biblioteca-da-meia-noite

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Growing Pains | Max Verstappen ( Chapter One )

SUMMARY — It started with berry stained fingers. Karting suits that were slightly too big. The sickening crunch of metal and the silence that followed.

If you asked Max Verstappen to pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with Mila Meijer, he'd say, 'Lonato, Italy. 2005. Behind my father's van. In a blackberry bush.'

If you asked Mila Meijer when she fell in love with Max Verstappen, she'd smile, blush, and ask, 'Which time?'

WARNINGS — Career ending spinal-injuries and the aftermath, coming of age, abusive parents (very vague), death of a parent, racing accidents, PTSD, chronic pain, time skips, eventual smut.

AUTHOR NOTES — This one goes out to the girlie's who fell in love as kids and still hold on tightly to that love to this day. The timeline is not going to be completely accurate, but that's okay! Hope you love it - Peach x

Series Masterlist

2005 – Lonato, Italy

The air smelled like burnt rubber and warm grass—summer smells. A kart shrieked through a far-off corner of the track, thin and angry, then all of the noise was gone again.

Mila Meijer crouched low behind a mess of blackberry bushes at the edge of the paddock, hidden from view. Her karting suit—white with bubblegum-pink stripes—was unzipped and tied around her waist, the sleeves dragging in the dirt. Her undershirt clung to her back, sticky with sweat. Juice stained her fingers red and purple where she’d crushed berries in her palm, one after another. She sucked the juice from her knuckles slowly, letting the sugar sit on her tongue. For a moment, nothing else existed; just sun, sweetness, and the quiet thrum of the karting paddock.

Then a shadow blocked the sun.

He came around the corner fast, all elbows and knees, expression sharp. 

Max Verstappen.

Buzzcut, furrowed brow, mouth pulled tight like he’d forgotten how to smile.

He stopped when he saw her. Glared like she wasn’t supposed to be there.

“You’re gonna get your gloves sticky,” he said. His voice was clipped, like he was pointing out a safety hazard.

Mila looked at her hands. Juice was dripping down the side of her wrist. She blinked, wiped it off with the side of her shirt, and shrugged. “I’ve got other gloves,” she said, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Max squinted at her. “But those are your race gloves.”

“I know.” She shrugged.

He didn’t say anything after that. Just nodded slowly and stared at her like she was from Mars. 

“You’re Max Verstappen,” she said. Not a question. He nodded again, like: obviously. “I beat your qualifying time.” She said. She also grinned toothily, just to annoy him. 

It totally worked. His head snapped toward her, a glare forming like a storm cloud. “You got lucky,” he said. “It was wet.”

Mila made a face. “Won’t be tomorrow, and I’ll still start in-front of you.”

Max kicked a loose rock hard. It skidded across the gravel and thunked against the side of a van. She didn’t flinch, just plucked another berry from the bush and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly.

Max watched her do it, watched the red juice stain the corners of her mouth. “What’s your name?” He demanded.

She told him. “Mila Meijer.” 

“Dutch,” he said, frowning. 

“Obviously,” she said back, like that should’ve been clear. “I race under the Dutch flag.” 

Max glared at her even harder then. “Yeah, well, your suit’s unzipped.” He said, like an accusation. 

“So’s yours,” she replied, before she even thought about it.

He looked down, saw that she was right, and glowered. 

She held out her hand, palm open. Three squished berries sat there, glistening in the sun.

“Want one?”

Max wrinkled his nose. “They’re all mushy.”

“Still yummy.”

He stared at the berries. Then at her. He sat down beside her in the grass, cross-legged, elbows on his knees like he couldn’t help it. He took one, gently, like she might bite him, and crushed it between his fingers as he lifted it to his mouth. Juice ran down his wrist.

“Shit,” he muttered, wiping it on his pants.

Mila’s eyes went big. “You swore!”

Max frowned. “I swear all the time,” he said, like that was totally normal for someone eight years old.

She leaned closer, eyes wide. “Will you teach me?”

Max tilted his head, studying her. “Okay.”

—

Later, Max sat on a plastic crate, staring at the tires of his kart. Jos was crouched beside the frame, ratcheting something into place, focused and quiet. Max picked at the edge of his glove.

Across the paddock, Mila stood next to her kart. Her dad stood with his arms crossed, looming over her mechanic. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was tight and sharp, like a corner taken too fast.

“No, not like that,” he said. “She’ll lose time out of Turn 2 if it pulls like that again. You need to get it right.”

Mila didn’t say anything. Just nodded, expression unreadable.

Max watched the way her entire body stiffened when her dad stepped in closer. 

Then her dad put a hand on her shoulder. Not rough. Not gentle either. Mila flinched.

“You want to beat these boys?” He said, low and hard. “Then stop making mistakes. Every one of them counts. Do you understand?”

She nodded again, fast.

Max looked away quickly, pretending to adjust something on his own kart. The tire pressure didn’t need checking. He did it anyway.

—

By the time the sun dipped low and the paddock lights buzzed to life, Max wandered back to the blackberry bushes. Mila was already there, squatting in the grass with grease smeared across her cheek. She looked small and tired, but her hands were still stained purple.

“Did you get in trouble?” He asked, hands in his pockets.

She shrugged without looking at him. “Always.”

Max sat next to her. Close enough that their knees almost touched. He didn’t ask this time, just picked a berry, popped it in his mouth, and made a face.

“They’re sour now,” he muttered.

Mila nodded. Frowned. “Too ripe.”

They didn’t talk after that. Just sat there with sticky fingers, the track going quiet in the distance. Max reached down, pulled a blade of grass, and twisted it between his fingers.

“Do you ever wanna quit?” Max asked, not looking at her.

Mila didn’t answer right away. She picked at a scab on her knuckle. “No,” she said finally. “But sometimes I wish it was different.”

Max nodded like he understood. Like he wished that too, even if he couldn’t say what different meant.

Then he said, “Your dad seems mean.”

Mila turned her head, squinting at him. “So does yours.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “My dad just wants me to do well. He wants me to win.”

She shrugged. “Mine too.”

Max stared at her for a moment. He wanted to say something like—‘Yeah, but you’re a girl. And dads are supposed to protect their daughters, not yell at them and dig their fingers into their shoulders like that.’

But he didn’t. That was an inside thought. A secret one.

So instead, he kicked at a clump of dirt and said nothing at all.

—

2008 – Belgium

Sometimes, when Max couldn’t sleep, the memory came back in pieces. Not like a movie; more like flashes. Out of order. Out of reach.

The sound first. The ugly shriek of tires too fast into a corner, the crunch of metal on plastic, the silence after. That part always came first.

Then the light. Late afternoon, golden and heavy. Engine smoke hanging thickly in the air. Someone shouting, then everyone shouting. Footsteps. The smell of petrol and hot tarmac and something underneath it all—something coppery and terrifying. 

He remembers his hands. Small. Still in velcro gloves. One of them holding the steering wheel even after he’d already stopped his own kart. The other shaking when he unbuckled himself and started to run.

He hadn’t even thought about it when he’d stopped. Ended his own race in the blink of an eye. He still doesn’t know how he knew it was her who’d spun out. He just knew. Like a wire had snapped inside him. Like something invisible had yanked him toward her.

Her kart was sideways in the grass, a front tire missing, the nose crumpled. She was there, but not really. Crumpled too. And still.

He remembers her helmet first. Pink with white stars. The strap undone. Someone, maybe him, had pulled it off. Maybe it had fallen. Maybe it didn’t matter.

Her eyes were open, though. And she was blinking too slowly. There was dirt on her cheek and a cut on her lip and something wrong with the way her body was curled. Like a puppet with the strings let go.

He remembers saying her name. Over and over. Quiet at first, then louder. ‘Mila. Mila. Mila!’

He doesn’t remember crying, but he must’ve, because later his cheeks were wet and his nose hurt from breathing too hard.

And then suddenly Jos was there. Kneeling beside them, one hand on Max’s shoulder, the other hovering over Mila’s back. His voice low but urgent, “Don’t move her. Don’t touch her, Max.”

Max hadn’t. He’d just sat there, right beside her, knees digging into the gravel, hands in his lap. Helpless. Until his dad tore him away, had to throw him over his shoulder and carry him away.

He doesn’t remember the ambulance leaving. Just that the blackberry bushes by the track had been ripped through by someone’s tires. The berries crushed into the dirt like blood.

Later, they told him what happened. How the kart had snapped sideways at the exit. How the rear tire had lifted, twisted wrong, thrown her forward like a rag doll. How the seat had been mounted too rigidly. How her spine had taken the hit like a nail driven into wood.

They used words like compression fracture and T12 and incomplete. Words like lucky and won’t ever race again and rehabilitation.

Max hadn’t understood most of it. He still doesn’t think he really does.

All he knew was that she didn’t move. 

And then, for a long time after, she wasn’t there.

—

The rain had been tapping against the windows for over an hour. Inside the Verstappens’ house, everything was warm and still.

Mila lay curled on the fold-out mattress in Max’s room, legs awkward under a thick blanket. Her back brace sat in the corner, neatly folded. She hated wearing it around him—said it made her feel like an ugly robot. Max thought it was cool, actually. Like armour. Thought it was ridiculous that she didn’t like something that helped her not hurt so much.

Boys and girls weren’t really supposed to have sleepovers. But Jos didn’t mind so much when it was Mila. Not since Max started talking less to everyone else and more to only her.

“You’re thinking about it again,” Mila said, voice soft in the dark.

Max blinked, turned on his side. She was already watching him, eyes half-lidded but awake.

He didn’t say anything.

“You get that face when you do,” she went on. “Like you’re mad.”

He stared at the ceiling. “I just—” He stopped. “I knew it was you before anyone said anything and I don’t know how.”

Mila didn’t answer right away. “I don’t remember it. Sometimes I think maybe it didn’t even happen. Like I made it up.”

“It did,” Max said quickly, too sharp. “It happened.”

She slowly got up and tiptoed over to his bed. Stared at him until he huffed and moves over to make room for her. She gingerly climbed up and his hands itched to help her, but it’d only annoy her if he did. She eventually laid flat next to him. Both of them staring at the ceiling now. “I know it did. I’m just saying—I don’t remember it.”

He looked over. “Do you still miss it? Racing?”

Her voice came out small. “Every day.”

Silence again. Just the rain. Just the steady rhythm of breath.

“But I don’t miss being scared all the time,” she said after a while. “I don’t miss trying to win just so my dad wouldn’t yell at me all the way home.”

Max’s hands curled under the blanket. “I don’t miss that either.”

“I might come watch you race next year,” she said, quieter. “Jos said he wouldn’t mind. But I don’t want to be wearing the brace. It’ll just embarrass you.”

“You won’t,” he said, like it was obvious. “You could never embarrass me. I want you at all my races.”

She giggled. “That’s a lot of travelling.”

“You like planes.”

She just shrugged.

He didn’t say anything after that. Just shifted a little closer, until their shoulders touched beneath the blanket. She didn’t move away.

And when Max finally fell asleep, her hand was still resting quietly on top of his.

— 

2009 – Genk, Belgium

The crowd was loud, all clapping hands and stomping feet and the shrill metallic clatter of cowbells. Mila stood just behind the barrier near parc fermé, bundled in a navy rain jacket too big for her and a scarf Jos had insisted she wear, even though it wasn’t even that cold. The air smelled like exhaust and damp tires, her breath catching sharp and light in her chest.

On the track, Max was flying.

She could spot him anywhere, his helmet, matte black with the red lion decal Jos had added for him. His shoulders hunched in that specific, aggressive way when he drove angry. He was always better when he drove angry.

Her lion. 

She gripped the metal rail tighter.

The final corner came fast. Max dipped left, clean and low, and came out of the apex with barely a twitch. The kid behind him, Italian, taller, always trying to bump his way past, missed his shot. Max stayed ahead.

The chequered flag waved, and he won. 

Max didn’t celebrate, not really. He just lifted one fist in the air and kept driving, steady and sharp, until the track marshal made him stop.

Mila had never been so still in her life. Not even during the accident. She felt it everywhere, in her ribs, in her knees, in the space between her shoulder blades where the pain used to live. 

It felt like watching someone become exactly who they were born to be.

Jos clapped him on the helmet, proud but restrained. Always restrained. 

When Max finally made it back toward the barrier, out of the kart and peeling off his gloves, his eyes searched through the crowd.

He found her.

His face changed, not a smile exactly, but that quiet spark he never showed anyone else. Not Jos. Not the other drivers. Just her.

Mila grinned. She raised both thumbs, like a total idiot, and mouthed, “You did it!”

Max didn’t mouth anything back. He just pressed one hand against his chest, over his race suit. Just once. Like a promise. Like a thank you. 

And even though the ache in her back flared up from standing too long, and her legs felt sore from the walk to the paddock, Mila didn’t move.

She just watched him. Her best friend. Her person.

Her lion had just won the Mini Max class at the Belgian Karting Championship. His first real title. Real enough that Jos gave her a careful hug after the trophies were handed out, which meant that he wasn’t just happy — he was elated. 

— 

2010 – Kitzbühel, Austria

Snowbanks pressed up against the windows of the Verstappens’ rented chalet in the hills above Kitzbühel. Inside, it smelled like firewood, hot cocoa, and damp ski gear drying by the door.

Mila sat cross-legged on the floor by the fireplace, flipping through an old motorsport magazine. Her brace was on, she wore it more in the winter when the cold made her back ache worse, and her sweatpants bunched around it awkwardly. She hated how it looked. But it hurt too much to take off.

Max was across from her on the rug, trying to beat Mick at some ancient PlayStation rally game that Jos had found for them to play in the back of a cupboard.

“Max, you’re cutting the corner!” Mick complained, voice high with frustration.

“It’s not cutting if there’s no penalty,” Max muttered, without looking away from the screen.

Mick scoffed and flopped back against a cushion. “You’re such a Verstappen.”

Max just grinned like it was a compliment — it was, probably.

The next round started, but Mila wasn’t watching. She was pulling gently at the hem of her hoodie, trying to cover the plastic edge of her brace. She could feel it pressing into her ribs today, sharp and dull at the same time.

“You’re not skiing this year?” Mick asked, glancing over.

Mila shook her head. “Can’t.”

“Oh,” Mick said. He looked at her for a second longer. “Because of your robot thing?”

She blinked at him. “It’s called a brace.”

“Yeah. But like—” he hesitated, fumbling the words like they were marbles in his mouth. “It makes you look kind of funny. Stiff.”

Max dropped his controller.

The game kept running, his car spinning off the track, but he didn’t even glance at it.

Mick didn’t notice at first. “My dad says it’s probably hard for you, not racing anymore. Must be boring.”

Max stood up, sudden and angry. “Don’t,” he said, voice quiet but hard. Mila had never heard him sound like that before.

Mick blinked up at him. “What?”

“I said don’t.”

Jos was laughing about something with Corinna in the next room. There was the clink of coffee cups and adult voices muffled by thick walls.

Mila stared at Max. His hands were clenched at his sides. Not in fists, just—tight. Like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Mick said, trying to laugh it off, but the tension didn’t go anywhere.

Max looked at him, jaw tight. “Just don’t talk about her like that again.”

Mick nodded slowly. Max sat back down.

The game music looped softly in the background.

After a while, Max shifted closer to Mila, not looking at her. He picked up the magazine she’d been reading and held it in front of them like it mattered.

“You’re not stiff,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear.

She swallowed. “I know. Thanks.”

And for the rest of the day, she didn’t tug at her hoodie once.

— 

2011 – Lelystad, The Netherlands

The cemetery sat on the edge of Lelystad, where the land lay open and bare, flat as paper under a heavy March sky. The trees, stripped thin by winter, rattled in the wind like bones. The funeral had ended hours ago, but the cold clung on—settled in the collarbones, under the fingernails, behind the eyes.

Mila sat alone on the rusted swing set behind her grandmother’s old farmhouse, a crooked little place not far from the karting track where her dad used to take her every Sunday, rain or shine. The swing creaked under her slight weight, chains moaning softly with every gust of wind. Her black dress hung loose around her shoulders. One knee of her tights was torn open, blood dried along a pale scrape from where she’d fallen earlier behind the church, running too fast, trying to get far away as quickly as she could. 

The swing beside her was empty until Max found her.

He stood a few feet away at first, arms folded tight across his chest, like he could brace himself against her grief if he held still enough. His blazer was too formal for him, stiff at the shoulders, the collar digging into his neck. Jos had made him wear it. He’d barely spoken the entire day. But when Mila vanished after the service, Max hadn’t waited to be told. He just went looking.

“He always hated this place,” Mila said finally, voice low and fragile. “He said Lelystad was too flat. That it made you feel like nothing ever changed. Like you could drive in circles forever and still be exactly where you started.”

Max didn’t speak. The creak of the swing, the soft hush of wind through the wet grass—that was all that filled the silence.

“Growing up, he used to tell me I was going to be world champion.” Her throat bobbed. “Like it was already true.”

Max stepped closer, boots crunching on gravel. “You could’ve been,” he said quietly. “You still—”

“No,” she said, not sharp, just flat. Final. “Not anymore.”

He opened his mouth again, but nothing came. She was looking at the ground now, eyes red-rimmed and distant.

“My mom’s gone too,” she added. “Not really, but… she’s not here either. She hasn’t looked at me all day. Like if she does, it’ll make it real. Like it’ll turn her inside out.”

Max finally sat beside her, his blazer bunching awkwardly as he lowered himself onto the swing. His feet didn’t touch the ground either. They were still young enough for that.

“I’m stuck,” she whispered. Her voice caught on the last word. “Like... I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life. And I can’t get back to mine.”

“You’re not stuck,” Max said. It came out too fast, too defensive, like he wanted to punch the idea out of the air before it landed. “You’re not.”

She turned toward him, eyes glassy. “I am, Maxie. I’m stuck. I can’t race, my dad is gone, and my mom’s a ghost. And everyone keeps looking at me like I might break in half if they say the wrong thing.”

Her lower lip trembled, and she wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I wish I could just be with you all the time. You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m broken. You make everything feel… less bad.”

He didn’t answer with words. Just reached over and took her hand, chubby fingers, bitten nails, knuckles raw from winter air. His own were bigger already, rough and strong from hours at the wheel. 

She looked down at them, at their mismatched hands resting between them on the cold metal of the swing, and her cheeks flushed, softly pinked with something that wasn’t the wind.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Max said, and this time his voice was soft. Solid. A promise.

And when she leaned her head lightly onto his shoulder a minute later, neither of them said anything else. They just stayed like that—two kids in black, in the cold, holding onto each other like it might keep them from floating away.

— 

2011 – Zuera, Spain

The heat shimmered off the asphalt. Mid-afternoon sun bore down on the Zuera International Circuit, turning every metal surface into something that burned when touched. Kart engines snarled in the distance, buzzing like hornets, echoing off the low mountains that rimmed the dry Spanish horizon.

Max was leaning against the pit wall, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He had just climbed out of the kart, sweat clinging to the collar of his race suit, eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. His mechanic was crouched beside the kart, adjusting something near the front axle, but Max wasn’t looking at him. 

His eyes had already found Mila.

She sat on an upturned cooler box a few feet away, her legs crossed awkwardly at the ankles, a notebook in her lap and a pencil tucked behind her ear. Her brace was off, only really worn on bad days or long travel stretches now, but she still moved with a certain caution, like her body was always preparing itself for pain. 

Mila glanced up and smiled the second she caught him watching her. It was small, and lopsided, but real. “You kept locking up into Turn 6,” she said before he could speak. “Twice in the first five laps.”

Max blinked. “I didn’t.”

“You did,” she said, not unkindly. “The right rear lifted. Your dad saw it too—he’ll yell at you about it later, probably.”

Max huffed. Dropped his helmet gently beside her cooler box and crouched down, tugging open a water bottle. “I wasn’t braking late.”

“You always brake late,” she said, arching a brow. “You think it makes you invincible.”

He grinned around the bottle. “Maybe I am.”

She laughed, quick and quiet. “Tell that to your tire wear.”

Max offered her the bottle without thinking. She took it and sipped, even though she had her own beside her feet. He always gave her his, like some instinct he didn’t question.

Behind them, Jos was talking with a steward, gesturing toward the telemetry station. Max tuned it out.

“You looked good though,” Mila said after a moment. “In the second half. You were clean. Controlled.”

He looked at her, heat still radiating from his skin, heart still beating like a drum from the adrenaline. “You think I’ll win?”

“You always ask me that.”

“Yeah, but I only believe it when you say yes.”

She tilted her head. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, messy by now, bits sticking to her forehead. “Yes,” she said, softly. “You’ll win.”

A long pause. Max didn’t say thank you. He just nudged her foot with his. “Do you still miss racing?” He asked that question a lot. Every few months, like he expected the answer to change. 

“Yeah,” she answered, no hesitation. “But I don’t miss the pain.”

“Would you come back?” He asked. “If your doctor said you could? Would you start karting again?”

Mila looked down at her lap. The notebook had little diagrams sketched in the margins, corner maps, gear ratios, tire notes. She wasn’t racing anymore, but she was still studying every lap like she was. Max liked looking at them after every race, and Jos always told her that she was smarter than any strategist he’d ever met. It was nice. “I don’t know,” she said. Then after a second, “I don’t think so. I’d be too scared. And my dad always used to say that there’s no place for fear when you want to win.”

Max sat beside her, elbows on his knees, both of them watching the track in the distance where another group of karts tore past in a blur.

“You should be out there,” he muttered, slightly angrily. Always so angry. “With me.”

“You can win for us both,” she said. “That’s good enough.”

He didn’t say anything, but his shoulder pressed against hers.

And when Jos called him over five minutes later for a debrief, Max didn’t move right away. He stayed where he was, beside Mila, like everything could wait a little bit longer if it meant spending an extra few seconds by her side. 

—

2011 – Wackersdorf, Germany

Rain. Not heavy, but constant; the annoying kind that clung to everything and made the rubber slick against the asphalt. The track was damp enough to be dangerous, dry enough to be fine. Everyone was second-guessing tire choices, and tempers were running short.

Max was pacing. His gloves were already on, helmet visor fogged from the inside. Jos stood off to the side, arms crossed, jaw tight, saying nothing, which somehow made it worse.

Mila was sat on a folding chair just outside the tent, hood pulled up, her notebook open across her knees. Her right leg bounced, a leftover habit from when she’d still be strapping in for wet races like this.

Max ignored his mechanic and looked at her. “Do you think I should go with wets?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her pencil tapped the page once, twice. Then, “No. Intermediates. You’ll lose time on the opening lap, but the track’s drying. You’ll claw it back.” She didn’t even look up. Just wrote stay patient lap 1 – outside line better grip in the margins.

Jos overheard. “She’s not your engineer, Max.”

Max didn’t blink. “Yeah, but she’s smarter than all of them. Knows my driving style better than anyone else.”

Jos scowled, but didn’t argue.

Ten minutes later, Max was on the grid, visor down, tires still shiny with heat wrap residue. His pulse was steady, but his fingers kept twitching inside his gloves. He didn’t usually get nervous. But today felt...off.

Then, through the visor fog, he spotted her. Mila, standing alone at the fence. Still hooded, still bouncing that leg. She raised a hand, not waving, just holding it there, like a small lighthouse in the mist.

Max tapped his chest. Once. Just for her.

And something settled.

—

He won.

Not by much. Not cleanly. The race was ugly, elbows out, wheels banging, split-second lunges. But he listened. He waited through the first lap, then started carving through the pack once the grip returned on the drier lines.

When he crossed the line, the fist pump came late. It wasn’t about celebration. It was relief. Control. Proof that the plan, her plan, worked.

Later, soaked through and reeking of fuel, Max found her by the timing screens. He shoved his helmet into her hands like a trophy.

“You were right,” he said, grinning.

Mila rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

He bumped her shoulder with his. “I’m gonna keep listening to you forever.”

She snorted. “You barely listen to your dad.”

“That’s different,” Max said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll always listen to you. Promise.” 

She smiled at him. 

—

2012 – Somewhere on the Autobahn, En Route to Genk

Mila sat sideways in the passenger seat of the van, legs out straight, chin resting on the edge of her hoodie. Max was half-asleep next to her, head slumped against the window, arms crossed tight. 

Jos was driving. The highway lights flashed over his face in intervals, yellow-white, yellow-white, and the hum of the tires on wet road was the only sound for a long time.

And then Mila’s flip-phone buzzed. Again.

MAMA: We need to talk. Call me tonight. You missed your French test. Again.

She swallowed. 

“You okay?” Max asked, his voice rough with sleep. He didn’t even open his eyes.

“Fine,” she lied, instantly.

He cracked one eye open. “That was a lie.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “My moeder is mad.”

“Why?”

“I missed a test. I’ve missed a lot, actually.” She didn’t say it like she was guilty. More like she was tired of pretending that she was. 

Max sat up slowly. “But it’s not your fault. You were with us all weekend.”

“That’s kind of the point, Max.” She said. 

He blinked, his eyebrows furrowing. “You don’t wanna come and watch me race anymore?”

“No,” she said, quickly, fiercely. “Of course I want to. I just... don’t know if I can.” She looked away, out the rain-streaked window. Shrugged. “She says that I have to start thinking about the future. University. She said being at racetracks all the time isn’t—what was the word—appropriate.”

Max looked like someone had just told him the sky wasn’t real. “But this is your future,” he said. “Ours.”

