dress clung to your frame, the heels on your feet absurdly high. You looked... smaller somehow, standing next to your father.
“Come on, then.” Max said brusquely, turning and heading for the door.
Wilkins leaned down, whispering something in your ear. You nodded quickly, not daring to respond aloud. You hurried after Max, your footsteps soft but purposeful.
Outside, Max’s car—a sleek Aston Martin DBS—waited. You moved to the passenger side without a word, glancing briefly at Max as you settled into the seat. Your hands rested in your lap, clutching your handbag tightly.
The drive to his penthouse was suffocatingly silent. Max glanced at you occasionally. You sat stiffly, your head slightly bowed, offering no conversation. By the time you arrived, Max began to wonder if you ever spoke at all.
Inside the penthouse, Max’s cats greeted him with meowing and weaving around his legs. He crouched to pet them, finding brief solace in their presence.
When he stood, you were still by the door, shoes off, holding them neatly in one hand. Your other hand gripped the strap of your handbag, knuckles pale.
“I’ll show you the guest bedroom,” Max said.
“Thank you.” Your voice was soft, measured, almost hesitant.
Max frowned. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the sound of your voice caught him off guard. It was far more subdued than he’d imagined.
You followed him quietly, your movements careful, as though unsure of your place in this space. You take a 360 degree look before your eyes fall back on Max.
“There’s a bathroom attached. If you need anything, let me know,” Max said as he stood at the doorway.
“Thank you.” Your response was the same, polite but distant.
Max closed the door behind him and leaned against it briefly, exhaling. You were too calm, too composed. It unsettled him. You weren’t angry or demanding. You weren’t protesting or pushing back.
That left only one possibility. You wanted this.
And Max despised you for it.
You sat on the bed in the guest room, unsure of what to do with yourself. The room was luxurious, similar to your bedroom back home, a little homier though. Looking around, your eyes landed on the large windows.
Walking over, you pulled back the sheer curtains and opened the window slightly. A salty breeze wafted in, carrying the faint hum of the city below. There were no buildings obstructing the view, just the harbour and the vast expanse of sea. The sight was breathtaking, but it did little to ease the tightness in your chest.
Your fingers twitched, an old habit resurfacing—a need to occupy yourself. But there was nothing to do. Taking a deep breath, you tried to steady your nerves. You were in a stranger’s home, married to a man you didn’t know.
Last week, your life had been structured to the minute. You’d had your schedule, your tasks, your carefully planned routine dictated by your father. Now, there was nothing. No orders. No tasks. You bit at your nail beds, the nervous habit making a quiet comeback as you sat back down on the bed.
The hours dragged by. At some point, you lay down on top of the covers, staring out the window. The sky shifted from blue to orange as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. Hunger gnawed at you occasionally, but you didn’t dare leave the room.
Max had gone about his day as if nothing had changed. He’d spent time on the simulator, played a few rounds online with friends, and entertained his cats. For a moment, it was easy to forget you existed.
It wasn’t until he was sitting on the sofa, scratching Sassy behind her ears, that he noticed the wedding band on his finger. The sight brought him back to reality. His eyes narrowed as he realised, he hadn’t heard a sound from the guest room all day.
“Ridiculous.” he muttered, standing abruptly. He hesitated for a moment outside your door before knocking lightly.
When there was no immediate response, Max opened the door to find you sitting up on the bed, your dress slightly wrinkled and your legs tucked beneath you. You blinked at him, startled.
“I was—” Max cleared his throat, his eyes flicking over you briefly before settling on your face. “I’m ordering food. What do you want?”
“Anything.” You replied softly, your voice timid and polite.
Max’s jaw tightened. Of course, he thought bitterly. The perfect act.
He scoffed and left, the door closing behind him with more force than necessary.
When the food arrived half an hour later, Max knocked on your door again.
“Food’s ready.” He said flatly, turning and walking back to the dining area.
You emerged hesitantly, following the faint sound of Max unpacking containers. He placed a box in front of your spot at the table before sitting down with his own.
You opened the box to find a chicken pasta dish with a side of garlic bread. The sight made you pause, your brows furrowing slightly.
“What?” Max asked, catching the look on your face. “You don’t like pasta?”
Quickly, you schooled your expression into a neutral smile. “No, I like it. Thank you.”
Max narrowed his eyes, noting the sudden shift in your demeanour, but said nothing.
The meal passed in near silence, punctuated only by the occasional clink of cutlery. Max finished his food quickly, while you ate slowly, taking small, measured bites, just like you were taught. When he set his fork down, you did the same, despite having barely finished a third of your meal.
Gathering your food containers, you stood and asked quietly, “Which way is the kitchen?”
Max pointed in the direction, watching as you disappeared briefly. You returned a moment later to collect his empty containers.
Max was perplexed by your actions; you haven’t been there for 12 hours and you’re already confusing him.
From the dining room, Max could hear the sound of water running, followed by the opening and closing of cabinets. When you returned, he sighed and stood.
“I’ll show you around.” He said curtly.
You followed silently as he walked through the penthouse, pointing out the various rooms. The tour ended at the door to your guest room. Taking that as your cue, you nodded politely and stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you.
The next morning, you woke early, unsure of what to do. You slipped your strapless bra back on, skipping your underwear, and pulled your dress from the day before over your head. It was wrinkled but all you had.
When you ventured out, you found Max in the living room, scrolling through his phone. At the sound of your soft throat-clearing, he looked up.
His eyes swept over you briefly, taking in the rumpled dress and your heels. “Getting married again today?” he asked, his tone dry.
“Sorry. I... I don’t have any of my clothes with me.” You flinched slightly but forced a small smile.
Max stared at you for a moment, realisation dawning. He hadn’t considered that you’d arrived with only your handbag.
“Fuck.” He muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. Without another word, he disappeared into his bedroom, returning a moment later with a plain shirt and a pair of shorts. “These don’t fit me. You can wear them.” He said, holding them out to you.
“Thank you.” You said softly, taking the clothes and retreating to your room. When you emerged a few minutes later, you were wearing his oversized shirt and shorts, which hung loosely on you.
For some reason, Max found himself staring. You looked better in his clothes, he thought absently, before shaking the thought away.
“Can I go out for a bit?” You asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.
“Yeah.” Max replied, already turning back to his phone.
While you were out, Max got a call from one of his friends, inviting him to meet up for the day. He took off his wedding ring and left the apartment. He forgot about the rough week he’d been having and went out to eat and relax with his group of friends. It wasn’t until around 8 p.m. that he headed home.
As he reached his floor, the automatic lights flickered on, revealing your figure slumped against the front door. You were sleeping with shopping bags scattered around you, still in his clothes, his shorts slid up showing your legs, just like the dress did, and your heels discarded by your side.
Max scoffed, walking past you and unlocking his door without a word. He glanced back at you, deliberating for a moment. Should he leave you there? Or wake you up?
Before he could decide, Jimmy sidestepped him and jumped onto you, his head diving straight into one of the bags. That was enough to stir you awake. You jolted up, confused and disoriented, clearly not remembering when you’d fallen asleep.
"Jimmy! Come here," Max called, clicking his tongue. The cat ignored him, making Max sigh in annoyance. He looked down at you—those wide, innocent eyes staring up at him—and felt an unfamiliar mix of irritation and concern.
"Get inside," he said firmly.
You scrambled to your feet, still groggy, grabbing your bags and shoes, but not before Max noticed something red flash from the corner of his eye. He didn’t focus on it, though.
“My dad said your things would arrive in the next couple of days.” Max added casually, as if it was just another piece of information. You paused, turning to him.
"Uh, okay." You muttered in response, quickly retreating to your room.
Max narrowed his eyes but didn’t press you further. He was trying to be polite, trying to make things work. Here he was asking his dad about your things, all he got was that meek “okay.”
He closed the door behind you, then went to feed his cat.
He didn’t hear or see you for the rest of the day.
Two days later, two suitcases arrived. You rolled them to your room and opened them with a mix of dread and resignation. Inside were clothes you hadn’t bought and wouldn’t have chosen for yourself. But they were all designer brands, the kind of things you could sell if you needed the money.
You didn’t want to think about it, but you knew you had no choice. You had to get by somehow.
The week went by with Max either going out, working or gaming. You spent all day in your room, but you had seen Max’s nutritionist’s list he had left in the kitchen one day. Seeing the food he’s supposed to eat, all of it you could make. You memorized his food schedule and started preparing his meals, waking up earlier than him, just to make sure everything was ready. By lunchtime, the smell of food would fill the apartment, but Max never caught sight of you. He never heard you.
The first couple of days in his house missed with your sleeping schedule, so you’re awake way before he does, you memorised when he usually wakes up. So, he’d find food ready for him.
Days stretched on endlessly. You passed the time by reading the few books in your room, but there was no TV, no distractions. You stayed in your room, alone, only leaving to prepare Max’s meals or feed the cats. They started to visit you more often, meowing at your door, and you’d let them in. It made the days a little less lonely, even if the fear never really went away.
Despite everything, it was still better than your life in Switzerland. Better than the life your father had forced upon you.
One day, the doorbell rang. Max was engrossed in his simulator, the headset muffling the sound entirely. After the fourth ring, you hesitantly left your room to see who it could be. Half-asleep, you padded into the living room, noticing Max still focused on his sim in the corner.
Opening the door, you froze as your heart plummeted. Standing there was your father.
"Did someone come?" Max called out from the living room, removing his headset. You shrank back, taking a few steps away from your father. Max rounded the corner, his sharp eyes darting between your pale face and the men at the door. “What are you two doing here?” He demanded, his tone already hard.
“We came to talk about what comes next.” Your father replied, his voice steady but full of implication. Max stepped closer, his presence solid and unmoving beside you. Unconsciously, you edged backward, positioning yourself slightly behind him as if to shield yourself. Max noticed your movement but didn’t say anything—not yet.
“Next? What next? We’re married.” Max shot back, crossing his arms. His posture was sharp, shoulders broad, making him look even more imposing.
“Yes, but how will I get investors if no one sees you two together?” Your father raised a brow, his gaze flitting to you. You froze under his scrutiny, feeling as though the floor might give way beneath you. His eyes moved past you into the house. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Your father stepped forward, but Max immediately blocked his path, his stance rigid and unyielding.
“That’s not happening.” Max said through gritted teeth. “And neither is whatever scheme you’re planning. Now piss off will you.”
Your father’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping into a sharper tone. “Listen here, boy—”
Max cut him off, stepping closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “No, you listen. I married your daughter. That’s the deal. How you get your investors is your problem, not ours. You don’t come here. You don’t ask us for anything.”
Your father’s eyes darted toward you again, making you whimper softly. The sound was barely audible, but Max caught it instantly. He shifted, positioning himself fully in front of you, effectively blocking you from view.
“Your daughter is mine. She’s my wife now. You gave her to me—your choice, your consequences,” Max growled. His words were deliberate, cutting.
Your father’s expression darkened as he leaned closer. “I can still expose your father.” He threatened.
Max’s gaze flickered to Jos for a moment before refocusing. He felt the faint tug on his shirt where your fingers clutched the fabric, trembling. Whatever hesitation he had vanished entirely.
“Then do it.” Max bit out, his voice cold and venomous. “Expose him. And when it all falls apart, you’ll suffer just as much as him.”
Without giving your father, a chance to respond, Max slammed the door in their faces.
The moment the latch clicked, your hand released his shirt, and you took a shaky step back. Max was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he tried to calm himself.
“I’ll have to talk to security about keeping them out.” He muttered, his voice low.
“I’m sorry.” You whispered, barely audible.
Max turned to you, his eyes softening despite himself. You were on the verge of tears, and it was written all over your face.
“It’s not your fault,” Max said, his tone gentler than you’d ever heard it before.
Before the tears could spill, you turned and hurried to your room. His cats trailed after you, their tails swishing curiously. Max stood there for a moment, staring after you, wondering when his pets had gotten so attached to you.
In your room, you curled up on the bed, pulling the covers tightly around you as emotions overwhelmed you. Seeing your father again stirred everything you had tried to suppress. This was the longest you’d ever been away from him. Even when he was on business trips, his presence loomed over you through cameras and speakers. If you stepped out of line, even slightly, his voice would thunder through the house, ensuring you never forgot he was watching.
No one had ever stepped up for you. The staff in your father’s home were emotionless, stoic—just following orders. No one had ever comforted you, protected you, or even looked at you with kindness.
But today, Max had stood up for you. Max, who barely tolerated your existence, had blocked your father and shielded you. Max who has no idea what kind of relationship you have with your father. Maybe it was out of anger or frustration with the situation, but it didn’t matter. For the first time, someone had been in your corner.
The realization hit you like a wave, and the tears came. You sobbed quietly, your body shaking under the covers. The loneliness is killing you, why are you even living, what do you do in your day, no one will miss you if you’re gone. You tried not to think such dark thoughts but times like this you couldn’t help it.
The cats jumped onto the bed, circling you. Sassy licked your face, her rough tongue brushing away some of the tears. You patted her head softly, whispering a thank-you under your breath. Maybe they’d miss you if you were gone.
The next morning, Max was by the door, bags packed for two weeks of racing. The apartment was eerily silent—something he usually didn’t mind. But after hearing you cry last night, the quiet felt heavy.
He’d paced in his room for hours, debating whether to check on you. Max might not like you, but he wasn’t heartless. He hated hearing anyone cry, especially women. When he finally decided to go to your door, the sobs had slowed, and he didn’t want to risk waking you.
Now, standing by the door, he hesitated again. Eventually, he knocked softly.
“I’m leaving now. I’ll be gone for two weeks.” He said, his voice awkward but trying.
There was silence for a moment before your muffled voice came through. “Okay. Thank you.” It cracked on the last syllable, heavy with sadness. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Max replied, lingering for a second before leaving. He didn’t know what else to say, but he couldn’t ignore the tightness in his chest.
Max had thought about you more than he’d like to admit. His thoughts kept drifting back to you, no matter how much he tried to push them away. He didn’t like you, he knew next to nothing about you. Yet, somehow, he felt much less dislike toward you now. The truth gnawed at him: he barely knew you. Still, he’d left you in his home with his cats and had lived with you for over a week before heading to the race.
For once, Max couldn’t wait to get home. He was the first out of the paddock, the first on the plane, and the first off it when they landed. By the time he walked into the house, it was nighttime. The air inside was cool and still, the lights turned off, and the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound.
Jimmy and Sassy came trotting out from somewhere, nuzzling into him in greeting. Max bent down to stroke them absently, his mind already drifting. He headed to the kitchen for a drink, opening the fridge. Frowning, he pulled out a bottle of water. Everything inside was exactly as he’d left it—nothing had changed. No empty shelves, no dishes used. The realization unsettled him.
Max closed the fridge and moved to the pantry, only to find the same: untouched, just as it had been before.
A strange thought crept in, and his chest tightened as he turned on his heel, heading to your room. Your door was slightly ajar, and alarm bells went off in his mind. You always kept it closed.
“Y/N?” He called softly, knocking lightly before pushing it open.
The room was eerily tidy. The bed was made with military precision, the same way his mother liked to do it. Nothing was out of place, nothing personal added. It was as if no one had lived in it at all. Max’s heartbeat quickened as panic set in. Where were you?
He searched the house—your bathroom, the laundry room, even his own bedroom. You weren’t there. Finally, he ended up in the living room, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration.
Jimmy meowed loudly, trotting toward the terrace door, which was slightly ajar. Max frowned and followed him, pushing the door open wider.
The sight stopped him in his tracks.
You were lying on the floor of the terrace, flat on your back, eyes closed. Sassy was curled up next to you, and Jimmy padded over to join her. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Max thought the worst.
“Y/N?” His voice wavered as he rushed over, dropping to his knees beside you. “Y/N?” He repeated, louder this time, hands hovering over you as though afraid to touch. “Are you okay?”
He shook you gently, then harder when you didn’t respond. “Y/N!”
Your eyes snapped open with a sharp gasp, and you bolted upright—right into Max’s forehead.
“Fuck!” He groaned, clutching his head as you did the same.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry!” You exclaimed, reaching for him instinctively. “I didn’t mean to—are you okay?”
Max glared at you, rubbing the sore spot. “I should be asking you that. Why the hell were you sleeping out here?”
You looked away, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I wanted to see the stars.”
“In your pyjamas? On the floor? It’s freezing, Y/N!” His exasperation was palpable, but there was a hint of something else beneath it—concern.
You bit your lip, nodding, wishing you could disappear. “I’m sorry.”
Max sighed heavily, standing and extending a hand to help you up. “Come inside before you get sick.”
In the kitchen, under the bright lights, Max finally got a good look at you. You looked exhausted—darker circles under your eyes than before, your frame thinner, your movements sluggish. He couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that something was deeply wrong.
“Here.” You placed an ice pack wrapped in a towel against his forehead, your fingers brushing his skin lightly. Max caught the faint scent of lavender and something softer, uniquely you.
“I’m fine,” He muttered, gently taking the ice pack from you. “But you should have one too.”
You hesitated before nodding, fetching another ice pack for yourself. As you pressed it to your own forehead with a quiet hiss, Max leaned against the counter, studying you.
“Why didn’t you eat any of the food in the fridge?” He asked suddenly.
Your eyes widened in panic. “I didn’t touch anything, I swear—” Your hands falling to your side brining the pack with you.
“Don’t put it down.” Your hands flew back up. “I know you didn’t,” Max interrupted, his tone softer now. “That’s the problem. What have you been eating?”
“I buy my own food.” You mumbled, looking anywhere but at him. Everything you do and say just confuses him more.
Max frowned. “And you don’t put it in the fridge?”
“I did.” You said quickly. “I just… ran out.”
His brow furrowed further. “You don’t eat anything from my food?”
You shook your head. “I didn’t want to intrude.”
Max stared at you, his chest tightening. “So, let me get this straight: you cooked meals for me, but you didn’t make anything for yourself because you didn’t want to use my food? Seriously, Y/N, what have you been eating?”
“Yeah.” You said it like it was obvious, you then hesitated. “I managed… Do you not want me to cook for you anymore?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” Max sighed. “I’m saying you can cook yourself food while cooking for me.”
“But…” You trail off feeling embarrassed of what you have to say.
“What? Tell me.” Max said and you meet his eyes for a second before you look at the floor.
“Your food is expensive; I don’t have a lot of money.” You mumble and chew at your lip. Max stands there in silence, he knew your dad is going bankrupt but not enough to not have money.
“Your cards are empty?” Max asked, his tone a bit cold. It wasn’t directed or because of you, but the more he finds out about your dad the more agitated he gets.
“I uh, I don’t have a card.” You admit and put the ice pack on the counter, you try to escape the kitchen and this conversation.
“Wait.” You stop in your tracks and turn to face Max, knowing there’s no escaping this now. “What else are you hiding from me? How have you been paying for your food, and you went shopping on your first day?”
His eyes narrowed, clearly unconvinced by your words, and your mind flashed back to that first week in Monaco, just after you arrived.
You had left the apartment, the weight of Max’s indifferent nod still heavy on your shoulders. Monaco was unfamiliar, but you’d lived in many countries—surely you could figure it out.
Walking into the first jewellery shop you found, you approached the counter with a timid smile. The attendant greeted you warmly.
Italic is French
“Bonjour, madame, how can I help you?”
You hesitated before asking, “Do you buy jewellery?”
The woman’s friendly smile faltered. “I’m sorry, madame. We don’t.”
“That’s alright, thank you.” You murmured, retreating quickly.
The next three shops were the same story, the polite rejections wearing away at your resolve. By the fourth, a kind attendant told you there weren’t any jewellery shops in the area that would buy second-hand pieces, but she gave you directions to one on the other side of the city.