“No, Maxie. This is yours.” She hated how soft her voice sounded. Like giving up.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stared at her like he could make her take it back by sheer force of will. “You’re part of this,” he said eventually. “You’re part of all of this. I don’t know how to do it without you anymore.”

Her smile cracked. “I’m sorry. Maybe you’ll have to learn.”

The van was too quiet after that. Jos said nothing, maybe pretending not to hear, maybe just choosing not to get involved.

“I don’t want to win if you’re not there,” Max said suddenly, and the words came out sharper than he meant. Not dramatic—furious. Desperate.

Mila turned to him, eyes soft and tired. “Don’t say that, Maxie.”

“Why not?”

“Because you will win,” she whispered. “And I don’t want to be the reason you don’t.”

Max’s hands balled into fists. His voice was tight, cracking around the edges. “You’re not a reason. You’re—” But he didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t. Because how do you say you’re everything when you’re fourteen and don’t know the right words for it yet?

Instead, he reached out and hooked their pinkies together, his grip firm. Like it meant something. Like it could hold her there.

And Mila let him. Held on.

—

2012 – Rotterdam, Erasmus Medical Center

The fluorescent lights made everything look too clean. Too white. Like being inside a cloud made of antiseptic. 

Mila sat on the edge of the exam table, the paper crinkling under her legs. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her hands. She kept folding and unfolding them. Her mama sat in the corner of the room, purse in her lap, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt.

The door clicked open and the orthopaedic specialist walked in with a laptop under one arm and that tight smile that meant ‘I’m about to tell you something bad but I’m going to say it kindly.’

“Hi Mila,” he said. “Good to see you.”

Mila nodded. “You too.” She lied. 

He pulled up the scan images, angled the monitor so they could both see. Spinal curvature. Hardware. Thin white lines against soft shadows.

“You’ve been doing quite well since the last procedure,” he began. “But we’ve been keeping an eye on the growth pattern around the fusion site, and... the imaging shows some instability just below the existing rods. That’s why the pain’s been getting worse.”

Mila didn’t say anything. Her mum straightened but didn’t speak either.

“I think we need to consider another surgery,” the doctor continued gently. “Not immediately. But… soon. Before things worsen or start affecting your mobility long-term.”

Mila blinked slowly. “And then what?”

“Six to eight months recovery. Then bracing for a while.” He paused, and this time his voice dropped. “And Mila… after that, we need you to know that you might require a mobility aid for a few months. Maybe a few years. Spinal injuries are so unpredictable. I just want you to be prepared for that, okay?”

She laughed. A breath, sharp and dry. “Yeah. Not like I have a choice, right?”

“I’ll give you and your mother a moment,” he said, and slipped out with a quiet click of the door.

Mila stared at the wall.

Her moeder finally spoke. “This is a good thing. No more pain.”

Mila didn’t answer.

She stood, came over, and reached for her shoulder. Mila flinched just slightly, but let her. “We’ll get through it. You can focus on school during your recovery, Mila. You can build something real.”

Something real.

Later, in the car on the way home, Mila texted Max without even thinking about it.

Mila: Can’t come to see you next weekend. I’ll tell you about it later.

Max: You okay?

She didn’t answer right away. Just watched the buildings blur past the window.

Mila: Yeah. No. I don’t know.

He didn’t text back for a long time. But when he did, it was simple.

Max: I’ll come to you.

— 

2012 – Rotterdam, Two Days Later

Mila’s bedroom still looked like it belonged to a younger version of herself. Posters curling at the corners, a stack of karting magazines under the bed, and a pink star helmet sitting like a relic on her bookshelf.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, hoodie zipped all the way up. It was late afternoon. Grey light spilled in through the window.

Max knocked once before pushing the door open. He didn’t wait to be invited. He never had to. “I brought stroopwafel,” he said, holding up a bakery bag like it was some kind of offering.

Mila gave him a half-smile. “That’s cheating.”

“I know.”

He dropped onto the carpet beside her, crossed his legs. The bag crinkled as he opened it, handing her one.

She didn’t take it.

Instead, she stared at her hands. “I’m having another surgery.”

Max stilled. “When?”

“Before the end of the year. The hardware from the last fusion is causing problems.”

He looked at her now, fully. Not just with his eyes, but with that laser-focused kind of attention he usually reserved for overtaking manoeuvres.

“What kind of problems?” He demanded to know. 

“Pain. Balance instability. They said if I don’t do it, I might lose flexibility. Maybe total mobility.”

Max didn’t say anything. Just set the bag down and shifted closer. “And afterwards?”

“Maybe a walking aid. More rehab. I’ll have to be careful about everything. For the rest of my life.” She didn’t cry. But her voice cracked on everything.

Max’s hands were on his knees, clenched. “That’s bullshit.”

She huffed something like a laugh. “Yeah. I know.” There was a long silence. Then she finally looked at him. “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d hate it. I knew you’d make that face you’re making right now.”

He tried to ease his expression. Failed. “I do hate it,” he said anyway. “I hate that you have to go through this because of one stupid crash.” 

She smiled weakly. “Me too.”

He reached forward. Took her hand. Held it tight. “I wish I could fix it,” he said.

“You can’t.” She sniffled. 

“I know.” He glowered at the wall. 

She leaned her head on his shoulder. Let out a long breath. “You being here helps, though.”

“Always.” He swore. 

They stayed there on the floor, the room quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside and the occasional squeak of floorboards as the house settled. Max rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head.

“I’m going to miss so many of your races.” She hiccuped. 

He held her tighter. “I’ll win them all. Just for you.” 

Her eyes burned with tears. 

And she let him hold her. 

— 

It wasn’t easy. It never was, but Mila’s recovery after the surgery dragged on through months of physical therapy, aching muscles, and moments where she thought her body would never be the same again. There were days when she felt the familiar pang of frustration—when the pain in her back felt like too much to bear, when her movements were slow and careful. 

But through it all, Max never stopped showing up.

When she needed something to distract her from the long recovery process, he was there with stories of races, videos of his recent karting wins, and pictures of himself grinning in front of trophies. Even though she couldn’t be at the tracks with him, Max still made sure to share every victory, every near-miss, and every little milestone. He called her on days when the pain was unbearable, talking about the small things, like his newest kart setup or his thoughts on his next race. It made her feel like she wasn’t missing out, even though she was.

In 2012, Max was on fire. He was winning more than ever, his karting career moving forward with such momentum that it felt unstoppable. He won in World Championship Karting, at several international events, and started to attract the attention of big names in the motorsport world.

Mila wasn’t there to see any of it.

At least, not physically.

While she recovered at home in Rotterdam, Max sent her regular updates, videos from his races, texts after every win, a million photos of him holding up trophies on the top step of every podium. Anything he could do to keep her close, even when she was so far away. 

—

By the winter of 2013, Mila was slowly returning to herself. Her rehab sessions were still frequent and painful, but she had rebuilt the strength her body had lost during and after her surgery. She was no longer confined to her bedroom or the couch. She was starting to walk again without crutches, her movements still stiff but improving. She still wasn’t ready to be back at the track, but she could sense it was getting closer.

One afternoon, a message from Max pinged her phone, as it always did when he was traveling or racing.

Maxie: I’m going to miss you at the next race, but we’re going to make sure you’re here soon, okay?

Mila read the message with a smile tugging at her lips. Her heart fluttered with something she hadn’t felt in so long; hope, maybe. 

Mila: Maybe I’ll surprise you.

And surprise him she did.

The next race was an international one, a massive event in Belgium. It was one of Max’s biggest yet, and he was riding high on the confidence from his previous wins. He had worked relentlessly for this moment, and everyone expected him to show the same fire. What they didn’t expect was for Mila to show up, after all the time she had spent away.

Max arrived at the track early that morning, the cold wind biting as he adjusted his karting suit and prepped for the day ahead. He had been in the middle of a conversation with his mechanic when, without warning, a figure in a hoodie appeared near the fencing. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her.

Mila.

She stood just beyond the barrier, slightly off to the side, watching him. The pain in her eyes was dull, but it was still there. 

For a split second, everything stopped for Max. It was like the whole world paused, and it was just the two of them. 

She waved awkwardly, as if she had no idea how to be the same person she used to be at these races. Max’s heart pounded in his chest. Without thinking, he sprinted over to the fence. He climbed it, nearly knocking over the barriers in his eagerness, and didn’t stop until he was standing in front of her.

Mila reached out to him, her face lighting up in a smile that made everything feel right again. He didn’t waste a second.

Max grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close, his lips crashing into hers without hesitation. The kiss was urgent, but also soft. The moment their lips touched, it felt like everything they had been through, the pain, the distance, the time apart, vanished.

Neither of them had expected it, but it felt so natural. So right.

They pulled away only when they heard the sound of a camera shutter. A photographer, who had been snapping photos of the pit lane, had caught the entire moment. Before they could even react, the photographer had already turned the camera around to show them the shot.

Max and Mila stared at the image, the rawness of it on display. Max with his arms wrapped around Mila, his lips still lingering near hers, the shock and surprise still written on their faces. It was too perfect. Too real.

But in that moment, Max didn’t care about the photo. All he cared about was the girl standing in front of him, her hand still gripping his, and the way she made him feel more complete than he had ever felt before.

“You—” Max started, his voice still rough from the kiss, “You’re really here.”

Mila smiled softly, still a little dazed, still holding his gaze. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

— 

Karting Today – December 2013 Max Verstappen’s Little Lioness: The Girl Behind the Champion By Sarah Van den Heuvel

Max Verstappen is a name that’s become synonymous with speed and talent in karting. But behind every win, there’s a person who has stood by him from the beginning—Mila Meijer, his best friend and unwavering support.

For years, Mila was Max’s unofficial teammate. Together, they dominated the track, pushing each other to new heights. But in 2007, a career-ending crash forced Mila to step back from racing, leaving Max to continue his journey without her. As Max earned victories across Europe, Mila was there for more races than she wasn’t; a true show of the bond they shared.

After months of recovery from her third spine surgery, Mila returned to the paddock this month. And when Max spotted her in the crowd, with a smile that lit up the track, he jumped over the fence and pulled her into a kiss—right there, in front of everyone.

The moment took fans by surprise. Verstappen, who’s rumoured to be heading for F3 in the coming year, kissed the girl who had been there since the beginning. It wasn’t just the young driver and his best friend—it was a new chapter in their story.

Max may be racing toward a bright future, but Mila will always be the one who fuels his drive.

The lion and his lioness. 

— 

2014, Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Belgium

The garage was buzzing with pre-race tension. Mechanics were running through checks, engineers were glued to their screens, and the air had that electric charge of anticipation before a big race weekend. But in the midst of it all, Max and Mila found a quiet corner in one of the lounge areas. The chaos outside their bubble seemed so far away.

Max was sitting on a couch, tapping out a message on his phone, his eyes darting between the screen and Mila. She was perched beside him, her legs curled carefully under her, watching him with a mixture of affection and a touch of concern.

“You’re thinking too much,” she said quietly, reaching over to gently nudge his arm. “Worrying.” 

Max glanced up at her, his expression serious but softening when he saw the look on her face. “Just… feels weird, you know? All this. F3. It’s big. Even after all the testing, you know…”

Mila smiled, but it wasn’t the carefree grin he was used to. There was something deeper in it, a mix of pride and worry. “You’re ready, Max. You’ve been ready for years.” She paused, letting the words sink in. Then, her voice dropped slightly, almost as if she was testing the waters. “But, you know… things will change now. Girls will start looking at you differently. You’re going to be famous. F3 is a big deal.”

Max raised an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What are you talking about?” He leaned back, his voice teasing but with that underlying sincerity he never bothered to hide when it came to her. “You think I’m going to start paying attention to some random girls?”

Mila’s fingers brushed against the fabric of his jacket as she shifted closer, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. “I don’t know, Max. I just… I guess I’m just not used to it. Sharing you.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he locked his phone and put it down, his full attention now on her. Max reached out and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently, as if grounding them both in the moment. His voice was low but completely certain when he spoke. “I don’t want them, though,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

Mila’s breath hitched, her heart beating faster in her chest. She looked at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt, any hesitation. But there was none. Just the quiet certainty of the boy who had always been by her side, no matter what.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Max smiled, a rare, genuine smile that only she seemed to draw out of him. He shifted closer to her, resting his forehead against hers for a brief moment. “Good. Because I don’t think I could do all of this without you.”

The world outside, the cameras, the spotlight, the constant noise, didn’t matter when it was just the two of them. It was as if, in that small corner of the world, they were still the same kids they had been all those years ago, sharing secrets and dreams with no one else to witness it.

“Alright,” Mila said, pulling back slightly but keeping her hand in his, “but I’m still going to be worried about all the girls at the track.”

Max grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Don’t be. You’re the only one who matters.”

♣️ MASTERLIST

🍒 The ultimate guide to every F1 fic I’ve posted on my blog. You’ll find everything organized by driver, so you can easily find exactly what you’re in the mood for. The list will be updated regularly.

🍒 Everything I write is:

purely fictional, and just for fun;

18+, explicit, and contains mature/sexual content, unless specified (please, always read the warnings);

“she/her reader”, because you guys won’t catch me dead using Y/N, it’s just not working for me, sorry :(

🍒 Music plays a huge role in my writing process. While it’s totally optional, I often include song recommendations for my stories to enhance your reading experience.

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1. 𝘖𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘗𝘪𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪

2. 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘚𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘻

𝗜 𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴. 𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝗜 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀, 𝗜 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗺 𝗼𝘄𝗻𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗽𝗵𝗼𝘁𝗼𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗮 𝘂𝗻𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗶𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱. 𝗙𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴 𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁, 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸!

© 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗵𝘆 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗲𝘀

White Horse - Chapter 24: June 2024 - Part 5

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpiller:  GUYS. BELLE LECLERC JUST CHANGED HER INSTAGRAM USERNAME. SHE'S NOW @/belleverstappen. I REPEAT. @/belleverstappen.

🔗 (screenshot)

@/MonacoRoyalty:  WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT

@/RedBullTroll33:  So you’re telling me… Isabelle. LECLERC. is now VERSTAPPEN?????

I need to lie down.

@/FerrariF1Pain: I THOUGHT I WAS HALLUCINATING WHEN I SAW THE NAME CHANGE. SHE REALLY MARRIED MAX. AND THEY DIDN’T TELL A SOUL. ICONIC BEHAVIOR TBH.

@/F1MemeLord:  Charles: forgot Belle’s birthday Belle: changed her last name to Verstappen in front of the entire internet Me: poetic cinema.

@/gridgossip: 

EVERYONE WAKE UP

BELLE LECLERC IS NOW BELLE VERSTAPPEN

MAX MARRIED CHARLES' SISTER AND DIDN'T TELL ANYONE

IM SHAKING

@/gridgossip: 

This is the softest, coldest, most brutal reveal of all time.

No announcement.

No photo dump.

No grand post.

Just a silent name change.

And now the whole grid is screaming.

@/f1memequeen:  MAX VERSTAPPEN SECRETLY MARRIED CHARLES LECLERC’S BABY SISTERAND THEY SOFT LAUNCHED WITH A HORSE AND A USERNAME UPDATE

THIS IS CINEMA.

@/F1ChaosClub: how it started: "whose hand gave max tea on stream??"

how it's going: "max verstappen is married to belle leclerc and nobody knew and now the internet is on fire"

@/TifosiTears: charles leclerc is about to log on and have the worst 24 hours of his life i fear 💀

@/MaxIsWinning: max verstappen winning on and off the track as per usual 😌

@/WifeGuyMax: max verstappen, known cat dad and now confirmed wife guy. we love character development 💍🐎🐈

@/GridChaosDaily: the grid when they realize belle verstappen = belle leclerc = max’s wife = charles’s sister = absolute chaos

(photo attached: stock photo of a man having a breakdown)

@/FerrariTears: Charles finding out his sister is now Belle Verstappen because of Instagram is the level of sibling drama we deserve in 2024.

@/TifosiMess: Prediction:

Charles: 🧍‍♂️😭

Arthur: 🧍‍♂️😵‍💫

Lorenzo: 🧍‍♂️😳

Pascale: 🧍‍♀️🫠 Meanwhile Belle and Max: 🏇🏡❤️

@/MonacoRoyalty: So let me get this straight:

Belle disappears for weeks

Drops a horse like it’s a handbag

Soft launches her new life

NOW SHE'S A VERSTAPPEN?? I NEED TO LIE DOWN.

@/LandoSimp44:  some of you OWE the soft launch detectives an apology. they said it. they were RIGHT.

@/RedBullUpdates MAX. VERSTAPPEN. MARRIED. BELLE. LECLERC. AND THEY HID IT FROM US FOR HOW LONG???

@/FerrariPain: the way the Leclerc brothers are probably finding this out at the SAME TIME AS US 😭😭😭

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: HOLY SH*T

Lando: HOLD ON

Lando: SHUT UP EVERYONE

Lando: sends screenshot of @belleverstappen

Oscar: OH MY GOD

Daniel: I AM SCREAMING INTO A PILLOW

Lewis: I’m sorry. Am I hallucinating?? Because that says Verstappen. Not Leclerc.

George: BELLE. VERSTAPPEN. BELLE. FREAKING. VERSTAPPEN.

Carlos: Belle… changed her name…

Zhou: I THOUGHT I WAS READY BUT I WAS NOT READY

George: DID THAT JUST HAPPEN LIVE???

Carlos: I need a drink.

Alex: I AM SCREAMING.

Sebastian: Honestly? About time. Good for her.

Oscar: SHE CHANGED HER USERNAME TO BELLE VERSTAPPEN. THAT'S IT. THAT'S THE ANNOUNCEMENT.

Fernando: Max said "no press release, no statement, just pure chaos."

Daniel: Can we talk about the absolute audacity???

Zhou: Max dropping "I’m married" casually during a press conference and Belle changing her name quietly the night before Spain is PEAK Verstappen behavior.

Lando: I’m gonna cry. She’s not even dramatic about it. Just boop name change.

George: Meanwhile Charles is somewhere punching a wall.

Carlos: somewhere? Try several walls.

Lewis: No but seriously—Belle just silently won the whole internet.

Logan: It’s not even loud drama. It’s silent nuclear bomb energy.

Nico R.: Charles is probably Googling "how to politely kidnap your sister back."

Checo: Max playing 4D chess while Charles plays Candy Crush.

Fernando: And still losing at Candy Crush.

Kimi: Wake me up when someone crashes a press conference about it.

Oscar: Okay but real talk. I’m SO proud of her.

Lando: Same.

Lewis: She chose her happiness over their comfort. Respect.

Esteban: Someone check on Charles.

Fernando: No, no, let him suffer a bit longer. Character development.

Lance: Wait does this mean Max is Charles’ BROTHER-IN-LAW now???

Oscar: i just had a full body shiver

David: I would pay so much money for footage of Fred Vasseur reading this right now.

Mark: I would pay more to see Christian Horner's face.

George: NO ONE TELL PIERRE. Let’s just see what happens.

Logan: What if Belle walks into the paddock tomorrow wearing Verstappen merch. I would pass away.

Lewis: Max really married the one girl Charles forgot to look at properly. Poetic.

Nico R.: This is better than any soap opera I’ve ever seen.

Sebastian: Not Max breaking Ferrari and Leclerc family morale in one move. That’s championship material.

Oscar: Belle really said "forget my birthday? Watch this."

Carlos: Reminder: Max said he’s bringing her to the paddock tomorrow.

George: THEY’RE GOING PUBLIC IN PERSON TOO???

Oscar: CHAOS. COMPLETE CHAOS.

Alex: I have popcorn ready.

Lando: I'm not ready.

Daniel: None of us are.

***

Charles didn’t mean to open Instagram.

It had become a form of self-torture lately—every scroll a reminder of the silence on the other end of his unanswered texts, of the messages left on read, of the birthday that no one in the family had remembered except Belle herself.

But his thumb moved on autopilot during breakfast, and there it was.

Not a post. Not a story.

A name.

@belleverstappen

Charles blinked. Froze. Then blinked again.

No. That couldn’t be right.

He opened her profile.

Same photos. His sister’s profile. 

Charles stared at the screen.

Then he read the handle again.

@belleverstappen.

Verstappen.

A cold sweat started to gather at the back of his neck.

“Non… non non non…” Charles muttered, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

Across the hotel room, Alexandra looked up from her hair straightener. “What now?”

“Arthur,” he said, too sharp, holding his phone up like it was infected. “Look at this.”

Arthur, still halfway through a bowl of cereal, leaned over and squinted. He choked immediately.

“No. No, no, no. She didn’t.”

“She did!” Charles said, nearly tripping over his chair. “She changed her name!”

Arthur shoved his cereal away like it had personally betrayed him. “Wait—what does that mean? Did she get married? Wait, is this real?”

“What does it mean?” Charles asked, genuinely baffled. “Why would she—what—Why Verstappen?”

And then, like a bolt of catastrophic lightning:

“Oh my god. Is Jos Verstappen her sugar daddy??”

A sound of pure horror came from behind him.

“CHARLES!” Alexandra snapped. “What the hell?!”

Arthur looked like he had been personally insulted by the sentence. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m just saying—Verstappen! She’s going by Verstappen!”

Charles was already pacing. “She was always weirdly polite to Jos. Maybe he—maybe it’s him.He’s always lurking around the paddock! And she moved out a year ago and never told us. She quit her job. Someone’s clearly supporting her!”

Arthur looked horrified. “Charles. Please. That’s insane.”

Alexandra looked at Charles like he’d grown a second head. “You do realize Jos Verstappen is married, right? Like, currently. Publicly. Has been for years.”

“I saw her smile at Jos in Monaco!” Charles snapped. “And she said he was polite to her at the garage and she’s been so—so secretive and she quit her job and she got a horse—”

“CHARLES,” Alexandra interrupted, hands in the air. “Jos Verstappen is married.”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Arthur groaned and threw a pillow across the room. “Oh my god. This is actually the stupidest conclusion you’ve reached this month, and I was the one that thought Belle was being kept by a sugar daddy with a skincare routine.”

“IT MAKES SENSE AT THE TIME,” Charles insisted.

There was a knock, and Nicholas Todt stepped into the room, holding his tablet with the solemn expression of a man walking into a fire.

“Tell me this is not real,” Nicholas said, holding up a screenshot of Belle’s Instagram page.

“Oh, it’s real,” Arthur said, grimacing.

“Charles, please tell me this is not the first time you’re hearing about this.”

Charles opened and closed his mouth.

Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose and sat down heavily. “This is a PR disaster. If the media connects her to Max—”

“Wait,” Charles said slowly. “Why would the media connect her to Max?”

Everyone turned.

“You’re joking,” Alexandra said.

“What?” Charles asked, defensive.

“She changed her name to Verstappen,” Nicolas deadpanned. “What do you think it is?”

“She can’t be married to Max!” Charles blurted. “Someone would’ve told me!”

Joris, who had been quiet until now, finally looked up from his coffee with the most satisfied look on his face.

Joris shrugged. “Good for her.”

Charles stared. “Good for—what?”

“She’s been invisible to all of you for years,” Joris said bluntly. “And now she’s making herself seen. About damn time.”

Charles looked between them all, suddenly feeling like he was at the center of a soap opera everyone else had watched already.

“No,” he whispered. “It can’t be Max.”

Arthur looked vaguely nauseous. Joris looked like he had several things to say and none of them were polite.

Charles could feel the room closing in. “This is not happening.”

“I actually thought it might be Zhou,” Alexandra said mildly. “Or Lewis. They’re both polite. Hot. Emotionally intelligent.”

“Okay, please stop talking,” Charles groaned.

Arthur sat down beside him. “Do you think she’ll be at the paddock tomorrow?”

“If she shows up wearing Verstappen gear, I’m gonna throw myself in the gravel,” Charles muttered.

Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “No, you’re going to smile, and wave, and act like a supportive brother who didn’t forget she existed.”

"Max," he repeated dumbly. "Max Verstappen. My biggest rival. The guy who stole my karting trophies when we were twelve."

Arthur shrugged. "Apparently, he didn’t just steal your trophies."

Alexandra smirked behind her hand.

Nicolas rubbed his temples like he had a migraine.

Charles sat down heavily in the nearest chair, completely and utterly defeated.

Belle was married. To Max Verstappen. And the whole world knew.

Everyone except him.

She hadn’t said a word.

She’d just changed her name.

And somehow, that said everything.

****

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: hey you up?

Lorenzo: I am now. What’s going on?

Arthur: don’t freak out but we need to tell maman something before she finds out from the internet

Lorenzo: Arthur. Tell me now.

Arthur: Isabelle changed her Instagram username. It’s belleverstappen now.

Lorenzo: … what.

Arthur: like not “dating” Verstappen not “soft launch” Verstappen I mean she married him she’s married like legally. emotionally. spiritually. all of it.

Lorenzo: What do you MEAN she’s married to Max Verstappen?! When?! How?! WHY didn’t we KNOW?!

Arthur: because we were all too busy forgetting her birthday and ignoring her for years? just a theory. 🙃

Lorenzo: Jesus Christ. Does Charles know?

Arthur: not until like five minutes ago. he thought she was dating JOS I’m not kidding.

Lorenzo: … of course he did.

Arthur: look can you please talk to maman like right now because the whole paddock is going to know soon and if she sees this online first she’s going to cry and then go full French Catholic guilt spiral and none of us are emotionally prepared for that

Lorenzo: On it.

Arthur: thank you. 

Good luck

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Logan Sergeant, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda, and Valtteri Bottas

Charles: MAX. ANSWER YOUR PHONE.

Charles: TELL ME THIS ISN’T TRUE. TELL ME THIS IS SOME STUPID INTERNET RUMOUR. MAX. DID YOU MARRY MY SISTER?

Max: Yes.

Charles: AND YOU LET ME WALK AROUND THE PADDOCK FOR WEEKS LIKE AN IDIOT.

Max: We got married in Monaco. She wanted to keep it private.

Charles: YOU GOT MARRIED AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME??

Charles: YOU DIDN’T THINK I DESERVED TO KNOW THAT MY BABY SISTER WAS MARRYING MY BIGGEST RIVAL??

Pierre: wait wait wait what do you mean married Isabelle???

Yuki: SOMEONE EXPLAIN WHAT IS HAPPENING

Carlos: Charles—

Charles: HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN TOGETHER? HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A THING??

Carlos: Over a year.

Charles: I’M GOING TO SCREAM.

Charles: I’m going to absolutely LOSE MY MIND. You’ve all been lying to me. For MONTHS.

Charles: WHO KNEW?? I WANT A FULL LIST. RIGHT NOW. I SWEAR I WILL GO THROUGH PHONE RECORDS.

Lewis: It wasn’t our secret to tell.

George: They weren’t hiding it to hurt you. They were protecting each other.

Lando: Also, you literally forgot her birthday. You don’t exactly have the moral high ground here.

Charles: SHE’S MY SISTER.

Max: She’s my wife. Stop yelling like you own her.

Charles: SHE’S FAMILY.

Max: This isn’t about you, Charles.

Charles: SHE IS MY SISTER. MY FAMILY. AND NONE OF YOU THOUGHT I MIGHT WANT TO KNOW SHE MARRIED SOMEONE WHO’S BEEN TRYING TO BEAT ME SINCE KARTING.

Oscar: She didn’t forget to tell you. She chose not to.

Charles: SHUT UP, OSCAR.

Carlos: Hey.

Charles: NO. YOU TOO. YOU REMEMBERED HER BIRTHDAY. AND YOU SAID NOTHING.

Carlos: Because she asked me to. Because she knew you’d react exactly like this.

Charles: SO MY SISTER MARRIES MAX VERSTAPPEN AND I’M THE VILLAIN??

Max: You remember that now?

Charles: You think this is funny?

Max: No. I think it’s sad. That it took a ring on her finger and a horse on Instagram for you to realize she was gone.

Charles: You went behind my back. You should have told me.

Max: She didn’t want to. And I respect her choices. Which is more than I can say for you.

Charles: I’M HER BROTHER.

Max: Then maybe act like it. Because right now? You’re just noise.

George: Charles, this isn’t about you anymore.

Alex: It’s about Belle. And how she had to build a new life because her old one didn’t see her.

Oscar: And Max did.

Max:If you're done shouting, maybe try asking yourself why she trusted me with her future and not you.

Charles: …

Yuki: can someone please give me a recap. i feel like i skipped six seasons.

Pierre: I JUST FOUND OUT HE MARRIED HER AND NOW HE’S DRAGGING CHARLES INTO THE VOID I NEED TO LIE DOWN

Daniel: someone get Pierre a fan, he’s hyperventilating.

Charles: EVERYONE SHUT UP. EVERYONE JUST STOP.

Charles: I’M FINDING HER. SHE’S AT THE TRACK, RIGHT? I’M FINDING HER RIGHT NOW.

Lewis: Charles.

Charles: WHAT.

Lewis: Do not ambush her. You don’t get to demand explanations from someone you forgot how to see.

Charles: I DIDN’T—

George: You forgot her birthday, Charles.

Oscar: You didn’t notice when she moved. You didn’t notice when she quit her job. You didn’t notice when she stopped showing up to family events.

Carlos: You didn’t notice her.

Charles: I just want to talk to her.

Max: Then wait until she’s ready. You’ve taken a lot of things from her, Charles. You don’t get to take this, too.

Charles: You don’t get to talk to me about what I’ve taken.

Max: No? Then let me talk to you about what you didn’t give her.

Max: Time. Attention. Respect. Support.

Max: All the things she gave you without question. All the things you never gave back.

Yuki: i’m so uncomfortable but also very invested

Pierre: i feel like we should log off

Charles: ...is anyone going to back me up here?

Esteban: You kind of lost the moral high ground at “is she dating Jos.”

Logan: ngl we all knew but we also knew you’d react like this.

Lewis: This isn’t about us. It’s about her. You need to let her decide if and when she wants to let you back in.

Charles: She’s my sister.

Max: She’s my wife.

Max: And if you ever want a place in her life again, maybe start by realizing you don’t get to gatekeep her happiness.

Carlos: Max. Enough.

Max: I’m done.

The rest is up to her.

Not me.

And sure as hell not you.

***

Pascale Leclerc had always prided herself on knowing her children.

She had lived through the chaos of karting and exam seasons, through Arthur’s scraped knees and Charles’ broken hearts, through Lorenzo’s silent strength and Isabelle’s quiet brilliance.

She had watched them grow up like a garden — each one different, wild in their own way, but hers.

And yet now, as she stood in her kitchen — untouched tea cooling in her hands — she felt like she was staring at a house that had quietly caught fire.

And she hadn’t even smelled the smoke.

Lorenzo stood by the doorway, tense but calm in that way only he could be. 

He had always been the family’s voice of reason, the one who didn’t panic, who showed up with logistics when the others brought emotions.

But tonight, there was something sharp beneath his composure. A tightness around the mouth. A shadow in his voice.

“Something happened,” Pascale had said, the moment he arrived.

Lorenzo didn’t answer right away.

He looked at her — really looked at her — like he wasn’t sure how to begin. Like he was about to hand her a truth that couldn’t be unspoken.

“Isabelle got married,” he said quietly.

The words didn’t register at first. Not fully.

They sat in the air, strange and unfamiliar, like hearing a sentence in a language she hadn’t spoken in years.

“What?” Pascale asked, blinking.

“Isabelle,” Lorenzo said again, slowly. “She got married. A few weeks ago. In Monaco.”

Her breath caught.

“To who?”

Lorenzo hesitated. “Max Verstappen.”

The name hit harder than the sentence.

Pascale lowered herself into the nearest chair like her legs no longer trusted her.

“She’s… married,” she said, tasting the word. “To Max. And we didn’t even know?”

Lorenzo sat across from her. “We didn’t even know she was in a relationship, Maman. We didn’t know she moved. That she quit her job. We didn’t know anything.”

Pascale stared at the table, at her own hands folded around a now-cold mug.

It was her fault.

Hers.

Because she had believed silence meant peace. She had assumed that just because Isabelle didn’t complain, she was content.

And in doing so, she had let her daughter disappear. Slowly. Quietly. Without fanfare.

“She didn’t want us to know?” Pascale asked, voice small.

“No,” Lorenzo said gently. “Because we’ve given her every reason to believe we only care when it’s convenient. When it’s public. When it’s about Charles.”

Pascale felt her eyes sting. “I thought… I thought she would come to me, if it was serious.”

“She did,” Lorenzo said, not unkindly. “She just stopped waiting for us to see her.”

Pascale pressed a hand over her mouth.

“I didn’t even know she still believed in love,” she whispered. “After everything we asked her to give up. After everything we never gave back.”

“She did,” Lorenzo said. “And he gives it to her.”

Silence stretched between them — thick with guilt and revelation.

“I missed her wedding,” Pascale said softly.

“We all did,” Lorenzo replied. “But we don’t have to miss everything else.”

Pascale’s hand trembled as she set the tea aside. It sloshed slightly over the rim — unnoticed.

“I missed her wedding,” she repeated, more to herself than to Lorenzo.

He didn’t speak. He knew better than to offer hollow comfort.

“I missed her,” Pascale whispered. “I missed everything.”

The silence sat heavy between them, stretching until it felt like a second skin. Pascale reached for her phone on the table — out of habit, out of desperation — and stared at the screen like it might offer her redemption.

A single name burned in her memory.

Isabelle.

Her thumb hovered, hesitating over old messages, until finally, she opened the thread.

It was all still there. Every breadcrumb of her failure.

Ma chérie… I didn’t realise. I thought I messaged you, but I sent it to Charles by mistake. That’s not an excuse. You deserved more. Always. Please let me come see you. I miss you.

Even reading it now, Pascale felt the shame wash through her like floodwater.

It was a lie. She had forgotten.

Not just the day. Not just the message.

She had forgotten her daughter — in the way that mattered most.

“I lied to her,” Pascale said aloud, her voice cracking.

Lorenzo closed his eyes like he was bracing for a storm. “Maman…”

“When I messaged her,” Pascale said,  tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “After I forgot her birthday. I didn’t want her to think I forgot.  I told her I meant to text her — that I accidentally sent it to Charles instead. But that wasn’t true. I did. I forgot. I forgot the day she was born. And then I lied because I couldn’t bear the thought of her knowing that. I didn’t remember until Charles reminded us. I lied to make it seem like I hadn’t failed her. But I did. I have. Over and over again.”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I told myself she was strong. That she didn’t need as much,” Pascale continued, tears now slipping freely down her cheeks. “She didn’t fight for attention. She didn’t make noise. She just… quietly endured. I thought that meant she was fine.”

“She wasn’t,” Lorenzo said softly.

“I know that now,” Pascale whispered. “But it’s too late to be there for the little girl who cried when we sold her horse. Or the young woman who spent her graduation alone because we were all watching a race.”

Pascale looked up, eyes brimming.

“But maybe it’s not too late for the woman she’s become. The one who found someone who sees her. Who loves her enough to ask for her forever, even when she felt invisible.”

Lorenzo nodded slowly. “You’ll have to show her. Not just say it.”

“I don’t even know if she’ll want to hear from me,” Pascale said.

“You’ll try anyway,” he replied. “Because that’s what she deserved all along. Someone who didn’t need a reminder to show up.”

The air shifted slightly — still heavy, still painful, but no longer suffocating.

Pascale exhaled shakily and picked up her phone again.

“I want to fix it,” Pascale said eventually. “I don’t know how, but I want to try. I don’t want her to think we only care now because she married someone famous.”

“Then don’t start with an apology for missing the wedding,” Lorenzo said, voice low but steady. “Start with an apology for everything before it.”

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: (sends screenshots)

Lando: okay so we all agree that was… A Lot™?

George: “Then maybe act like it.” Cold. Accurate. Deserved.

Lewis: I was hoping Charles would reflect Not double down on the yelling and gaslighting

Carlos: He kept yelling “SHE’S MY SISTER” like it was a spell It’s not. It’s just a fact. And not one he treated with care.

Zhou: I’m honestly mad at him. Belle deserved better than that meltdown.

Daniel: She’s been waving white flags for YEARS. The fact that she had to marry Max Verstappen for him to finally notice is… tragic.

Logan: He tried to make it all about himself. Again.

Esteban: And he really told Max “you went behind my back” like Belle is property

Sebastian: Disrespectful. Self-centered. Deflecting guilt into rage. I like Charles. But this? This was ugly.

Lance: You could see the second-hand shame through the screen

Valtteri: Honestly, I don’t blame Max for losing patience.

Nico R.: He gave Charles every opportunity to calm down. Charles chose violence.

Oscar: “Which is more than I can say for you.” Yeah. That line still lives in my head.

Fernando: Max protected her. Period. Charles tried to make it about rivalry. One of them is married. The other is playing victim.

Mark: I love when people forget that Max is scary when he loves someone Not just when he races

David: Charles thought the betrayal was the secret The real betrayal is that she stopped counting on him, and he never noticed

George: And now he’s blaming everyone except himself.

Lando: What exactly did he expect? That she’d send a save-the-date and beg for attention?

Lewis: She already did. Every time she showed up and got ignored.

Sebastian: She didn’t disappear. She just stopped asking to be seen.

Alex: And I’m done coddling Charles about that.

Carlos: Same.

Oscar: She chose happiness. He called it betrayal. That says everything.

Zhou: Should we be worried about today?

Daniel: We should be prepared. Max said he’s bringing her to the paddock. And Charles? He’ll implode.

Fernando: Let him. Maybe he’ll finally listen if it’s in public.

Lewis: He doesn’t deserve answers. He deserves the silence he gave her.

George: And if she does say anything to him, it’s her choice.

***

Belle had never liked the paddock.

Not because it wasn’t impressive — it was. Efficient, loud, organized chaos. But because it had never really felt like hers. Not even when Charles had brought her around as a teenager, wide-eyed and silent, watching her brothers shake hands and pose for cameras while she trailed two steps behind.

She knew how invisible you could be in a place like this.

But not today.

Not now.

She stepped through the gates with Max beside her — her fingers laced in his, steady and certain — and the hush that fell over the paddock was immediate.

Belle could feel it.

The weight of eyes. The slow, sharp recognition rippling outward from person to person like a silent explosion. Some turned to look, others tried not to, but they all felt it. The shift. The fact that something had changed.

That she had changed.

Max didn’t break stride. Neither did she.

The sun was warm on her shoulders, but the Red Bull jacket she wore — his, oversized and soft — felt like armor. Familiar. Safe. She’d tugged it from his closet that morning while he was brushing his teeth, said nothing as she slipped it on, and Max had only smiled at her like she was everything in the world worth looking at.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since.

Belle didn’t smile, but she didn’t flinch either.

She looked ahead, chin high, expression calm. If they wanted something loud — a statement, a spectacle — they weren’t going to get it.

They’d get this.

Her wedding band catching the light. Her hand in Max’s. Her name — Belle Verstappen — already echoing through the internet.

Let them talk.

She heard someone near the McLaren garage whisper, “Oh my god, it’s really her.” Heard another murmur, “She’s wearing his jacket.”

Belle didn’t look. She didn’t have to.

She could feel the stares. Could feel the quiet scramble of the media trying to decide whether or not to speak. To ask. To breathe.

She kept walking.

Max leaned in slightly, barely tilting his head toward her, and said under his breath, “Still with me?”

Belle’s lips curved — just slightly. “Always.”

His thumb brushed along the side of her hand in response. The smallest touch. But enough.

They moved through the paddock like a weather system — calm on the surface, but electric underneath. Some drivers straightened up when they passed. Some looked away. One engineer dropped their tablet. Someone near the Ferrari garage gasped.

Belle didn’t look toward it.

She didn’t need to see Charles to know he was watching.

She could feel it — that specific burn of a sibling’s shock, of betrayal, of too-late recognition. And it hurt, somewhere deep in her chest. But it didn’t undo her.

Not this time.

Max gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

She kept walking.

Every step felt like reclaiming something. Every heartbeat steadier than the last.

Let them stare. Let them wonder.

They hadn’t seen her before. They hadn’t heard her.

Now they would.

Quietly. Unapologetically.

This was her life.

And Belle Verstappen wasn’t hiding anymore.

***

@/GridGossip: 🚨BREAKING: BELLE VERSTAPPEN JUST WALKED INTO THE PADDOCK HOLDING MAX’S HAND She’s wearing his jacket An emerald engagement ring And a gold wedding band I’m shaking. I’m actually shaking. 📸 (zoomed photo)

@/F1TeaSpiller: Forget soft launches. Belle Verstappen just HARD LAUNCHED HER ENTIRE MARRIAGE That’s a wedding ring, babes. A wedding ring.

@/RedBullTroll33: Max Verstappen didn’t post a wedding photo. Didn’t do an announcement. Just walked into the paddock with his wife wearing a rock the size of my student debt. Power move.

@/FerrariF1Pain: The Leclerc family watching Belle walk in like: 👁👄👁 With a RING With MAX In his jacket Wearing the smirk of a woman who’s been underrated for too long

@/f1memequeen: That emerald engagement ring is screaming “I don’t need your approval, I already have his last name” And honestly?? Obsessed.

@/WifeGuyMax: Everyone: when will Max post Belle? Max: I’ll bring Belle. Max: To the paddock. Max: With a gold band on her finger. Max: Say hello to my wife.

@/GridChaosDaily: Belle is wearing a gold wedding band and an engagement ring the size of a walnut and hasn’t blinked once Meanwhile Charles looks like he’s on the verge of spontaneously combusting

@/MonacoRoyalty: THE RING THE JACKET THE HAND-HOLDING THE WALK SHE’S THE MAIN CHARACTER

@/MaxIsWinning: Max Verstappen said:

Emerald ring ✔️

Gold band ✔️

My jacket ✔️

My hand ✔️

My wife ✔️ Legend.

@/f1memequeen: Belle: walks in calmly Internet: 💍😱🔥👗👀💀💍👑 The power of SILENCE

@/LandoSimp44: me: I’m over the Verstappen-Leclerc marriage drama also me: zooming in on the ring like it’s the Mona Lisa

@/FerrariTears: Charles is looking at that gold band like it personally betrayed him Arthur’s gone full ghost mode Pascale is probably praying in a dark room Meanwhile Belle’s just casually wearing a 5-figure emerald like it’s nothing

@/F1MemeLord: Belle: marries Max Verstappen in secret Charles: forgets her birthday Belle: walks into the paddock with a ring and a husband The plot arc is insane. The payoff? Cinematic.

@/gridgossip: MAX WALKING IN WITH HIS WIFE AND ZERO APOLOGY IS THE MOST VERSTAPPEN THING TO EVER HAPPEN

@/TifosiTears: Belle really said: you forgot me? let me introduce you to my husband and this giant green rock

***

The moment they stepped inside the Red Bull garage, Belle felt the shift.

It wasn’t like entering a room. It was like crossing a threshold — one she could never go back from.

There were voices, radio chatter, tire warmers humming. Mechanics moved with sharp efficiency. But as Max walked in with her hand still folded in his, everything… slowed.

Heads turned. Not in shock — they all knew by now. But in curiosity. 

She was part of it now.

Max dropped his bag with practiced ease, nodded at one of the engineers, and then looked back at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the room.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, just for her.

Belle nodded, though her heart was fluttering too fast. “Yeah. Just—this is a lot.”

“You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” she said quietly. “I want to meet the people who know the version of you I don’t get at home.”

Max smiled like that meant more than she realized — like she’d just handed him something no one else ever had.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Time to meet the chaos.”

Belle only had a second to steel herself before she heard the gruff voice.

“About time you brought her here.”

Jos.

He was already standing near the back wall of the garage, arms folded, mouth tugged up in something that resembled a smile. As he looked at her properly, something softened in his expression. Something almost proud.

“See you survived the vultures,” he said drily, and she couldn’t help but laugh. 

She blinked — caught off guard — and then smiled. “I’m told it’s a survival skill.”

Jos chuckled — actually chuckled — and nodded. “Good. You’ll need it.”

“Papa,” Max greeted casually, unbothered by the tension humming in the air. “Thanks for being here. You’ll keep an eye on her while I’m in the car.”

Belle blinked, surprised. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Max smiled slightly. “Didn’t want to stress you out.”

Jos’s lips twitched. Just barely.

“Sit where you want,” he said to her. “It’s quieter at the back. And if anyone annoys you, tell them you married a Verstappen. That’ll scare them off.”

Max gave him a look. Jos ignored him entirely.

Before Belle could respond, a familiar voice called out from just inside the garage.

“Well, well. You’re finally in the right garage.”

She turned — and smiled fully for the first time that day.

Gianpiero Lambiase stood near his station, headset already slung around his neck, amusement lighting his usually serious expression.

“Hi, GP,” Belle said warmly.

He approached, offering a half-hug, half-handshake that was somehow the perfect balance of affection and professionalism. “Max said you’d be here, but I figured he was bluffing.”

“I almost backed out,” Belle admitted. “Then he bribed me with his jacket and pancakes.”

“Classic Verstappen tactics,” GP deadpanned. “Food, flattery, and limited emotional vocabulary.”

Max, passing behind them, muttered, “I can still hear you.”

GP grinned, unfazed. “Welcome, Belle. We’ve all been betting on when you'd show up.”

She arched a brow. “And who won?”

“Helmut,” GP said, disgusted. “Which is horrifying.”

Max returned, tugging lightly on her sleeve. “Come on. Christian wants to meet you.”

Belle exhaled, nerves fluttering again, but she followed Max past rows of screens and engineers until they stopped in front of Christian Horner, who turned to greet them with the ease of a man who’d already been briefed but was pretending he hadn’t.

“Well, you’ve caused quite the storm.”

Christian Horner.

He approached with that signature half-smile of his, hands in his pockets, a subtle look of curiosity behind the polite charm.

“So this is the mysterious Mrs. Verstappen,” he said warmly. “Finally. The woman who managed to tame our reigning champion. Or so the rumors say.”

“I don’t think anyone tames Max,” Belle said dryly.

Christian laughed. “You might be right. But clearly, you’re the exception.”

She extended a hand, and he shook it firmly.

“Christian Horner,” he added, even though she obviously knew.

“Belle Verstappen,” she said quietly — testing the name again. Feeling it settle.

Christian’s gaze flicked to her left hand, where the emerald caught the overhead lights. “Well, it’s official now. Welcome to the madness.”

Belle took a slow breath as they stepped deeper into the garage, Max’s hand briefly grazing her lower back before he peeled off toward his car.

She watched him go, then looked around at the controlled chaos of Red Bull’s world — the data streams, the techs, the noise, the anticipation.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the outside of someone else’s life.

She was here.

She was his.

And the garage was exactly where she was supposed to be.

***

Arthur wasn’t sure what he expected.

Maybe denial. Maybe chaos. Maybe the internet was wrong — maybe Belle hadn’t really married Max Verstappen. Maybe someone had faked the name change. Maybe it was a fever dream.

But then he saw them.

Isabelle. Walking into the paddock like she belonged there. Wearing Max’s jacket. Wearing a wedding band. Holding his hand.

Arthur froze mid-step outside the Ferrari hospitality unit. His coffee trembled in his grip. For a second, he genuinely forgot how to breathe.

Because it wasn’t just that Isabelle was there.

It was the way Max glanced at her every few steps, the way she leaned in slightly when the crowd pressed too close. The way their fingers didn’t untangle, not once. Not even when flashes went off or someone whispered her name like it was blasphemy.

She looked calm. Not smug. Not afraid. Just… calm.

And that was what undid Arthur most.

Because she’d never looked like that before — not at races, not around the family, not anywhere she’d ever been expected to play the silent sibling to Charles’ glory.

She looked like herself. Like someone who had finally been given permission to take up space.

And beside him, Charles looked like he was about to snap.

“Unbelievable,” Charles muttered, voice too low and too bitter. “He couldn’t even tell me. He had to parade her in front of everyone like this?”

Arthur tore his eyes away from Isabelle — reluctantly — and turned toward his older brother.

“Are you serious right now?” he asked.

Charles flinched. “What?”

“She’s walking in with her husband, Charles. Not doing a press tour. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought maybe—” Charles stopped, jaw tight. “Maybe she’d have the decency to talk to me first.”

Arthur stared at him. “Decency? Are you hearing yourself?”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “She’s my sister—”

“And you’re acting like she’s your possession.”

Charles turned on him. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are!” Arthur snapped, stepping closer, voice sharp. “You’re acting like she owed you something when all she ever wanted was to be treated like she mattered!”

“Don’t twist this, Arthur,” Charles said, low and warning.

Arthur laughed — harsh, disbelieving. “You forgot her birthday. We forgot her birthday!”

“That was a mistake—”

“We forgot her birthday, and then when she finally chooses herself, finally chooses someone who sees her, you make it about you?”

“She married Max—”

“She married someone who shows up for her,” Arthur interrupted. “Which is more than we’ve done in years.”

Charles’ face tightened.

Arthur kept going. “You don’t get to be the victim here. Not when she’s spent years watching you get cheered while she was ignored. Not when she begged for scraps of attention and we gave her nothing.”

Charles looked like he wanted to argue. He didn’t.

“She stopped trying to be seen by us,” Arthur said quietly. “Because she found someone who already sees her.”

Charles swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the Red Bull garage where Belle had disappeared with Max minutes ago. “I just… I didn’t think she’d leave us like that.”

“She didn’t leave,” Arthur said. “We just never noticed when she stopped waiting.”

Silence.

Thick. Tense. Regretful.

Charles looked down, jaw clenched. He didn’t say sorry. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Arthur sighed and set his coffee down on the table beside him.

“If you want to be part of her life now, Charles,” he said. “You’re going to have to show her that you’re finally willing to see her. Not as your sister. As herself.”

Then he walked away, leaving Charles in the middle of the paddock — alone, surrounded by people, and for the first time, not the main character.

***

Belle had just sat down with a cup of tea in the quiet corner of Red Bull hospitality when she heard it.

A voice. Sharp. French-accented. Not loud, but unmistakably firm.

She looked up instinctively — and wasn’t surprised.

Arthur.

Standing just outside the entrance, shoulders tense, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets like he was trying to shrink into himself. He’d clearly made it through the first layer of staff with that Leclerc charm that used to get him everywhere.

Unfortunately for him, Jos Verstappen was standing by the doorway.

And Jos did not do charm.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing here?” Jos asked, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Arthur hesitated. “I just—I wanted to talk to her.”

“This isn’t Ferrari,” Jos said, voice calm but cutting. “You don’t get to stroll in here after throwing a tantrum across half the paddock and acting like your sister’s marriage is some kind of betrayal.”

Arthur flushed. “I didn’t throw a tantrum—”

“You don’t belong here,” Jos said. “Not after this morning. Not after the way your brother behaved.”

Arthur’s face flushed. “I came her to…”

“To what?” Jos stepped closer. “Apologize on behalf of Charles? Defend him? Make excuses for how you treated her?”