Following her directions, you trudged through unfamiliar streets, the cobblestones cruel to your feet in towering heels. The mismatched outfit you got from Max, drawing unwanted attention and making the walk even more uncomfortable.
Finally, you reached the shop and stepped inside, relief washing over you.
“Bonjour, madame. How can I assist you?” The girl behind the counter asked with a professional smile.
“Do you buy jewellery?”
“Yes, we do. What are you looking to sell?”
You exhaled deeply, reaching up to remove the Tiffany Victoria stud earrings from your ears. “These.”
The girl’s eyes widened as she took them. “T-These?”
“Yes. Can you pay in cash?” This just got weirder for the girl, you bit your bottom lip, your smile is now gone. “Look, my-uh, my dad cut me off, I just need money to get by.”
The girl’s expression shifted from confusion to concern as she glanced at you. “Um… I’ll see what I can do. Please, sit down.”
You sank into a chair, your nerves fraying. you sat chewing on your nail bed, feeling nervous. When the girl returned, she wasn’t alone. A man accompanied her, likely the manager or owner.
“Ilaria tells me you want to sell these earrings.” He began, holding them up to inspect.
“Yes, please.”
His brow furrowed.
“Madame, these are worth over 27,000 Euros. Unfortunately, we don’t carry that much cash on hand.” You deflated, the man now knew what Ilaria was talking about, he feels bad for you, he glanced at your wedding ring and wonders what kind of husband you have that left you selling your belongings for money. “However, I can offer you 5,000 Euros immediately and pay the rest in instalments, or when the earrings sell. Does that work for you?”
You nodded, overwhelmed with gratitude. “Yes, that would be perfect. Thank you.”
The man typed up a quick agreement on his laptop, printing it out for you both to sign. With the cash in hand, you left the shop feeling lighter, though the weight of what you’d done lingered.
The thrift store you passed on the way had looked promising, but once inside, you realised even second-hand items in Monaco carried hefty price tags. Thinking over the money you have and what’s the priority.You focused on the essentials: four shirts, one pair of jeans, one pair of trousers, and two pyjamas. The total price had your eyes go wide. Shoes would have to wait—your heels would suffice for now.
On your walk back it was already afternoon, you didn’t have anything to eat yet. But that was alright because you were heading to a grocery store next.
The prices there were equally shocking, but you told yourself it didn’t matter—you didn’t eat much anyway. You picked up a few basics for the week and some fresh produce before heading to a shop for a few sets of underwear. Glancing at the money you have left when you paid had your heart clenching. Ordering online must be cheaper, if only you had a card.
By the time you returned to the apartment, your arms heavy with bags and your wallet considerably lighter, you knocked on the door, only to be met with silence. A second knock, then the doorbell, brought no response.
Your stomach dropped as you realised Max wasn’t home. Exhausted and hungry, you sank to the floor outside the door, rummaging through your grocery bag for a cucumber, eating it as you waited for your ‘husband’ to come back.
You waited until Max went to bed before you ventured into the kitchen to put away the food you’d bought. The rest, you stashed in your room. You didn’t want to inconvenience Max.
You were already using his bathroom products, which you assumed belonged to his mother or sister, but you tried to keep to yourself as much as possible.
The memory faded as Max’s voice brought you back to the present.
“How exactly did you manage?” He pressed, his eyes narrowing further.
Your shoulders sagged, and the words slipped out before you could stop them. “I sold my earrings.”
Max’s brow furrowed. “Your earrings?”
“They were worth twenty-seven thousand Euros.” You explained, your voice barely audible. “But they’re paying me in instalments, so it’s like I have a job. I didn’t realize how expensive Monaco is.”
He stared at you, unblinking, as the pieces began falling into place.
Max’s jaw clenched. “What about the clothes? I thought your dad sent your things.”
Your face fell, and you looked away. “I can’t wear what he sent me.”
“What do you mean?” Max asked, his voice gentler now. “Can you show me?”
You hesitated, but the look in his eyes told you he wasn’t letting this go. Wordlessly, you led him to your room and opened the walk-in closet, both your ice packs forgotten in the kitchen. Pulling out the suitcases your father had sent, your hand was on the zipper for a while.
“You don’t have to show me.” Max said feeling that all this is bigger than he initially thought.
“It’s fine, it’s not my things anyway.” You said and unzipped the first one and stepped back.
Max crouched down, pulling out the first item: it’s a very small and tight crop top, the shorts will all show your butt, the jeans had rips on the butt cheeks or were skintight, and it’s coming from him. shirts were sheer, necklines low, and skirts that barely covered anything. His frown deepened as he opened the second suitcase—heels in every colour, some taller than seemed practical. The final suitcase made his stomach turn. It was filled with lingerie, nothing else.
He closed it with a sharp snap and turned to look at you. You were standing with your arms wrapped around yourself, avoiding his gaze.
“I’ll take you shopping this week.” Max said firmly. “Or you can order whatever you want online. No arguments.”
You shook your head. “It’s fine, really. I the got basics and when I need more, I can sell the other jewellery I have—”
“No, next time you want clothes I’m getting them for you” Max interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. “You’re not selling anything else. The food in the fridge is for both of us.” You wanted to retort, but he just continued. “Both of us may have not wanted this, but I’m not having you starve or spend money you don’t have. You’re my responsibility now.”
The words hit you like a tidal wave, and your heart skipped a beat. Max Verstappen is the nicest man you have ever met. He looked so scary the first time you saw him and you dreaded living with him, but here he is, being the kindest soul, you have ever met. He won’t gain anything in return but he’s still nice, he’s kind. For the first time in a long while, you felt safe—truly safe. Tears prickled your eyes, but you blinked them back, nodding quietly.
“Okay?” Max asked, his gaze softening.
“Okay,” you whispered.
That night, the suitcases were left by the door for donation. Max watched as you retreated to your room, and he made a promise to himself to be more attentive, to keep an eye out for you.
That night, Max decided it was time to reach out to you. Hearing your quiet sobs and observing your timid behaviour had forced him to confront an uncomfortable truth: you weren’t the only one forced into this marriage. For you, it must be infinitely harder. He had his friends, his job, and the comfort of his own home. You had none of that.
The next morning, Max woke early, ordering food for the both of you before you could wake and make breakfast yourself. He wanted to catch you off guard and show a gesture of goodwill.
When you finally emerged from your room, the smell of freshly baked goods wafted through the apartment.
“Good morning. Max greeted, passing you as he carried plates to the dining table. “Come on, grab whatever you want, and let’s eat together.”
You paused, wide-eyed and uncertain, watching him retreat to the dining room. Your stomach growled loudly, betraying your hesitance. Without overthinking it, you reached for a croissant and followed him.
“Thank you.” You murmured, sitting across from him as you noticed the glass of orange juice already poured for you.
Max glanced up. “I’d like us to talk a little after breakfast.” He said, his tone calm.
You froze mid-bite, your stomach tightening as fear flickered across your face. “Talk?”
“Don’t worry.” He reassured, noting your reaction. “I just want to get to know you better.”
Relieved, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. But as you ate, your mind spun. What would he ask? You hadn’t spoken much about yourself to anyone before. The way you’d been raised didn’t leave much room for idle conversation or personal interests. You have been taught what to do for when you got married, but Max is unlike anything they’ve told you a husband will be like.
After finishing breakfast, the two of you moved to the living room. You sat stiffly, your back straight and your hands folded neatly in your lap. Max, sitting on the other end of the sofa, observed you with a faint smile.
“Relax.” He said lightly, leaning forward. “This isn’t an interrogation. I just thought we could set some boundaries or rules and figure out how to make this work for both of us.”
You nodded, unsure of what to expect. “Rules?” Rules you understood. You could follow rules.
“First.” Max began. “You don’t have to cook for me.”
You frowned slightly. “I like to cook.”
“That’s fine, then.” Max said quickly. “But it’s not something you have to do. Same with taking care of Jimmy and Sassy.”
Your frown deepened. “But then… what would I do?”
Max hesitated, realising how rigid your perspective was. “You can do whatever you want. What did you do before… you came here?”
“Well…” You paused, uncertain. “Dad had a schedule for me.”
“Schedule?” Max raised a brow. “Like, what kind of schedule?”
“I woke up at six, exercised for an hour, showered, then had classes until three. After lunch, I went to ballet for two hours, then a piano class for an hour and a half. Then I helped with dinner and went to bed.”
“Every day?” Max asked, his tone incredulous.
You nodded, smiling as though this was entirely normal. “The times changed sometimes, but… yes, since I was 12.”
“Fucking hell.” Max muttered, his jaw tightening. Memories of his own gruelling training sessions under his father’s watch flashed through his mind. The times he had to train for hours on end, walk home alone. But Max loved racing, he thrived in it. And unlike him, you didn’t seem to have any passion or choice in what you did.
Pushing his anger aside, Max decided to steer the conversation away from your father for now. “Why didn’t you buy more food while I was gone?”
“I don’t have a key.” You said simply, scratching nervously at your nail bed—a habit Max noticed for the first time.
“That’s on me.” He admitted. “I’ll get a key made for you.”
He paused, his gaze softening. “How much food do you usually eat?”
You shrugged, not giving it much thought. “Enough.”
“Are you full when you finish eating?”
Your voice was quiet. “Not always.”
Max’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening again. “Right. That’s it. I’m ordering more food.”
Despite your protests, Max ignored you, placing a large order with the determination to figure out what you liked. When the food arrived, you stared in disbelief at the sheer amount spread across the table.
“That’s too much.” You whispered, overwhelmed.
“Just eat,” Max said firmly.
At first, you hesitated, but the hunger gnawing at your stomach made you give in. Bite after bite, Max urged you to try different dishes. “This is amazing—taste it!” he’d insist, or “You’ll love this one.”
You tried to keep up, but the more you ate, the heavier the food sat in your stomach. Not eating a lot had shrunk your stomach, you get full fast, but it seemed like something Max is not accustomed to. When Max handed you another dessert to try, your body couldn’t take it anymore. Springing up, you rushed to the nearest bathroom and barely made it in time before throwing up.
Max was right behind you, holding your hair back as you emptied the contents of your stomach into the toilet. You finally sat back, trembling and exhausted, you flushed the toilet and washed your face and mouth. He handed you a towel to wipe your face.
“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice laced with concern.
You nodded weakly.
“Was the food bad?”
You shook your head. “Too full.”
Max stared at you, dumbfounded. “Why didn’t you stop eating?”
“You told me to keep eating.” You said, looking at him through your lashes.
Max groaned, running a hand through his hair as the pieces fell into place. You asked him if you could go out the first day, you stayed in your room unless he asked you to come out or to make him food, you stop walking when he told you to, you’ve showed him your bags when he asked. You’ve been doing exactly what he’s been asking you to do without as much as a remark or hesitation. You haven’t left the house to get food because he didn’t tell you, you can leave. This is fucked. “You don’t need my permission to stop eating, or to do anything for that matter!”
“But my teacher said I should always ask you, I’m sorry that I sometimes do things without asking, but-“
“Stop.” His sharp tone made you fall silent immediately, he groans, he’s done it again. He sighed, softening his voice. “Rule number one: you don’t need to ask me for permission to live your life. You can do whatever you want. I’m your husband, not your… owner.”
“But—”
“No buts.” Max leaned forward, his eyes locking with yours. “You’re free, Y/N. You’re not under your father’s control anymore. You can pursue whatever makes you happy, go wherever you want. You’re free.”
Your lips trembled slightly as his words sank in. “A-Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Max said firmly, but his voice softened when he saw the fragile hope in your eyes. For a fleeting moment, it was as though a veil had been lifted. The small, hesitant smile on your face wasn’t much, but to him, it felt like a victory.
“I… I’ve never really thought about being free.” You admitted, your fingers twisting together in your lap. “There’s always been rules, schedules, expectations. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Max’s heart ached at your words. He had grown up under his father’s strict guidance, but at least he had racing—a dream to hold onto. But you? You hadn’t even been allowed the space to dream.
“Then start small,” Max said gently. “You don’t have to figure it all out today. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Your smile wavered as a question formed on your lips. “Why are you being so kind to me now?”
The question caught Max off guard, but he didn’t look away. “Because I’ve been an idiot.” he admitted. “I was so focused on how unfair this whole situation was for me that I didn’t stop to think about how much worse it must be for you. You’re here, in a place that’s completely unfamiliar, with someone you barely know.”
You blinked, your lashes fluttering as tears threatened to spill.
“And the more I think about it.” Max continued, his voice tinged with anger—not at you, but at the circumstances. “The more I realise how much you’ve been… controlled. By your father, by this arrangement. I can’t change the past, but I can make sure you don’t feel like that anymore. Not while you’re here with me.”
Your breath hitched, and a tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, embarrassed by your reaction. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Max said softly. “Just… promise me you’ll try. Try to let yourself live a little, yeah?”
“I can try.” You whispered.
He smiled, a genuine warmth in his expression that you hadn’t seen before. “Good. That’s all I’m asking for.”
For the rest of the evening, Max stayed close but didn’t push you further. He handed you the remote to the television and suggested you pick something to watch while he cleaned up the kitchen. At first, you stared at the remote like it was a foreign object, unsure if you were really allowed to make the choice.
When Max returned, he saw you had settled on a light-hearted comedy, though you looked almost guilty about it. He sat beside you on the sofa, keeping a respectful distance.
“Good choice.” He said, nodding at the screen. “I like this one.”
“Really?” You asked, surprised.
“Yeah. It’s funny.” He glanced at you. “Do you not like it?”
“No, I do. I just… I’m not used to picking.”
Max’s chest tightened. He didn’t know whether to feel anger at the people who had conditioned you this way or frustration at himself for not seeing it sooner.
“Well, from now on, you can pick whatever you like.” He said with a small shrug, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
You nodded, a tiny but genuine smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
As the film played, Max stole a few glances at you. You didn’t laugh out loud at the jokes, but he could see the faintest quirk of your lips, the way your shoulders relaxed just slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.
When the credits rolled, you turned to him, your expression a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. “Thank you, Max. For… everything today.”
He waved it off, leaning back against the cushions. “Don’t mention it. This is just the start, yeah?”
You nodded again, the hope in your eyes a little brighter this time. For the first time in years, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could get better.
The next day, you heard Max calling for Jimmy. His voice carried through the house with growing urgency. Curiosity tugged at you, so you stepped out of your room to see what was going on.
“Have you seen Jimmy?” Max asked as soon as he spotted you in the hallway.
You shook your head. “No, I haven’t.”
“Strange, he never wanders off too far. Let’s check around the house.” Max suggested.
You nodded, and the two of you began searching every nook and cranny. As you walked past one of the guest rooms, you stopped and tugged at the handle of the door. It didn’t budge.
“I can’t open this door.” you called out to Max, who quickly came over.
He gave the handle a firm tug but had no more luck than you. “It’s locked from the inside.” He muttered, pressing his ear to the door. That’s when you both heard it—a muffled, distressed meow.
“I think Jimmy locked himself in.” You said, your voice tinged with concern. “What are we going to do?”
Max frowned, considering his options. “Let’s look it up on YouTube.” He said, pulling out his phone.
The two of you stood shoulder to shoulder, watching a video tutorial on unlocking a door without a key. The longer the video played, the more your frown deepened.
“This looks complicated.” You said, glancing up at Max, who seemed equally dubious.
“Yeah, it does.” He admitted before disappearing down the hallway. Moments later, he returned—with a hammer.
“You’re going to break the door down?” You asked, your eyes wide in disbelief.
“What other option do we have?” Max countered, already sizing up the door as though it were a rival on the track.
Before you could argue, he raised the hammer and brought it down with a loud bang. You flinched at the sound, your astonishment quickly turning to amusement. Holding Max’s phone in your hands, an idea struck you.
As Max continued to hack away at the door—his small hammer looking almost comically inadequate against the solid wood—you began recording. The absurdity of the scene combined with Max’s intense focus had you giggling quietly.
Max paused mid-swing, glancing over his shoulder when he heard your laughter. He smiled to himself. The sound was soft and delicate, like something fragile coming back to life. He decided then and there he wanted to hear it more often.
Finally, after several minutes of determined hammering, Max managed to break a hole large enough to reach through and unlock the door. As soon as the door creaked open, Jimmy bolted out of the room like his tail was on fire, his fur puffed up and his eyes wild with panic.
“That was… something.” Max said, running a hand through his hair as he headed to the kitchen. He set the hammer down on the counter and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, taking a long sip.
You followed him into the kitchen, your focus still on the phone. The video you’d taken was playing, and a smile tugged at your lips as you watched Max’s determined hammer-wielding.
Max turned to you, noticing your amusement. “I want to give you, my number.” He said suddenly, his tone casual despite the faint flush creeping up his ears.
“Hmm?” You hummed, looking up from the phone.
“My number.” Max repeated, shifting slightly, the tips of his ears went red. “In case something happens, besides you’re married now. You should have each other’s numbers at least.”
“Oh.” You said, handing his phone back to him. “I don’t have a phone.”
Max froze, staring at you like you’d just announced you didn’t believe in electricity.
“You don’t have a phone?” He asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
You shook your head. “No. My dad said it was a waste of time and that it was better for me to focus on my training. He said it was for my protection… from guys online.” You shrugged, your tone casual as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
Max set his water bottle down with a heavy thud, his jaw tightening. “I hate that man more every day.” He muttered under his breath.
You blinked at his reaction, confused by the intensity in his voice. “It’s not that big of a deal.” You said, brushing it off.
“It is.” Max said firmly. “You’re getting a phone tomorrow.”
You opened your mouth to protest but stopped yourself. The truth was, you’d always secretly wanted a phone. It had seemed like a symbol of freedom—something you never had. And now, Max was offering to get you one without you even asking.
“Okay.” You said softly, a small grin spreading across your face.
Max noticed and couldn’t help but smile in return. He picked up his water bottle and took another sip, his chest filling with quiet satisfaction.
Just then, Jimmy sauntered into the kitchen as if nothing had happened, his tail held high and his expression one of utter nonchalance.
“Look at that troublemaker.” Max said with a chuckle, watching as Jimmy headed straight for his water bowl. “Acting like he didn’t just give us a heart attack.”
You laughed again, and Max found himself smiling even wider. Yes, he decided. He would make sure you laughed more often—no matter what it took.
The next morning, you make breakfast for both you and Max. It’s a quiet meal, shared in comfortable silence, before you both retreat to your rooms to finish getting ready. Dressed in one of the shirts and jeans you bought, you hold your heels in your hands as you head to the door. Slipping them on, you wince slightly as the straps press against the tender skin at the back of your feet. Max steps out shortly after, and together you leave the penthouse.
The car ride is tranquil, with you staring out the window for a while before glancing around.
“I like this car.” You say softly, running your fingers over the leather seat. Max smiles, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. He’s driving the same Aston Martin today, saving the Valkyrie for another time. It gets him too much attention.
“Can you drive?” Max asks after a moment, glancing at you.
Your cheeks flush. “No.”
He hums thoughtfully. “We’ll have to change that.” There’s a note of determination in his voice. He’s a Formula 1 world champion; his wife will know how to drive. “You do want to learn, right?”
“Yes. Maybe not in a supercar, but yes.” You admit with a small smile. Another form of freedom you’d been denied. Another gift Max wanted to give you.
“We’ll start with a sedan.” He says, already planning out the details in his mind.
At the Apple Store, Max leads you inside, where you both gravitate toward a display of phones.
“What colour do you want?” He asks, standing close beside you. After a moment of contemplation, you tell him your favourite. Max nods, relaying the choice to a sales assistant, and adds a laptop, iPad, mouse, earbuds, earphones, and a phone case to the list.