“No!” Arthur said quickly, hands up. “No. I’m not here for Charles. I’m here for her.”

Belle stood before she even realized she’d moved.

“Jos,” she said, voice soft but clear. “It’s fine.”

He turned toward her, frowning. “Belle—”

“I want to talk to him,” she said.

And for the first time in a very long time, she saw someone else hesitate when talking to her.

Jos studied her face for a beat. Whatever he saw must have been enough, because he gave a terse nod and stepped back. Not far. But far enough to say I’m still watching.

Arthur looked like he was bracing for impact as she walked toward him.

Belle stopped a few steps away, arms crossed loosely. She didn’t hug him. Didn’t cry. 

He stopped a little too far away, hands in his pockets, guilt etched into every line of his face.

“You weren’t really trying to sneak past Jos Verstappen, were you?” she finally asked dryly.

Arthur groaned. “I thought maybe if I moved fast enough, he wouldn’t see me.”

A faint smile tugged at Belle’s mouth. “He used to spot Max sneaking out after curfew with a hoodie pulled over his head. You never had a chance.”

Arthur groaned. “I thought maybe if I moved fast enough, he’d blink.”

“He never blinks,” she said.

He cracked a smile, brief and sheepish. “You look good.”

Her expression softened, barely. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” he admitted. “Charles is sulking like it’s a championship sport. Maman’s crying into a croissant. Lorenzo’s trying to schedule a family meeting like it’s a UN crisis summit.”

Belle sighed, gaze drifting past him for a moment. “I figured.”

He hesitated. “I didn’t come to defend anyone. Not Charles. Not Maman. I just… I needed to see you. For myself.”

She studied him in silence. Arthur had always been a little caught in the middle — younger than Charles, louder than Lorenzo, trying to carve space where there was none. He wasn’t blameless. But he hadn’t been cruel. Just… complicit.

But he was trying now.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable — just full. Full of all the things left unsaid for too long. All the messages never sent. All the birthday calls missed, the family dinners where she was present but not seen.

“You used to hide in my bed during thunderstorms,” Belle said quietly. “You’d ask me to read the same chapter of Le Petit Prince three times until you fell asleep.”

Arthur blinked, surprised. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” Belle said. “I remember the good things. I always tried to.”

His throat worked around the lump there. “Why didn’t you tell me? About Max. About the wedding. About… any of it?”

Belle looked down at the rings on her finger — the green of the emerald glinting faintly under the hospitality lighting, the simple gold band beneath it warm against her skin.

“Because you weren’t really looking,” she said. “None of you were. And I was tired of asking to be seen.”

Arthur didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue.

“I know,” he said instead, voice low and thick. “I think… I’ve known it for a while. I just didn’t know how to face it. But seeing you with Max — the way he looks at you, the way you look at you — I get it now. And I hate that it took this for me to see it.”

“It’s not about hating yourself,” Belle said, gentler this time. “It’s about doing better now. If you want to.”

Arthur looked at her like she was someone new. Someone stronger. Someone who had stopped waiting for the world to recognize her and built a place where she didn’t need permission.

“Are you happy?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

He exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding that breath all morning.

“Good,” he said. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

Belle stepped forward then, arms uncrossed, and opened them. The offer was quiet. Soft.

Arthur didn’t hesitate.

He pulled her into a hug like he was afraid she might vanish again. His arms wound around her, shoulders trembling just slightly. Belle hugged him back — firm and steady.

And it felt like something beginning again.

Not perfectly. Not fixed.

But trying.

When they finally stepped apart, Belle offered a quiet, teasing smile. “Next time, use the front entrance. Jos might not be so forgiving twice.”

Arthur groaned. “I’m still recovering. I think he aged me ten years with one sentence.”

She laughed — really laughed, for the first time that day.

Behind them, Jos gave a small grunt from where he stood — arms crossed, unimpressed — but Belle didn’t miss the way one corner of his mouth almost curved.

***

Max didn’t usually seek people out for conversations. Not personal ones, anyway.

He’d spent most of his life guarding things that mattered — like they were fragile, like they’d break if anyone else got too close. But this was different. She was different. And what they had now — what was growing quietly inside her — felt too big to carry on his own.

So he found GP.

It was a lull in the afternoon, the last briefing before the sim work, engineers rotating through data stations like gears in a perfect machine. But GP was by himself, leaning against the telemetry table, one brow raised as Max approached with the kind of expression that said, you better not be about to request a new steering wheel setting.

Max didn’t say anything right away.

GP waited.

“I need to tell you something,” Max said finally. His voice was lower than usual. Not tense — just held close.

GP straightened a little. “What happened?”

“She’s pregnant,” Max said.

The words came out smoother than he expected. Maybe because they’d been sitting on his tongue all day.

GP stared at him. Blinked once. Then again.

And then — grinned.

“Seriously?” he asked, already smiling. “Belle’s pregnant?”

Max nodded once, his throat tight. “Yeah. She told me a few weeks ago.”

GP exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. I should’ve seen that coming.”

Max raised a brow. “You didn’t?”

“I figured it was either that or you bought her a horse farm.”

Max laughed — properly, finally, the weight of the day cracking just a little. “I might still do that.”

GP was still smiling, but there was something else in his face now — something softer. Warmer.

“Kids are great,” he said, voice lower, more personal now. “I mean, chaotic and exhausting, but… they’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Max blinked. “You’ve never said that.”

GP shrugged. “Didn’t seem relevant when you were nineteen and trying to beat Lewis Hamilton into turn one.”

Max huffed a laugh. “Fair.”

There was a pause. A weight in the air — not heavy, but full.

“She’ll be a brilliant mum,” GP added, quieter now. “She’s got that calm strength to her. The kind you don’t notice until it’s the only thing holding you together.”

Max nodded slowly. “I know.”

“And you,” GP said, tapping a finger to Max’s chest, “are going to be fine. More than fine.”

Max hesitated. “Even with…”

“Even with your past? Your dad?” GP finished for him. “You’re not him. You never were.”

Max looked down for a moment, jaw tight. Then, after a long breath, he met GP’s eyes again. “I just want to give that kid something different. Something better.”

“You already are,” GP said simply. “You chose Belle. That’s your first good decision. Choosing that baby every day — that’s your next.”

“I’m scared,” Max admitted.

“Good,” GP said. “That means you give a damn.”

Max nodded once.

“I’m happy for you, mate,” GP added, reaching out and clasping his shoulder. “Really.”

Max nodded again, grateful in a way he didn’t know how to say.

“And just for the record,” GP added dryly, “I had a bet with my wife that you two would get pregnant before Charles figured out you were married.”

Max burst out laughing. “Did she win?”

“She always wins.”

Max was still grinning when he turned to leave, lighter than he’d been all day.

There was so much left to do — more secrets to tell, more people to face — but for now, it was enough that someone knew.

Someone who didn’t just understand racing.

Someone who understood him.

***

From the hospitality suite above the Red Bull garage, Belle had a near-perfect view of the final laps.

The Spanish heat shimmered off the track, waves of it rising like ghosts in the air, but Belle barely noticed. Her fingers gripped the arm of her seat, headset slightly askew, Max’s voice crackling faintly through the speakers — clipped, calm, focused.

She had never liked watching him race before she knew him. 

Now, she knew better.

Now, she could hear it in the way he spoke to GP. The way he adjusted. Reacted. Fought, not like a man trying to prove something — but like someone who knew exactly who he was, and who he had waiting for him at the end.

You’ve got three laps left, mate, GP said calmly in her ear.

Copy. Leave it with me.

Belle swallowed hard. Her hand settled instinctively over the front of her stomach, hidden by the loose navy blouse she wore. She hadn’t told many people yet — just Arthur, Jos, and Emilie, and now GP, thanks to Max.

But this felt like a secret the whole world would eventually know.

The final sector flew past in a blur. Tyres screamed. Crowds surged.

And then, the chequered flag.

“YES! That’s P1, Max. Well done.”

Belle exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her hand flew to her mouth, and then, just as quickly, to her chest — right over her heart.

He’d done it.

 Again.

The team erupted around her — mechanics cheering, hugging, high-fiving, lifting cans of Red Bull like champagne flutes. Christian was already halfway out the door, and even Jos, who’d been watching beside her with arms crossed, allowed himself a rare smile.

But Belle?

Belle didn’t move.

Not until someone nudged her gently — a team assistant with wide eyes and an even wider grin. “He’s asking for you,” the girl said. “Go. Go!”

Belle blinked. “What?”

“Parc Fermé. He’s already out of the car. Go!”

She didn’t hesitate after that.

The hallways blurred past her — wide corridors filled with team personnel and security and overheated energy. Her flats slapped against the concrete. Her pass flashed in the light. People parted without even realizing it — as if they could feel she belonged to this moment.

She reached the barrier just as Max pulled off his helmet, hair damp with sweat, fire suit unzipped halfway down his chest.

And then he saw her.

His eyes lit up in a way Belle didn’t think he realized he saved for her. He started toward her before the cameras could swarm, before the journalists could shout, before anyone else could get between them.

He crossed to her like he knew she’d be there. Like he’d been driving toward her the whole time.

And Belle didn’t think. Didn’t care about the cameras or the crowd or the fact that Charles was likely still in his car wondering where it all went wrong.

She stepped past the barrier and met him halfway.

And then she kissed him.

There was no hesitation. No coy look at the cameras. No soft-launch subtlety.

Just her hands on his face, his arms wrapping tight around her waist, and the kind of kiss that felt like a homecoming.

The paddock erupted.

Somewhere behind them, a Sky Sports presenter squeaked. David Croft nearly dropped his mic. 

Belle pulled back only when Max laughed against her mouth.

“You kissed me in Parc Fermé,” he murmured.

“You won,” she said simply, brushing sweat-mussed hair off his forehead. “You deserve to be kissed.”

Max looked at her for a long moment, then down — briefly, instinctively — at her stomach, where no one else had noticed her hand lingering.

And then he whispered, just for her: “Both of you.”

Belle smiled. “You came home to us safe.”

Max kissed her one more time, softer now, and then turned back toward the swarm of cameras and celebration.

And Belle?

Belle stood at the edge of it all — her lips still tingling, her heart full — knowing the headlines tomorrow would be chaos.

But for now?

She had kissed her husband in front of the entire world.

And she didn’t regret a single second.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/RedBullTroll33: i thought the name change was chaos BUT THIS??? BELLE JUST WALKED IN AND KISSED HIM LIKE THEY WEREN’T HIDING FOR A YEAR I’M LOSING IT

@/FerrariTears: charles leclerc being forced to watch max verstappen win the race and then watch his baby sister kiss him like it’s a romcom finale is actually greek tragedy level storytelling

@/f1memequeen: Belle: soft-launched a horse and an emerald ring Belle: quietly changed her last name to Verstappen Belle: walks into parc fermé and kisses her world champion husband Me: sobbing okay queen I GET IT

@/WifeGuyMax: MAX VERSTAPPEN KISSED HIS WIFE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE AND LOOKED LIKE HE’D JUST WON SOMETHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN A RACE i’m unwell

@/f1memehub: sky sports: mid-sentence belle: kisses max crofty: glitches karun: gasping social media admin: pressing post like their life depends on it

@/LandoSimp44: the paddock was like “max has a secret wife” max said “here she is. in my arms. deal with it.”

@/MonacoRoyalty: SHE KISSED HIM IN PARC FERMÉ AFTER THE WIN AND HE LOOKED AT HER LIKE SHE PUT THE SUN IN THE SKY i’m crying this is cinema

@/MaxIsWinning: max verstappen doesn’t do drama he does declarations first her name now the kiss next stop: world domination

@/FerrariF1Pain: charles watching belle kiss max in parc fermé after forgetting her birthday is the most older brother consequences i’ve ever seen

@/GridChaosDaily: “Belle kissed Max after the Spanish GP” is now officially my favorite F1 moment no context. just vibes. just love

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

@/maxverstappen1: Every lifetime, every circuit. Every time. 💍❤️

@/redbullracing: Belle Verstappen supremacy. (also congrats Max 👀)

@/emilie_abadie: this is my new phone background. and lock screen. and wallpaper. and religion. thanks.

@/pierregasly: i need everyone to stop posting this before i start believing in soulmates again

@/landonorris: i was THERE. i SAW IT. i’m never recovering.

@/f1: most liked paddock kiss of all time? confirmed.

@tifositimes: I didn’t expect to cry over a Verstappen kiss post today but here we are.

@/chaoticgridgirl: SHE POSTED IT. THE KISS. THE LEGENDARY KISS. I NEED A MINUTE. ACTUALLY I NEED A WEEK.

@/f1softlaunchdetective: this is what soft-launch girlies do when they hit their final form. she dropped ONE photo and burned the paddock to the ground.

@/maxielflamequeen: the ring. the kiss. the caption.

@paddockwhispers: arthur liked it. charles didn’t.

@softverstappen: i will never emotionally recover from this post. ever. she wins. every time.

@maxsvillainera: look at the way he’s holding her look at the way she’s smiling into the kiss no notes. pure poetry.

***

FIA Press Conference — Post-Race | Spanish Grand Prix 2024

Drivers: P1 - Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing), P2 - Lewis Hamilton (Mercedes), P3 - Lando Norris (McLaren)

Moderator: Congratulations, Max. A win today. How are you feeling?

Max:  Good. Yeah, car felt great, team executed perfectly. Always nice to win in Barcelona.

Moderator: We’ll open the floor for questions.

Journalist #1: Max, first of all, congratulations. But obviously everyone’s talking about the moment in Parc Fermé. Can you confirm — was that your wife? And are the rumors true that you and Isabelle Leclerc got married in secret?

Max: Yes. That was my wife. And yes — we got married in Monaco a few weeks ago. We’re very happy.

Lando: (muttering into his mic) Understatement of the century.

Lewis: (grinning) Congrats, man.

Journalist #2: Max, there’s been a lot of talk online about Belle’s birthday being forgotten by her family and this being the reason she pulled away from them. Any comment on that?

Max: No.

Journalist #2: Nothing at all?

Max: (calmly) No. 

Journalist #3: There’s a narrative online that Belle’s been overlooked for years. Some say this entire paddock entrance and Parc Fermé kiss was a statement. Was that intentional?

Max: (dryly)  We walked in holding hands. We kissed. We’re married. If that counts as a statement, I don’t know what to tell you.

Journalist #4: Do you think this will affect your dynamic with Charles Leclerc?

Max: (expression flat) We’ll see. That’s between him and his sister. I’m just here to race cars and go home to my wife.

Lando: (quietly, to Lewis) He’s in his “husband first, world champion second” era.

Lewis: (laughing into his mic) He really is.

Journalist #6: Do you plan on making any public statement about the family fallout?

Max: No. That’s her story to tell, not mine. And frankly, it’s not gossip. It’s real life. So maybe let’s show a little respect.

Journalist #7: What was going through your mind when she kissed you in Parc Fermé?

Max: (finally smiling) That I’m the luckiest guy in the world.

Journalist #8: Will your wife be traveling with you to more races now?

Max (still polite, still done):  We‘ll decide what works best for us as a family. That’s between us.

Reporter #9: Was Belle’s presence in the paddock today a signal? Especially given what happened with Charles—

Max: (cuts in, voice calm but firmer) Belle doesn’t need to signal anything. She’s not a statement. She’s a person. And she came today to support her husband. That’s all.

Moderator: Alright, I think we’ll wrap it there before anyone pushes their luck. Congratulations to all three drivers. Max, Lando, Lewis — thank you.

Lando (leaning into mic): Congrats again, mate. On the win and the wife.

***

Fred Vasseur closed the door harder than necessary.

The sound echoed through the otherwise silent room like a gunshot.

Charles looked up from where he was sitting on the small couch, still in his fireproofs, helmet discarded beside him. He was sweaty, tired, irritated — and entirely unprepared.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais, Charles?” Fred said sharply. What are you doing?

Charles blinked. “What—?”

“You want to explain to me,” Fred continued, voice calm in the most dangerous way possible, “how your sister kissing Max Verstappen became the story of our weekend?”

Charles sat up straighter. “That’s not fair—”

“No?” Fred crossed the room, standing over him now. “Because I think it’s very fair. You let your personal drama become a paddock sideshow, and now everyone’s talking about the Leclerc family meltdown while we limp home with a P5 and a ruined PR day.”

“I didn’t ask for that to happen!”

“But you made sure it did,” Fred snapped. “You didn’t know Belle got married. Fine. You didn’t approve of who she married. Fine. You could’ve said nothing. But instead, you threw a tantrum. In the paddock. In group chats. Loud enough that half the drivers are mocking you and the other half are wondering if you even see your sister as a person.”

Charles flushed. “That’s not—”

“You forgot her birthday, Charles.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Fred didn’t yell. He didn’t need to.

“You forgot her birthday. You forgot her job. You forgot she moved. And when she stopped chasing your attention, you acted like she betrayed you.” His voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened with every word. “And now you’re shocked that the only person she trusted to hold her hand through it all was the man who sees her every single day?”

Charles looked away, jaw tight. “It wasn’t supposed to be public.”

Fred laughed — once, bitter and short. “And yet you’re the one who made it public. Max didn’t. Belle didn’t. You did. And now you’ve made us look like amateurs — not because of strategy, but because you couldn’t handle the fact that your sister’s life isn’t orbiting around you anymore.”

Charles opened his mouth. Closed it. No words came.

Fred sighed — not in exasperation, but in disappointment. And that hurt more.

“I expected more from you,” he said quietly. “As a driver, yes. But more than that — as a man. As a brother.”

Charles flinched like he’d been hit.

“You want to fix this?” Fred said, stepping back. “Then stop sulking. Start listening. And for the love of God, don’t let Max Verstappen be the better man in every single room you enter.”

He turned and walked to the door.

“Because right now?” he added, hand on the handle. “He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters.”

And then he left.

Charles stayed seated, eyes burning, the silence pressing heavier than any helmet ever had.

***

Dinner had started out exactly the way Belle expected.

Loud. Warm. Slightly unhinged.

They were tucked into a quiet corner of a restaurant just off the Barcelona marina — the kind of place Max loved because no one there cared about racing unless it blocked traffic. The table was round, the lighting dim and golden, and the laughter had already started before the appetizers arrived.

Lando had barely let Max sit down before declaring, “You’re disgusting. You win a race and then get kissed like it’s a Netflix finale. Get out.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Max had said, completely unbothered.

Oscar, seated beside Lily, just smirked. “It was kind of romantic.”

Lily looked between the two of them with a soft smile. “Kind of? It broke the Internet.”

Daniel had toasted “to hard launches, soft kisses, and Verstappen chaos,” and Belle had nearly snorted water through her nose.

But now dinner had mellowed. Plates cleared. Dessert on the way. The kind of soft lull that usually came right before someone said something life-changing.

Max glanced at Belle. That look — gentle, checking, asking without words.

She nodded once.

He cleared his throat lightly. “We actually… wanted to tell you guys something.”

Four pairs of eyes snapped to attention.

“Tell me you’re moving to the countryside and buying a farm,” Lando said immediately. “Please. I need this arc.”

“Better,” Max said, eyes flicking toward Belle.

Belle rested her hands on the edge of the table. Her heart was fluttering, not with nerves exactly — more like awe. Like the moment was finally catching up to her.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

There was a pause.

A moment of stunned silence.

And then—

“NO YOU’RE NOT,” Daniel half-shouted, nearly knocking over his wine glass.

Lily gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Are you serious?!”

Oscar just stared, mouth slightly open like his brain had hit the brakes.

Lando blinked twice, then pointed between them. “Like… with a baby baby?”

Belle burst into laughter — the tension cracking wide open. Max was already grinning like he’d been waiting for this chaos all night.

“Yes, Lando,” Belle said, wiping at her eyes. “A baby baby.”

Oscar finally found his voice. “How long have you known?”

“A few weeks,” Max said. “We’re keeping it quiet for now. But we wanted you to know first.”

Lily leaned across the table, eyes wide and shining. “You’re going to be parents. Oh my god. That baby is going to have cheekbones and a death stare.”

“And probably a kart by age two,” Daniel added, now fully beaming. “Holy shit. Max Verstappen’s going to be a dad. I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down,” Oscar said, still blinking like he hadn’t caught up.

“I need to sit down harder,” Daniel muttered.

Lando reached for Belle’s hand across the table, squeezing it. “You’re going to be amazing.”

Belle swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “But… I’m also happy. Really happy.”

Max’s hand found her thigh under the table, grounding and steady. She didn’t have to look to know he was watching her with that same soft, almost reverent expression he’d had ever since she told him.

Oscar was smiling now too, the initial shock melting into something warm. “Congratulations,” he said. “Both of you. Really.”

“And selfishly,” Lily added, “I’m just glad we get to love this baby too.”

Daniel raised his glass. “To the official grid baby.”

“We’re not calling them that,” Belle said immediately.

“To Max spiraling when the baby kicks for the first time,” Oscar added, grinning.

“To all of it,” Lando finished. “To them.”

They clinked glasses — softly, gently.

And as Belle looked around at the people who had chosen her — not because she was someone’s sister, not because she was attached to a name — but because they loved her, her heart felt impossibly full.

The world could stay outside tonight.

This was theirs.

***

stages of promises ; charles leclerc

— summary; in which your childhood friend promised to marry you if you’re both single when you turn 25. However, somewhere between the lines of social media and reality, he gets lost in how he feels.

pairing — charles leclerc x baker-childhood-friend!f. reader ( third person story )

word count — 2840.

content — coming of age romance(?) all the times when everything goes south from Charles plans of letting you live your life yet he can never stop that feeling from growing within him. his subtle promises made.

NAVIGATION + author’s note: really like this one where he comes to terms with his feelings through each stage of the relationship, love when men realise they’re more in love than ever.

PROMISE ME WE’LL GET married if we’re still single when we turn twenty five. Those were the exact words Charles had promised when they were sixteen. Young, foolish and innocent but he thought that’d be the best idea and she would always agree with whatever Charles said.

I know I made this promise but I hope you live your life and I live my life, don’t want you feeling trapped. And those were the exact words Charles had mumbled under his breath that night of their wedding. On the same mattress, under the same duvet yet of a different mindset. She barely hummed in reply, tears cascading down her cheeks which symbolised everything unsaid.

It wasn’t like this was a foreign feeling, that same feeling of unrequited love always lingered in the air when they were together. Since they were six, she swore there’d be no one else but him and she thanked her lucky stars when she was sixteen for this marriage pact he came up with for where she is today.

She knew she’d never get anything out of this but it was better than losing him to say the most. Truly, she’d rather be confined in a marriage with him which could blossom hopefully. Yet hearing him draw the lines between them, for the sake of themselves, despite expecting it took a small jab at her feelings.

Hopefully everything changes and they make something out of this though, right?

— I.

Home baking felt as if it was home making, all those aromas became a part of her life as much as fresh air and sunshine when she picked it up one day. Donning her favourite light oatmeal coloured apron, her hair in a bun yet strands escaped from the sides. As the hours passed, tune by tune as the radio sang along, the piles of cinnamon buns grew. It was the same as mess, only the good sort she supposed, the edible sort that makes people happy.

The savoury smell of cinnamon lingers in the air whilst the cinnamon buns had risen from their muffin pan casings like unfurled telescopes. Inside the delicate swirl of butter-rich dough were apple chunks coated in the cinnamon sugar. Before they'd been out of the oven a full minute there was an empty spot in the tray and Charles was nowhere to be seen or had he been home when she was too engrossed in the process of baking her other batch? She shrugged, taking her theft as a compliment.

She heard the shuffling of his footsteps, probably smelling the new batch of cinnamon buns fresh out of the oven. “Mia Cara, you’re baking a lot today, what’s up with that?” That had always been his nickname for her, despite the way he had drawn the line between them, he still insists she’s the prettiest woman he had ever seen.

Charles hovered over the next batch of buns, eyeing each of them with his jaw slightly agape. “I thought I could bring your friends some freshly baked buns instead of those one-two days cookies when we have to fly. Since we’re all in Monaco, it’ll be fresher than ever.”

He looks up from the tray, gazing at her with furrowed eyebrows with curiosity written all over his face. “They could just get them from the bakeries, why do you have to bake them personally?” He inches his hand towards the buns but she slapped them away before he could steal another one. “Because they personally said they love my pastries, especially Oscar. Of course I have to personally bake them with love.”

Charles grits his teeth, his eyebrows furrowing more than before. “I tell you I love your pastries but you hardly bake my favourites for me.” He murmurs, thinking she wouldn’t hear his incoherent speech. “I wanted to bake some croissants but I guess I’m not feeling it anymore.” She teased, a giggle hidden in her throat where she faked coughing to cover it up. “No, absolutely not! When we come home from dinner later, you’ll feel the motivation to bake my favourites! You bake for my friends but not for your husband? Crazy, really.”

— II.

In the dark room, even the ticking had a relaxed feeling, as if it was a heart-beat at rest. She felt as if the air moved like cool water and the aroma of her cypress and cedarwood scented candles infused her far more deeply than it did in the light of day. The dining table strewn with numbered plastic bags, sorted out lego pieces and instruction booklets at a corner.

Lego had always been one of her hobbies, it probably was developed from all those architectural designing and interior designing. Being on study break right now means that she has a whole day or two to herself to complete the new Lego set Charles’ friend, Lando, had gotten her in return for her cinnamon buns from last weekend.

“Honey, I’m home!” Charles singsongs, it had been a habit of his when she moved in with him a little over a year ago. His heavy footsteps ricocheted through the hallway and made a beeline for her. “New Lego set again?” He sits in the chair opposite hers, putting away the opened plastic bags that were empty. “Mhm, Lando got me this one.”

She gazes up at him, her eyes creasing into crescents while giving him the sweetest smile ever that almost swept him off his feet. “Who got you what? Am I hearing this right, Lando got you a Lego set? Please repeat whatever you just said, I fear I might have misheard you.” He rambles, eyes almost popping out of their sockets and his hands by his cheeks resembling the shock emoji.

“Nope, you’re hearing that right. Lando got me this set. Look, it's so cool!” She points towards the box of the Porsche 911 set, her eyes beaming with excitement and completely disregarding him for his shock. “You could have asked me to get you this, why is Lando getting you stuff?” Charles huffed with his arms folded across his chest, yearning for her action again.

“He said it was in repayment for the cinnamon buns I made, told me to bake more if I wanted more Lego sets. I said okay.” He swore he could jump off right there and there from the balcony of his apartment. “Yeah no not happening, I can get you Lego’s too. Next time just ask me, it shouldn’t be my mates getting my wife things. Let’s go, get dressed. We’re going to get you whatever Lego set you want right now.”

— III.

Charles never thought he would ever come across negative comments of his relationship when scrolling through social media aimlessly. Tweets ranged from Charles acts like he doesn’t love or care about his wife, they’re barely seen together anywhere even in the paddock to outrageous comments saying Yn leave him, I can treat you better!!!

What was up with people commenting about his relationship? A part of him worried that he hadn’t been treating her as how a husband should have yet to be fair this marriage wasn’t out of love but more of a promise to her. Despite that, his mother had always taught him manners and righteousness and he wasn’t going to treat her any less than a wife.

He didn’t like the feeling growing within him, that feeling of guilt eating him alive like he hadn’t treated her well. Or did he not and thought he was all this time? Charles watches as she sat on the left of him on the couch, her eyes glued to her device with a smile never leaving her face. He clears his throat, drawing her attention to him whilst he rested her feet on his thighs. “I have a question.”

She eyed him with suspicion as to why he was acting strange just to have a question answered yet she nodded in response either way. “Do you… Have you ever felt like you’ve been mistreated? Okay maybe not mistreated, more of how I haven’t treated you like my wife. Okay maybe mistreated is the word.”

Her back straightened, staring right at him without batting an eyelash. “Are you insane?” Those words that left her mouth had instead been a surprise for Charles yet he found relief within those three words. “Are you insane? We’ve been friends since forever and you’re asking a question like that out of nowhere?” His arms flailed in the air at her question, shrugging it away. “I’m not talking friendship wise, like the past year as a husband?”

At the least expected time possible, she giggles at his response. Charles swore his heart swelled and every nook and crevices of his heart felt so full. “Charles, you said that we should live our own life. Why should how you treat me matter? But to answer your question, I don’t think there’s any day you make me feel less than a wife although this was your promise.”

Hearing her words made his heart settle a little, his shoulders relaxed which he didn’t even know was tense before. “Yeah good, that’s what I was aiming for. Still wanna make sure you get the proper treatment as my wife, you know Mia Cara?” Her response only came in a form of smile which displayed the matching dimples they both had, equally of depth. “Stop reading those tweets, I know Charles.”

— IV.

The crowd is a river of people, everyone moving in the same direction. There are only joyful faces as we head toward the stadium for the greatest Cigarettes After Sex concert on earth. Music to fill them chock full of adrenaline pumping happiness. They move not like pebbles in a jar, but like water molecules flowing smoothly past one another, lovers staying together with fingers entwined.

Being in Abu Dhabi and attending a music festival was a foreign experience for Charles, so he stood by his wife with their hands entwined in his pocket. “Mia Cara, isn’t this your favourite band? The one you play all day long at home?” He leaned forward to her ear, the hot air of his fanning her neck. “They’re so good, right?”

Charles hums in reply, being able to listen to her favourite band live with her made everything better. “I love it if you love it.” He mumbles, craning his head away and brings a hand to rub his nape and focuses his attention back on the last song of the band playing live. “Do you feel the raindrops or is it just me?”

At once there came a flash mob of rain, Charles cursed internally at the fact that he didn’t have an umbrella with him. He should have known to bring one especially when the music festival was an open concept one. “Mia Cara, we have to go. I don’t have an umbrella with me.” She nods in agreement while Charles pulls her closer, in hopes of shielding her from the rain and making their way towards his car.

“Wait for me in the car yeah? I’ll be right back.” He hovers over her, buckling her seatbelt and tucked her in with the sweater he always had lying in his car. His hands running to increase the temperature of the air conditioner, brushing his lips across her forehead. “Keep the door locked, I’ll be back before you know it.”

And truly before she knows, he’s back with a paper bag in his hands and a completely different outfit. Charles slides into his driver seat, handing the paper bag to her. “Got us a new change of clothes, I’ll stop by the nearest toilet so you can get change. Don’t want you to fall sick and catch a cold.”

She rummaged through the paper bag, looking at the outfit exactly the same as the one Charles is donning. “Is this a matching outfit or?” Her eyebrows cocked up, looking at him with a small grin. “Eh no, it’s just the same colour and design, you know? I got it from the same department store.”

A small chuckle escaped her lips at his lousy excuse, anyone looking at the outfit would have known it was a matching piece. “Mhm sure, everything you say is right, yeah?” Charles grumbles a response, a huff leaving him. “Yeah whatever.”

— V.

Charles returning to an apartment completely engulfed in darkness with the air so still has never been a thing. There would always be light in the entrance hallway she turned on before going to bed or the living room lights turned on and her playlist on shuffle if she hadn’t fallen asleep.

Half past eleven at night, she couldn’t have been asleep could she? For all he knew, she had never been one to be asleep this early. Or maybe she had been too tired today. He padded towards their bedroom where the door was left wide open and there’s no one found in their bed.

The sound of the door closing has him running back towards the entrance of their apartment. There she stood with her hair let down, one of his favourite black skim dresses of hers, a surprise look written all over her face. “You’re back early today.” She pats at his shoulder, walking past him to the living room where she thumped on the couch.

“Where have you been?” Charles questioned as he took a seat beside her, worry laced in his voice. “Had dinner with an old friend of mine.” He watches as her eyes flutter, her chest rising and falling evenly. “Your old friend is my old friend, why didn’t they ask me out too?”

“Yeah about that, don’t think he knows you…” His hands flew up to his cheeks, rubbing his face with his palms and letting out a sigh. “Sorry did you just say he? Look I’m not tryna restrict who you go out with but at least let me know yeah? But he? A he? An old friend could be an old flame” Charles lets himself ramble and ramble, his hands throwing all sorts of signs with his speech.

“Charles, we just had dinner and afterwards a coffee to catch up. He’s married and a father to twins…” Her voice trails off, watching his expression fall when he realises everything he had just rambled about. “Oh, I never said anything. I don’t know why you’re explaining yourself to me but I appreciate it. Just let me know next time, okay?”

And she truly appreciates his worry about her wellbeing but there’s a small part of her that wonders if it was because of a different reason. “Why are you so worried, I can look out for my own safety.” He bites at his bottom lips, grumbling to himself at her question. “Because you’re my wife and I don’t want you getting hurt or stuff. Neither should you be on a date with someone else who isn’t me.”

The giggle that escapes her rolled about the room like a child's spinning top, vibrant and heart warming as it moved around the people in its chaotic way. Her giggle was a stone bouncing across a glossy lake, creating ripples of mirth where there had been none, warming Charles’ soul. “You’re jealous?”

“What? No?” He holds both his hands up in surrender, as if being accused of a crime yet he seemed guilty of doing so. She cocks an eyebrow up at him, questioning him with her gaze. “I wouldn’t call it jealousy, I just don’t wanna share what’s mine with others. You know?”

“So jealousy, that is?” He runs his hand through her disheveled hair, groans a response instead of using his words as he couldn’t formulate one. “It’s okay I get you Charles, I understand you.”

“Good because I don’t want you dating anyone else but me. I love you enough for the both of us, you’re not going anywhere without me.”

I love you, always. Those were the exact words Charles had said that night, the three words she had been yearning to hear from him. On the same mattress, under the same duvet and of the same mindset.

I have loved you since we were five. There hasn’t been anyone else but you, Charles. This was a foreign feeling to her, the feeling of your unrequited love turned to requited love. She thanked the lucky stars for how her life turns out despite the ups and downs.

And there’s a lot of things Charles may have regretted doing or promising, but he definitely would never regret something. And that is six year old him promising to marry her when they’re both single at twenty five. He’d thank fate for having them together but he would have been with her either way even if it wasn’t meant to be.

He would no longer vacillate between lovers and friends but obsess over her forevermore. As long as she existed, he would be hers. No question no doubt and in every universe.

Hurricane - Part 5

{“I bought some from here last week. They were so good. The vendor said they were picked this morning. Can you imagine these with some fresh cream and a bit of sugar? Oh my goodness.” “Buy three cartons.” Max said, pulling out his wallet from his back pocket without hesitation. He wanted multiples of anything that made Emma smile like that.}

notes: no warnings. just vibes. max being soft for emma. thank you to my own personal writing therapist who routinely talks me off a ledge when i'm convinced this entire thing is trash @lestapiastrisgirl <3 pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (female oc) word count: 6k

hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

Emma didn’t make it to her planned 9am pilates class the next morning, much to absolutely no one’s surprise. The headache that pounded behind her eyes the moment her alarm went off much too early had her silencing her phone. 

“Who did I think I was last night? Why in the world did you allow me to think I’d be human enough to make a 9am class, Verstappen?” Emma moans as she pads out into the kitchen a few hours later. She collapses theatrically into a chair at the kitchen counter, her head immediately falling forward, forehead resting against the cool marble. 

Max chuckles from his spot at the stove where he stands frying up some eggs. The breakfast this morning wasn’t exceptionally fancy, but the thought behind it was the same. “I tried to turn your alarm off in the car last night but you yelled at me. Something about how you’d need to sweat out all the alcohol you’d drank.” 

“I’m never drinking ever again.” She groans, tapping her forehead against the counter a few times. 

Max snorts, sliding two of the fried eggs onto a plate before sliding them over to Emma along with a fork. “How many times have you said that before?” 

Emma lifts her head off the counter to glare at Max, “More than five, less than ten.” 

Max pushed the eggs further towards her, encouraging her to eat. “I’m going to go on a run after I eat, do you want to come with me? Sweat out that alcohol like you wanted to last night?” 

“Don’t you use my words against me, I’m injured.” 

“You’re hungover.” 

“Same thing.” Emma snaps but there’s no bite behind her words. “You don’t have to hang out with me all the time during an off week, Max. I’m just your assistant.” Her face softens into something more serious, her voice dropping. 

“You are not just my assistant, Sunshine.” Max corrects, eyes serious. He was unwilling to allow Emma to self-deprecate like that, even this early in the morning. “You’re my friend who just happens to run my life with military precision. Besides, I like hanging out with you.” 

Emma grins, not bothering to hide her pleasure at his words. “Okay, fine but I if I pass out, you’re responsible for making sure I get home safe.” 

“Of course. Now eat, you need something in your stomach before you do any sort of cardio.” 

She shakes her head before popping a forkful of egg into her mouth, a satisfied hum scratching at the back of her throat. Max swallows thickly at the sound. “These are perfect. If this whole racing thing doesn’t work out, you should consider opening up a fried egg restaurant.” 

Max chuckles, cracking another few eggs into the pan for himself. He slots a few pieces of bread into the toaster before pulling out the butter and Emma’s favorite jam. The sheer domesticity of the moment has something deep in his chest aching with familiarity. Emma eating quietly as she scrolls through her social media feeds, Max standing at the stove watching over his own eggs. It was a silent glimpse into something he’d never known was possible for him. 

“Are you volunteering to be my taste tester?” 

“Just add it to my many different job titles: Emotional Support Assistant, Professional Egg Taster. My resume is going to be stacked after working for you.” 

The thought of Emma not working for him anymore sends a strange trill of anxiety through him. He sways at the stove a bit when the thought races through his mind. Between the way she’d leaned into him while he steadied her in the elevator last night and the way her hug had lingered a little longer than necessary when he finally was able to get Emma into bed, the way she’d become such a solid fixture in his life so quickly made Max’s head spin. 

When his eggs are ready, he slides them onto a plate before sitting next to Emma at the counter. They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, the quiet only broken by the sounds of toast crunching and forks clinking against porcelain. 

“Okay, I think I can do a short run without regretting my entire existence.” Emma says after popping the last bits of egg into her mouth, fork scraping against the now empty plate. “How long did you want to go for?” 

“Ten miles?” 

Emma nearly spits out the sip of orange juice. When Max doesn’t laugh, she shakes her head. “Oh, you’re serious?” 

Max chuckles. “Miami is next weekend. It’s hot and humid as fuck down there, I need to make sure my endurance is better than it was in Jeddah. I was dying after.” 

Emma’s mind flickers back to after the race in Jeddah. He’d been flushed such a deep scarlet, sweat making his blond hair stick haphazardly to his forehead. After the post-race celebrations, it had been straight into the ice bath for him, a little tradition that Emma didn’t mind being present for in the least. 

“Ten miles sounds ambitious for someone who’s main form of exercise last night was lifting my drink to my lips over and over…and over.” 

“You don’t have to come with me, you can stay here on the couch with Jimmy and Sassy. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.” 

Emma shakes her head, waving her hand dismissively. “No, drunk me was right. I need to sweat out all of my bad decisions from last night.” 

“You can spend the rest of the afternoon rotting on the couch. Crane wanted to stream some iRacing later, if that’s okay with you.” 

Emma shrugs as she moves towards the hallway. “Fine with me as long as you don’t start yelling at him again when he runs you into the wall.” 

“He did it on purpose!” Max protests, laugh rumbling in the back of his throat. 

“It’s a video game!” Emma argues back with a laugh before walking down the hall to get changed. 

Max just rolls his eyes before turning back to the dishes that need washing before they can leave. He tosses everything in the sink before filling it with hot water and soap, letting them soak so he can let them be this afternoon’s chores. 

It doesn’t take long and before Max is even finished wiping off the counter, Emma is back in the kitchen, dressed in a matching set of mint green leggings and sports bra. When he turns towards the sounds of her shuffling down the hall, he has to lean against the counter for support. There were several inches of bare skin between the bottom of the top she had on and her leggings. He swallowed thickly at the sight of her navy blue and red jeweled belly button ring. That was new, he thought idly, not minding one bit how it matched his colors. 

“Max, are you okay?” Emma interrupted his perusal of her body, eyebrow arched in quiet question. 

Max clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh..” He shakes his head, the thoughts springing up in his mind a bit spicy for this early in the morning. “Yeah. Yep, totally fine. You ready?” 

Emma reaches up, pulling her ponytail a bit tighter. “No, but lets go anyway.” 

With a chuckle, Max’s hand finds the small of Emma’s back as he leads her out of the apartment, happy to be moving towards the door so the temptation of doing other cardio activities with her doesn’t get a chance to take hold. “I’ll go easy on you, Sunshine.” 

Emma rolls her eyes, “Yeah. I’m sure you will.” 

Twitter user918 - anyone else see Max this morning in Monaco with that blonde? Who is she? >>> user000 - It looked like it was Emma, his new assistant.  >>>user0209 - he’s hanging out with his assistant on non-race weeks???  >>>user090 have you SEEN Emma??? If I were Max I’d never let her leave. User938 Are we sure they’re not actually dating? I swear I saw them flirting in the background of the most recent Red Bull video Yuki was doing.  >>>user102 can we normalize accepting that sometimes a man and woman are literally just FRIENDS. Besides, she’s his EMPLOYEE, that would be so weird.  >>>user999 idk about you but I don’t look at MY coworkers like Max looks at Emma.  >>>user019 @/user999 IKR??? Did you see the way he looked at her the last time he was streaming with Red Line? She handed him food during a break they had and he looked up at her with the most obvious heart eyes I’ve ever seen.  >>>user001 ya’ll are nuts user112 I hope she makes an appearance on stream this afternoon. Max always seems happier when she’s around.  

The familiar sounds of Max’s sim rig filled the quiet of the apartment later that afternoon. Emma scrolled on her phone as she listened idly to the hum of the computer fan, the click of the paddle shifters, and the focused murmur of Max’s voice as he chatted back and forth with the other guys that were on the stream. On the largest monitor, his virtual car navigated a challenging corner on the digital rendition of the track in Spa. 

Unseen by the thousands of viewers that were glued to the Twitch stream, Emma was sprawled out comfortable on the large sectional sofa behind his setup, Sassy curled up on her lap purring away happily. A half-eaten bowl of popcorn sat forgotten on the coffee table, the comforting voices of President Barlet and his staff softly filtered though the air from her laptop screen as she lost herself in an episode of The West Wing. 

The afternoon sun, now slung lower in the sky, cast a warm glow over the scene, a calm picture of relaxed domesticity that had begun to define the way Emma and Max existed together in their off-time. 

Suddenly, Max’s focused concentration seemed to waver for just a beat as a second, feminine voice was picked up by his sensitive microphone. He briefly muted, finger darting over the red button as his eyes flickered off-screen towards Emma, a small, private smily tugging at his lips as he spoke. 

The chat immediately exploded. 

user200 wait, who is he talking to??? User0990 I swear I just heard a girl’s voice in the background??? User009 spill the tea Max! Who’s the mystery woman that’s got you blushing like that???

Crane saw the comments flooding in as he watched Max’s video instead of the race he should have been paying attention to. “Oi! Max! No distractions, focus on the apex!” 

Max’s cheeks flushed slightly, a fact not lost on the chat, as he shook his head. “I am focused!” He argued after he unmuted himself. 

“You are not.” Emma called from the couch, hitting the pause button on her show. “He is not focused, Crane!” She called, enjoying the way Max’s head snapped back in her direction. 

Chat exploded when they heard Emma’s voice. 

User099 I HEARD HER AGAIN.  User334 who is it Max?! Come on, spill!!  User000 we’re not going to let this go until we see her.  User009 she even SOUNDS pretty.  User982 I bet its the same blonde that he was seen with this morning running in the marina.  >>>user334 he was WHAT??? 

Max sighed, shaking his head. “Relax guys, it’s just Emma. You know, my assistant? She’s just chilling on the couch.”

The chat went wild again, a flurry of new messages flooding the screen. 

User333 EMMA??? THEEEEEE EMMA??? The only one on Red Bull’s payroll that can tame the lion???  user003 oh to be a personal assistant to THE Max Verstappen and live in Monaco.  User020 wait, isn’t it sort of weird for his assistant to be at his apartment on a Saturday afternoon?  >>>user000 yeah, seems a bit unprofessional, no?  >>>user222 adults can be friends outside of work guys.  User100 COME SAY HI EMMA!!! >>>user888 yeah, we want to see the girl that’s got Max behaving in the media pen the last few races.  User928 idk guys. The way he looks at her is giving ‘I have the biggest crush on you’ instead of ‘I am very much your boss’ 

Max’s reluctance was palpable. He liked having this space, his online racing world, separate from his very really and increasingly complicated life with Emma. Sharing her with the outside world felt…intrusive. Like he was revealing a piece of him that he’d rather keep away from the prying eyes of the public. So much of his life was already fodder for public consumption. His relationship with Emma felt…different. Like it was something that needed to be protected. 

He muted again briefly before turning his head. “They want to say hi.” 

Emma’s brows knit together, “Who?” 

Max swept a hand towards his monitors. “Everyone.” 

“Is that cool?” 

Max nodded, eyes flicking back to where the chat was losing their mind. Crane and the rest of the guys were quiet, knowing not to push Max into revealing more of his private life than he was comfortable with. They were respectful with his boundaries even if the general public could be a little intense sometimes. “Only if you’re comfortable with it.” 

Emma contemplated her options for a moment before grinning. She’d chatted with Crane and the other guys before when they had played COD the other night off stream so she was comfortable with them. Her social media had been getting more and more popular since she’d started being spotted with Max in the paddock and on TV feeds during race weekends. While the attention was a little overwhelming, she admired the enthusiasm of the fans and knew they were important to Max. 

Emma surprised herself when she stood from the couch, pulling at the hem of the crewneck sweatshirt she’d pulled on over her bike shorts earlier after her shower. Leaning into the camera frame, she grinned at the lens, her gaze finding the stream as she waved at Crane and the rest of the crew. Her blond hair, freshly washed and hanging loose around her face, fell over her shoulder in a sheet of gold. Max didn’t move when it tumbled low over his shoulder when she got closer to where he was sitting. 

“Hi guys!” She waggled her fingers at the camera, smirk tugging at her full lips. 

Max sucked in a breath, the scent of her vanilla and honey shampoo wrapping itself around his senses. 

The chat exploded. 

User738 oh my GOD she’s gorgeous.  User928 no wonder Max was distracted  >>>user9298 If I were Max I’d never get ANYTHING done.  User0021 where is your crewneck from??? That color is perfection on you!!  User300 someone start a petition for Emma to become a regular on these. I’d watch anything she’s on.  User928 we need a hair tutorial PLEASE, your curls are perfection.  User918 No because why is Emma the best part of this entire stream tho???

Emma watched as the compliments flooded in, pink tinging the apples of her cheeks. She hadn’t expected to be so warmly welcomed by his fans. Max smirked too, secretly liking the chaos playing out in front of him after all. The reluctance to share Emma with the world was quickly replaced with a mixture of pride and inflated ego. 

“You guys are so sweet, thank you! The crewneck is ancient but I think I got it from Aritzia a few seasons ago!” She answered a few other questions quickly as the timer for the team’s break wound down. 

Eventually though, it was time for the next heat to start so Crane had to attempt to reign the chat back in before the next race began. Emma stood up straight, her hand resting on Max’s shoulder in comforting and surprisingly possessive gesture that not a single person on the stream missed or ignored. More than a few comments called out the way her fingers flexed ever so slightly into the soft fabric of Max’s old t-shirt.

“Crane, if you need me to keep Max in line from here, let me know. I’m right over there, three episodes deep in season seven of West Wing.”   

The chat continued to buzz with excitement long after Emma disappeared and the next race had begun. Max, though still thoroughly flustered, couldn’t help the small smile that lingered on his face. They liked her. Seeing her so easily win over this part of his world, a part he usually kept separate from his personal life was…nice. Really nice. He glanced over at Emma a few times while there was a pause in the action, watching her now that she was thoroughly engrossed in the episode that was playing on her laptop, a prickle of warmth and something that felt a lot like pride, swelled in his chest. 

Maybe sharing her wasn’t so bad after all. 

Maybe. 

If there was one thing Emma loved about living full-time in Monaco, it was the farmer’s market that set up shop every Sunday morning down the street from Max’s apartment. It was a touch on the touristy side but there were so many vendors that had local produce grown just over the border in France and Italy along with fresh seafood and other proteins from farmers and butchers. If she was home on a Sunday morning, you’d always find Emma down the street wandering through the stalls. 

This Sunday was no different. Emma was up before the sun had fully chased away the inky darkness of night, a quiet confidence in her movements as she pulled on a comfortable sweater and jeans. Her large tote bag, already filled with a few reusable shopping bags, sat waiting for her by the door. The apartment was still quiet, the only sounds keeping her company this early were the hum of the refrigerator and the distant lapping of waves against the harbor wall. Max was likely still fast asleep after his late-night streaming session with Red Line the night before. 

She didn’t mind though, going to the market alone. In fact, she embraced the quiet stillness that leaving the apartment this early afforded her. Miami was coming up and they were leaving early Wednesday morning to head to the States, so Emma was eager to have a bit more quiet time before she was catapulted into the chaos of a race weekend. 

As she reached for the door, the quiet was broken by the sound of Max’s bedroom door creaking open. He appeared in the hallway, hair adorably rumpled and sticking out haphazardly every which way, eyes still half closed as he squatted over at Emma. 

“Where are you sneaking off to?” He mumbled, voice thick with sleep. 

Emma turned, a soft smile on her face. “Just off to the farmers market, sleepyhead. Don’t worry, I’ll make you a proper breakfast when I get back. I shouldn’t be gone long. Any special requests? There was this spectacular little bakery there for the first time a few weeks ago, the croissants were half butter I swear. I can get a few? You liked the almond ones I got last time, didn’t you?” 

Max looked at her curiously, a bit stunned that she remembered how he’d preferred the almond filled pastries over the plain ones. He leaned against the doorframe, still slightly disoriented, as he considered her question for a moment. “Forget the list, Sunshine.” He murmured, pushing himself off the wall and shuffling back towards his bedroom. “Give me a minute and I’ll come with you.” 

Emma blinked after him, her mouth forming a perfect little O of surprise. “You don’t have to! I can go by myself.” 

“Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready. You’re always gushing about this market, I want to see what all the fuss is about myself.” 

Emma chuckled, shaking her head. “Okay, okay but hurry! If I miss those peaches from the farmer in Nice like I did last week, I’m going to be cranky.” 

Max shook his head before ducking into his room. “I’ll be quick. I don’t want to have a grumpy Emma on my hands all day.” 

***

The early morning air at the market was cool and crisp, a gentle breeze carrying the mingled scents of freshly picked fruit, flowers, and the salty sea air blowing in off the water. Sunlight dappled through the canvas awnings of the stalls, casting a golden glow on the colorful displays of produce and freshly cut flowers. Emma, with her tote bag slung casually over her shoulder, moved with a comfortable familiarity through the early crowd, her eyes bright as she examined plump tomatoes and fragrant bunches of herbs. 