“That’s too much.” You whisper, leaning toward him.
Max takes your hand gently, and you freeze, startled by the unexpected intimacy. His gaze is steady, his voice low so only you can hear. “It’s not too much. I want to give you everything you weren’t allowed to have.” His thumb brushes over your wedding ring, and his lips curve into a soft smile. “This is just the beginning.”
Reluctantly, you let him take the lead, wandering around the store as Max finalises the purchases. But after a while, your feet begin to ache, and you take a seat in one of the chairs near the display laptops. The relief is immediate, but you can feel the cut on your heel reopening.
From across the store, Max notices you frown as you touch your foot. His sharp eyes take in the subtle signs of discomfort, and when he sees you sigh, he excuses himself from the cashier. He walks over, carrying the bags, just as you look up and smile at him—a real smile, one that lights up your face.
It stops him in his tracks. For the first time, Max feels the warmth of your happiness directed at him, and he’s momentarily stunned. But as you stand, he notices the slight wince and follows your gaze. His eyes fall to your feet, he can’t see anything. He makes you walk in front of him and then he sees it, the backs of your feet are red and bleeding.
“Y/n.” He says his voice a mix of concern and frustration. You glance at him, confused, until you notice where he’s looking.
“Max.” you murmur softly, instinctively stepping to the side.
“Take them off.” He says through gritted teeth, crouching beside you.
Your cheeks burn as you look around the store, worried about the eyes on you both. “Max—”
“You’re in pain. Take them off.” He insists, his tone leaving no room for argument. When you hesitate, Max gently sets the bags down and reaches for your foot.
“Max!” You protest, placing your hands on his shoulders to stop him. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing with determination, and your resolve crumbles. Slowly, you step out of one heel, using his shoulder for balance, and then the other. The relief is instant.
Max clenches his jaw as he examines the heels. They look pristine on the outside, but the insides are stained with blood—both fresh and old. His chest tightens.
Standing, he towers over you, the anger in his eyes sharp enough to make you step back. “Do you even like wearing heels?” He asks, his voice tense. You shake your head, unsure how to answer.
“Not really.” You admit quietly.
“Damn it, y/n!” Max’s voice rises slightly, and you flinch, your heart was beating hard in your chest. He freezes, his frustration giving way to dread as he sees you retreat. You’re scared. Not of the world champion standing before you, but of what he represented—a shadow of your past. Gone the smile you had when you saw him, you’re frowning, trying to be in control of your feeling and reactions.
“Y/n—” You turn abruptly, walking away on bare feet, your steps hurried. “Wait!” Max calls after you, and you freeze in place. “Fuck.”
Max hates himself so much right now. Tears threatening to spill from your eyes as he approaches you. He’s taken so many steps towards making you comfortable and here he’s undone most of them. Max leaves the bags and heels and walks up to you, he takes your hand in his and pulls you out of the store. He quickly finds a hidden spot way from praying eyes and ears. When he finally faces you, he sees the tears in your eyes and wobbling lips. “Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” Tears leave your eyes, and Max feels himself tearing up, he messed up, he messed up really bad.
“I didn’t mean to be angry at you, I’m sorry.” He says, his voice breaking. “I’m just angry about how you were treated, I want you to be happy, I want to make your life easier. I’m angry at how no one cared enough to stop it. But I rushed you, and that’s on me.” Max stops for a second, you’re not looking at him. “That’s a lot of I’s, I was selfish, I thought about how I wanted you to feel and now how you wanted to take things, I rushed you, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I remind you of him.” His voice cracks.
A sob escapes your lips, and before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning into him. Max wraps his arms around you tightly, holding you as you cry. For the first time, you’re not crying alone, you weren’t hugging and comforting yourself. He doesn’t try to shush you or pull away. He just holds you.
Max may have caused you to cry, but he didn’t leave you to cry, he came after you and apologised. You know that as much as everything he’s doing is new to you, it’s also new to him. Every day you’re realising that you’re not normal, that what you went through isn’t normal.
“When you’re ready.” Max murmurs into your hair. “I’d like to know everything. Everything your dad did to you.” You shake your head, and though it pains him, Max doesn’t push. “When you’re ready.” he repeats.
You don’t know how long you stay there, shielded by his embrace, Max just holds you, hiding your face from the world, giving you the comfort you need. When you finally pull away, Max wipes the tears from your cheeks.
“Let’s go home.” He says softly, crouching to untie his shoes and place them in front of you.
“Max, you don’t have to—” You begin your voice is ever soft, clearly you’re exhausted..
“Humour me.” He insists with a small smile. You nod, sliding your feet into the oversized shoes as Max ties the laces snugly.
At the car, you slip in and Max turns on the car before he jogs back to the store to grab the bags but returns empty-handed when it comes to your heels. He tosses them in a nearby bin, not wanting their memory to linger.
The drive back is quiet. Both of you are lost in thought, but the silence is no longer uncomfortable. It’s reflective.
The car ride back is heavy with unspoken thoughts. You’re lost in the moment you flinched and stepped away from Max. He hadn’t even raised his voice by much, his hands remained by his sides, yet you flinched. Scared.
You didn’t want to feel scared. You knew, deep down, that there was no reason to be scared. Max cares. He’s shown you more kindness and humility than anyone else in your life, even during the days when he ignored your existence.
For Max, the silence in the car speaks volumes. He’s seen his share of abuse—read about it, watched it unfold in the media—but now, sitting beside you, he’s realising the extent of your mistreatment. It wasn’t just mental or emotional. It was physical, too.
The quiet lingers as you both walk into the penthouse. Max turns to you, his expression soft.
“You can get changed, and we’ll set up your devices,” he says.
You nod and retreat to your room, shedding the thrift store clothes for your pyjamas. The soft fabric feels like a balm after the day’s events.
When you return to the living room, Max has unpacked everything from the bags. He looks up at you, his expression warm.
“I wanted you to open the boxes.” He says, his voice almost shy. He knows the joy of opening something new, especially something you’ve wanted for so long. He wonders if you’ve ever had that experience. Sitting beside him on the sofa, you tuck your legs under you. “Where do you want to start?”
“The phone?” You suggest.
Max grins, handing you the box. You unwrap it, excitement bubbling in your chest. He guides you through setting it up, letting you explore while he works on the laptop. He’s already created an email for you, logging into everything you might need.
His number is the only contact in your phone, and you ask him to transfer the video of him breaking the door. He obliges with a faint chuckle.
“Max?” You ask hesitantly, looking up from the screen.
He hums in response, glancing over.
“Is there an app for Formula 1?”
His brow arches. “Yes. Why?”
“So, I can know when you’re racing.” You admit shyly, holding out your phone. Max’s smile softens as he opens the App Store. “Now I can also look up anything I didn’t understand from watching last time.”
“You watched the race?” This is news to max; he had no idea you watched the last two races. It’s something you’ve done on his smart TV but didn’t want him to know at first thinking he’d be angry.
“I didn’t.” Max admits. “Did you enjoy it?”
Your smile grows, and it feels like the first time Max has seen you truly at ease. “It was fun. I didn’t understand everything, but you came first both times.”
The pride in your voice makes his chest swell. “Well, now you can text me if you don’t understand something. After the race, I’ll explain everything.”
As the day unfolds, you grow more comfortable beside him on the sofa. Max helps you connect everything to your phone, downloading apps like Netflix and upgrading his Spotify to a duo plan. At some point, he broaches another idea.
“Can I order you some shoes?”
You glance up from your phone, hesitant. “Just one or two.” You say.
Max nods with a smile, but later, as he sits with his laptop, he realises he has no idea where to start. He’s never shopped for women’s shoes before. After a moment, he glances at you.
“Do you mind if I invite some friends tomorrow?”
You blink, surprised. “It’s your house. You can do whatever you want.”
“And you live here too.” Max counters gently. He sends a quick text before adding. “Let’s watch a film.”
You pick a random movie, and as night falls, the weight of the day catches up with you. The popcorn bowl between you grow forgotten as your eyes drift shut. At one point your eyes snap shut and don’t open again your head eventually tilts to the side, landing on Max’s shoulder.
Startled, Max glances down. For a moment, he freezes, unsure what to do. Your soft breathing fans his neck. Max tried not to move much but get you in a comfortable position, you groaned when he moved and buried your face into his shoulder. Max’s arm was in the air, he didn’t know what to do. When you moved closer, he placed his arm around your shoulder. That settled you down and he relaxes.
By the time the credits roll, Max thought it’s best to get you to bed. Carefully, he moves, trying not to wake you. He slides from under you, laying you down on the sofa before scooping you into his arms.
In your room, Max pulls back the covers and places you on the bed, tucking you in as you mumble incoherently. Jimmy jumps up onto the bed, curling up beside you. Max lingers for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
For the first time, you look peaceful. Truly relaxed.
Max opened the lamp by the bed, casting a soft glow in the room, Jimmy jumped on the bed and curled into himself to fall asleep. Max took you in, he’s never seen you so relaxed before, so at peace. He wonders if it’s the only time you truly relax. Instinctively he pushes a few strands form your face. You sigh. With a soft smile Max turns off the lamp and leaves your room.
That night, Sassy sleeps in his bed, as if the cats have decided to split their time between you both, keeping you company in their own way.
The next day, around noon, Max’s friends arrived. You weren’t sure what to expect, but stepping out of your room, you froze when you saw the familiar face of the Ferrari driver who had been racing against Max last week.
“Hi, I’m Charles.” He introduced himself warmly, leaning in for the traditional Monaco greeting. You exchanged a quick press of the cheeks before your gaze shifted to the woman standing beside him. She was stunning, elegant, and radiated a warmth that put you slightly at ease.
“I’m Alexandra, but you can call me Alex.” She said, extending her hand. You repeated the greeting and introduced yourself.
“I’m y/n.”
Both of them noticed the rings adorning your left hand but didn’t comment. You’d noticed that Max wasn’t wearing his, though you hadn’t commented on.
The four of you moved into the living room, and you instinctively sat beside Max. His presence anchored you, offering a sense of security in the unfamiliar social situation. For a while, the conversation flowed lightly until Max and Charles excused themselves, heading to the balcony. You hesitated, but Alex smiled, clearly sensing your nervousness.
“How long have you been in Monaco?” She said kindly.
You thought for a moment. “About a month.”
“That’s still pretty new! I’m guessing you don’t have many friends here yet?”
You shook your head.
“Well…” Alex said with a mischievous grin, “I’ve been looking for a new shopping partner. Maybe you’d like to join me sometime?”
Your cheeks warmed. “I’m not very good at shopping.” You admitted, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve.
“That’s okay! We can figure it out together.” She reassured you before pulling out her phone. “Here, let me get your number.”
She tapped it into her contacts, and you found yourself relaxing slightly. Alex didn’t press you with questions about yourself, instead sharing light anecdotes about her life. At one point, she showed you a picture on her phone—a beautiful painting that immediately drew your attention.
“That’s gorgeous.” You said, leaning closer. “It looks so calm and peaceful.”
“It’s by Claude Monet, part of his Water Lilies series,” Alex explained, watching your expression soften. “Do you like art?”
You hesitated, a small smile forming. “I do. I always wanted to study it.”
Alex’s eyes lit up. “Really? I went to art school! I’d love to talk more about it with you.”
Excitedly, you leaned in as Alex recounted her studies and experiences. You felt a spark of joy in the conversation, a rare moment of connection that felt genuine. When Max and Charles returned, you and Alex were laughing at one of her stories.
“What’s so funny?” Charles asked, sitting beside Alex and kissing her cheek.
“Oh, I was just telling y/n about my old art professor.” Alex replied. She turned to Max, her smile widening. “Did you know she loves art?”
Max’s gaze shifted to you, his expression softening. “You do?”
You nodded shyly.
“She wanted to study it.” Alex added, and you saw the flicker of recognition in Max’s eyes as he took that in.
“Do you guys want to go out to eat?” Charles asked, your eyes snapped to Max’s you don’t have any shoes. But before you could panic, Alex chimed in.
“Why don’t we order in instead? It’s cozier that way.”
You shot her a grateful look, and she winked.
Lunch was lively, Charles regaling you all with stories from his and Max’s childhood. You found yourself laughing more than you had in years, and Max couldn’t take his eyes off you. The sound of your laughter, the way your face lit up—it was like watching a new side of you emerge, you leaned towards him when you laughed.
Charles isn’t stupid he knew Max cared for you, even if he didn’t know exactly what’s going on. He’s known Max since they were kids, there’s something between the two of you.
“You should come to a race sometime.” Alex said casually.
You glanced at Max, who raised an eyebrow as if to say it was entirely your decision.
“Maybe.” You said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “If you’ll be there.”
Alex clapped her hands in delight. “Of course, I will! It’ll be so much fun.”
After Charles and Alex left, you helped Max clean up, the two of you working quietly in sync.
“How was it?” He asked, his tone careful.
“They were nice,” you said with a soft smile. “I had fun.” Max relaxed slightly, but then your smile faltered. “I’ve never had friends who weren’t chosen by my dad.”
You didn’t elaborate, but the weight of your words hung in the air. Max didn’t press, giving you space to share only what you were ready to.
Once the kitchen was tidy, you leaned against the counter, watching Max move about. He glanced at you curiously.
“What?”
“Thank you.” You said quietly.
“For what?”
“For everything.” You said, your voice trembling slightly. “For telling Charles and Alex what I needed without saying anything personal.” You tell him and glance at the floor before you look up again, your eyes meeting his. “Thank you for being the kindest person I ever met.”
Max froze. “I wasn’t kind at first.” he murmured, guilt flickering in his eyes.
You shook your head. “Even then, you cared more than anyone else ever did.” Your voice broke. “I know you didn’t want this, I know that my dad forced you into it. And you didn’t have to be nice to me, but I’ve been alone for so many years.” A tear slipped down your cheek. Max was in front of you in an instant, his hands gently cupping your face. He wiped the tear away, his eyes locked on yours. “My sister…” you whispered, Max frowns he had no idea you have a sister. “She turned eighteen and left. I was nine. She never called, never sent anything. And my mum died giving birth to me, and after that... it was just my dad.” Your voice cracked as more tears fell. “No one ever asked what I wanted or cared if I was okay. As long as I did well in school, no one cared.”
Max’s jaw tightened, his eyes burning with an unspoken rage. But he buried it, focusing instead on you. Still holding your face, and your eyes not wavering away from each other, Max leans over and places his lips softly on your forehead.
“I promise you’ll never feel like that again.” He whispered against your skin. “I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
You let out a shaky breath and leaned into his chest, letting him hold you. For the first time, you felt like you could let go of the weight you’d been carrying for so long.
When you finally pulled back, Max smiled softly, and you returned it, the moment settling between you like a quiet promise.
It was a quiet Sunday morning with no race this week. You and Max had just finished breakfast—something simple, part of the diet routine his trainer had him on. You were following his plan, eating smaller portions, and Max had noticed you snacking more these days, which made him happy. After everything that had happened, he wasn't pushing you to eat more than you wanted.
Max sat back with his tea, scrolling through his phone when it rang. The number was familiar—it was his mum.
Bold is Dutch
"Hey, Mum."
"Hey, honey, I just got off the phone with your dad." Sophie’s voice sounded tense, and Max tensed instinctively, already sensing where this conversation was going.
"Yeah?" Max asked, trying to sound casual.
"He told me something weird… he said… he said you got married." There was a long pause, and Sophie didn't give him time to run around it. "Max, is this true?"
Max cursed under his breath, closing his eyes. The silence dragged on.
"Look, Mum, it’s hard to explain." Max began, but Sophie wasn’t having it.
"Hard to explain? Max, did you get married? Yes, or no?" Her voice was sharp now, demanding an answer. Max rubbed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
"Yes." He admitted.
"And you didn’t think to tell us? Who did you even marry? What the hell have you gotten yourself into? Is she pregnant or something?" Sophie’s voice cracked with worry. Max could hear the disbelief in her words. His mother wasn’t the type to overreact, but this was too much.
"Mum, calm down." Max sat up straighter, his voice calming. "Look, Dad signed a contract years ago, and if it ever gets out, he could be sent to prison. The man who signed it made me marry his daughter to keep everything quiet."
"What the fuck is wrong with your father?" Sophie wasn’t expecting Max to have an answer to that. "You can’t get out of it?"
"No, I couldn’t." Max’s voice was steady but firm.
"Is she living with you?" Sophie asked, her worry turning into concern for Max’s well-being.
"Yes." Max's voice softened slightly.
"Mum, be careful. I don’t know her, but she could be the one who asked her dad to do this. You can never be too sure with people like that."
Max paused, a flicker of protectiveness for you rising in him. "Mum, she’s not like that."
There was silence on the other end of the line as Sophie processed his words. Max felt the weight of her judgment shift. He had to convince her of this, for you.
"She’s nice. Quiet. Really beautiful. And she’s nothing like her dad. If anything, I’m just happy she’s away from him."
Sophie was silent, the tension hanging thick. She wasn’t used to hearing her son speak so openly about someone like this. "
"You like her." She said, the words not quite a question but more of a realization.
Max let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. "I do." And for the first time he’s said it out loud.
“I want to meet her.” Sophie said, her voice firm but not unkind. She’ll cast all judgment to the side until she met you.
“I’ll talk to her.” Max promised, knowing it was important for you to decide if and when you felt comfortable with meeting his family.
After the call ended, Max sat there for a moment, gathering his thoughts before heading back to you.
“y/n.” Max called as he entered the room. You looked up from the iPad, where you’d been experimenting with ProCreate.
"In two weeks, it’s the Dutch Grand Prix. Do you want to come with me?"
You raised an eyebrow, a little hesitant. "Will Alex be there?"
Max smiled, the corner of his lips twitching.
"I don’t know, but my mum and sister will be, and my mum wants to meet you." You bit your bottom lip, a nervous habit you’d picked up, and started scratching at your nail bed. "You don’t have to come if it’s too much."
"No, it’s okay… do they know?" You asked, hesitant but curious.
Max nodded. "Yeah. I don’t know about Victoria, but Mum wants to meet you first before anything." He gave a small, reassuring smile. “I know it’s a lot. You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready."
You nodded slowly, but the nerves were already starting to bubble in your stomach, your mind started overthinking every possible scenario that could happen. "I don’t know… what if they don’t like me?"
Max’s voice softened, a hint of concern crossing his face. "Don’t do that." He said gently, cupping your face. "Don’t get lost in your thoughts."
You sighed, your shoulders sinking a little. "I just…"
"Show me what you’ve done." Max said, cutting through your train of thought. He gently nudged you aside and sat next to you on the couch.
You hesitated before showing him your drawing on the iPad. Max leaned in, studying the strokes and lines you’d created. He didn’t know much about art, but the smile on his face said everything. To him, it looked good.
He turned to you, eyes soft. "It’s great. You’re really talented."
You felt a warmth bloom in your chest at his compliment.
He’s been talking with Alex for help, he’s getting you a good starter kit, different mediums and everything until you find what you like. Max has another an empty bedroom, where his sim was supposed to go, before he sat it up in the living room, he can convert it to your studio. He was making sure you had everything you needed to thrive.
"Will you come to the next race with me?" Max asked softly. "Just so you can see everything before you meet my mum and sister. It’ll be nice to have you there."
You agreed to go with him to the next two weeks, first stop was Hungary and then it was the Netherlands.
Alex would be there as well, and that eased your nerves a little, knowing you’d have someone else you were comfortable with.
Max also made sure you had some new clothes, a few more pairs of shoes—something that made him happy. You’d ordered them online, and he was genuinely excited to see you enjoy these little things.