Max followed dutifully behind, still blinking sleepily every once in a while. He’d stayed up much too late last night but the cool air but watching Emma duck between stalls without a care in the world was enough to pull him out of his tired haze. 

Emma stoped at a stall overflowing with vibrant strawberries, their sweet scent intoxicating. She carefully picked through the small baskets that held quarts and pints of the ruby red fruit, her brow furrowed in concentration as she made sure she was guaranteed to pick the best of the bunch. Max, who had been idly watching her from a few meters away, wandered over to see what she was concentrating so hard at. 

“Those look good.” He murmured, peering over her shoulder. 

Emma felt his presence before she noticed him standing behind her. He smelled faintly of his body wash she had bought him last week at the pharmacy, his warmth radiating off of him as he stood closely examining the strawberries Emma had clutched in her hands. She tipped her head up slightly to catch his eye, surprised that he was already looking down at her with a soft smile on his lips. The way her stomach flipped at the way Max was looking at her was something she couldn’t ignore, despite her every effort to do exactly that. She should not be liking the way Max’s blue eyes had been watching her all morning, the way he tracked her no matter where she was. 

The way she felt under his watch was dangerous. 

“I bought some from here last week. They were so good. The vendor said they were picked this morning. Can you imagine these with some fresh cream and a bit of sugar? Oh my goodness.” 

“Buy three cartons.” Max said, pulling out his wallet from his back pocket without hesitation. 

He wanted multiples of anything that made Emma smile like that. 

He paid the vendor and turned away from the stall at the same time Emma did, her shoulder brushing his with a casual tenderness that had his heart aching. She reached into the bag where the cartons of strawberries were, plucking a small one off the top of the pile. Emma paused before raising it towards Max’s lips. “Here, try. I swear, these are the best thing you’ve ever tasted.” 

Max struggled to keep the surprise off his face, feeling the way the tips of his ears turned pink at the casually intimate gesture. He obediently opened his mouth, sinking into the way the Emma’s dove-gray eyes sparkled as his lips closed around the proffered strawberry. The sweetness that burst across his tongue as he bit into the flesh of the fruit had Max’s eyes fluttering closed, a satisfied groan rumbling at the back of his throat. He was quiet for a moment, enjoying how closely Emma’s body was to his. 

“So good.” He murmured, his eyes never leaving hers in a way that had Emma’s stomach fluttering. The way he said it had her wondering if he was just talking about the strawberry though. 

After a few moments, Emma took a slight step away, unable to come up with any more excuses to remain so close to Max. She wandered away, towards a flower vendor, as Max watched after her. Something in his chest squeezed at the casual way she glanced over her shoulder, as if she was checking to make sure he was following her. He joined her a few beats later, watching as she examined a colorful bunch of tulips. 

“They remind me of home.” She murmured, plucking out a particularly stunning bouquet of pink and yellow blooms. 

Max was surprised at her comment, considering how she felt about going home and her parents attitude but he supposed even he could be nostalgic about the place that raised him, even if their hometown held painful memories for him as well. 

“Are you going to buy your girlfriend the tulips or will you just let her make heart-eyes at you until she purchases them herself?” The merchant teases from his place behind his table. 

Emma huffs a small laugh but doesn’t bother correcting the elderly man. Her head simply swiveled around and up to glance back at Max. “Yeah, do I have buy my own flowers today, Maxie?” She teased, grin stretching across her face. 

Max simply rolled his eyes, casual move belying the storm of butterflies creating a tornado in his stomach at the man’s assumption and the way Emma was playing along. “Who am I to say no to such a pretty woman?” 

The way Emma bit her lip in delight had Max stifling a groan as he reached back into his wallet, not for the first time that morning. The old man chuckled as he took Max’s credit card from him before turning away to wrap up the bundle of tulips that Emma had picked out.  

Twitter User928 I SWEAR TO GOD I JUST SAW A RANDOM BLONDE HAND FEEDING MAX VERSTAPPEN A STRAWBERRY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MONACO FARMERS MARKET. I REFUSE TO BE NORMAL ABOUT THIS.  >>>user2008 random blonde? Was it Emma tho??? >>>User928 OH MY GOD IT WAS  >>>user2008 no FUCKING way 

Max never usually woke up to thunderstorms. The loud clash of titans in the sky was never quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. It wasn’t that he was a deep sleeper. It was just that the loud and bright storms that blew into Monaco in the spring never bothered him enough to be a burden. 

Until the night before him and Emma were due to leave for Miami. 

He didn’t realize what woke him up at first. It had been several hours since he’d turned in, leaving Emma alone at the piano while she worked out her last bits of nervous tension before heading to bed herself. Max had been deep asleep for a while, so when he was pulled from the deep, pristine lake of his dreams, the cobwebs of sleep took a bit longer to shake themselves from his brain. 

He blinked awake, sleep blurring at the edge of his vision as he reached for his bearings. 

His bed. 

At night. 

Rain beating against the windows, flashes of lighting streaking across the sky. 

Light shining under the gap in the doorway. 

That caught Max’s attention. He glanced at his phone: 2:24 am. There was no way Emma was still awake, right? He listened carefully, expecting to hear the now-familiar strains of the piano. She hadn’t seemed upset when he’d left her earlier in the evening, or else he would’ve stayed up with her. 

He sat and listened but was met with only the sound of the rain whispering against the windows and a distant crack of thunder. 

But the lights. There was a least one hall light on outside, maybe more judging by the stark brightness that crawled across the carpet in his bedroom. Max tugged on a shirt as he stumbled his way towards the door, limbs still stiff with sleep. 

The door creaked open and Max paused again. There wasn’t any sound of the piano but he did hear the gentle clinks and sounds of movement softly floating out of the kitchen. Surely no burglar would be making themselves at home in the light, preparing a sandwich, Max thought as he padded down the hallway towards the sounds. 

“Sunshine?” His voice was thicker than his vision, rough with exhaustion. 

Near the stove, Emma startled so suddenly she nearly dropped the baking sheet she held in her hands. “Max! Oh my God!” She gasps, clutching at her throat with a oven-mitt clad hand. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

Max’s eyes took in the scene before him. Every single inch of counter space was taken up by sacks of flour and sugar, mixing bowls of several different sizes, dozens of muffins and a few loaves of freshly baked bread. It was then that the smell of what was going on hit Max’s nose. Bread. Freshly baked from the smell of it. Yeasty and warm, slightly sweet at the end when you swallowed. Something sweet too, cinnamon like the perfume Emma wore. Spicy with a touch of earth. 

“Are you…baking at 2 in the morning?” 

Emma looked like a child who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “Ummm…” Her eyes swung comically from left to right before flickering back to Max. “Yeah?” 

Max scrubbed at his face with his hands, struggling to figure out if he should be concerned or if this was normal behavior from the blonde. “Why?” 

Emma worried at her lip, the tips of her ears going pink. “You’re going to make fun of me.” 

Max walked towards the counter, the chair whispering against the tile as he pulled it out to sit. “I won’t make fun of you, I promise. Is everything okay? You were fine when I went to bed.” 

Emma’s gaze swung from Max’s towards the storm that beat against the apartment’s windows. “I really hate thunderstorms. I’m terrified of them, really.” Her cheeks heats at the confession, memories of being made fun of for being scared flickering through her mind. “And when one happens, the only thing that can calm me down is to bake. It helps me focus on something that I have total control over. The tunnel vision is…soothing.” 

Emma chewed at the bottom of her lip. She’d never told anyone that before. She’d always assumed her fear of thunderstorms was irrational. That’s what her mother had told her when she was little. There was nothing to be afraid of and she was being silly. Any big feelings she had were always minimized into ‘Oh, Emma’s being a drama queen today’ to discount her experience. So she’d learned to push them down, learned to cope the best way she knew how so she didn’t bother anyone else with her problems. And that coping ended up being baking.

Max watched from across the kitchen as Emma went somewhere in her head for a few moments. He could tell the way her eyes went unfocused and she paused as if a memory had taken hold and she couldn’t shake it. 

“Why would I make fun of you for being scared of something or figuring out a way to cope with that fear?” Max narrowed his eyes at Emma like he was trying to understand a piece of art. 

“Why wouldn’t you?” There was no sarcasm behind her question. It was genuine and that fact shattered Max’s heart into jagged splinters. 

Max rose slowly before rounding the counter, stopping right in front of Emma. He gently took the pan she held in her hand and set it on the stove before turning back to her. Max was so close, Emma could feel the heat of his breath skate over the top of her head. “It is not normal to make the people you care about feel insignificant and small at the expense of a joke, Sunshine. You do know that, don’t you?” 

Logically, Emma knew this was true. Knew that the way she was brought up, with it’s veiled bullying and penchant for sweeping things under the rug, was not normal but she couldn’t help feeling tied to that way of looking at the world. 

When she doesn’t say anything, Max continues. “I think that you finding a way to cope with your fear in a productive way is worthy of praise, Sunshine. This storm is loud and anxiety is valid.” Max pauses, a slight grin playing at the edge of his lips. He watched Emma’s eyes track the movement before they returned back to his. “And why the hell would I make fun of something that results in me having freshly baked bread for the rest of my life?” 

The implication hung heavy in the air as the atmosphere shifted into something close to snapping. The scent of warm bread and cinnamon seemed to become heavier, mingling with the electric charge of the storm that was baring down on them outside. Max’s gaze softened, his earlier teasing replaced by raw sincerity that made Emma’s breath catch in her throat. He saw the lingering hurt in her eyes, the ingrained expectation of ridicule. A wave of fierce protectiveness welled up in his chest, his only desire in that moment was making sure she understood how serious he was about her. 

Max shifted even closer towards Emma, closing the final distance between them. She tipped her head back slightly, her gaze locked on his, vulnerability shining in her eyes as she looked up at him. The rhythmic drumming of the rain against the windows faded into a distant buzz, the sound of her own heartbeat hammering against her ribcage the only sound echoing in her ears. 

Max’s eyes drifted down, almost against his will, to her lips. They were slightly parted, the dim light of the kitchen highlighting the delicate curve of the cupids bow Max often found himself starting at. He hadn’t intended to, hadn’t even consciously thought about what he was doing, but that undeniable pull, the magnetic force that both of them seemed powerless to resist, took over. 

He leaned in, the movement so slow it was almost imperceptible, his breath warm against her cheek. Max’s lips just barely brushed against hers, a feather light touch that sent a jolt of pure electricity zinging through Emma’s veins. It was a fleeting graze, a silent test of the waters that had been swirling into a hurricane since the moment he rescued her all those weeks ago. 

Before either of them could react, before the significance of what was happening could fully register, a deafening CRACK of thunder, closer and more violent than any that had shook the house that night, reverberated through the apartment. The lights flickered violently, and Emma gasped, instinctively jumping back as if she’d been physically struck. The fragile intimacy shattered as Max blew out a long breath, carding his fingers through his hair. 

Neither of them spoke for several moments, each contemplating what had nearly just happened. Tension thrummed in the air as Emma’s gaze fell to the floor. She lifted her fingers to touch her lips, almost as if she wanted to remember what the press of Max’s lips had felt like moments before. 

Max cleared his throat after a beat, fighting the suffocating heat that had blanketed the kitchen. “It’s late, Sunshine and we have a big weekend ahead of us. Is everything out of the oven?” 

Emma nodded, flinching slightly as another loud thunderclap rattled the windows. “Yeah. You go to bed, I won’t be able to sleep for hours anyway. I’ll stay away from the oven though, I’m sorry I woke you up.” 

“You should just try to get some rest…” 

Tears prick at the back of her eyes, the overwhelming situation in front of her almost too much to take. “I can’t…” She whispered, shame turning her neck red. 

“Do you want to lay down with me?” 

The question hangs the air and for a brief, terrifying moment, Max thinks he’s taken things just a step too far. 

“In your bed?” Emma asks, eyes wide. 

Max only nods.

Waits. 

“Okay.” She nods too. 

“Okay.” He repeats before reaching out to twine his fingers with Emma’s slender ones, tugging her out of the kitchen and towards his darkened bedroom. 

tag list: @alessioayla @addy-lol @changetyre @obxstiles @tvdtw4ever @joaofelixml @vickykazuya @47chickens @magnusstan @joannaln4 @nicooolsstuff @wakasays @slutforcoffein @ajordan2020 @widow-cevans @isagrace22 @simp4f1 @chertik-007vvv @mayax2o07 @scenesofobx @a-beaverhausen @glitteryturtledeer @halleest @sltwins @doesgekouwe @unknownmystery22 @honethatty12 @chaoswithus @sarahsobsession @liz140569 @sinfully-yoursss @ilove-tswizzle @lilbitchfromfaraway @irisesinthegarden @anayaverse @mynameisangeloflife @i-survived-a-shark-attack @smithieandy @fastandcurious16 @angelluv16 @sinfully-yoursss

White Horse - Chapter 23: June 2024 - Part 4

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The smell of fresh croissants filled the apartment by the time Belle heard the knock at the door.

She padded barefoot across the kitchen tiles, hair still messy from sleep, and opened it to find Emilie standing there — oversized sunglasses perched on her head, a tote bag dangling from one arm, and a smug, very satisfied smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"You brought pastries," Belle said, immediately stepping aside to let her in.

"I also bring gossip," Emilie said, sweeping dramatically into the kitchen. "And judgment. Lots of judgment."

Belle laughed under her breath and grabbed two mugs from the shelf. "Coffee?"

"Obviously," Emilie said, dropping the tote on the counter. "You’ll need it for this."

Belle handed her a cup and sat down at the table, folding her legs beneath her. "Okay, what did you do?"

Emilie beamed. "I may or may not have verbally eviscerated Charles last night."

Belle blinked. "You what?"

"Ran into him and Alexandra while you were busy being majestic and ignoring his fifty desperate texts," Emilie said, taking a sip of coffee like she hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb into the kitchen. "He stomped over, full of righteous panic, and I… handled it."

Belle covered her mouth with her hand, trying not to choke on a laugh. "Handled it how?"

"I told him," Emilie said sweetly, "that maybe, just maybe, if he had spent half as much time seeing you as he does now trying to fix his own guilt, he wouldn't be in this mess."

Belle’s eyebrows shot up. "You said that?"

"And more," Emilie said brightly. "I told him he doesn’t get to be upset about the horse. Or the apartment. Or the job. Because every one of those things was him not noticing, not you hiding."

Belle stared at her, heart twisting — with affection, with shock, with a deep, raw kind of gratitude she couldn’t quite put into words.

"You’re terrifying," Belle said softly.

Emilie grinned. "And yet you love me."

"I do," Belle admitted, smiling even as she felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat. "I really, really do."

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes — Belle tearing apart a croissant, Emilie scrolling through her phone — before Emilie casually said, "Oh, and by the way, I also had a date last night."

Belle blinked. "You what?"

Emilie sipped her coffee like it was no big deal. "With Lando."

Belle nearly dropped her croissant. "With—LANDO?"

"Don’t yell," Emilie said, laughing. "You’ll scare the cats."

Belle gaped at her. "You had a date with Lando Norris and you’re just… casually dropping that like it’s nothing?"

"I mean, it’s not nothing," Emilie said, suddenly a little shy, cheeks pinking. "It was… nice. Really nice."

Belle set her coffee down carefully. "You like him."

"I might," Emilie admitted, voice soft. "I really might."

Belle sat back, a slow, warm smile spreading across her face. "You deserve nice."

Emilie shrugged, but she was smiling too. "He makes me laugh. A lot. And he listens. And he doesn’t… I don’t know. He doesn’t expect me to be anything but what I am."

Belle reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "That sounds pretty good to me."

"It is," Emilie said, squeezing back. 

"And if he hurts you, I’m telling Max," Belle added. 

Emilie laughed — a real one, full and bright and fierce. "Please do."

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

Belle: Hi Lando Emilie told me you two had a date recently.

Lando: 😳 uh yeah we did

Lando: I swear I was a perfect gentleman. Please don't kill me.

Belle: I'm not going to kill you. I just wanted to say something.

Lando: okay (this feels scarier somehow)

Belle: Emilie is one of the kindest and strongest people I know. She’s had enough people treat her like she’s second choice, or temporary, or just an option. I won’t let anyone add to that.

Lando: I would NEVER I mean it I really like her

Belle: Good. Because if you hurt her — if you make her doubt even for a second that she’s loved— you’ll be answering to me.

Belle: And I may not shout. I may not make a scene. But I promise you — you will know exactly how thoroughly you've disappointed me.

Lando: understood

Belle: I believe in people getting second chances. But I also believe in protecting the people who matter. Emilie matters. So if you care about her — really care — don’t let her ever question that.

Belle: That's all. Thank you for listening.

Lando: yes ma'am I promise I really do like her. A lot.

Belle: Then show her. Every day.

Lando: I will.

Lando: Also I think you might be scarier than Max.

***

Max balanced the box of pastries in one hand and rang the doorbell with the other, Belle tucked close to his side.

From inside, he could already hear the low thud of feet — Luka, probably, trying to beat everyone else to the door. There was a scramble, a shout, and then Tom's voice, stern but fond, cutting through the noise: "Let her answer it properly, boys!"

Belle smiled up at Max, her hand slipping into his as the door finally swung open.

Victoria stood there, baby Hailey cradled against her chest in a wrap, her hair in a messy bun and an exhausted but beaming smile on her face.

"You’re late," Victoria teased, stepping aside to let them in. "I was starting to think you got lost."

"We had to detour for these," Max said, holding up the pastries.

Victoria snorted. "Bribery. Classic."

Inside, the house looked like chaos disguised as domestic bliss — toys strewn across the living room, Luka and Lio arguing good-naturedly over a pile of Lego, Tom trying (and failing) to get them to clean up before guests arrived.

"Uncle Max!" Luka cried, barreling into him.

Max huffed as the kid hit his side like a tiny missile but grinned and ruffled his hair. "Hey, champ."

Belle crouched to greet Lio properly, getting a shy grin in return before he wrapped himself around her leg like a barnacle.

Max’s heart twisted — the sight of Belle, already so natural, so gentle with the kids, even now. 

Victoria plopped down on the couch, motioning them over. "Come on. Come meet your niece properly."

Belle followed, a little hesitant, while Max dropped the pastries on the table and shrugged off his jacket. Sophie appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel and greeting them both with kisses on the cheek.

"You're looking well," Sophie said kindly to Belle, squeezing her hand. "Keeping it all together, I see."

Belle just smiled — small, soft, almost bashful. Max knew the truth behind that smile. Knew how much it cost sometimes to keep it together.

Victoria grinned wickedly and, without warning, untied Hailey from the wrap and thrust her gently into Belle’s arms.

"Practice," she said, laughing when Belle let out a startled breath.

Belle blinked down at the tiny bundle, hands adjusting instinctively. Hailey made a soft cooing sound and settled immediately against her chest, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of Belle’s sweater.

Max sat down beside them, watching Belle like he was memorizing the moment.

It felt like the right time.

He slid his hand onto Belle’s knee, grounding her, smiling when she glanced at him — a question in her eyes.

He nodded, barely a tilt of his head.

Belle took a deep breath, looking down at Hailey, and then up at Victoria and Sophie.

"I guess we’ll need the practice," she said quietly.

Victoria paused mid-sip of her coffee. "What?"

Belle’s cheeks pinked. She shifted Hailey carefully into Max's arms, and Max cradled the tiny girl easily, used to the weight of something precious.

"We’re having a baby," Belle said, voice trembling but sure.

Silence.

Then Sophie gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Victoria’s coffee cup clattered against the table.

"No," Victoria breathed. "You’re serious?"

Max grinned, pride swelling in his chest. "Completely."

Victoria made a noise — somewhere between a squeal and a gasp — and surged to her feet too.

"Oh my God," Victoria said, practically vibrating. "Are you serious? You’re serious??"

Belle smiled — small but real — and Max thought he might physically explode from how proud he was of her.

"About three months," Belle said quietly.

Victoria burst into happy tears immediately. Tom wandered into the room just in time to see her practically tackle Belle in a careful, weepy hug.

“You sneaky little thing!” Victoria cried. “You didn’t say anything!”

Belle laughed, breathless and teary all at once, hugging her back.

Sophie was still standing frozen for a moment — and then she crossed the room in three strides and pressed her hands gently to Belle’s cheeks, her smile breaking wide and a little broken.

"I’m so happy for you," Sophie whispered, voice thick. “My sweet girl. You’re going to be such a good mom.”

Max swallowed hard around the lump in his throat as Belle leaned into it, tears slipping down her own cheeks.

Victoria clapped her hands once, bright and chaotic. "This is amazing!" she said. "Luka! Lio! You’re going to have a new baby cousin!"

Luka whooped and ran in circles around the couch. Lio just grinned shyly and latched back onto Belle’s leg.

***

The late afternoon light slanted warm through the apartment windows, dust motes swirling lazily in the golden air. Belle sat cross-legged on the couch, wearing one of Max’s Red Bull hoodies — it nearly swallowed her whole — flipping idly through a book she hadn’t really been reading.

Max was stretched out beside her, long legs hanging off the edge, his hand absently tracing the seam of the couch between them. It was quiet in the way it only ever was with him — no pressure to fill the space, no need to perform. Just breathing, just being.

Belle felt him shift, roll onto his side to face her. She looked up from her book and smiled automatically, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Max hesitated.

Then, in a voice so soft it made her chest ache, he said, "Can I...?"

His hand hovered mid-air between them, uncertain. And for a second Belle didn’t understand — until she realized his eyes weren’t on her face.

They were on her stomach.

Still flat. Still unchanged. But growing. Quietly, invisibly.

Their baby.

Belle’s breath caught in her throat.

She nodded, just once, not trusting herself to speak.

Max moved carefully, like she was made of something fragile. His palm settled, featherlight, against the soft curve of her belly — and he exhaled a shaky little laugh, pressing his forehead against her shoulder.

"You can’t feel anything yet," Belle whispered, smiling into his hair.

"I know," Max said, his voice low and reverent. "But you're there. Both of you."

Belle let the book slip from her hands and wrapped her arms around him instead, feeling the way he cradled her so instinctively — like she was precious. Like she was his whole world.

After a long moment, Max pulled back slightly, still resting his hand against her.

"It’ll take a while before you show, won’t it?" he asked, voice gentle, almost reverent.

She nodded, smiling wetly. "First pregnancies usually do. Maybe not until four or five months in."

Max made a soft, thoughtful noise, still tracing tiny circles with his thumbs. "Good," he said. "More time to enjoy it before everyone starts trying to figure it out."

Belle laughed shakily, threading her fingers into his hair. "They’ll have to get through you first."

The look in his eyes — tender, fierce, protective — made something tighten in Belle’s chest. A thought that had been lingering there for days, tugging quietly at the corners of her mind.

Max was leaving soon.

 Flying to Spain for the Grand Prix.

 Another weekend of cameras, flashing lights, noise — and pretending.

Pretending she didn’t exist.

 Pretending this didn’t exist.

Belle bit her lip, heart thudding a little too hard against her ribs.

It wasn’t just about the hiding anymore.

 It wasn’t about keeping things private for their own peace.

 It was about the quiet ache of being invisible. Of loving and being loved and still acting like she had to apologize for it.

She could handle being unknown to the world.

 But she didn’t want to be invisible to it — not when Max was the best, most real thing she had ever dared to hold.

"I don't want to hide anymore," she said suddenly, the words spilling out before fear could swallow them down.

Max blinked, startled, lifting his head properly to look at her — really look at her.

 Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"You don’t have to," he said immediately.

 No hesitation.

 No question.

 Just simple, devastating certainty.

Belle’s heart twisted painfully at the way he said it — like there had never been another option in his mind. Like loving her in the open was as natural to him as breathing.

She smiled — a little shaky, but sure. Anchored by him. By them.

"We don’t have to announce everything," she said, voice low but steady. "Not the baby. Not yet."

Her hand slid down to cover his, where it still rested over the soft, flat plane of her stomach — a touch so gentle it made her ache.

"But... us," Belle said, eyes searching his. "Our marriage. You. Me. I’m tired of pretending you’re not my home."

Max’s entire face softened — the kind of rare, quiet smile he only ever gave her.

 Like something sacred.

 Like something permanent.

"Okay," he said simply, voice rough around the edges. "Okay. We'll tell them."

And just like that, Belle exhaled — slowly, shakily — a breath she'd been holding for too long.

Not because she didn’t trust Max. But because she was finally starting to trust herself.

To trust that loving someone openly didn’t make her a burden. That maybe — just maybe — she could take up space without needing permission.

Belle leaned forward and kissed him — slow and sure — and Max kissed her back like he was promising her something without words. Like he was stitching the vow right into her bones.

No more hiding. No more shrinking. No more apologizing for what they had built.

Just them. Together.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Hey. Are you free to come to the Spanish Grand Prix?

Jos: I can be. Why?

Max: Belle and I are going public. About the marriage.

Jos: ...Finally. About time.

Max: Yeah, well. We wanted it to be ours first, you know?

Jos: I get it. What do you need from me?

Max: Honestly? Run a little interference. The media’s going to lose their minds. And Charles… ...Charles might combust.

Jos: You mean Charles is going to make it worse by running around like a headless chicken.

Max: Basically.

Jos: I’ll handle it. I'll be there. I’ll keep the worst of it off Belle.

Max: Thanks, Papa.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Heads up. Belle’s coming to the Spanish GP.

Lando: WAIT WHAT

Lando: LIKE ACTUALLY IN THE PADDOCK???

Max: Yes.

Lando: HOLY SHIT

Lando: MAX. MAX YOU CANNOT JUST DROP THAT ON ME LIKE THAT.

Max: What, did you think I was going to keep her hidden forever?

Lando: I mean YES???

Lando: BRO YOU GOT SECRET MARRIED AND YOU’RE JUST LIKE "oh btw here’s my wife" AT A WHOLE GRAND PRIX???

Max: Exactly. Soft launch. Race weekend edition.

Lando: THIS IS NOT A SOFT LAUNCH. THIS IS A NUCLEAR LAUNCH.

Max: You'll survive.

Lando: Will I?? Charles might physically explode on track. And the entire grid is going to lose their minds.

Max: Good. They deserve a little excitement.

Lando: I’m not emotionally prepared for this level of chaos.

Max: Too late. Prepare yourself.

Lando: I NEED A SUIT. AND ARMOR. AND POPCORN.

Max: Belle likes popcorn. Maybe bring some.

Lando: I'M TAKING THIS VERY SERIOUSLY, MAX.

Max: So am I. See you in Barcelona, mate.

Lando: I’m going to faint.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: 🚨🚨🚨 EMERGENCY 🚨🚨🚨

Oscar: Oh no what now

George: You can't just start like that and expect me not to panic.

Daniel: I LIVE for this energy. Continue.

Lando: Belle is coming to the Spanish GP. IN THE PADDOCK. WITH MAX. OFFICIALLY.

Lewis: ...well. That’s one way to drop a bomb.

Carlos: Wait, WAIT. Publicly?

Lando: YES.

Oscar: oh my god.

Lance: Charles is gonna combust like an overheated engine.

Zhou: Charles is going to find out and collapse in parc fermé.

Fernando: I'd pay money to see it happen live.

Nico H: Is anyone placing bets on HOW he finds out?

George: He’s either going to see them together and short-circuit or he's going to hear the rumors swirling and spiral in slow motion.

Daniel: Imagine him walking into the paddock, seeing Max holding Belle’s hand, and just… Rage quitting life.

Sebastian: Peace and love, but Charles needs to sit down and shut up. 

Lando: I am 100% recording his reaction. I don’t even care anymore.

Oscar: Charles: "Hey Belle, why are you in the paddock??" Belle: "I'm with my husband." Charles: System error. Please reboot.

Lewis: Someone get medical personnel on standby.

Carlos: I'M STILL PROCESSING THIS He doesn’t even know Max married her yet. He still thinks Belle’s secret boyfriend is sugar daddy Fernando. 

Zhou: No but seriously. WHO is going to tell Charles??

Daniel: It’s going to hit him like a freight train of bad decisions.

Oscar: We need an over/under on how long he lasts before he confronts Max.

Lewis: Five minutes tops.

George: Two minutes if Belle is holding Max's hand.

Alex: Negative five seconds if they kiss.

Fernando: I want a front row seat. No regrets.

Carlos: I kinda hope Max punches him first if he says anything stupid.

Daniel: You say that like Max wouldn’t absolutely end him with one (1) look.

Lando: I’m bringing popcorn.

Oscar: I’m bringing a camera.

Zhou: I'm bringing bail money.

Lewis: And I’m bringing peace and emotional support. (And also a camera.)

Mark: This is going to be biblical.

Nico R: If Charles survives it without crying, it’ll be a miracle.

Daniel: Imagine forgetting your sister’s birthday, her horse, her marriage, and then getting bodied by reality in one weekend. Elite.

George: This is going to be the greatest off-track drama of the season.

Carlos: And we get to watch it unfold in 4K.

Sebastian: Prayers for Charles.He’s going to need them.

Oscar: Charles isn't surviving this.

George: Neither am I tbh.

Lando: see you all in Spain let the games BEGIN.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Guess what. 

Emilie: 👀 What??

Belle: I’m going to Spain with Max. To the Grand Prix. Officially.

Emilie: WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT LIKE… WALKING INTO THE PADDOCK AS MRS. VERSTAPPEN OFFICIALLY OFFICIALLY?? 😭

Belle: Yes. We’re not announcing the baby yet. Just… us. No more hiding. No more pretending.

Emilie: I’M SCREAMING internally because I’m in public and I don’t want to get arrested but STILL

Belle: 😂😂😂

Emilie: I am so proud of you, Belle. So, so proud. You’re going to walk in there and light the place up and Max is going to look at you like you hung the stars.

Belle: He already does. 🥹

Emilie: DID YOU WANT ME TO CRY AT THE GROCERY STORE?? BECAUSE MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

Belle: 😂 Sorry not sorry. (Also… any outfit suggestions for my "Hey, I'm married to a World Champion" debut? 👀)

Emilie: DON’T MOVE. I’m pulling outfit options right now. We’re about to make Monaco’s most famous secret the event of the weekend.

Belle:  Thank you for always being in my corner. 🖤

Emilie: Always. Now let’s pick a dress that’s going to make half the paddock faint. 😘

***

The doorbell rang, followed almost immediately by the sound of keys jingling and a familiar voice calling, "Don't panic, it's just me — and I'm armed."

Belle laughed, rising from the couch just as Emilie shouldered her way into the apartment, arms overflowing with shopping bags. Designer logos peeked from between brown paper and bright ribboned handles. Emilie kicked the door shut with one foot and dropped the pile dramatically onto the coffee table with a satisfied huff.

"I come bearing offerings," she declared.

Belle raised an eyebrow. "You robbed an entire mall?"

"Selective raiding," Emilie said sweetly. "And it’s called urgent fashion triage, thank you very much."

Belle shook her head, grinning as she started rifling through the bags. Soft silks, crisp white linens, sunlit yellows and rich blues — it was like someone had bottled the Spanish sun and turned it into clothes.

"You didn’t have to," Belle said softly, touched despite herself.

"I wanted to," Emilie said, plopping down onto the couch and already pulling out outfit combinations. "You’re about to walk into your first race weekend publicly as Mrs. Verstappen. You deserve to look and feel like a goddess while doing it."

Belle smiled, the word Mrs. Verstappen settling warm and giddy under her skin.

"And," Emilie added slyly, "it’s not like I needed much of an excuse for retail therapy."

Belle nudged her playfully with her foot. "You could always come too, you know. To the race."

Emilie gave her a look.

"I’m serious," Belle said, teasing. "Spain. Sunshine. Chaos. You could watch Lando drive. In person. Maybe even cheer him on."

Emilie snorted, but the tips of her ears turned suspiciously pink. "I am not that far gone," she said primly.

"Uh-huh," Belle hummed, utterly unconvinced. “Didn’t you watch a whole Twitch stream last week just to watch someone play virtual golf?”

"Shut up!" Emilie insisted, tossing a silk scarf at her. "Besides, Lando has a job to do. And so do I — making sure you don’t accidentally show up to the paddock in, like, a ballgown."

Belle laughed, holding the scarf up against herself. "Don’t worry, I am not planning ont that."

They spent the next hour going through outfits — laughing, discarding things, planning. Belle felt lighter with every minute, like the fear and tension of the last few weeks were finally cracking open to make room for something else.

When Emilie made her try on a soft linen dress and spun her around to admire her in the mirror, Belle caught her own reflection — flushed cheeks, bright eyes, the smallest, secretive curve of a smile.

She almost didn’t recognize herself.

Almost.

But this version — the one standing taller, shining quietly, no longer shrinking — this was who Max loved.

This was who she was meant to be.

And she wasn’t going to hide anymore. ***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Heads up. I’m bringing Belle to Spain.

GP: Hold on. Like… bringing her bringing her? Publicly?

Max: Yeah. No more hiding.

GP: Max. Have you thought this through? The timing, the media, the team — And, oh, I don’t know, maybe CHARLES??

Max: He’s not a factor. Not after how he treated her.

GP: I get it. Believe me, I get it. But you realize this is going to set off a bomb, right?

Max: Maybe it should.

GP: Max—

Max: He didn’t just forget her birthday. He forgot her. For years. He doesn’t get to dictate when or how Belle gets to be seen.

GP: (three dots appearing) (long pause)

GP: Okay. If you’re sure, I’m with you.

Max: I’m sure. We’re done pretending she’s not my wife.

GP: Alright. Just warning you — Christian and Gemma are going to have a heart attack. I’ll bring popcorn.

Max: Bring tequila too. For Christian. He’s going to need it.

GP: Noted.

GP: And Max? Good for you. She deserves to be seen.

Max: She deserves everything.

***

Max sank into the chair across from Christian’s desk, casually tossing a Red Bull can from hand to hand like he had all the time in the world.

Christian Horner leaned back in his chair with a sigh that sounded both long-suffering and suspicious. Across the table, Gemma — Red Bull’s long-suffering PR manager — tapped her pen against her notepad nervously, already bracing herself for whatever Max was about to drop into their laps.

Next to her, GP looked disturbingly calm, which only made Christian more suspicious.

Max finally set the can down, grinning faintly.

"So," he said, with all the innocent charm of a man about to light a building on fire, "I’m bringing Belle to the Spanish Grand Prix."

Silence.

Christian blinked.

 Gemma stopped tapping her pen mid-air.

 GP just nodded slightly, like he'd known this was coming for weeks. (Because he had.)

Christian leaned forward slowly, hands folded neatly. "When you say ‘bring Belle’..."

Max shrugged, far too nonchalant. "I mean bring her. Publicly."

Christian stared at him for a beat. "As in... she's coming as your wife."

Max grinned wider. "Exactly."

Another heavy pause.

Gemma looked like she was calculating seventeen separate crisis plans in her head.

Christian opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"And," Christian said carefully, "does Charles know yet?"

Max leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. "Nope."

Gemma made a small, audible squeak.

Christian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Max."

Max shrugged again, unbothered. "He had plenty of time."

"And he still doesn’t know?"

"Nope."

Christian exchanged a long look with GP, who simply lifted his coffee cup like you’re the one who wanted to manage Max, not me.

Gemma finally found her voice. "Are you planning to tell him before Belle walks into the paddock in Barcelona wearing a Red Bull pass and a ring?"

Max tilted his head, pretending to think about it. "I mean... should I?"

"YES," Christian and Gemma said at the same time.

GP just sipped his coffee and smiled.

"Max," Christian said slowly, like he was explaining something to a very excitable cat, "you realize this is going to break the internet."

Max grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Good."

"Belle is Charles Leclerc’s sister," Gemma stressed. "And you — you’re you."

"Which is why I married her," Max said simply, like it was obvious.

Christian scrubbed a hand over his face. "Do you have any idea the PR nightmare this could be?"

Max's grin widened. "Or," he said, "it could be great for the team. Verstappen and Leclerc bloodlines finally uniting. Think of the headlines."

Gemma looked like she was about to pass out.

Christian sat back, muttering something about needing a drink.

Max just leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, voice suddenly quieter but infinitely more serious.

"I’m not hiding her anymore," he said. "We agreed. She deserves better than that."

And despite everything — the chaos, the incoming storm — Christian found himself softening.

Because for all his recklessness, Max Verstappen had always been terrifyingly clear when it came to the people he loved.

"Alright," Christian sighed, raising his hands in surrender. "Bring your wife."

Max’s smile turned into something real, something proud.

"And Max?" Christian added as he stood.

Max glanced up.

"Maybe... maybe text Charles first."

Max smirked. "I’ll think about it."

GP, sipping his coffee: "He won't."

Gemma, resigned: "We’re going to need extra security, aren’t we?"

Christian: "And maybe a therapist on standby."

Max just whistled, hands tucked behind his head, already picturing Belle in his garage, wearing his team colors, no longer a secret.

Finally, finally, where she belonged.

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: Alright, boys, ready to get smoked by Max again?

Chris Lulham: Speak for yourself. I’ve been training.

Gianni Vecchio: Training what, exactly? Snack-eating speed?

Max: (laughs quietly) Just try to keep up.

Luke: (mock serious) Max, now that you’re a married man, you should slow down for us mortals.

Chris: Yeah, about that— Max. Max. Are we ever gonna talk about that?

Gianni: Yeah, mate. "Oh, I’m married," casually dropped in the middle of a press conference like you were ordering lunch.

Chris: You just YOLO’d your marriage announcement. No names, no details, just vibes.

Max: (grinning) Was there supposed to be a PowerPoint?

Luke: YES.

Gianni: Honestly, yes. Slides. Charts. Maybe a dramatic reveal with smoke machines.

Chris: At least a "guess who?" game. We deserve that much.

Max: (smirking) You’ll meet her soon.

Gianni: (suspicious) When is "soon"? Before 2040?

Max: (grinning wider) Spain.

Chris: Spain what?

Max: I’m bringing her to the Spanish Grand Prix.

Chat: 

SHE’S COMING TO THE SPANISH GP

OMG THE MYSTERY WILL BE SOLVED

WE’LL FINALLY MEET MRS VERSTAPPEN

Chris: (wheezing) WAIT WHAT.

Gianni: You’re bringing your wife to a race weekend?

Max: (shrugs casually) Yeah. Thought it was time.

Luke: (mock offended) Wow. Betrayal. We get a cryptic marriage announcement and now a surprise reveal.

Gianni: No hints? No clues? No scavenger hunt?

Max: (laughing) Nope. You’ll see.

[Chaos continues with chaotic racing and Max being suspiciously smug.]

[About 45 minutes into the stream…] [Soft knock. Belle’s hand appears in frame — a mug of tea sliding onto Max’s desk.]

Gianni: (high alert) WAIT. WHO WAS THAT.

Luke: Was that THE WIFE???

Chris: ENHANCE. ENHANCE.  CLIP IT. CLIP IT IMMEDIATELY.

Max: (without missing a beat) Thanks, Schatje.

Chat: 

GUYS THAT WAS HER HAND I’M NOT OKAY

MAX SOFT LAUNCHING HIS WIFE VIA TEACUP DELIVERY I’M SCREAMING

"Thanks, Schatje" I’M SOBBINGGGG

HE SOUNDS SO IN LOVE WTF

She’s the real MVP bringing him tea mid-race 😭😭

Gianni: Max, you just BROKE the internet with a hand cameo.

Chris: Soft launch supremacy.

Luke: I need to know everything immediately.

Gianni: If Spain isn’t a full reveal, I’m rioting.

Max: (smirking into his mic) Be patient.

****

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1MemeHub:  MAX JUST SOFT LAUNCHED HIS WIFE WITH A TEACUP DELIVERY LIVE ON STREAM 😭😭😭 "Thanks, schatje." I'm NOT OKAY.

@/GridGossip:  Max: "You'll meet her soon." Also Max: casually introduces her hand and then acts like it’s a normal Tuesday. THE SPANISH GP IS ABOUT TO BE HISTORIC.

@/TifosiTears:  Not to be dramatic but if we don't get a full face reveal of Mrs. Verstappen at the Spanish GP I'm organizing a formal protest outside Red Bull HQ.

@/SoftLaunchDetective: The fact that he called her "Schatje" in front of thousands of people and didn’t blink??? That’s LOVE your honor. That’s SOULMATES.

@/F1WivesClub: Me: I don't care about the drivers' personal lives

Max Verstappen, midstream: "Thanks, schatje."

Also me: building a shrine to Mrs. Verstappen immediately

@/mysterymrsverstappen: Hello yes this account is now entirely dedicated to figuring out who Mrs. Verstappen is. Applications for sleuths open now.

↳ @/GridGossip:  Are we 100% sure it’s not Isabelle Leclerc?

***

The sun was already low by the time Belle found Max in the living room, stretched out on the couch with Jimmy curled on his chest and his phone in one hand. He looked up immediately when she approached, setting everything aside without hesitation.

She hesitated at the edge of the rug, twisting the hem of her sweater between her fingers.

Max sat up straighter, instantly alert. "Belle? What's wrong?"

She shook her head quickly. "Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I just—" She swallowed, breathing through it. "I was wondering if you could... if you would come somewhere with me tomorrow."

Max’s eyes softened. "Anywhere."

Belle smiled faintly but didn’t move closer yet. The words were heavier than she expected, even though she’d thought about them all day.

"It’s... the anniversary of my father’s death," she said quietly.

Max didn’t interrupt. Just waited, the way he always did when she needed time to find her words.

"I go every year," Belle continued. "I bring flowers. I sit with him for a while. Just… talk. Tell him what he’s missed." Her voice cracked, and she wrapped her arms around herself. "It’s silly, maybe. But I—I don’t know how not to go."

"It’s not silly," Max said immediately, voice low and certain. "Not even a little."

Belle blinked hard, willing the prickling in her eyes to settle.

"I usually go alone," she whispered. "I always have. But... I don’t want to go alone this year." She hesitated, lifting her gaze to meet his. "Will you come with me?"

Max caught her hands in his, steady and warm.

"Of course I’ll come," he said, like it wasn’t even a question. Like he would’ve followed her to the ends of the earth if she asked.

Belle leaned into him, breathing him in — cedarwood, laundry detergent, and something that was just Max — and let herself be held.

"I want him to meet you," she murmured against his chest, voice small. "Even if it’s just... like this."

Max’s arms tightened around her.

"I’d be honored," he said simply.

Belle closed her eyes.

Maybe this year wouldn’t be quite so lonely after all.

***

The air was crisp and still when they arrived at the small cemetery just outside the city, the afternoon light casting long shadows between the rows of headstones.

Max kept close as Belle walked ahead of him, a simple bouquet of white roses, lavender, eucalyptus cradled in her hands. She moved with a kind of quiet certainty, like her body knew the way by heart even if her mind was somewhere else entirely.

They wove through the headstones until she stopped in front of one — clean, simple, with her father's name carved carefully into the stone.  A small lantern stood by the base, unlit but lovingly maintained, and Max could tell just by looking at it that Belle came here often. That she cared.

He stayed back a respectful step while Belle knelt, arranging the flowers neatly at the foot of the grave.

For a long moment, she just stayed there — head bowed, fingers brushing the stone as if in greeting.

Then, without looking back at Max, she started talking. Softly. Gently. Like she was sitting across from her father at the kitchen table, not kneeling at his grave.

"Hi, Papa," she said, her voice trembling just slightly. "It’s me."

Max felt something tighten in his chest — the rawness of her affection, her grief, her love — so undimmed by time.

"I’m sorry I haven’t been by as much lately," Belle continued. "It’s been a... complicated year."

She smiled, small and sad.

"You wouldn’t believe it," she said, voice light but strained. "Charles won Monaco. And nobody noticed it was my birthday."

Max saw her knuckles whiten slightly where they rested on her knee.

"Not even them," she whispered. "Not even Maman."

She brushed a hand quickly across her cheek, but kept her shoulders straight.

"I waved at Charles in the garage," Belle said. "I smiled. And he smiled back, and he didn’t even know."

Max stepped closer, crouching behind her without touching — just there. Just near enough that if she reached back, he’d be right there.

"I didn’t get angry," Belle said, voice softer now. "I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just... let them forget. And then I walked away."

Her hand touched the stone again, almost like she was offering her father a secret.

"And I’m not alone," she said, a thread of something stronger — pride, maybe — weaving through her voice. "I got married, Papa."

She glanced over her shoulder then, finding Max’s eyes. He smiled — slow, steady — and nodded once, like he was promising he was still right here.

"I married Max," Belle said, turning back to the grave. "You would’ve liked him. He’s... he’s good.  He’s steady in all the ways I needed and never thought I deserved."

Max swallowed thickly, feeling the burn at the back of his throat.

"And," Belle added, after a moment, her hand slipping instinctively to her stomach, "we’re having a baby."

The words hung there, delicate and astonishing.

Belle exhaled shakily.

"I wish you were here," she whispered. "I wish you could meet him. Or her. I don’t know yet."

Max stood, quiet but unmovable behind her, heart thundering with all the things he could feel but couldn't say.

Belle leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against the cool stone.

"I’m trying, Papa," she said, voice almost breaking. "I’m trying to build something better. A family where nobody feels invisible."

Max’s hands fisted at his sides — not in anger, but in fierce, helpless loyalty to her. He would help her build that. Whatever it took.

Belle stayed like that for another minute — breathing, grounded, tethered to something older and deeper than grief.

Then she sat back, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket, and turned toward Max.

He crouched down fully this time, opening his arms without a word. She came into them instantly.

For a while, they just stayed like that, kneeling together in the cold grass — Belle tucked into Max’s chest, Max shielding her like he could somehow carry the weight she never should have borne alone.

He pressed a kiss into her hair.

"I’m proud of you," he murmured against her scalp. "He would be too."

Belle nodded against him, and Max felt the faintest smile against his hoodie.

And right there, in the middle of a cemetery, surrounded by stillness and memory, Max knew it more clearly than anything:

Whatever happened — whatever came next — Belle was never going to walk alone again.

Not as long as he was breathing.

***

Lorenzo sat at his kitchen counter, staring at his phone like it might suddenly produce the answers he didn’t have.

The photo was still open on the screen:

 Belle, in a field of soft gold light, her arm tucked gently around the neck of a stunning white mare.

 Fleur.

He knew that name because Belle had written it herself — answering a question of a random user. 

She looked happy.

Peaceful, even.

And God, didn’t that just twist the knife deeper.

Because they hadn't given her that peace.

 They hadn’t even noticed she was still missing it.

It wasn’t the horse that gutted him, not really.

 It was what the horse represented.

The life they’d taken from her when she was thirteen.

 The dreams she never said out loud again, because what was the point?

They sold Blanche.

 They let her sacrifice everything quietly so Charles could race — so

Arthur could race — and none of them had asked her what she wanted in return.

 They just… assumed she’d move on.

But Belle hadn’t moved on.

She’d waited.

She’d mourned.

 And when none of them circled back for her, she found her own way.

Without them.

Without him.

Across the room, his coffee sat untouched. Cold now. Like the pit sitting in his stomach.

Arthur was taking it badly.

 Charles even worse.

Charles had been chewed out by Emilie a few days earlier — that much Lorenzo knew. Charles had tried to brush it off when he called later, voice tight and wounded, but the shame clung to him like smoke. Emilie hadn’t been polite about it, either. She had torn into him, sharp and clear and deserved, and Charles hadn’t even fought back.

Arthur was spiraling in his own way.

 Blaming himself.

 Telling anyone who would listen that he should have noticed Belle wasn’t okay. That he should have seen the signs when she started pulling away. That it was his fault she felt so forgotten.

But it wasn’t Arthur’s fault.

Not entirely.

And it wasn’t Charles’ alone, either.

It was Lorenzo’s.

He was the eldest. The one who was supposed to look out for them all when their father died. The one who was supposed to notice when Isabelle stopped smiling at family dinners. When she started standing a little farther away from them at the tracks. When she stopped volunteering information about her life, one tiny piece at a time, until there was nothing left she offered freely.

He had failed her. Worse than any of them.

Because he should have known. He should have seen her.

He should have protected her — from the weight of being overlooked, from the steady erosion of love measured only in podiums and points and wins.

And he hadn't.

He was ashamed.

Because he should have seen it coming.

 He was the eldest.

He was supposed to watch over them all.

And instead, he had let Belle fade out of their lives like smoke slipping through a crack in the window.

Maman wasn’t handling it well either.

Their mother’s texts to Belle had gone unanswered for days. Her voice on the phone trembled more now, and she had started reaching for familiar things — old traditions, old recipes — like baking a lemon tart would somehow undo the years of not seeing her only daughter clearly.

But no amount of lemon tarts couldn't fix this.

Nothing could fix the years they spent forgetting.

And now?

 Now Belle had a horse again — something he knew, deep down, she had dreamed about every day since the first had been taken from her.

But she hadn’t shared it with them.

She hadn’t shared any of it.

Because they hadn't earned it.

Lorenzo closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the counter.

How had they been so blind?

How had they let it get this bad?

He didn’t know where Belle lived now. He didn’t know who had given her that horse. He didn’t even know if she would ever want to come home again.

But he knew this: She had found happiness without them. And maybe — maybe — she was finally living the life they never thought to fight for on her behalf.

He just didn’t know if he would ever get the chance to tell her he was sorry.

And worse— He wasn’t sure he deserved it.

***

The private jet hummed quietly beneath them, the kind of low, steady sound that usually lulled Belle into a light doze. But not today.

Today, her nerves were a live wire.

She sat curled against Max’s side, his hand resting warm and steady on her thigh, their fingers loosely tangled together. Across from them, Jos Verstappen flipped idly through a magazine, a half-finished cup of coffee forgotten on the table beside him.

It wasn’t that Belle was afraid of Jos.

 He’d been nothing but kind to her — gruff sometimes, but protective in a way that made her feel safe, not small.

Still.

 Telling your father-in-law that you were pregnant — especially when your marriage was still a secret to most of the world — felt a litle daunting.

Max must have felt her tension, because he squeezed her hand, grounding her.

“You ready?” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Belle nodded — small but firm.

Max leaned forward slightly, clearing his throat. “Dad?”

Jos looked up, eyebrows raised, expectant.

“There’s something we wanted to tell you,” Max said.

Jos set the magazine down slowly. His expression was unreadable — patient, but sharp-eyed in that way that always made Belle feel like he saw more than he said.

Max’s thumb brushed soothing circles against the back of her hand.

Belle took a breath. "I’m pregnant," she said, voice soft but steady.

The words seemed to hang in the air for a second, floating between them, too big and too small all at once.

Jos blinked.

 Once.

 Twice.