While packing, Max’s eyes fell on the wedding band he’d taken off and placed on his bedside table. It had been there ever since, untouched. Without thinking much about it, he slipped it into his luggage.
The atmosphere of the paddock was nothing like you’d expected—it was electric, buzzing with activity. Alex made sure to meet up with you once the drivers had to go in for media duties. She showed you around, introducing you to the other WAGs, who were all genuine and easy to talk to.
Lilly showed you TikTok, and you downloaded the app instantly, amused by how much you were missing out. The girls didn’t pry into your relationship with Max. They accepted you for who you were—just a friend of Max, now Alex’s as well.
The weekend was enjoyable, thanks to them. You watched the race from the Red Bull garage, chatting with Max between sessions. Some photos were snapped, but no one really knew who you were. Your anonymity remained intact, despite the rumours circulating about you and Max.
Max kept an eye on the gossip online. He didn’t care about the usual scrutiny, but his family was off-limits. No one had asked for his life to be under a microscope. And now, you were part of his family. You shared his name.
That thought made something in Max shift. He felt a deep sense of possessiveness, pride even, that you had his last name. The primal part of him loved that you were his, and that realization struck him late that night. He wasn’t just liking you anymore—he was falling for you. Fast.
But Max wasn’t used to slow. He liked things fast, hard, and with determination. He knew what he wanted, and now that he had you, he would do whatever it took to keep you.
Usually, Max flies with his friends from race to race on his private jet, but since he’s bringing you this time, it’s just the two of you.
“How was the race weekend?” Max asked, eager to hear your thoughts.
“It was a lot.” You admitted, and his heart sank a little. He wanted you to enjoy it and wondered if he should’ve asked if you wanted to go in the first place. “But I enjoyed it. It was different from seeing it on TV. Also, the girls were all very nice. I’ve never been to something like this before. I wanted to see you win, though.”
“Maybe next time.” Max chuckled softly before adding, “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
You and Max arrived in the Netherlands on Monday. The first two days, you’ll stay at his mum’s house, and then he’ll move to a hotel closer to the track. Your nail beds were raw from all the scratching you were doing, a nervous habit you couldn’t seem to shake.
In the car, Max took your hand in his, gently running his fingers over the red and irritated areas. You glanced at him, expecting a question or a comment, but he remained focused on your hand, his touch warm and soothing. Your heart raced, a blush creeping up your cheeks as his attention left you feeling giddy. No guy had ever held your hand before.
Your mind wandered. Every small thing Max did made you question whether it was all platonic or if he had feelings for you. You couldn’t deny that you had feelings for him. Every time he was near, your heart skipped a beat, and you felt weightless.
When you arrived at his mum’s house, his mum and sister were already at the door, waiting. As you both walked up, pulling your luggage behind you, Max greeted Sophie with a warm hug. Victoria waited her turn before stepping in for her own hug.
After they let Max go, Sophie turned to you with a kind smile. “Hi, I’m Sophie,” she said.
You smiled timidly and offered your hand. “Hi, I’m Y/N.”
She shook your hand warmly before Victoria followed suit.
“Let’s go inside,” Sophie said, leading the way.
Max lingered for a moment, his eyes meeting yours as if silently asking if you were okay. You gave him a small smile, and the two of you followed them inside.
Once inside, you placed your bags next to Max’s and joined them in the living room. Max gestured for you to sit next to him on the couch, while Sophie and Victoria settled across from you. It felt like an interview, the kind where every word mattered.
Sophie broke the silence first. “Tell us a little about yourself, y/n. Max hasn’t said much.”
Your fingers unconsciously returned to scratching. “I-uh, what do you want to know?”
Sophie gave you a reassuring smile. “Where did you grow up?”
“Oh, we moved a lot. I was last in Switzerland, but before that, we lived in the UK, Spain, and Germany for a while.”
“It must’ve been hard moving countries and losing your friends.” Victoria said sympathetically.
You shrugged. “It’s alright. I learnt many languages.” You dismiss their concerns, you’ve never had much of friends in the first place, so moving wasn’t hard on you in that aspect.
“Oh? How many do you know?” Sophie asked, intrigued.
“German, Spanish, French, a bit of Italian, and some Dutch.”
“You know Dutch?” Max asked, clearly surprised.
You smiled genuinely for the first time since sitting down. “Yeah, not fluently, but enough. It’s a little similar to German and French.”
“That’s impressive.” Sophie said.
“Thank you.” You replied, brushing off the compliment.
“Did you watch Formula 1 before meeting Max?” Sophie asked.
“No. I had no idea about it until… Max.” You hesitated, unsure how much to share.
“What are your socials? I want to follow you.” Victoria said, pulling out her phone.
“I don’t have any.” Your fingers returned to scratching. They both looked at Max, who nodded in confirmation. You added quietly. “Didn’t have a phone until Max got me one.”
“Really?” Victoria’s shock was evident.
“Your mother was okay with this?” Sophie asked, her voice softer now. She would never leave her daughter without a phone in case something happened to her, and she needed help. Even if just an old phone or limit access to internet, but not having a phone is bazaar. Your nail digs into your skin.
Max glanced at you, his concern growing as he noticed your nails digging into your skin. Without a word, he took your hand in his again.
“I think maybe we should rest first.” Max says wanting to get you out of this situation.
“It’s alright.” You squeeze his hand, Max is closer to you now, your hand in his on his thigh. You give him the smallest of smiles, before turning to his family. “My mum died giving birth to me.”
“And your siblings?” Sophie asked hesitantly.
“Ran away when she turned 18.” You said matter-of-factly. “I know you’re just looking out for Max, but I would never hurt him. I only want the best for him.”
Sophie softened. “Thank you.” She said with a small smile.
Later that night, you were in one of the spare rooms, dressed in your pyjamas, staring out of the window when Max knocked on the door.
“Come in.” You called.
Max stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “How are you doing?”
“I’m alright.” You replied simply.
“They weren’t too much, were they?” He asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“No, they love you.”
“They do.” Max paused, guilt creeping in. Even with his rough childhood, he’d had his mum and sister. You’d had no one.
“Don’t do that,” you said, raising a hand to smooth the furrow between his brows.
“Do what?” He took your hand from his face into his. He studies your hand, making sure there’s no more cuts on them.
“Feel guilty. Hate that you had a better life than me.” You said softly. “We’ve both had rough childhoods, but we’re here now.”
“We’re here now.” Max repeated, his voice heavy with emotion. For a moment, silence filled the room until you broke it.
“You know I’ve suffered all types of abuse from my dad.” Max’s grip on your hand tightened, his jaw clenching. “When I wouldn’t do what he wanted or got less than perfect on tests, he’d pull me by my hair. He loved seeing me stumble, dragging me around like I was nothing. Sometimes he hit me, but never hard enough to leave permanent marks. When my sister escaped, he made sure I couldn’t. He couldn’t break her, so he broke me.”
“He didn’t break you.” Max said firmly. You looked at him, your eyes hollow. “He didn’t. You’re here. You’re strong. You’re not following his rules anymore. You have a phone, you wear what you want, and you’re living your life. If he broke you, you wouldn’t have any of that.”
“All of that is because of you.” You countered. “You made me do all that.”
“No, you let me help you, you let me do all those things for you.” Max wanted you to understand how strong you are, how brave you are. “Someone else would’ve still ben in that shell, they’d still be afraid. Are you scared?”
“Not when I’m with you.” You admitted.
“And I’m not going anywhere.” Max whispers and you lean over and hug him. Something that you have come to love. You may have not experienced a lot of hugs in your life, but Max’s hugs are your favourite. There can never be a hug like his, a hug that makes you warm, feel protected, safe a hug that feels like home. Max waits until you pull away, his fingertips come up to your face and push the stray hairs out of your face. Your eyes locked in an intense gaze. After what feels like forever Max lets out a breath, he leans over and presses his lips to your forehead, before he bids you good night.
That night you dream of him; you dream of what it would be like being in a real relationship with Max. And you wake up wishing it was the truth; you wake up wishing that you were really with him.
Max wanted nothing but to find your dad and beat him up, who treats their daughters like this. How can he be human? He should be locked up. It took everything in him not to track him down, when you told him, and just end him. Just so he wouldn’t breathe the same air you breath, so he wouldn’t walk the same earth you’re walking. Max had to remind himself that you’re with him now, that your father won’t get to you. He gave you to Max and now you belong to him. And so, he planned.
The next few days felt surreal, almost as if you had stepped into a different life. Whether at her home or in the paddock, you spent most of your time with Sophie and Victoria, getting to know them in a more natural way. Victoria introduced you to her children and her partner, who seemed to warm up to you quickly. Their acceptance gave you a quiet sense of relief—you were finally starting to feel like part of something good.
On Media Day, you managed to catch up with Alex and the girls, who urged you to sign up for Instagram, even if you didn’t plan on posting anything. Their light-hearted teasing helped you relax, even if you weren’t ready to make that leap just yet.
Every night, Max ensured that you all ate together as a family. He was quietly thrilled by how easily you fit in, your laughter blending seamlessly with theirs. To him, it was a sign of hope, something he hadn’t realised he was holding on to so tightly.
But you were completely oblivious to the plan Max had set in motion after your heart-to-heart. Behind the scenes, he was orchestrating an end to your father’s influence. He wanted it done discreetly, leaving no room for you to suspect or feel burdened by it.
The energy in the paddock was electric as Quali Day unfolded, Max securing pole position in a thrilling comeback. You had been watching from the garage with Sophie, who nudged you playfully when you cheered so loudly it drew stares.
“You look happier than he does!” Sophie teased, a warm smile on her face.
“Well, he earned it!” You replied, grinning.
Sophie took your hand, leading you to where Max would be arriving. The timing was perfect—he walked in just as you reached the area.
“Max!” You called, your excitement spilling over as you ran up to him. Without thinking, you threw your arms around him. It wasn’t like the casual hugs you had gotten used to giving—it was unreserved, spontaneous. For a moment, Max froze in surprise, but then his arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, holding you close.
“Congratulations.” You murmured against him, your voice warm with pride.
“It’s not a win yet.” Max replied, his voice muffled as he buried his face in your hair.
“You were still amazing.” You insisted, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I was starting to think I brought you bad luck.”
“You can never bring me bad luck.” He whispered, his tone serious. His arms around you a beat after you let go as his team called for him. “I have to go, but I’ll see you after.”
“Okay.” You whispered, stepping back reluctantly.
Sophie smiled knowingly, taking your hand as the two of you headed back to the garage. Neither of you realised that your tender moment had been caught on a live video, now circulating online. But none of you saw it that day, so busy with your lives to log online.
Max’s teams saw the video, they had previously asked Max about your relation to him, but he politely said it’s none of their business. Wanting the reigning world champion to focus on the win, they didn’t tell him about the video.
Max clinched victory in a hard-fought race, and the celebrations were wild. You stood with Sophie and Victoria in Parc Ferme. Max held your hand for a brief moment. He hasn’t talked to you yet about the media and how to deal with them, so he’d like to keep it all as private as he could. But he also wanted you to know how he apricated your presence.
The team went hard in celebrating, there was the photo taking after the media duties, champaign splashing, cheering and jumping around. You watched it all from the side with Sophie. The woman was starting to have a soft spot for you, the more time she spent with you. You left with the women to change at the hotel, for a dinner with the family, apparently even Jos was coming. You had all changed and went to the restaurant at the hotel, and Max joined you all soon after. His mum and sister purposely left the seat next to you empty, Max likes sitting next to you something that they’ve noticed.
As you scanned the menu, Max leaned closer, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair.
“Do you know what you’ll order?” He asked.
“I’m torn between these two.” You replied, pointing at the options. Max leaned in further to look; his face so close that you caught a whiff of his cologne.
“We’ll get both and share.” He decided.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded firmly, his easy confidence making you smile.
Across the table, Victoria nudged Sophie, tilting her head toward the two of you. “Look at them.” She whispered. Sophie smiled back, clearly entertained by the unspoken affection radiating between you and Max.
Sharing the food was a good option, you liked both dishes, Max ate more than you did which is expected. Before you get dessert, you excused yourself to the bathroom after the main course, you stepped out into the dimly lit hallway.
The moment you rounded the corner, a hand grabbed your arm roughly. Before you could react, another hand twisted into your hair, yanking you back with enough force to make you stumble and you instantly knew who it was. A squeak left your mouth as you were dragged.
“I think you and y/n should date.” Sophie said to her son, the moment you were out of earshot.
“What? We’re married.”
“Yes, but not of your choice.” She says. “You both like each other, already married, why not try to date and see where it takes you, it’s backwards but why not?”
“I don’t know if she likes me.” Max said, feeling insecure all of the sudden.
“Believe me she likes you.” Victoria says and stands up. “I need the bathroom too.”
Leaving her mum and brother to talk, she sped walked to the bathroom, regretting the last glass of wine she drank. Victoria hears a squeak; she turns and just catches a glimpse of you being pulled away. Her eyes go wide, and she rushes back to the restaurant.
“Fucking bitch, shut up!” Your father spat, his voice venomous. Panic flooded you as he dragged you toward the emergency stairwell. Jos was already there, hovering uneasily but saying nothing.
Your back hit the cold concrete wall, and the impact knocked the wind out of you. Tears blurred your vision as your father loomed over you, his face twisted with rage.
“What did I tell you before you left?” He hissed. “I said to play dumb and keep your mouth shut! So, what the hell did you say to that asshole?”
“I—I, I don’t k-know.” You stutter vision blurry.
“The fuck you don’t! What did you say that made him talk to the investors, they’re all pulling out!” He’s screaming now, you flinch wishing the wall to just swallow you. you thought you’d be stronger the next time you see your dad, but here you are a whimpering mess. “Talk! What did you say?”
“I—I don’t know!” You cry, your voice trembling.
“Bullshit!” he roared, his hand striking your cheek with enough force to snap your head to the side. You whimpered, your legs buckling beneath you. The wall behind you the only reason you didn’t fall.
But before he could strike again, the door burst open. Max charged in like a storm, tackling your father to the ground with a roar of fury.
“Oh my god.” You hear Sophie gasp and rushes to your side, she pulls you from the stairwell.
“You fucking asshole!” Max shouted, landing punch after punch. “Who the hell hits women? I told you to stay away from her!”
Jos sees the rage Max is in and jumps into action, fearing his son will be locked up, he tries to pull Max of your father. Jos is far from being in his prime and Max isn’t young anymore. Max glares at his father.
“Max, stop!” Jos finally intervened, trying to pull his son off. But Max shoved him away, his anger boiling over.
“Piss off, this is your fault! You brought him here!” Max spat at his father; his voice thick with betrayal. He allowed him to come close to you, saw him hit you and did nothing.
Meanwhile, Sophie had her arms wrapping protectively around you. Victoria rushed to get security, her heels clicking frantically against the tiled floor.
You hear the shouting from outside, even through your pain you want to go to Max. You try to get back inside, but Sophie stops you.
“Wait, Victoria is getting security.”
“But Max-“
“Will be fine, he wouldn’t want you in there.” Just as she says that she sees the security running in your direction she points to the door, and they rush in. There’s more shouting and screaming from inside.
“Oh my god! Are you alright?” Victoria asks stopping in front of you. Tears haven’t stop, your scalp was hurting, and your cheek was pulsing. It’ll bruise, leaving a mark. “That’s a stupid question.”
“What are you doing? He started it!” You hear your dad scream, the door opens, and he’s pulled outside, his vision falls on you. “I was just talking with my daughter, and he butts in.”
“That’s my wife! And you laid hands on her.” Max says coming out of the door and takes quick steps to stand in front of you, his mum and sister. “You should call the police.”
The security nods and they take your dad away, as one of them call for the police. Jos walks out last, and the glares turn to him.
“I don’t care anymore, I’m getting him to jail, he can do whatever he wants.” Max tells his dad, Jos looks defeated, with what happened your dad will go to the media. There’s no fighting this, Max may have gotten married but, in the end, he’ll still be exposed.
Max then turns to you, he takes you in, your hair is a mess your mascara was running, and tears haven’t stopped leaving your eyes. Also, your cheek is red and buffy. It takes a lot for Max not to run after your dad and beat him some more.
“Schatje,” Max says softly, stepping closer until there’s almost no space between you. His hand cups your uninjured cheek, tilting your face so he can examine it. There’s pain in his eyes as he studies you. “I should’ve hit him more.”
You whimper, more tears slipping down your cheeks.
“Not now, Max.” Sophie reprimands gently.
“Sorry.” He mutters, taking a deep breath to steady himself. His focus shifts entirely to you. “I’m sorry, y/n. You’re okay. You’re safe now. I promise this is the end of it.” His voice is low but filled with conviction. “I’ll make sure he never comes near you again. This was a mistake, a blip. As long as I’m alive, no one will lay a hand on you again. Do you hear me? No one. I swear it.”
For the first time, you believe those words with your whole heart. Max would do anything to protect you. Overcome with emotion, you throw your arms around him, seeking comfort in his presence despite the pain it causes.
“Max, I... I—” The words stick in your throat as your sobs overtake you.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Max soothes, his voice a calming balm. His arms tighten around you, and his hand strokes your back gently.
When Max glances up, his eyes meet Sophie’s. The pain in his expression makes her heart ache. Any doubts she had are gone. Sophie makes a silent promise to herself: she will make sure you feel the love your family never gave you.
“Max, the hotel staff said we can wait for the police in your room.” Victoria interjects softly, breaking the moment.
Max nods in acknowledgment before turning his attention back to you. Gently, he pulls away enough to see your face.
“Come on, schatje. We’ll have more privacy in my room.” His voice is almost a whisper. You nod, letting go of him and letting him guide you. His arm wraps protectively around your shoulders, holding you close to his side. Sophie and Victoria lead the way.
The elevator ride is silent, the air heavy with unspoken emotions. Even once you’re in the room, no one speaks. You sit on the sofa, still wrapped in Max’s embrace. Sophie hands you a water bottle, and you whisper a soft thank you.
The knock on the door is almost startling. Victoria opens it to reveal two police officers. They introduce themselves as they step inside, taking seats across from you and Max. One officer pulls out a notepad, ready to begin.
“The hotel staff are providing us with the CCTV footage.” The kinder-looking officer says. “But we need your statement to build the case. Can you start by telling us what happened, Miss Wilkins?”
“It’s Verstappen,” Max corrects firmly. The officer looks momentarily confused. “We’re married. It’s Y/N Verstappen.”
The officers exchange a quick glance before the kinder one nods. “Mrs. Verstappen, can you tell us what happened?”
The words make your heart flutter momentarily, but the weight of the situation quickly crushes any joy. Taking a shaky breath, you grip Max’s hand tightly as he laces his fingers with yours, grounding you.
“I was on my way to the bathroom when someone grabbed my arm and pulled me back. Before I could react, a hand was in my hair. I knew it was my dad.” You explain, your voice trembling. You pause to wipe at your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “He dragged me into the stairwell. He kept asking me about something Max did... something about investors.”
You glance at Max, confusion in your eyes. Max’s jaw tightens as guilt flashes across his face. He now understands why your father attacked you—it’s his fault.
“When I told him I didn’t know, he hit me.” You continue, your voice cracking. “He was about to do it again when Max arrived and stopped him.”
The officer nods, his expression sympathetic. “Has this happened before? The abuse?”
“Yes,” you admit quietly. “Since I was young.”
The pity in their eyes makes your stomach turn.
“When was the last time, before today?” The second officer asks.
You don’t need to think about it. The memory is vivid.
“A week or so after we got married.” You say.
You went and opened the door, taking a step back when you saw who it was. Your heart dropped.
“Well, look who it is? The new bride. Come give a hug to your father.” Your dad opened his arms for a hug, Jos was standing behind him. Awkwardly. This feels like an ambush. You felt so naïve thinking that you wouldn’t have to deal with your father anymore. That you’re free from him. Your father hated that you didn’t instantly follow his rules, so he took a step closer. You then moved closer as well and opened your arms for a hug, he pulled you closer roughly, on hand on the back of your head, gripping your hair at the roots, the other on your arm. It would leave a bruise if he held you slightly harder. You held in the whimper that threatened to escape. “Why did it take so long for you to open the door?” He didn’t wait or expect an answer. “Just because you’re married, doesn’t mean you can forget what I taught you.” Moving your head back, you instinctively held into his arm for balance. “And what are you wearing? Hmm? I thought I sent you clothes. I’ve spent so much to make you the perfect wife, and this is how you are.”
"Did someone come?" Max called out from the living room, removing his headset. You shrank back, taking a few steps away from your father. Max rounded the corner, his sharp eyes darting between your pale face and the men at the door. “What are you two doing here?”
“What?” Max’s voice is laced with disbelief. You glance at him, biting your bottom lip.
“He didn’t hit me.” You clarify. “He just pulled my hair.”
“Fuck, Y/N,” Max whispers, running a hand down his face in frustration. “You should’ve told me.”
“You stopped him. You told him not to speak to me again.” You say softly, placing your hand on his thigh in an attempt to comfort him. Max looks down at your hand, his heart breaking further. Here you are, bruised and hurting, yet still trying to console him.
“Did Jos witness everything?” The officer asks, pulling your attention back.
“Yes. Today and last time.” You reply. Max’s anger bubbles to the surface.
“We want restraining orders against both of them. And we’ll sue.” His voice is sharp, final.
The officer nods. “That’s the next step. With the footage, this will be a straightforward case.”
“Okay, just a step by step, but with the cameras here, it will be an easy case.” The officer said looking grim. “Mr. Verstappen you attacked Mr. Wilkins, right?”
“Yes, he was hitting my wife.” Max admitted not fearing anything that could come his way.
“It was self-defence.” Sophie added, the officers spared her a glance.
The officers continue asking questions and taking statements from Sophie and Victoria before leaving. Once they’re gone, Sophie and Victoria ensure you have everything you need before saying their goodbyes, leaving you and Max alone.
The silence feels heavy again. Max moves quickly, grabbing the ice bucket that had been delivered earlier. He wraps some ice in a towel and approaches you with careful intent.
“Let me do it.” You say softly, reaching for the towel, but Max doesn’t let go. His frown deepens as he presses the cold compress gently to your cheek, his gaze focused solely on the bruised skin. He still won’t meet your eyes. “Max.” You call his name quietly, but he doesn’t look up. You try again. “Max, please.” Finally, his eyes flicker to yours, and what you see in them breaks your heart. Pain. Guilt. Anguish. “What’s wrong?” You ask, your voice trembling slightly.
“How can you ask me that?” He says, his voice cracking. “Your dad has hurt you twice since we got married, and I didn’t even know. I failed to protect you. Both times. And today... today was my fault. I tried to punish him for what he did to you, but all I did was give him a reason to come after you again. I wasn’t there for you before we got married, and I couldn’t protect you now. I—” His voice falters, and you see tears welling in his eyes. Max is strong, he doesn’t care about a lot of things to cry, but you? He cares about you, knowing and seeing what happened to you is tearing him apart.
“Max.” You say, your hand moving to cover his where it rests on your cheek. You sit up straighter, shifting until you’re kneeling on the sofa to face him. Your hands cup his face, forcing him to look at you.
“I’d still be with him—or worse—if it weren’t for you. You saved me, Max. I’d go through it all again if it meant I’d end up here, with you.”
Your words are soft but resolute. You brush away a stray tear that escapes down his cheek, and Max leans into your touch, his eyes searching yours.
“I love you.” You whisper, the words slipping out effortlessly. They feel right. True.
There it was as simple as that; the words just left you easily and smoothly.
Max freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He pulls back slightly, and your hands fall away from his face. The smile you wore drops, replaced by panic as your mind races. Did you misread everything? Was Max only being kind because he felt obligated?
“I—uh—I’m sorry if I overstepped.” You stammer, standing abruptly. Your nails dig into your palms as you try to steady your breathing. “This isn’t what you wanted. It’s not what you chose. Of course, you don’t feel the same. I’m sorry—”
“Wait.” Max grabs your hand before you can reach the door, turning you to face him again. His hands rest firmly on your shoulders, grounding you. “Just... wait.” You stop, your heart hammering in your chest. His touch is gentle as he cups your jaw, his thumbs brushing your skin. “I wasn’t expecting it.” He admits softly. “I was surprised, confused, afraid... I still am. I don’t want you to think you love me just because I got you away from your dad. I don’t want that to cloud your feelings. If you love me, I need it to be for me. For who I am.”
His words make your chest ache, but then his next words make your heart soar.
“Because I love you.” He says. “So much.”
Tears well in your eyes again as your voice trembles. “You do?”
Max nods, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “I’ve thought about this a lot. About us. About how I never wanted this marriage to be just an arrangement. I love you, Y/N.”
You let out a teary laugh, and Max’s lips curve into a smile at the sound.
“I love you for you.” you assure him. “I promise. This may not have been what we planned, but I’m glad it happened. I’m glad I have you.”
“Me too,” he murmurs, and then his lips meet yours. The kiss is soft and tender, a promise in itself. You kiss him back, savouring the moment. When you finally pull away, you rest your head against his shoulder, letting out a long sigh.
“Can I stay with you tonight?” You ask quietly. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Of course.” His answer comes without hesitation.
Max gives you one of his shirts, and you retreat to the bathroom to change. When you return, he’s gone, but moments later, he reappears, holding your makeup remover from your room next door. His gaze softens as he takes in the sight of you standing by the bed, wearing his shirt.
You’re too exhausted to notice the way his breath hitches, the way he has to look away for a moment to compose himself.
That night, you both fall asleep quickly. Max spoons you from behind, mindful of your injuries, his presence a shield against the nightmares that might come. In his arms, you feel safe, loved.
When Max wakes before you the next morning, he presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder before slipping out of bed. The warmth of his arms around you fades as he quietly gets out of bed, careful not to disturb you. He pauses at the edge of the mattress, his gaze lingering on your peaceful face. The bruise on your cheek looks slightly less angry now, but it’s still a stark reminder of everything you endured. Max clenches his fists as guilt and anger surge again, but he forces himself to take a deep breath. You need him to be strong, not consumed by his own emotions.
Max dresses quickly and heads into the small living area of the hotel suite, pulling out his phone. The police had assured him they’d be in touch for follow-ups, but Max wasn’t going to wait passively. He searches for a lawyer, determined to take swift action. Restraining orders would be just the start.
By the time he finishes his call, Sophie is knocking softly at the door. He lets her in, and she immediately places a comforting hand on his arm.
“How’s she doing?” Sophie asks, her voice gentle.
“She’s sleeping,” Max replies, his tone heavy. “I just... I don’t know what else I could’ve done to stop this.”
Sophie shakes her head. “Max, none of this is your fault. You’ve done more for her than anyone else ever has. She knows that. She feels it.”
Max nods but doesn’t respond. His mother’s words offer little solace when he feels like he’s failed you in so many ways. Sophie doesn’t push him further, sensing his need for space, and instead busies herself in the kitchenette, preparing tea for when you wake up.
You stir a little later, the ache in your body making it hard to move. But the warmth lingering on your skin from Max’s embrace makes you smile faintly, even through the pain. Slowly, you sit up. The events of the previous day flood back, and a lump forms in your throat.
Pulling on the robe draped over a nearby chair, you shuffle into the living area, rubbing your eyes. Max is pacing near the window, phone in hand, while Sophie sits at the small dining table, sipping tea. When she sees you, she smiles softly and stands.
“Good morning, sweetheart. How are you feeling?” She asks, her concern evident.
“I’m okay.” You reply quietly, though the rasp in your voice betrays your exhaustion. Sophie doesn’t miss it and quickly ushers you to the table.
“Sit. I made tea. It’ll help.” She places a cup in front of you before brushing her hand gently over your hair. “Max will be here in a minute.”
Max, who has noticed you now, ends his call abruptly and strides over. His eyes scan your face, and though he tries to hide it, you catch the flicker of pain in his expression.
“You should’ve stayed in bed.” He says, his tone soft but firm.
“I’ve rested enough.” you reply, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine, Max.”
He kneels beside you, his hand covering yours on the table. “You don’t have to be fine; you know. Not yet.”
His words sink in, and you let out a shaky breath.
“I know.” you whisper. “But I can’t let him take everything from me.”
Max nods, understanding. “We’re going to make sure he doesn’t. The lawyer is already working on the restraining order. I’ve also asked them to look into filing charges. I’m not letting this go by easily.”
The fire in his voice sends a wave of comfort through you. He wasn’t just saying these things for your sake. He meant every word.
Sophie steps back, giving the two of you space, and Max pulls his chair closer to yours.
“Today.” He says gently, “We’re going to take it one step at a time. First, we’ll see what the police need. Then, we’ll figure out what’s next. And after that... we’ll go home. Together.”
The word home makes your chest tighten. For so long, that word had no meaning. But now, with Max, it feels like you’re finally finding what it truly means.
Later in the day, after a follow-up with the police and some much-needed rest, you and Max prepare to leave the hotel.
Max’s phone buzzing insistently had been a constant backdrop for the past half-hour, and finally, you couldn’t take it anymore.
“Max, just answer your phone.” You said, pressing an ice pack to your cheek and watching him pace. “It keeps ringing.”
With a sigh, Max glanced at the screen before reluctantly accepting the call.
“Hello?... Yes… what? How did they know?... No, just the police officers and—” He paused, his expression darkening as he ran a hand through his hair. “No, I think I said it in the hallway as well… fuck… okay, yeah… no… I said no, and I mean it. It’s no one’s business… No, because nothing in my contract says I have to… Mate, look, it happened. I’m not happy about it, but it happened. End of story… I’m going back to Monaco.”
He hung up, exhaling sharply as he tossed his phone onto the table. His jaw was tight, and it was clear the conversation had rattled him.
“What was that about?” You asked, wincing as you spoke. Your cheek throbbed, and smiling was definitely off the table until the swelling subsided.
Max hesitated, glancing at you before answering. “Someone from the hotel leaked that we’re married.”
Your eyes widened, and you turned toward the mirror to check your face again, trying to process his words. “What? How—how did they even know?”
“Don’t worry.” Max reassured you quickly, stepping closer. “We don’t have to say anything. I’ve always kept my private life private, and the police won’t release any details.”
“What about the officiant?” you asked, suddenly worried about the people who had been involved in your ceremony.
“If he says anything, he can kiss his license goodbye,” Max replied firmly. “And if your father tries to use this, his reputation—what’s left of it—will be done.”
You nodded, feeling a bit reassured by Max’s determination. But he wasn’t finished.
“Now, I need you to listen to me and think carefully before you decide.” His tone was serious, his blue eyes locked onto yours. “There are two options: One, we can go out and face the crowd together. Or two, I can go out first, and you can follow later when things calm down.”
Your stomach churned at the thought of stepping out there alone. “Do they have my face?”
Max’s silence was answer enough. Your heart sank, and you wrapped your arms around yourself for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “I don’t want to be on my own.”
Max’s shoulders relaxed, and he stepped closer to you.
“Alright, we’ll leave together,” he said gently, taking your hands in his. “But you need to know they’ll be taking pictures of you now. A lot. Once this is public, there’s no going back.”
You swallowed hard but nodded. “It’s okay. I don’t have social media anyway.”
Max’s lips twitched into a small smile. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, careful not to hurt your swollen cheek.
Sophie insists on staying until the very last moment, ensuring you have everything you need before saying goodbye. Her hug is warm and lingering, and she whispers in your ear, “You’re part of this family now. Don’t ever forget that.”
Victoria joins in with her own hug, giving Max a teasing look. “Take care of her, Max. You’re not off the hook just because she married you.”
Max rolls his eyes but smiles. “I know, I know.”
Max checked out of the hotel while you stood close to him, your fingers brushing against his arm for comfort, taking his left hand, you felt the smooth texture, looking down you see his wedding ring. Max smiles and presses your sunglasses up your nose. A Red Bull cap sat snugly on your head, and sunglasses shielded your swollen eyes. Even before stepping outside, the roar of the crowd was deafening, fans chanting and calling Max’s name.
“Stay close to me.” Max murmured, his arm slipping protectively around your shoulders.
The moment the doors opened, the world exploded with flashing cameras and shouting voices. Your head dipped instinctively; the weight of the crowd’s energy overwhelming. Max’s arm tightened around you as the bodyguards formed a path to the car, their presence the only barrier between you and the chaos.
The path was narrow, people pressing in on all sides, and you felt your heart race as the space seemed to close in. Flashes of light blinded you even through your sunglasses, and questions were hurled at Max, some directed at you. But he didn’t stop. His focus was solely on getting you to the car.
At last, you reached the vehicle, and a breath of relief escaped you as you slid into the seat. Max lingered outside for a moment, signing a few autographs for fans before quickly ducking into the car beside you.
His face was drawn, his usual calm replaced by a tension you rarely saw in him. You placed a hand on his thigh, squeezing gently.
“That was something.” You said, your voice tinged with exhaustion.
“Tell me about it.” Max muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. He glanced at you when he felt your touch and gave you a small, weary smile. Lifting your hand to his lips, he kissed the back of it before threading his fingers through yours.
The car hummed quietly as it carried you both toward the airport, leaving the chaos of the crowd behind. Max’s hand remained in yours the entire ride, a silent reassurance that, no matter how overwhelming things became, you wouldn’t have to face them alone.
Thankfully, everything went smoothly with the lawsuit against your father. While the statute of limitations on the abuse you experienced as a child had already passed, Jos provided compelling testimony as a witness, and the case concluded without much trouble. There were some whispers in the media, but Max spared no expense to ensure the story stayed out of the spotlight, keeping your life as private as possible.
Since that fateful day at the hotel, your life had changed dramatically. Your belongings had been moved into Max's room, and now you slept together every night. Max rarely went anywhere without you if he could help it, and the connection between you only deepened with time.
You’d also applied to art school and were now waiting for the new semester to begin. Alex, ever your cheerleader, was ecstatic about the news, eagerly discussing your potential and the projects you could take on. Meanwhile, Charles had taken to bragging that he’d known about your marriage before anyone else on the grid, which only fuelled the Lestappen theories online, especially with your friendship with Alex adding to the chatter.
The windows in your shared Monaco apartment were wide open, letting in a soft sea breeze as you sat in front of a canvas, your playlist softly filling the room. The view was breathtaking, but you were lost in your work, a blend of vibrant colours slowly taking shape on the canvas. You didn’t hear Max enter, fresh from the gym. He’d tried to get you to join him countless times, but you always resisted, finding your balance in Pilates a few times a week.
Max paused when he saw you, your brush gliding across the canvas as you mouthed the lyrics to the song playing in your ears. The sight made his heart swell—this was his proudest achievement, seeing you at peace, content, and thriving. Quietly, he walked over and wrapped his arms around your waist, startling you enough that you let out a squeak, dropping your brush.
“Max! The floor!” You whined, glaring down at the smear of paint on the floorboards.
“It doesn’t matter.” He muttered, his lips brushing your neck before his gaze turned to the canvas. “Again?”
“Not my fault you’re my muse.” You replied cheekily, turning your head to press a quick kiss to his cheek. The painting was of his eye this time—just a close-up as part of a larger composition.
“Would you like me to paint another man’s eyes?” You teased, raising a brow as you wiped your brush on a cloth.
Max smirked, pulling you closer. “No. Just mine, Mrs. Verstappen.”
“That’s what I thought, Mr. Verstappen.” You shot back with a grin.
As you turned to grab another brush, Max pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to you. “I got you something.”
You blinked in surprise as he opened his hand, revealing a pair of earrings—your Tiffany earrings, the ones you’d had to sell to survive. Your breath caught as you reached out to touch them, the memories of that difficult time flashing through your mind.
“Max… how did you…”
“I tracked them down.” He said softly, his blue eyes full of warmth. “I know how much they meant to you, and now they can mean something happy again.”
Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him, your heart swelling with emotion. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” He interrupted, his tone firm yet gentle. “You deserve to have everything you lost, and more.”
You smiled through your tears and threw your arms around his neck, holding him close. “Thank you.” You whispered, your voice thick with emotion.
Max kissed the top of your head, his hands stroking your back.
“Anything for you.” He murmured. “Always.”
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“YOU’RE BLEEDING” - DABI
a/n: i love him so much it hurts
warnings: major character death. dabi‘s real identity. blood. mention of fire. desperate!dabi. implied murder. injury gets cauterized. 2k of angst.
“if you close your eyes, i’ll fucking burn you to a crisp” dabi‘s voice was stern as he talked, eyebrows furrowed with his teeth clenched. “you hear me?”
you blinked multiple times, trying to get your eyes to focus on the blurry person in front of you. why was it so bright? you tried lifting a hand up, shielding your face from the sun, however your arm felt too heavy for you to move it even an inch.
“huh?”
with heavy eyelids you decided to give it up, wanting nothing more than to succumb to your body‘s cries for sleep. it wouldn’t hurt, right? just a couple of minutes maybe?
you hummed, content with your decision, letting your eyelids drop.
“you’re going to stay awake and look at me with these dumb eyes and you’re going to listen to what i say” dabi‘s harsh voice made you rip your eyes open again, vision slowly clearing and allowing you to look at his face. “understood?”
you studied his face slowly but carefully. it felt like the first time you had seen him and you took your time to examine him.
your eyes wandered upwards from his chin, however halted the moment you looked at his eyes and the purple scars underlining them.
dabi‘s scars weren‘t red, were they?
“dabi,“ you tried, your voice weak but filled with concern. you had to tell him. what if something bad had happened to him?
“shut the fuck up,“ dabi insisted harshly, his jaw still clenched to the point where his words were barely comprehensible, “you can’t talk right now” the villain knew he had to get you out of here somehow, this area wasn’t safe for you anymore. you couldn’t move, you couldn’t defend yourself.
he was pretty.
“dabi”
didn’t you hear what he had just said? he grew impatient, couldn’t you just listen to him for once? it took everything in him to not yell as he looked around, assessing the situation the both of you were in. the alley was dark, only a dumpster shielding the two of you from the street if it wasn’t for the blue flames burning behind it. a charred heap lazily kicked away, ashes dirtying the cold floor even further. at least he couldn’t hurt you any further. “i said shut up”
cursing loudly, he took off his jacket, grabbing the hem of his white shirt and roughly pulling at it. the tearing of the fabric was louder than you could bear, ears starting to ring in pain.
“touya,“ you whispered impatiently, mentally praying for him to just listen.
“be fucking-“
“you’re bleeding,“ you interrupted him, not paying any attention to the way his head snapped back at you and how he was fully ready to cuss you out.
“the hell have i just-“
“why are you bleeding?” you asked, concern filling your voice. “are you hurt?”
whatever it was that dabi believed you would‘ve said to him, it certainly wasn’t this.
him? hurt? were you serious?
dabi couldn’t help but huff at your questions, rolling his eyes. “you’re one to fucking talk”
“now just—“ he stopped briefly, assessing the state you were in. he had to act quick, do something. “just lay still and don’t fucking talk”
you however didn’t pay any attention to what he was saying, instead carefully lifting your hand to his face, thumb rubbing over the scarred skin.
blood.
“i’m gonna get you out of here,“ dabi promised. he knew he couldn’t wait much longer. you grew weaker by the minute and he for sure wasn’t skilled enough to save you right then and there. but he had to do something. anything.
“i’m tired,” you whispered, your heavy eyelids close to shutting again.
“no you’re not,” dabi replied, skillfully dismissing you.
“don’t you dare to close your eyes,“ he continued to threaten you, a warm hand grabbing your face and turning you towards him again, “keep looking at me. you hear me? you’re not going to go now”
you didn’t like how his voice sounded, so rough and hoarse, almost like he couldn’t speak properly. it was a rare sigh for you to see, the villain was hunched over you, his breathing flat and his teeth digging into his bottom lip. you couldn’t see what he was doing and you didn’t have the strength to lift your head, even if you wanted to. but something about him was so raw, so vulnerable.
he was hurt, dabi was bleeding, his blood still adorning the tip of your fingers, and yet he kept talking to you, letting you hear him and telling you to just listen to him, do as he told you to. that’s the least you could do for him, wasn’t it?
you groaned, opening your eyes again, even though everything in yourself protested against it. you were so tired. “that’s it, keep looking right at me, you’re doing so good for me”
“you’re pretty” dabi froze, his eyebrows furrowing, before shaking his head, dismissing you again.
him and pretty?
“you’re seeing things,” he muttered, throwing his head around and searching the area. the blue flames burning multiple feet away, shielding the two of you from the streets slowly started to dwindle. dabi could hear the commotion that was going on on the other side of it, the bright fire attracting the attention of civilians. it wouldn’t be much longer till a hero would come around.
he had to get you out of here, move you to a safer location. dabi cursed as soon he looked back at you. you were pale, too pale, and your breathing was barely audible. he didn’t even know if you were breathing properly. “i’m gonna pick you up now. it’s gonna hurt,” he warned, trying to shove his arms underneath you to support your body and carry you away.
“don’t,” you pleaded, looking at the villain with a scared look on your face. he couldn’t do that now, he shouldn’t. he was hurt, he was bleeding. you had to take care of him, you had to make sure he was safe, but you were too weak to get up. why were you so weak?
dabi’s jaw clenched, shaking his head at your protests. why couldn’t you just listen to him for once in your life? “this is really not the time for you to pick a fucking argument with me, so shut up and let me get you out of here”
weakly you shook you head, fully aware that you weren‘t strong enough to stop him in his doing anyways. “no, you’re bleeding,” you insisted. why wasn’t he listening to you?
why were you so stubborn? digging his fingernails into his palm, dabi fed into the flames shielding you from the public before he turned back to you. his mind was racing as he desperately tried to come up with a solution, a way out of any kind. “i fucking know, but so are you so please just—“
why was he so adamant to get you to agree to him? why couldn’t he just move? why couldn’t he just do as he wanted?
“you shouldn’t be bleeding,” you stated.
you shouldn’t be bleeding either, dabi thought, and yet here you were.
“for fucks sake, just please shut up,” dabi grew more and more agitated by the second, feeling the anger rise in him, skin slowly heating up. why was it so hard for you to listen, just for once? dabi cringed as he looked down at your torso, your shirt soaked in blood that by now has started to spill on the ground underneath you, your face drained of all color. dabi could hear how hard it was for you to talk, how your voice was nothing more than a pained whisper, a plea for him to listen to you. “stop talking, you’re only making it worse,” he chided, now not caring anymore about the potential pain he might cause you. he cursed, ripping a hole in your top, only to immediately shut his eyes in defeat as he assessed the damage.
this was bad. there was no way he could get you away in time.
turning your head away from him in shame, you muttered a small apology. you always managed to make things worse somehow.
truth to be told, dabi didn’t pay a lot of attention to what you said. instead he carelessly pulled on his own white shirt again, to the point where he ripped the hem of it. fisting the fabric he pressed it against your open flesh, watching as it turned crimson way too fast. “you should be. shit, it won’t stop”
you couldn’t help but smile weakly at his snarky comment. “you’re an asshole”
“doing my best, doll,” the villain replied, his lips curved upward too. however his smile fell immediately as he tossed the bloody fabric away.
dabi pulled at his hair in frustration. this wasn’t working, he wasn’t helping. he couldn’t just helplessly watch as your life force drained away, flowing right out of your body.
his stomach turned at the thought of his head, the only way he could try to save you right now— but he hated it. he didn’t want to do it, he didn’t want to hurt you even more. but what more could he do? if he cauterized the wound maybe then he could get you away, to safety, maybe then someone could patch you up, somehow.
maybe you could be kept alive then.
dabi swallowed, closing his eyes as he took in a deep breath. “i need to stop the bleeding, this is gonna be very hot but i need you to take it“
he didn’t wait for your reply till he pressed his palm against your wound, heating it up as soon as he came in contact with it. dabi turned his head away in shame as you cried out in pain. the smell of burned flesh filled the villain‘s nostrils, making his stomach turn in disgust.
when he turned back to you, after moments that felt like an eternity, he was horrified as he saw you with your eyes closed, your chest barely moving. were you even breathing anymore? “keep your eyes open,” he commanded sternly, hand against your blood-stained cheek.
but you barely moved. only now did he notice how cold your skin felt against his hot hands. eyes wide in terror, he grabbed your shoulders, slightly shaking your body. “fuck, stay with me”
“please, don’t do this to me,” dabi pleaded, pulling your form into his lap.
“look at me,” he continued, shoving a hand underneath your knees and lifting your body off the ground. he pulled you close to him, hoping that his own warmth might heat your body up a little.
“listen to me”
dabi ran faster than he ever has, pressing you against his chest. he had to run faster, be quicker, get you away from here.
“stay with me,” he pleaded, trying to catch his breath.
you however didn’t seem to listen, to even hear him and his cries. no, you didn’t move in his arms. you almost looked like you were sleeping peacefully.
too peaceful for his liking.
dabi clenched his teeth, muttering curses under his breath. “are you deaf, you’re gonna keep your pretty eyes open and you’re gonna stay right here with me,” he commanded coldly, trying to mask just how desperate he was.
you could barely hear what the villain had just said. it took you everything to open your eyes again, to look at him. was he always this blurry? “i don’t feel so good, touya”
“i know, fuck, i know,” he answered, turning around to see if someone had been following him. hiding between some dumpsters in the outskirts of the city, he carefully placed you down again, grabbing your hands to get your attention. “but you’re not gonna leave me now, forget it”
dabi sat down in front of you, grabbing your shoulders as he noticed you slumping. “i’m not letting you,” he insisted, pulling you into a tight embrace. you couldn’t leave him, you couldn’t just go and leave him behind. he needed you. he wanted you by his side, he had to have you by his side. “you’re not fucking leaving me”
you meant so much to him that it hurt, and now you were practically at death‘s door, and dabi couldn’t help but feel like you wanted to leave him. if you didn’t, why weren’t you fighting harder? why weren’t you staying awake? why couldn’t you hold on for him just a while longer?
you only managed to sigh in his hold, your eyes now too heavy to keep open. it wouldn’t hurt to shut them, right? you were so tired, so, so tired.
dabi stayed like that, holding you close to him, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. you were going to be okay, you had to be. you couldn’t leave him. “hey, open your eyes”
so why didn’t you respond? why were you so still? “i said open your eyes”
why were you so cold? why were you so pale? “fuck, open them”
why didn’t you move?
“doll, please,” the villain begged, pushing you away from him to take a look at you. you‘re eyes were shut, your mouth slightly opened, almost like you were just about to say something. you were, weren’t you? “just look at me, you can do that, can’t you?”
but why didn’t you do anything? why were you so still? you were supposed to open your eyes, to reassure him, to tell him you were here with him, that you listened, that you wouldn’t leave him. that you‘d never leave him.
“open your fucking eyes!“ he demanded now, violently shaking your still form. a loud, pained cry burned his throat as he threw his head back.
“you said you wouldn’t leave me!” he cried, yelling at you accusingly, like he was expecting you to answer, to justify yourself. how could you just leave him behind like that, how could you just go like you didn’t care how he felt about it. “i told you, you can’t!”
dabi pressed you against his chest again, curling your body in his hold, rocking the both of you back and forth. “i need you, please”
as he looked down at your face, he noticed small drops of crimson falling onto your skin.
dabi was bleeding.
reblogs are appreciated
Master List:
Series:
A Drop in the Ocean
Part one :
Part two :
Part three:
Part four:
Part five:
Part six:
Part seven:
Part eight:
Part nine:
Part ten:
The Mazer Runner :
Newt :
Coming soon
Wildflower (OP81 x fem!reader x LN4)
Chapter 1
SERIES SUMMARY: You’ve been best friends with Oscar Piastri since you were seven, far before the dream of Formula 1 even seemed possible. You’ve been with him from the very beginning—due, in no small part, to the fact that you’ve been in love with him since you were a teenager. But when a breakup and championship battle rattles the very foundations of your friendship, you begin to question if you ever really knew him. (Best friends to lovers, based on the song Wildflower by Billie Eilish)
WORD COUNT: 11.1k
WARNINGS: Oscar is not a very good boyfriend to Lily and Lily is not a very good girlfriend to Oscar. Potentially changed some dates (I think Oscar and Lily started dating when they were 17 or 18, but I’m making them 18 for the sake of the flashback scenes). Reader is “the girl he told me not to worry about” through no fault of her own. This story has a lot of complex character dynamics and everyone is flawed! References to sex but no actual smut.
A/N: Ah new series! I hope this is good—I’m trying some new stuff with the flashbacks and story layers, so I hope it doesn’t read too confusingly! Also, I’m trying to be more intentional with showing instead of telling with my dialogue and such, so hopefully that is an improvement. I always welcome constructive criticism, but either way, I hope you all enjoy this.
“Lily left me.”
He only needed those three words to convey the gravity of the situation. On the other end of the line, you were silent. He was too. What was there to say?
No, it couldn’t be real. Oscar and Lily were inseparable. The dream couple of Formula 1. Your best friend had been in love with her since the pair were 18, attending boarding school in the UK together while Oscar pursued his dreams of making it to F1.
They were each other’s everything. At least, that’s what the world thought.
But you had seen this coming for a while now. It was just a shock for it to actually happen.
Finally, after an eternity, you spoke, still too shocked to formulate a coherent thought. “What do you mean?” you asked.
“I mean she fucking left me. What else do you want me to say?” You could hear the quivering in his voice, giving away the sadness behind his abrasive response. You weren’t offended one bit.
“Shit, Osc, I’m so sorry. I… don’t know what to say. Do you want me to come over? Or you can come to mine?”
“I’m outside yours right now. In the car park.”
“I’ll let you in,” you said. The mental image you conjured of Oscar outside your apartment crying in his fancy McLaren would have been comical, if not given the circumstances.
He let himself in only a few moments later, hoodie covering his tall and muscled frame. He was soaked from the rain outside—he must have come directly from the confrontation.
“Oh, Oscar,” you said, pulling him into a hug, cringing at the contact with his soggy hoodie, but knowing that there were far more important things to be worried about.
You rubbed your hands up and down his shoulder blades that now heaved with sobs. His entire body shook with the fervor of his tears, and you just held him, gently shushing him and promising that everything will be okay.
“I don’t know how she could do this to me,” he said, gasping out the words between haggard breaths. “The championship—I can’t do it without her.”
“I know,” you assured him. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“No it’s not, YN, it’s not gonna be okay. I love her. And she just threw away so many years.”
“I know.” You just kept assuring him, tightening your grip on him as his sobs became more intense. “Just breathe.”
“Why would she do this to me?” he asked. “I don’t understand. I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”
You knew. And deep down, Oscar did too. That was a conversation for another day. But he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t seen this coming.
You didn’t have it in you to lie to him. You had always been the type to pride yourself on being honest, even when the truth hurt, but you couldn’t bear to do it now. You changed the subject.
“Oscar, you’re soaking wet. I’ll find you something else and warm that up in the dryer, yeah? Just sit down, take a deep breath, and let me get this figured out.”
He sat down on your couch and took off his hoodie and t-shirt underneath, revealing his toned body. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before—you’d been friends with him since you were seven, growing up together. He almost felt like a brother to you, sometimes.
Maybe it wouldn’t be weird at all, except for the fact that you’d been in love with him for over a decade now.
But right now that didn’t matter. He had plenty of old hoodies over in your apartment, which you carefully folded every time he forgot them. Placing his wet clothes in the dryer and setting the temp on high, you reached to the shelf above you and grabbed a random one. You unfolded it—an Alpine hoodie from back in the day, before his time at McLaren. You smiled at the memories that flashed in your mind, before quickly returning to Oscar with the garment.
He had moved from your couch to your bedroom, holding a pillow on his lap, hunched over where the top of it met his chin. He was staring off into space, not breaking his gaze at the plain white wall.
You sat next to him, handing him the hoodie, and he mumbled a small thanks as he grabbed it. He didn’t put it on, instead just holding it with the pillow, as if filling his arms with the plush material would fill the hole now left in his heart.
“Oscar, I… don’t have anything profound to say. I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t respond at first, instead just silently letting the tears well up in his eyes.
“I guess I should have seen this coming,” he said quietly.
You paused, unsure whether or not you should agree with him. But you were nothing if not honest.
“Yeah,” you said, “it’s been a rough few months.”
“I guess we just both fell out of love.”
“I mean… how did the conversation go?”
It would be stupidly easy for Oscar to lie and say he didn’t remember Lily’s every word. But he knew better, and so did you. As he explained, the memory replayed in his head.
“I can’t do this anymore, Oscar,” Lily said, a simple yet devastating statement.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” His confusion was genuine, much to the chagrin of his angry girlfriend.
“The fact that you even have to ask that proves my point.”
“Lily, talk to me. I don’t know what you’re trying to say.” Oscar stood up, now understanding the full gravity of the situation he found himself in.
“I’m trying to say that I’m not happy anymore, and neither are you. I wanted to at least give it until the end of the season, but I can’t keep pretending that everything is okay when we both know bloody well that it’s not! Don’t you want something better than this, Oscar?” Lily pleaded.
“I just want you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Don’t lie to me. You say that but you put everything else before me. I’m not a priority to you. I haven’t been in a long time.”
“I’ll quit F1. We can go back to the UK and live a normal life.”
“No. We both know that you wouldn’t do that.” Her tone was incredulous, twinged with a slight anger at the mere suggestion.
“Yes, I would. I’d do anything. Don’t do this, Lily. Not now, not when I need you the most.”
Lily grabbed his hand, leading him to sit down on the couch next to her. “Oscar,” she began, “we had a good run. You made me so, so happy for so long.” She reached up to gently cup his cheeks and wipe away where tears were now forming at the edge of his eyes. “I saw you achieve things that neither of us ever thought were possible. But…I can’t stay any longer. Not when there’s no place for me in your heart anymore.”
You sighed. You knew every word that Lily had said was right. But you also knew you couldn’t get that through to Oscar, at least not until the shock wore off.
The words remained unspoken. You had been there for all of it. Lily was his first love, his only girlfriend, and everyone assumed that he’d marry her one day; you included.
“I just…I don’t know how I’m supposed to go on acting like my life didn’t just fall apart. How did you do it?”
This was Oscar's first breakup, but you had been through too many, it seemed, since he was asking you for advice on how to handle them.
The truth? It was very easy to get over a breakup when every partner you’ve ever had was a feeble attempt at denial. When they all inevitably failed, you just went back to bask in Oscar’s platonic love. It was enough.
“I won’t lie to you, the first one is always hell. You feel like you’re going crazy for a while. You lose hope that you’ll ever feel happier, because everything reminds you of them. And then one day it just…doesn’t. The only thing that heals it is time and finding love around you, you know, friends and family.”
“No offense, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
‘Well, I’m not going to lie to you and say it’ll be easy, because it won't. But it will be okay—not today, but someday. You’ve got something to focus on with the championship. And I’ll be here.” You gave him an empathetic smile.
Maybe you weren’t the most comforting friend to most. But you and Oscar had a bond that was very different to most friendships. You understood each other’s idiosyncrasies in ways no one else could. So when shit hit the fan, it was always each other that you went to.
You continued, “You can stay here as long as you like.”
“Thank you.”
There was only one problem: your apartment only had one bed. And to the dismay of fanfiction writers across the world, you all would not be sharing it.
You distracted Oscar by cooking a meal and watching a comfort movie—Cars, a classic. You could tell he was exhausted by the way his head on your shoulder sloped just a little too heavily downwards as the credits rolled.
“Okay, let’s get you to bed,” you said, gently pushing him awake. He sleepily stumbled back into your bedroom and collapsed on the bed, almost instantly falling back asleep.
You took the couch, but despite the money you spent splurging on the extra cushioned sofa, no sleep came to you.
It wasn’t any physical discomfort that fueled your insomnia, but rather, the events of the previous evening. Lily had actually left Oscar. She had finally pulled the plug.
Yes, in some ways, it was expected. But at the same time, you couldn’t imagine a version of your best friend that wasn’t madly in love with his girlfriend.
From the outside, though, you couldn’t blame Lily one bit. You wondered what had been the last straw.
You could think of three possible moments. First: The Apartment.
“I’m moving to Monaco,” Oscar began, and you felt your heart drop in your stomach. Of course, one day he’d make it to Monaco. That was the dream of every Formula 1 driver, right? The beauty of the French Riviera and tax evasion. And you’d be left at your aging flat in the UK, waiting for those precious few days a year where he was free to grace you with his presence.
“That’s amazing!” you said, only half believing it to be true.
“In a few weeks I’m gonna go look at condos. Come with me? Lily can’t get off work.”
“Of course,” you replied. You’d already been to Monaco before for Oscar’s races, but you wouldn’t turn down any reason to get out of the constant dreary rain of the UK.
You felt like a celebrity as you coasted through the Monte Carlo streets in the passenger side of Oscar’s McLaren, on your way to tour fabulous properties for your best friend (the actual celebrity). You breathed in the saltwater breeze, fresh and tinged with the air of wealth and splendor.
But it hurt your heart to know that you were helping your best friend leave. You imagined him getting up and doing his morning runs along the harbor, the sun blazing down the strained muscles on his back. Then you laughed to yourself at the thought of Oscar, the pastiest Aussie you knew, getting sunburnt.
At the first property you met the realtor, who (after mistaking you for Lily; not the first time, and certainly wouldn’t be the last) took the pair of you to different condos throughout the day.
Oscar decided on the final one you saw; two bedrooms, plenty of natural light, and a great view. Elegant, refined and practical—just like Oscar himself.
The realtor handed him the paperwork and left as you stood on the balcony, looking at the beauty of the city before you. You were quiet, unusually so, and Oscar noticed.
He sat the paperwork on the kitchen counter and walked onto the balcony next to you. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” you said, your voice lowered. “You’re gonna make such beautiful memories here.”
“Are you getting sentimental on me now?”
You smiled and laughed. “A little,” you admitted, “I can’t help it. I’ll miss you all.”
“You could always come with us. You seem to like it here,” he teased, tilting his head toward the edge of the balcony.
“You’d have to give me a raise if I was gonna afford Monaco rent prices.” You’d been running Oscar’s merch store and social media for the past few years, making a great wage, but nowhere near the immense wealth you’d need to call a place like this home. You joked with him, knowing Oscar actually had nothing to do with how much you got paid.
“I would if I could. But, I mean, if you had a place to stay it wouldn’t really be that bad.”
“Are you suggesting I move into your guest room?”
Now he laughed. “No, but I’m just saying, if you had an apartment, you could make it work.”
You raised an eyebrow, confused, but trying to go along with the joke. “Well, sure, but apartments don’t just appear out of thin air.”
“You never know.” Oscar scratched the back of his neck and looked away, a sign of the awkwardness that now blanketed your moment on the balcony.
“What are you getting at?”
“Well, theoretically, if someone were to have a spare apartment that they weren’t using, you could live there and Monaco would be a reasonable place to live, no?”
You didn’t answer his question, instead just giving him another confused glance until he gave up whatever he was trying to say. He still couldn’t meet your gaze.
“Look—I don’t want to live so far away from my friend. Is that such a bad thing?”
“Oscar, you…”
“I got you an apartment.”
“You… bought me an apartment. In Monaco.” It came out more like a statement than a question, evidence of your shock. He reached into his pocket and dug out a key, holding it out to you.
You just looked at him with an incredulous expression. “Oscar, I can’t accept that.”
“Why not?”
“How much was it?”
“I have more than enough money.”
“Answer the question.”
He pursed his lips and shrugged. “About 4 million?”
Your eyes widened in shock. “Before you say anything,” he began, “I made over 30 million last year. I have more money than I’d ever know what to do with, so why not just spend it all on the people I love?”
“Oscar… I can’t, that’s too much.”
“Will you at least go look at it with me? Actually, I’m driving, so you don’t have a choice,” he joked, walking back into the apartment. “Let’s go.”
You sighed, smiling to yourself. There was no way you could let Oscar buy you a 4 million dollar apartment, but also, how could you not? The wind whipped through your hair as you rolled down the window of his McLaren, drinking in the beauty of the city around you.
The apartment was smaller than the one he had picked for himself and Lily, but you didn’t mind one bit. It was perfectly cosy, and God, the view was spectacular. You could see the whole city from his apartment, but here, you could see the water. You stepped on the balcony and took a deep breath, taking in the sound of the ocean waves beneath you.
Oscar followed you. “It’s a bit small, but I figured you’d like the view.”
“Oscar…”
“If you really don’t want it, I can rent it out. But I’d much rather have you close.” He held out the keys again. “What do you say?”
You could have told him you needed more time to think about it, but deep down, you already knew what you wanted. You took the keys. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Oscar. Seriously.”
“No need to thank me.” He smiled.
Back in the UK, he showed Lily the photos he had taken of the condo he had chosen for them as they went over the paperwork one last time.
He grabbed the pen to scratch out one of the boxes Lily had checked, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
“Oh, did I mess something up?” Shit. She leaned over his shoulder, reading the paperwork aloud. “Please indicate if you own any additional properties in the principality of Monaco.” She looked at Oscar. “You already have a property there?”
“Oh, erm, yeah,” he said, hoping the conversation would end there.
“How come I never heard about this?”
“Um, I just got it a bit ago.”
Lily could sense her boyfriend’s hesitancy. “Is this something I wasn’t supposed to know about?”
“Oh, no,” he said, “it’s not like that. I just didn’t think to mention it.”
“So, what is this property?”
“An apartment.”
Lily hated feeling like she was having to interrogate Oscar, but clearly there was some piece of the puzzle missing that was causing his reluctance.
“An apartment?” she questioned. “You got another apartment?”
“Yeah, I, um,” he looked at the ceiling while scratching his neck, a clear sign of his nervousness, “I was planning on giving it to YN.”
“You bought YN an apartment in Monaco? When were you planning on telling me about this?”
His walls of defense had finally broken down. “It’s not a big deal. I made more than enough last season, I could afford it. And it’s just easier to have her there for the brand shoots and media stuff. Plus, I mean, she came to London to support me after graduation, even though I know she hates it here. I just figured I should repay the favor.”
“...Okay,” Lily began, her voice tinged with skepticism. “So, you do realize what this looks like, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my boyfriend bought an apartment for his “best friend” and tried to hide it from me. That’s the kind of thing cheating husbands do in movies, buy an apartment for their mistress for her to keep it quiet.”
Oscar wasn’t sure what annoyed him more, the air quotes Lily placed around “best friend” or the insinuation that he had been unfaithful.
“Lily, seriously? I’m not cheating on you, I love you and you know that.”
“When were you going to tell me about this?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. You know YN and I have been friends forever, it’s not like I did this for some random woman. I don’t appreciate being accused of lying.”
“But you were lying by omission.”
“Lily—”
“You know, nothing against her, but one of the reasons I was looking forward to this move was having more…us time. Without YN.”
The statement brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Despite what she had said, it seemed like Lily did have something against you.
“You know, this kind of thing is why I was putting off telling you about it.”
“What are you saying?” she asked. Oscar knew he was tempting fire, but he didn’t care.
He continued, “You’re freaking out because I did something kind for a friend. I’m allowed to do whatever I want with my money.”
“I never said you weren’t, and I’m not freaking out. But I guess I’m just such a horrible person for saying I want to spend more time with my boyfriend.”
“If you’re putting down my “best friend” to do it,” he said, mocking her air quotes, “then yeah, that’s not cool.”
“Oscar, you’re being so…weird about all of this. I’m not insulting YN. I just want to spend more time with you.”
“We’re literally going on vacation in February!”
“With friends. You invited your friends to our romantic getaway, Oscar.”
“You know I only have so much time off during the off season, and I’m spending most of it with realtors and accountants and eight thousand other people preparing us for this move. God forbid I want to invite my friends to Italy with us. Not everything can be just us, Lily.”
“Okay,” she sighed. “I’m done with this conversation.”
The second next instance you could think of happened on the trip.
It was a beautiful getaway to the Amalfi Coast, your dream destination that you’d somehow never made it to.
The group of Oscar’s friends, including you and Lando, had plans to come and go, with everyone being gone before the fourteenth so that Oscar and Lily could have their Valentine's Day date. Of course, you knew nothing of the arguments they’d had in the past about this, but you had common sense enough to not be a third wheel. Oscar thought this was a good enough compromise.
Well, he thought.
From the moment he picked you up from the airport, you could tell that the energy was different than usual. He blamed it on jet lag, but you knew better. You knew your best friend too well.
It didn’t take you long to figure out the problem was between him and Lily. She was colder towards him; not enough for anyone but you and him to notice, but still there and undeniable.
Even weirder was Lily’s…preoccupation, it seemed, with pointing out single and attractive men to you. It wasn’t a hushed reality that you were single, and had been for some time. You'd given up on dating a long time ago—you knew that you had already found the love of your life, and he just happened to be Lily’s boyfriend.
But, of course, you’d never tell anyone this. Lots of people were confused because you seemed so fine being single. But you thought that Lily, one of your best friends (at least, by association), would know that you weren’t really interested in meeting anyone.
You sat with Lily in a restaurant overlooking the coast, the balcony having been rented out by Oscar for one of your last dinners. You all were waiting for him and Lando to join you, passing the time by ordering wine and appetizers.
“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Lily said, gesturing her head to your waiter that was walking back into the main restaurant.
You didn’t really know what to say. You glanced at him through the glass wall. “Lily, he most definitely plays for the other team, if you know what I mean,” you joked, reaching for a slice of bread on the table. “I didn’t know that was your type.”
“Well I don’t mean for me, I meant for you.”
You chuckled. “For me?”
“Well, yeah. Don’t you want to get yourself a hot Italian man?”
“I’m perfectly happy being single.” You tried to diffuse the awkward conversation, keeping a kind tone in your voice as you ate the bread and looked into the distance at the coastline.
“Oh, come on. We’ll get you someone, don’t worry.”
“I really am fine being single.”
“You know who else is single?” she asked, clearly ignoring your protests. “Lando!”
You laughed aloud. “Oh God, no. If I wanted to be cheated on, I would have stayed with my ex. Besides, Oscar would kill him.”
A curious fact: Oscar had never approved of a single person you had ever introduced him to. You had to spend hours talking him out of running over your ex with his F1 car after you found out about his infidelity.
“Oh, who cares what Oscar thinks? I think you should go for it,” she said, watching as the waiter returned to pour your glasses of wine.
“Lily,” you said, holding your glass, ready to take a sip, “I don’t want to be in a relationship, like, at all. It’s just…not for me.” You sipped the wine, but through the reflection on the glass, you could see that Lily had pursed her lips in an expression you couldn’t quite read.
“If you want me to stop third-wheeling you and Oscar, you can just say so,” you joked as the boys made their way to the balcony to join you.
You didn’t know it, but your joke cut deep in Lily’s heart.
Nothing was said about it during the dinner, but Lily’s strange energy continued. It quickly became uncomfortable how much she was pushing Lando and you to interact.
And when you all made your way to a local nightclub after the dinner, it didn’t get any better. Lando quickly got himself lost in the crowd, and you were once again left to be the third wheel.
You could tell that Lily was getting annoyed, but to be fair, she was also annoying you.
“Go dance with Lando!” she shouted over the thumping bass. She gestured to the opposite corner of the small club, where Lando was currently making out with some random Italian woman.
You pointed this fact out to Lily, who just grimaced.
“Do you just want me to go away?” you joked.
“Yes!” she said, and you were taken aback, because she was definitely not joking.
Oscar was at the bar getting drinks, far enough away that he couldn’t hear. To be honest, you didn’t even want to be in this club anymore.
So you snuck out and began your walk home without telling any of them.
As you walked along the cobblestone streets, Oscar handed Lily a drink, pausing when he noticed that you weren’t there to receive yours. “Where’s YN?” he asked.
“She wasn’t feeling well, so she headed back,” Lily said.
“By herself? Should we go check on her?”
Lily wanted to roll her eyes. “No, she’s just tired. C’mon, let’s go dance!”
Oscar obeyed, but couldn’t ignore the feeling inside him that something about this whole night had been odd.
The next time he saw Lando, he decided to say something about it.
“Hey mate, are you going back soon?” he asked. Lando nodded, clearly tipsy. “Can you check on YN? Lily said she wasn’t feeling well.”
“Sure,” he said, annoyed at the mention of you again.
He did come back to the house soon, but with an equally drunk and giggly woman on his arm, the same girl he had been making out with in the corner of the club.
You didn’t expect any of them for a long time, so you sat in the living room of the AirBNB, watching the waves cascade into the shore, romanticizing this complicated feeling that coiled itself inside of you.
That was, until Lando stumbled in.
His eyes got wide as dinner plates upon seeing you. The girl on his arm giggled and walked off into the nearest bathroom.
“Hey YN,” he slurred. “Are you dying?”
You laughed. “I’m fine.”
“Lily said you were sick.”
“Nope, I’m good.”
He looked to the closed door of the bathroom. “Sorry about that,” he said.
“You’re fine. I’m…uh, not interested, anyway. I don’t know what Lily’s been on about today.”
“Oh, thank God,” he exhaled. You laughed, despite the sting of rejection in his relief. “Well, I’ll keep it quiet.”
“I’ve got headphones.”
You made your way to your room and put on your noise cancelling headphones, passing the time by scrolling and catching up on work emails, before falling asleep.
You didn’t sleep through the night, instead waking up in the early hours of the morning, when the sun was just beginning to round itself along the golden coast. You left your room to get a glass of water, not expecting to see the rest of your friends in the kitchen.
Lily looked hungover as hell, leaning her elbow on the counter, her hand resting uncomfortably on her forehead. Oscar was leaning against the counter on the other side while Lando sat at the bar next to Lily, drinking something out of a mug. His flight home was going to leave soon.
You nodded to your three companions as you sipped your water glass, feeling the tension around you like an oncoming migraine.
“You feeling okay?” Oscar asked. “Lily said you weren’t doing well last night.”
“Ah, just tired,” you answered. Lily had lied to both Lando and Oscar. That was a conversation for another day.
“Well rested now?” Lily asked, her voice tinged with anger and fake sympathy.
“I’m fine,” was all you could answer. You glanced at Oscar, who gave you a knowing look. You had no idea what had gotten into her.
“Are you feeling okay, Lily? You look like you’re about to throw up,” you said, a more genuine concern in your voice.
“I’m fine too,” she said, clearly not fine.
Lando’s Uber pulled up, and you took the opportunity to help him transfer all his bags in one trip.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on with her?” he asked as you heaved the suitcase up into the trunk.
“No idea,” you answered. “Before you all got to the restaurant last night she was being…weird. For the record, I didn’t put her up to any of that.”
“I figured as much. You’re not the type.” Lando was right—it was common knowledge that you were happily single.
“I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable. For the record, it made me uncomfortable too.”
He exhaled. “Eh, we’re cool. No hard feelings, yeah? I’m sure she’ll snap out of it.”
“I hope so,” you said, giving him a wave as the car disappeared into the winding roads of the coast.
Back in the house, you could hear Oscar and Lily whispering to each other. You wanted nothing more than to disappear and act like this weird night and morning had never happened, but unfortunately, you had to cross through the kitchen back to your room.
A hush went through the room when you entered. You walked as quickly as possible through the kitchen, but were stopped by a voice.
“YN,” Lily called. “I think you should leave.”
“Lily—” Oscar interjected.
“I was just going back to my room anyway,” you explained.
“That’s not what I meant. I think you should go home.”
“Lily, don’t do this—” Oscar pleaded. You just stood in shock.
“Actually, let me clarify,” she continued. “YN, I don’t want you here. Go home.”
“Lily!” Oscar interjected. “Don’t say that.”
“No, it’s fine,” you said, even though it was definitely not fine. “Let me pack and I’ll be on my way.”
You turned and continued back to your room, fully prepared to do as you had just said. But Oscar followed you.
“YN, wait. Stay,” he said.
“Oscar, it’s fine.”
“I am so sorry that Lily said that, but I want you here.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you two or why she’s so upset at me, but if someone tells me to go, I’m not going to overstay my welcome.”
“Still, that was so rude.”
“I’ve got thick skin. I won’t cry myself to sleep over it.” You looked out the window to the coast. “Look, I’ll just find someplace else to stay. A hotel for a few nights is cheaper than trying to reschedule my flight, anyways.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about me, Osc,” you said, patting his shoulder. “Go talk to her, figure out what’s wrong.”
He sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “I already know what’s wrong. She’s mad that we don’t spend enough time together.”
“Then go spend time with her.”
“That was the plan! But, I mean, I’m pissed that she said that to you. And she spent all day yesterday trying to set you and Lando up, which was fucking weird.”
“Yeah,” you exhaled with a twinge of laughter. “Look, with my record I can’t exactly give you love advice, but I don’t mind leaving. You all clearly need some space, anyway. Just text me if you need anything, okay?”
Oscar gave you a flat smile and nod.
You packed and quickly booked a private room at a local hostel for the next few days, planning to enjoy the last few days as a solo trip. You truly didn’t care, but in the back of your mind, you hoped that everything would be okay. You never received that text from Oscar.
Back at the house, Oscar and Lily were alone. And neither of them were happy.
“Just fucking go with her if you’re that mad,” Lily said, egging Oscar on. He had always been slow to anger, but he couldn’t deny that he was pissed.
“What is wrong with you?” he questioned. “Why would you say that to her? Do you understand how rude that is? And not to mention the fact that you were being fucking weird with her and Lando all night.”
“Oscar, I’m not having this conversation right now.”
“No, I’m pissed!”
“And, as usual, it’s all about your feelings, hm?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t act stupid. Do you know how much I’ve put up with because I don’t want to hurt your feelings? Every vacation, every race weekend, she’s always there. And I put up with her because she’s your friend, but I don’t like her, Oscar.”
“What did she do to you?” he asked. But Lily couldn’t answer. It wasn’t like there had been a specific incident or falling out; in fact, you had always been kind to her. Lily’s silence was all the answer that Oscar needed.
“You knew that YN and I were a package deal from the beginning.”
Tears came to Lily’s eyes. “But this was supposed to be our trip. Just us.”
“Lily, they were only here for a few days. I specifically set it up so that we’d have 2 weeks to ourselves after they left. Is that not enough?”
She was silent, at first. Then came a question out of left field.
“Were you going to propose?” she asked.
Oscar made a face. “Propose?”
“I thought the point of the trip was that you were going to propose.” She looked away, trying to hide her tears. “I’m tired of feeling like an outsider in my own relationship. I’m sick of YN third wheeling, so I thought if I set her up with Lando, maybe she’d leave us alone for a while.” Her voice was tinged with an angry mocking.
She continued, softer, “Oscar, I want to be your wife, I want to grow old with you—”
But Oscar had little sympathy for her. “That’s really what all this was about? Lily, I’m not proposing any time soon.”
“We’ve been together for nearly five years.”
“I know. But with the season starting soon—”
“There’ll always be another season, another race. Is your plan to just marry me when you retire?” The sarcasm had returned to her voice. “Do you even want to marry me?”
“Of course I do. But we’re young, we have time. I’m in no rush.”
“I feel like you don’t care about what I want at all.”
“Lily, I’m trying. But I feel like you want me to cut off my best friend and settle down at 22. You’re asking things of me that I can’t give you.”
“Then why are we even doing this?” Lily asked.
“Because I love you, and I want this to work! But Lily, you can’t treat my friends like that. If you’re angry at me, talk to me, but don’t take it out on them. YN is an important part of my life, too.”
“I’m well aware.”
Oscar sighed. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I’m going back to bed,” Lily announced, leaving the conversation altogether.
When she woke up, her head was pounding. Oscar was asleep beside her, his back towards her, no warmth even in his unconscious state. She had slept through the entire day—the moon hung high in the sky.
As she quietly made her way to the kitchen and got some water and a snack, the memory of what had happened came back, rushing over her. She felt horrible.
The sleep and food had reset her mind. Make no mistake, she was still upset at Oscar, but what he had said was right—she shouldn’t have taken it out on you. She needed to make it right.
She texted you. Hey YN, are you awake? I’d like to talk. In person, if you can.
Only a few minutes later you responded, affirming that you were available and sending the address of your hostel. Lily got there quickly, quietly walking through the rooms to your private room in the back. When you shut the door behind you and you both sat on the bed, she broke down.
“YN,” Lily began, “I am so sorry about this morning. Truthfully, I was upset at Oscar and I took it out on you, and I shouldn't have. I was so rude.”
“It’s okay,” you assured.
“No, it’s not,” Lily interjected. But she seemed at a loss for words. “I just… sometimes, I feel like I hardly get any alone time with Oscar anymore.”
“Because I’m always there?” you joked, not knowing how close to the truth you really were. Lily didn’t respond. “Look, if you want me to take a step back, I can do that.”
Her response was quiet. “Would that be too much to ask?”
“No.” But it was, in a way. You felt your heart shatter into a million pieces, but your expression gave away nothing. “I understand.”
“I don’t think he loves me anymore,” Lily confessed. You normally didn’t want to know the details of their relationship, because the truth was too heavy to bear. But it seemed cruel to cut her off. “I feel like he never wants to be around me, like he prefers his work and his friends over me. I want to get married and he doesn’t. He keeps saying it's too soon and he’s busy, but it’s been nearly five years! I mean, how long does he want me to wait?”
You felt uncomfortable, not sure how to comfort your best friend's girlfriend. So you were honest. “I don’t know, Lily. I don’t know what goes on in Oscar’s head any more than you do.”
“Yes you do,” she replied. “You’ve known him longer.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I think he’s in love with you.”
“No, no, no,” you said, wrapping Lily in an embrace as she cried. “No, he’s not. He loves you so much.”
“No,” she echoed. “He doesn’t.”
You didn’t know how to respond. You just held her.
At one point, your phone buzzed, illuminating the screen. Some unimportant notification, but you noticed the date and time more than that. It was past midnight; Valentine’s Day.
The third instance was during the first weekend of the 2025 season; the Australian Grand Prix.
You hadn’t heard from Oscar since the trip. You didn’t really know what to say, and part of you was dreading having to speak to him, knowing that your mere presence was now a strain on his relationship.
Of course Lily wanted more time with him. It made sense. You were present at…most things, actually. But Oscar always invited you, and besides, they lived together. If you had known that you had overstayed your welcome, you never would have gone in the first place.
But on the other hand, you and Oscar had been a part of each other’s lives for nearly double the time that Lily had been around. It wasn’t a competition, but you couldn’t shake that sour feeling that rested in your stomach, that if given the chance, Lily would want you gone for good.
Regardless, between the trip and the grand prix, life went on as normal. It was odd, since your job was literally running all the official OP81 media pages and merch website. You couldn’t not be a part of his life—you made your living by posting memes about him on the internet and organizing all his merch sales.
So, naturally, you went to nearly all the races to take photos of fans, the paddock, and the garage. It was one of your favorite parts of the job.
But Australia was different. It was Oscar’s home race, and a place full of memories for you.
Your family had moved to Australia when you were only seven, having absolutely no friends, except the sweet boy next door in your cul de sac. At first he was cold. You thought he hated you. But you were nothing if not stubborn.
You remembered it like it was yesterday; for Christmas, you asked for a pink motorized jeep, just like the black one that Oscar—the neighbour boy, back then—had. You squealed for joy when you got it. And the very first thing you did was challenge him to a race.
He ignored you. So you rammed your car into his, causing both of them to break. Ever since, somehow, you’d been inseparable.
Your parents traveled a lot for work, so instead of constantly going with them, you found yourself staying with the Piastri family for months at a time. Nicole truly felt like your second mom, and Hattie was the sister you never had. And Oscar was…Oscar. It was impossible to describe the bond between you.
Your parents were never too keen on Oscar, though. They kept it quiet when you were little, but as you grew, their dislike became more outward.
He was 14, leaving for boarding school in the UK. When he told you, you cried. That’s the only time he ever saw you cry.
You wanted to go with him, but your parents couldn’t afford it. He promised he wouldn’t let your friendship die, and he was true to his word. When he got into the higher formulas in racing, he helped you get your job so that you all would never be that far from each other again.
But your parents always said he was using you, stringing you along, exploiting your labor. Though you’d never admitted it to another soul, they knew you well enough to understand that you loved him.
You cut your parents off a long time ago.
Sometimes the fans were worse. Half of them loved you—the half that understood that you could give them access to your idol—but the other half of them called you a beneficiary of nepotism, a gold digger, or a homewrecker. You learned at a young age to develop thick skin.
And it was how you both behaved on race weekends that really exemplified the difference between you and Lily.
You liked to be everywhere at once—in the garage trying to interpret the engineers’ technical jargon, in the grandstands taking photos of fans, in the pitlane shooting the shit with the race stewards. You always wore Oscar’s merch, and you wanted to be in the middle of all the action.
Lily, in contrast, was more reserved. She always looked put together, and frankly stunning, at all her appearances. She preferred to watch the race from the comfort and privacy of McLaren hospitality, and when she did interact with fans, she was respectful but short, very conscious of her space.
Neither of you were better or worse than the other. But no one could deny that you were polar opposites.
You got to Australia before Oscar himself did, having been invited to spend a few days with your surrogate family before you’d have to stay in the hotel, per F1 employee policy. Nicole had told Oscar, who you assumed had told Lily, and when you didn’t hear anything for a few days before you were meant to fly out, you thought everything was fine.
Of course, you thought wrong.
You spent 3 days with Oscar’s family, relishing the warm feeling of belonging that you’d missed. The Piastri guest room felt more like your own childhood bedroom. Of course, Nicole asked how you’d been, but you were politely distant, wanting to respect the fact that Oscar and Lily’s relationship was none of your business.
When the pair finally landed in Australia and made their way to Oscar’s childhood home for the night, though, things worsened.
When Nicole got back from picking them up from the airport, you were in the kitchen prepping dinner. Hearing the front door close, you looked up and smiled, greeting the group.
“YN! What are you doing here?” Lily asked, her voice tentative.
Nicole answered for you. “Oh, she’s been here since Sunday. I’m so happy to have all my kids under the same roof again,” she joked, turning to Oscar to reach up and pinch his cheeks.
Lily just gave a pained smile.
You didn’t know what to do. You hadn’t talked to Oscar in nearly a month. You wanted to honor her wishes—but it seemed like her wish was for you to vanish into thin air.
The rest of the night you were unusually quiet, trying to blend into the background. It wasn’t difficult for Nicole to notice that something was up, but she knew better than to bring it up in front of the whole table.
After dinner she wanted everyone to gather in the living room and watch a movie, which you quickly bowed out of, complaining of exhaustion.
As the credits rolled, Nicole leaned over to whisper to Oscar, “Is everything okay with YN?”
Lily overheard and interjected, “She’s fine.” Nicole raised an eyebrow.
Oscar responded, “The home grand prix is always busy for her.”
The answer wasn’t sufficient enough to crush Nicole’s suspicions, but she didn’t have any more time to pry as her son and his girlfriend quickly decided to retire for the night themselves.
The next morning, as everyone was packing to get to the hotel, Nicole decided to ask you herself if everything was okay. But predictably, again, you just said that you were fine. And the morning was so hectic that she didn’t really have the time to interrogate you.
Once you all got settled and to the track for media day, work mode took over, and you forgot all about the tension at the Piastri family home. Though you quite literally were paid to follow Oscar around all day, you felt more like the paparazzi than his friend, hardly ever speaking to him.
And as you went back to the hotel room alone to edit and post for tonight, you felt like a stranger in your own body.
You didn’t want to do this anymore. You missed your friend, but more importantly, you missed being yourself.
But what were you supposed to do? You loved Oscar. Oscar loved Lily. Lily hated you.
You were stuck between three impossible choices: stick around and be forced to subdue yourself into a shell of your true personality until Lily decided she wasn’t upset at you anymore, lose everything you’d ever built by quitting and moving away like you knew she wanted, or continue being yourself and possibly cost Oscar the love of his life.
Yeah, this was a wonderful predicament you found yourself in, through no fault of your own.
You moved like a zombie through the free practices and qualifying. When it was finally time for the grand prix, you assumed your usual place in the McLaren garage, for work if nothing else.
But then, Oscar won.
No team rules. No convoluted strategies. Just Oscar doing what he did best.
You couldn’t hear your own thoughts over the shout of the garage and the crowd in the distance, cheering out for their hometown hero. You ran out with everyone to the barricades to greet your best friend.
Though he still had his helmet on, you could see the effects of his smile in his squinted eyes. He pumped his fist in the air, cheering to himself before running to the barricades to jump into the waiting arms of the crowd. You cheered with them, overwhelmed with pride.
Oscar locked eyes with you, cupping your face with his gloved hands and pressing the top of his helmet to your forehead. “I did it, YN!”
“You did!” you yelled, smiling ear to ear.
Of course, people took photos. Photos that Oscar posted later that night.
Lily didn’t like it—the sweet intimacy of the moment, front and center on Oscar’s Instagram page. Why would you post that? It was like you were taunting her.
Lily sat on the edge of the hotel bed while Oscar showered, both of them preparing to meet you, Lando, and a few McLaren team members to celebrate his win.
When Oscar emerged from the bathroom, Lily asked him, “Osc, can you do me a favor?”
“Hm?” he murmured as he dried his hair.
“Can you take down that picture that YN posted?”
“YN posted something?” he questioned, grabbing his phone. As his social media manager, you had access to all his accounts, but occasionally he’d post something himself, too. “I don’t see what you’re talking about.”
Lily pursed her lips. “The first picture from the post she made an hour ago.”
“Oh, this?” Oscar held up his phone. “I posted that.”
Lily was silent.
“Why do you want me to delete it? It’s a good photo.”
Lily just looked at him. Oscar sighed and archived the photo. “There, happy?”
His tone was much harsher than he intended, but to be honest, he was getting tired of the constant fighting, and his patience was wearing thin.
Lily kept quiet, just silently going into the bathroom to start doing her makeup.
In the lobby of the hotel an hour or so later, you awkwardly stood with Lando waiting for the couple to arrive. Once again you were torn—should you miss out on celebrating with your best friend on his first ever home win, or should you go and strain his relationship further?
You were just going to say screw it and go back up to your room when you saw Lily and Oscar walking towards you. Though there was no tension between them, there was no love either. They both just looked…tired.
Everyone had decided to keep it relaxed for tonight, just doing a nice group dinner with Oscar’s family. It was fine, albeit a tad awkward, because you were sitting between Lando and some McLaren employees you didn’t know, at the opposite end of the table from Lily, Oscar, and his family.
You knew this couldn’t continue forever. Something had to break. And it did, when you and Lando ended up back in Oscar and Lily’s room, drinking your way through a bottle of nice champagne.
The alcohol seemed to have calmed Lando’s nerves, as he was actually normal with you. And Oscar was a blushy, smiling mess and he and his teammate laughed at something you couldn’t remember.
You opened your mouth to say something, but the mood was ruined by Lily’s drunken slurring. “Oh my God, YN, just shut up! Go away!” she giggled and grabbed Oscar’s arm.
Usually, you were calm, letting any infraction roll off of you like waves on the beach. But the alcohol emboldened you.
“Lily, what the fuck is your problem with me?” you asked.
The mood shifted, and Lily gave you a look of disgust. “I was just joking, God.”
“No you weren’t.”
Lando chimed in. “Well, I think I gotta call it a night.” He got up and patted Oscar on the back. The two men stood up to walk out, leaving just you and Lily alone in the hotel room.
“I don’t know what the fuck your problem is with me, but don’t act like there isn’t one. It’s obvious that you don’t want me around, I don’t know what I ever did to you.”
Lily had clearly been sobered up by your seriousness. Still, she burst into tears.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep doing this.”
You sighed, unable to keep your anger in the face of her cries. She continued, “I just… Oscar and I were each other’s first everything. First love, first kiss…first time. I love him so much.”
“I’m not trying to steal him from you.”
Lily was quiet, and so were you. Something she had said gave you pause.
They were each other’s first everything—no, that couldn’t be true.
Because you were Oscar’s first.
It had been many years—you were both 18—and you had never spoken about what happened. But you remembered.
He came back home for Christmas from the UK. It was before he had even met Lily.
You welcomed him home with an embrace—even with the frequent phone calls you had, you couldn’t help but miss your best friend, now here before you, in the flesh.
Neither of you could sleep that night, and somehow you both found yourself in Oscar’s childhood bedroom, quiet in the early hours of the morning.
Though it was warm outside, Nicole had a habit of keeping the house frigid, so you and Oscar huddled together under the handmade quilt that decorated his bed. The moment was tender and quiet, together in the soft darkness.
“Do you like it in the UK?” you asked him, your question searching for a genuine answer.
“It’s okay, I guess. It’s what I have to do for the races.”
“But do you ever get…lonely?”
He paused. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
You traced small circles on the skin of your leg. The closeness of the moment was uncomfortable.
“But you have friends, right?”
“Yeah, but they’re not, y’know, friends for life.”
“I get you.” You really did, not having many friends of your own since Oscar left. “But you must have a ton of girls, though. They all want the cool race car driver.” You smiled, trying to use your humor to lighten the intimacy of the moment.
“No,” was all he answered. “And if I had a girlfriend, you’d be the first to know, anyway.” In the dark of the room, you could only see the outline of his features, but you could feel the pull of his eyes looking at you. “What, do you have a boyfriend? Is that why you’re bringing this up?” he asked.
“Of course I don’t.”
“What do you mean, of course?”
“I mean, why would I have a boyfriend? I have no friends and half the people at school think you don’t even exist.”
“What?” he laughed.
“Well, yeah, when I say my best friend drives race cars in the UK, most people think I’m making you up.”
“Shit,” he laughed.
“So, yeah, it doesn’t exactly get me dates,” you laughed. You felt your throat stiffen. “I haven’t even had my first kiss or anything.”
The silence in the room was thick. “I haven’t either,” Oscar confessed.
You found it hard to believe. Oscar was handsome, funny, everything a girl could want. Neither of you had ever been social butterflies, though.
Under the blanket, Oscar reached for your hand, placing it in his. Your heart was beating out of your chest; you had never even held a boy’s hand.
“We could just…do it now,” he said. “Just to get it over with.” He feigned his usual nonchalance, but you could feel the increase of his heartbeat and the ever so subtle tremble in his voice.
It would be easy for you to laugh it off like a joke. But you knew it wasn’t. And you wanted him.
“Okay,” you said, your voice breathy with nervousness.
You sat up on the bed, and saw the dark outline of his figure leaning towards you, gently tilting your head.
And when his lips met yours, it felt like home. Like everything in your entire life had left you up to this moment, here in the warmth of your best friend’s childhood bedroom.
The kiss lasted longer than you anticipated, but when he did pull away, it was too soon. You were grateful for the darkness that hid your expression. But even without the light, Oscar could see the truth behind your eyes.
“We could…keep going.”
“Okay,” you repeated.
One of his hands found your waist now, pulling you closer, as his other hand pushed back your hair that had fallen in your face.
Once again his lips met yours. It wasn’t like a spark within you—more like a calming, a sense of peace and safety. Of all the boys you’d crushed on before, Oscar was different. You trusted him with everything.
And you showed him so.
He slipped his tongue past your teeth, tentative, as if he was scared to do the wrong thing. But you let him close the gap, your own tongue gliding along his, goosebumps going down your back the closer you got.
He wanted to put his hands all over you, but he was nervous.
He pulled away. “I…don’t really know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t either. Is it actually your first time?”
“Yeah. You don’t mind me being your first?”
“I trust you.”
So you both took it slow, taking each other’s hands where you wanted to be touched, not focusing on anything but the other.
The love you made was quiet and simple, beautiful yet imperfect. But you didn’t need perfect. You just needed him.
The next morning, you slipped out of his room before anyone was awake, afraid of what would happen if they found out.
But no one ever did. Oscar never said a word about it ever again, and neither did you; after the holidays, he went back to school and met Lily, and the rest was history.
But you remembered. And as you sat in that hotel room years later waiting for him, you felt numb.
By the time he got back Lily had calmed down, but you couldn’t stand to be there anymore. You announced your departure, but Oscar decided to walk you out, too.
You closed the door behind you, but Oscar pulled you to not leave so quickly.
“Hey, is everything alright with you and Lily?”
“No. It’s not.”
He sighed. “I don’t know why she’s being like this.”
You just stared at him, your face blank.
“What,” he asked, “don’t tell me you’re mad too.”
“Was Lily your first?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.”
Oscar looked over his shoulder. “I’d really rather not talk about this in the hallway…”
“So do you want to go in the room and talk about it? In front of her? Because you lied to one of us. Which one was it?”
“YN, it’s—”
“Which one of us did you lie to, Oscar?”
He let out a sharp exhale, knowing there was no way to escape your line of questioning. He leaned down to whisper to you. “I didn’t lie to her. She just…assumed, and I never corrected her.”
“That’s still lying.”
“You really think I should go in there and tell her the truth?” His voice dripped with frustration.
“Yes. She deserves to know.”
“You know why I never told her? Because I knew this shit would happen, she’d get jealous and try to push you out of my life. If I tell her now, she’ll make me choose between the two of you.”
“Do you blame her?” you asked, astounded at how Oscar could be so clueless.
“Seriously?” he retorted. “You think she’s justified in doing all this to you? The entire reason she’s mad is because she knows if she tries to make me choose, I’m not choosing her.”
“Don’t say that! Oscar, she’s your girlfriend. You should love her.”
“I do. But things just…aren’t the same anymore. It’s like she wants me to change my whole life for her. I can’t do that.”
Unbeknownst to you, Lily got up from the bed and walked to the door, pressing her ear to it, where she could faintly hear you and Oscar arguing.
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Oscar continued. “And if you don’t want her to split us up, just let me handle it.”
“Oscar, she deserves better than this. I’ve missed spending time with you, but… you’ve got to tell her the truth.”
Lily opened the door. “I knew it,” she said, her eyes full of tears. “I knew you were cheating.”
Your eyes were wide as dinner plates as Oscar cursed to himself. “Lily, I swear to God that is not what happened—”
“Don’t. Don’t even try,” she said, but Oscar pushed his way back into the room anyway. He looked back to you, and even without words, you knew it was time to go. You needed some sleep.
Unfortunately, Oscar would not be getting any sleep tonight.
“Oscar, just stop lying to me! I’m tired of this!’ Lily cried, curling her legs to her chest as she sat on the bed.
“Lily, I swear, I have never cheated on you. What YN and I were talking about was something from a long time ago.”
“We’ve been together for five years!”
“Can I just explain myself? Please?”
Lily just broke down in sobs. “Do whatever. I don’t care anymore.”
Oscar sighed. “Look, I…I have lied to you. You weren’t my first. YN was.” He looked at his girlfriend, who was still just silently crying. “It was before we even met, and it was just once, and we’ve never done anything since. I would never cheat on you, I love you and—”
“When and where was it?” Lily asked, cutting him off with her statement more like a command than a question.
“The December before we met, when I came home for Christmas.”
“In your bed?”
He nodded.
“Oscar, I slept in that bed next to you the other night.”
He said nothing.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Haven’t I been good to you?”
“Lily, I promise, I love you more than anything.”
“Then why would you lie to me for five years?”
Oscar took a deep breath and said, “Because I was afraid you would be upset. People don’t understand that me and YN are just friends. I mean, we were raised together, she’s like my sister.”
“You had sex with her. You took each other’s virginity.”
“It wasn’t…like that.”
“How can it not be like that? Do you even hear what you’re saying?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”
About an hour after you left, you heard a knock on your hotel room door, and you answered. It was, of course, Lily.
“Tell me whatever Oscar wouldn’t,” she said. Her eyes were still puffy and red.
You welcomed her in, beginning to tell her the entire truth. “Oscar and I had sex when we were 18, before he met you. We never talked about it afterwards. After you met I didn’t want to bring it up, I just assumed he’d do the right thing and tell you. I didn’t want to pry into your relationship.”
So, your stories matched. And Lily knew that you were nothing if not honest.
“Do you love him?”
“Of course I do, he’s my best friend.”
“No, I mean, are you in love with him?”
You didn’t answer immediately. What were you supposed to say?
Tears fought their way to the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away. “I don’t know,” you began, but that was a lie, you did know. “I guess…I have a special type of love for him. We grew up together. When we were younger, yes, I wanted to be his girlfriend. But then he met you, and… Lily, he was so happy! I just…I realized that I wanted him to be happy more than I wanted him to be mine. So I made peace with the fact that this is how it had to be.”
Lily was overwhelmed with your honesty, in the face of so much deception.
You continued, “I don’t blame you for being upset at me. Oscar should have been honest about what our friendship was like from the very beginning instead of lying to you. But I swear, we haven’t done anything while you all have been together. I’ve been cheated on and I know how much that hurts, I would never do that to anyone else. I’m so sorry it ended up like this.”
“No,” Lily said, “You’re the only one who’s been honest with me throughout all of this. Thank you.”
After that, you hadn’t heard from Oscar after that for a long time. Or, at least, a few weeks felt like a long time to you. But you had other pressing matters—your workload was through the roof with Oscar’s wins. Lando had snatched himself a win too, setting up an early battle for the championship. It was too early into the season to call it, but you knew Oscar was feeling the pressure with the possibility of his first championship dangling so close in front of him. So you kept your distance, not wanting to be a distraction.
That was, until he called you, saying just those three painful words.
“Lily left me.”
The sun was cresting over the horizon, illuminating the thick glass of your balcony and flooding light into your living room. You hadn’t gotten an ounce of rest.
From your bedroom, you could hear Oscar snoring. You just let him sleep.
God knows you both needed it.
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