Then he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms slowly — and Belle couldn’t tell if he was about to yell, laugh, or both.

"You’re serious?" he said gruffly, but there was no bite to it — just something thick in his voice, something a little stunned.

Max smiled — that rare, raw smile that he reserved for the few people he trusted most.

 "We just found out a few weeks ago."

Belle tightened her fingers around Max’s.

Jos stared at them for a long moment — at their clasped hands, at Belle’s steady eyes, at Max’s quiet pride.

And then — to Belle’s utter shock — Jos smiled.  A real, honest smile, tugging awkwardly at the corners of his mouth like he wasn’t used to the feeling.

"Good," Jos said roughly. "You’ll be a great mother," he added, looking at Belle — and then, after a beat, to Max, "And you’ll be a better father than I ever was."

Belle’s throat tightened painfully.

Max squeezed her hand again, and she felt the slight tremor in it — the way those words hit him deep, carving something open and healing at the same time.

"Thanks, Pa," Max said quietly.

Jos nodded once, gruffly — like he couldn’t say more even if he wanted to — then grunted, reaching for his coffee.

"Hope you’re ready for no sleep and a lot of diaper changes," he muttered, like the most Jos blessing imaginable. "You’ll need all the patience you can get. Verstappen babies aren’t exactly easy."  A faint grin cracked across his face. "Take it from experience."

Max groaned dramatically. "Don’t scare her."

Belle laughed, watery and surprised — the nerves in her chest unraveling into something lighter. Something real.

Outside the plane windows, the sky stretched out wide and endless and new.

And for the first time in weeks, Belle let herself feel it too — The future.

 Opening up, bright and brave, and theirs.

***

Text Messages: Christian Horner & Fred Vasseur

Christian: Fred. Just a heads-up.

Fred: What now.

Christian: Belle will be in the paddock tomorrow. With Max.

Fred: What do you mean, with Max?

Christian: Exactly what it sounds like. Publicly. No more hiding.

Fred: Merde. Does Charles know??

Christian: Not as far as I’m aware.

Fred: You’re telling me Max Verstappen is about to make his marriage to Charles Leclerc’s sister public during a race weekend.

Christian: You might want to prepare your garage for a Leclerc meltdown.

Fred: I’m not paid enough for this.

Christian: Neither am I. (But at least it’s not my golden boy spiraling in public this time.)

Fred: I need a drink. And possibly a tranquilizer dart. For Charles.

Christian: Good luck. You’ll need it.

***

The hotel room was quiet, except for the muted hum of traffic outside and the low flicker of a Formula 2 race replay on the television. Max was already half-asleep, sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown lazily over the pillow where Belle had been sitting moments ago.

Belle sat cross-legged on the small lounge chair by the window, her phone in her lap, scrolling aimlessly — or, at least, pretending to. Her heart wasn’t in it. It hadn’t been all evening.

Her thumb hovered over the Instagram app again.

Tomorrow was going to change everything.

Tomorrow, she would walk into the paddock — into his world — not hidden behind whispered conversations or secret glances. She would walk in as his wife. Openly. Proudly.

For the first time, there would be no pretending.

And it felt… terrifying.

But also good. Right.

A smile tugged at her lips as she glanced back at Max, who mumbled something incoherent in his sleep and shifted closer to her empty side of the bed. Her heart clenched in that stupid, overwhelming way it always did around him.

She tapped into Instagram and stared at her profile.

@isabelleleclerc

It looked strange now. Wrong. Like a version of herself she was finally ready to grow beyond.

Belle took a slow breath and, with deliberate fingers, typed.

@belleverstappen

She paused for a heartbeat — not out of fear, but out of reverence. Out of the gravity of it.

This wasn’t just about a name. It was about a life she chose. A future she was building, one steady, stubborn step at a time.

She hit save before she could second-guess herself.

The screen flickered for a moment. Then it was done.

Belle Verstappen.

She set the phone down and padded quietly across the room, slipping into bed beside Max. His arm immediately found her, pulling her close in his sleep, like it was instinct.

She tucked her head against his shoulder, her hand resting lightly over the secret they still carried between them — small, invisible, but growing stronger every day.

No more hiding. No more shrinking.

Tomorrow, the world would know.

And for the first time in her life, Belle wasn’t afraid of being seen.

She was ready to be claimed — not by the spotlight, but by the people who mattered.

By the man beside her.

By herself.

***

White Horse - Chapter 22: June 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent. Apparently I am once again messing up my chapter numbering on Tumblr. 21 is correct according to AO3 and Wattpad though. No, you didn't miss anything, I promise.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Max Verstappen

GP: Heard about the post-race press. Are you and Belle okay?

Max: I’m fine. Belle’s shaken. Tired. But she’s okay. (ish.)

GP: “Okay-ish” isn’t exactly reassuring, mate.

Max: She’s stronger than she thinks. But it hit her hard. Even after everything… she still hoped they’d see her.

GP: That’s the cruel part. Hope.

Max: Yeah.

GP: Is she at home? You with her?

Max: I am. 

Max: Doesn’t feel like enough.

GP: It’s enough. You’re there. You see her. That’s already more than most have ever done.

Max: She deserves better than this.

GP: She’s got it now. She’s got you.

GP: (and the cats.)

Max: True. Jimmy thinks he’s her bodyguard.

GP: Smart cat.

GP: Tell her we’re all thinking about her, yeah?

Max: I will. Thanks, GP. For checking in.

GP: Always. She’s part of the team now. Whether she likes it or not.

***

The breakfast table was too quiet.

A spread of croissants, jam, fresh fruit, and espresso cups sat untouched in the center of the table—untouched because no one could eat. Lorenzo’s revelation from the day before hung in the air like a thundercloud.

Isabelle had quit her job.

 Months ago.

 Without telling a single one of them.

Charles still hadn’t wrapped his head around it. Isabelle had always loved her work. She breathed design. She stayed up late sketching, doodling floor plans on napkins, whispering ideas into voice memos when she thought no one was listening.

And then one day… she just walked away from it. From them.

Arthur sat with his head in his hands, looking half-murdered by guilt. Pascale was pale and tight-lipped, stirring her tea without drinking it.

“I don’t understand,” Pascale whispered. “How could she just… leave her job? She worked so hard for it.”

“She didn’t just leave,” Lorenzo said, pacing. “She ghosted the entire office. Packed her things in one night. Sent a polite goodbye email. Nothing else.”

“And no one noticed?” Arthur asked, stunned.

“No one bothered to notice,” Charles muttered.

Pascale looked toward Alexandra. “Did you know anything?”

Alexandra hesitated, then straightened a little. “She’s safe.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Charles’s head snapped toward her. “What?”

“I texted Emilie,” Alexandra said, calm but firm. “Isabelle’s best friend. She replied this morning. Said Isabelle is okay.”

A collective breath was held—and slowly released.

“Why didn’t you say that sooner?” Pascale asked, eyes wide.

“Because you were all too busy spiraling,” Alexandra said. “And because Emilie was clear: Isabelle doesn’t want to talk to any of you right now.”

Charles swallowed hard.

“She’s mad,” he said. “Of course she’s mad.”

“She’s not mad,” Alexandra said. “She’s hurt. She’s done. There’s a difference.”

Lorenzo closed his eyes. Arthur muttered something under his breath.

Then Alexandra added, almost absently, “She’s not alone. Emilie said her boyfriend likes taking care of her.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“Oh my god,” Arthur muttered. “She has a sugar daddy.”

Charlotte choked on her orange juice.

Pascale actually dropped her spoon.

“Arthur!” Alexandra hissed, scandalized.

Arthur looked wildly between them. “Think about it! Moved out. Quit her job. No one knows where she is. Isabelle’s always been quiet, not mysterious. What if she—”

“No. No,” Charles said quickly, shaking his head like that would erase the words from the room. “She wouldn’t. Isabelle is not like that.”

“People change when they feel abandoned,” Arthur muttered, clearly spiraling now. “This is how Netflix documentaries start.”

“I will kill whoever that man is,” Charles muttered, eyes narrowing like he was already imagining chasing someone through the Monaco harbor with a champagne bottle.

“I’m just saying,” Arthur hissed, “stranger things have happened! And let’s not pretend we’re not a family of unresolved emotional issues. We all have daddy issues!”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then Pascale, horror dawning on her face, said, “Excuse me?!”

Arthur looked up, mid-sip of juice. “What?”

Pascale blinked, stunned. “Since when?!”

Arthur just stared at her. “I mean, come on. Dad died when we were kids, Charles is out here trying to win his approval from the afterlife, I started karting again like I have something to prove, and Isabelle— Isabelle moved in with a mysterious man and quit her job because he "likes taking care of her!"

“Oh my God,” Pascale said faintly, sinking into her chair.

“Okay, this is going off the rails,” Alexandra groaned.

Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Arthur, this is not about your unresolved need for paternal validation.”

Arthur shrugged helplessly. “I was just trying to explain that maybe Isabelle was looking for emotional stability and someone gave it to her. And maybe he also had a good skincare routine and a yacht. I don’t know.”

“She moved in with her boyfriend,” Lorenzo said sharply. “Not a sugar daddy. Her boyfriend. That’s what her old neighbor said. She left the firm. Left her apartment. But she didn’t run away. She just stopped waiting to be seen.”

Arthur groaned, slumping in his seat. “We didn’t even know she had a boyfriend.”

“Because she didn’t tell us,” Charles said bitterly. “Because she stopped expecting us to care.”

“Or because she knew you were going to freak out.” Charlotte murmured.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Charlotte looked up, startled. “What?”

“You said that like you know something.”

Charlotte hesitated. “I don’t know anything.”

“Charlotte,” Lorenzo warned.

She shifted. “It’s just—she’s always been around racing. She used to hang around the paddock all the time. If she was seeing someone, I wouldn’t be shocked if it was someone from the grid.”

Silence.

Then Arthur: “Wait. You’re saying she could be dating someone we know?”

Charlotte winced. “I said maybe. Don’t start spiraling.”

“I’M ALREADY SPIRALING,” Charles announced.

Alexandra sighed, sipping her coffee. “And now we’ve entered the panic phase.”

Arthur leaned back, muttering, “If it’s Fernando I swear to God—”

Pascale clapped her hands together. “Enough.”

But Charles barely heard her.

Because if Belle was dating someone from the paddock…

Then there were nineteen men it could be, currently on the grid.

And not one of them had said a word.

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Logan Sergeant, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda, and Valtteri Bottas

Charles: SOMEONE TELL ME

 Who is dating my sister??

Charles: IS IT FERNANDO?? Are you her sugar daddy?? Just tell me. I need answers.

Fernando: Pardon?

Lewis: Oh we’re doing this.

George: Charles, breathe.

Oscar: You’re spiraling. Please stop.

Pierre: Wait WHAT??

Yuki: I feel like I’ve walked into the last five minutes of a telenovela

Fernando: Charles. I’m flattered. But no.

Charles: OK FINE. MAX. Charles:  IS SHE DATING JOS?!

Logan: …bro

George: I need to leave this chat forever

Lando: oh my god

Max: What. Did. You. Just. Say.

Charles: I don’t know, okay?? Everyone’s being weird. She’s gone, she moved, she quit her job, no one’s telling me anything and YOU’RE ALL BEING WEIRD.

Max: Don’t you ever say something like that again.

Max: Not as a joke. Not out of panic. Not ever.

Max: Belle is your sister, Charles. She deserved your attention, your support, your respect—and she didn’t get any of it. Max: And now you want to cover up your guilt by making a disgusting joke like that?

George: Whoa.

Charles: It’s not a joke! She smiled at him during Monaco!

Max: You forgot her birthday. You forgot her entire life outside of your world. And now you’re so desperate to catch up you’re throwing shit against the wall like it doesn’t have consequences?

Oscar: He’s right. That was low, man.

Lando: Way out of line.

Max:  You’re panicking and flinging names around like this is a soap opera, and you’re forgetting that this isn’t about you.

Carlos: He’s right.

Max: Belle isn’t your property. She doesn’t owe you updates of her life. And the fact that your first instinct is to accuse my father of something that insane? That tells me everything I need to know about where your priorities are.

Max: You’re not trying to protect her. You’re trying to control the fallout of your own guilt.

Alex: Oof.

Oscar: He’s not wrong.

Lando: I mean, he’s definitely not wrong.

Daniel: That was… surgical.

Max: You forgot her birthday. You didn’t realise she moved or that she quit her job. And now that it’s all blowing up in your face, you’re treating your sister like a scandal to manage instead of a woman who deserves better than you’ve given her for years.

Charles: Max…

Max Verstappen: Don’t. You had every chance to show up. And you didn’t.

Oscar: …Well. That was the cleanest emotional takedown I’ve ever witnessed.

Pierre: I’m afraid to even type right now.

Alex: Respectfully, that needed to be said.

Lewis: Sometimes silence is the most respectful response. And sometimes it’s watching Max drop a nuke and sipping your tea.

Charles: … I’m sorry.

Max: Don’t say sorry to me. Say it to her.

Daniel: And maybe do it without accusing her of having a sugar daddy next time.

Fernando: Sincerely never thought I’d be defending Jos Verstappen’s honor in a group chat. And yet. Here we are.

Pierre: Did we all just witness character development in real time?

Oscar:  No, we witnessed Max finally snap.

Carlos: Honestly? Fair.

Max: Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife wants to go see her horse. 

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Oscar: (sends screenshots) Are we gonna talk about that??

Lando: I don’t think I’ll ever emotionally recover.

George: That wasn’t an argument. That was Max opening a precision-cut emotional autopsy on Charles.

Daniel: Surgical strike. Zero survivors.

Carlos: I think I stopped breathing somewhere between “not your property” and “scandal to manage.”

Alex: And he still managed to slip in “my wife” at the end like it was casual.

Lewis: Subtle as a sledgehammer. Iconic.

Sebastian: Imagine standing that close to the truth and just completely going off the deep end. JOS VERSTAPPEN?!?!

David: Charles is lucky we’re not recording this for Drive to Survive. This would be season finale material.

Fernando: Still recovering from the fact that I had to defend Jos Verstappen’s honor today. Truly humbling times.

Mark: Also Max casually confirming "wife" like we didn’t hear that bomb drop.

Lando: The whole chat: staring at “my wife” like: [INSERT SHOCKED PIKACHU MEME]

Logan: Also Max: anyway gtg horseback riding with Belle bye

George: Meanwhile we’re left here emotionally blinking like stunned goldfish.

Zhou: Respectfully? That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in a group chat.

Logan: He read Charles’ whole life like it was a menu.

Esteban: No crumbs left. Truly an artist.

Lewis: I hope Belle gives Max a damn medal.

Carlos: It’s what he deserves.

Lando Norris: At this point Max could straight up declare war on Monaco and all of us would follow him.

Nico H.: Only if Belle asks nicely though.

Fernando: Honestly, after that? She deserves her own Grand Prix.

Sebastian: Belle Verstappen GP. Street circuit. Emotional trauma bonus points.

David: Winner gets emotional literacy and a free hug.

Lando: Charles gets last place. Obv.

Oscar: Someone check on Charles, though. Like... at a distance. With caution.

George: Give him a juice box and a reflective corner.

Lewis: He needs to sit with this one. You’re up, Seb.

Sebastian: I hate you.

Carlos: And next time?  Maybe start by actually listening to Belle. and not accuse her of having a sugar daddy.

Oscar: Can we also talk about how Charles accused Fernando of being Belle’s sugar daddy?!?

Lando: No because I actually SCREAMED when I read it Out loud. In a public place.

George: Charles really said “if the unhinged shoe fits…”

Lewis: Fernando being asked if he’s the sugar daddy of a 25-year-old woman live in a chat is peak 2024.

Daniel: The best part is Fernando didn’t even deny it immediately. He said “pardon” like a man trying to calculate if this was a compliment or an insult.

Fernando: I was genuinely weighing my options.

Logan: He 100% thought about it for a second Did the math in his head Age difference analysis

Carlos: He pulled out a mental calculator before answering.

Alex: Plot twist: he was flattered.

Fernando: I am flattered.

Logan: ARE YOU NOT TOO OLD FOR THIS SIR

Fernando: Age is just a number. Experience is a blessing.

David: Shut up you're scaring the children

Daniel: I'm crying. This man is two bad decisions away from opening a luxury wine bar in Marbella.

Zhou: Would 100% attend Fernando’s shady rich sugar daddy wine parties tbh.

George: You know somewhere there's an alternate universe where Fernando is soft-launching Belle on Instagram with a blurry wine glass and a cryptic caption.

Sebastian: Don’t manifest that energy.

Lewis: The timeline barely survived Charles forgetting her birthday We are NOT surviving "Fernando Alonso soft launches Belle Verstappen."

Oscar: Good morning to everyone except Charles for inventing this nightmare.

Carlos: He should be banned from texting before noon.

Daniel: Imagine Belle reading that conversation The secondhand embarrassment would kill her instantly

Lando: Max would bury Charles under the Red Bull Energy Station if Belle found out

Fernando: That’s why I stayed calm. For everyone’s safety.

David: You’re a better man than I am.

George: Let’s be honest Max’s entire speech wasn’t just a takedown It was a warning.

Lewis: And Charles still doesn’t realize how close he was to emotional decapitation.

Daniel: Fernando being accidentally involved will forever be my Roman Empire

Lando: Same. Sugar Daddy Alonso 2024 Never Forget.

Kimi: I don’t care.

Fernando: Good. One sane man among us.

Mark: Honestly Kimi deserves a medal for surviving this chat with brain cells intact.

Lando: Meanwhile I’m Googling “how to recover from emotional whiplash" and "can you sue your friend for public embarrassment.”

Oscar: Suing Charles for pain and suffering. Class action.

Lewis: Count me in.

Daniel: Put me down for emotional damages and lost productivity.

Carlos: And mental anguish from hearing "Jos" and "sugar daddy" in the same sentence.

George Russell: I’m still trying to bleach my brain from that.

Sebastian Vettel: The worst part is… We know it’s only going to get worse.

Valtteri: Spain is going to be the emotional equivalent of a demolition derby and I'm here for it…

Oscar: Prayers up for Charles. He’s about to get hit with the reality sledgehammer.

***

The air smelled like sun-warmed hay and old wood and something softer — something Max couldn’t name but recognized instantly as peace.

The stables weren’t far from the city — a quiet, tucked-away stretch of land up in the hills — but it might as well have been another world compared to the chaos vibrating through the paddock, the media, the group chats.

Belle was already a few steps ahead of him, moving with easy, instinctive confidence down the center aisle. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she wore one of his oversized hoodies over her jeans, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Even in battered sneakers, even in dusty sunlight, she looked luminous.

This, Max thought, is who she really is.

Not the invisible sister standing silently in the Ferrari garage.

 Not the afterthought.

 Not the forgotten one.

Here, among the horses and the golden dust motes, Belle was someone else entirely. Someone free.

He watched as she reached Fleur’s stall — the mare with the soft eyes and white coat — and the change in her was immediate. Belle’s whole body softened. Her voice dropped into something low and sweet, barely a whisper, as she murmured to the horse in French, offering a gentle hand.

Fleur pressed her nose into Belle’s palm like she had been waiting for her all day.

Max stayed back, leaning against a beam, just… watching.

Belle ran her fingers through the mare’s mane, smiling quietly when Fleur nosed into her ribs for a treat. She laughed, soft and breathless, pulling a carrot from her pocket like she’d always known it would be needed.

Max felt something hot coil under his ribs.

Not anger. Not yet.

Something heavier.

Because standing there, watching her, Max didn’t understand — and probably never would — how the people who were supposed to love her first and fiercest could have ever made her feel like this side of her wasn’t worth seeing.

How did you miss this?

 How did you miss her?

How could you look at Belle — at her patience, her stubbornness, her gentleness — and think she was someone it was okay to forget?

Max didn't know how Charles or Pascale or Arthur or even Lorenzo could live with themselves.

She had been right there, waving from the garage, smiling through being overlooked, standing quietly beside them her whole life — and they’d blinked, and she was gone.

He didn’t know if they'd ever get her back, not in the way they thought they were entitled to.

 And maybe they didn’t deserve to.

Max shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the steady beat of his own pulse against his knuckles. He wasn’t angry on his own behalf — he was angry for her. For every memory she had where she learned she needed to be small to survive. For every year she thought invisibility was safer than asking for more.

But here — here, she didn’t shrink herself.

Here, she was all soft light and warm hands and quiet magic.

He watched as Belle rested her forehead against Fleur’s, closing her eyes. Whispering something Max couldn’t hear.

He didn’t move.

He would wait forever if it meant she never had to be small again.

When she finally turned toward him, cheeks flushed, hair tangled in the breeze, Max just smiled — slow and sure — and opened his arms without a word.

Belle crossed the space between them like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when she folded herself against his chest, Max pressed his mouth to the top of her head and thought, fiercely, I will never let you feel invisible again.

Not here. Not with him.

Never.

***

Belle sat curled into the armchair, hands knotted in the hem of her sweater. Her phone buzzed on the low table beside her — again — and she flinched without meaning to.

She didn’t pick it up. She hadn’t read any of them. Not a single message.

Across from her, Simone sat, notebook closed, pen resting untouched on the armrest. She didn’t need notes yet. She was just watching — waiting for Belle to breathe first.

"You don’t have to," Simone said finally, nodding toward the phone. "We can leave it buzzing all session if you want. This is your hour."

Belle looked down at her hands.

"I don’t know what they want," she said, voice thin. "I don’t know if I want to know."

"That's a choice," Simone said simply. "It’s your choice."

Belle twisted the hem tighter. "They keep calling. Texting. DMing. It’s like... once Charles realized, they all remembered I exist."

"That realization isn’t yours to carry," Simone said. "You didn’t make yourself invisible. They chose not to see you."

“You haven’t answered,” Simone asked, her voice even…non-judgemental.

Belle shook her head, pressing the rim of the mug tighter against her palms.

“I don’t know if I want to,” Belle whispered.

Simone leaned forward slightly. “You’re allowed to make that choice, Belle. Access to your life — your heart — isn’t something anyone is automatically entitled to. Not even family.”

Belle blinked hard.

“It feels… wrong,” she admitted. “Like I’m being cruel. But also like… maybe it’s finally protecting myself.”

Simone nodded. “Both can be true.”

They sat with that for a moment, letting the air between them settle.

"I feel like if I open one message, I’ll lose the ground I gained," she whispered. "Like they'll pull me back in before I even realize it."

Simone nodded slowly. "That fear is real. It’s valid. But remember — reading a message doesn’t obligate you to answer. They don’t get to set the terms anymore. You do."

Belle sat with that for a long moment, staring at the phone like it was a bomb she didn't know how to disarm.

"You can read what they have to say," Simone continued gently, "and then decide how much access you want to give them. How much of yourself you want to offer back. Or none at all.  But the decision has to come from a place of power — not guilt."

Belle swallowed hard, something inside her cracking open.

"I don’t want to live my life shrinking," she said, so quietly it barely made it into the room.

"You don’t have to," Simone said simply. "You’re allowed to grow bigger than the spaces they built for you."

Belle wiped under her eyes, feeling the tears spill anyway.

"I’m pregnant," she said, almost impulsively, almost defensively — like the words had been trying to claw their way out of her for days.

Simone didn’t react, didn’t widen her eyes or gasp or rush forward.

She just smiled, slow and warm.

"Congratulations," Simone said.

Belle let out a shaky laugh, covering her face for a moment.

"I haven’t told most people yet," she admitted. "It’s... still just mine and Max’s, mostly. But I—"

She broke off, chest tight.

"I don’t want my baby to feel the way I felt," Belle whispered. "Invisible. Like they have to earn love. Like being quiet or not causing trouble makes them easier to keep around."

Simone nodded slowly. "You don’t want them to feel like they have to disappear to be safe."

Belle’s throat closed. That was it. That was everything.

"I want them to know," Belle said, tears slipping freely now. "Every second. That they matter. That they are wanted."

"You can give them that," Simone said gently. "Because you know what it feels like to need it."

Belle hugged her knees tighter to her chest, breathing in slow, ragged pulls.

"I don't know if I can be enough," she whispered.

"You already are," Simone said simply. "You're enough because you see them. The way you should have been seen."

Belle wiped her face roughly with her sleeve, heart pounding painfully against her ribs.

Simone leaned in just a little, voice steady.

"You get to break the cycle," she said. "Not by being perfect. Not by fixing everything. But by loving without conditions."

Belle stared down at her belly, still barely showing under the oversized sweater. A secret, soft and growing.

Not alone anymore.

Not invisible.

Not shrinking to fit someone else's version of worth.

She exhaled shakily.

"I think," Belle said slowly, "I’ll read the messages. Because it’s my choice now."

Simone smiled. "Exactly."

Belle sat back in the chair, letting the silence settle.

For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel heavy.

It felt like freedom.

***

The cats were asleep — a warm, purring pile on the foot of the bed — and the only sound in the room was the hum of the city beyond the windows and the soft rustle of Max shifting beside her.

Belle sat curled up in the corner of the bed, Max’s hoodie swallowing her whole, the phone clutched in both hands.

She hadn’t wanted to look. Not at the missed calls. Not at the voicemails. Not at the dozens of unread messages blinking like warning lights across every app she had.

But now… Now she read them.

One by one.

Apologies. Explanations. Pleading.

Arthur. Lorenzo. Charles.

And Maman. Always Maman.

Maman:Ma chérie… I didn’t realise. I thought I messaged you, but I sent it to Charles by mistake. That’s not an excuse. You deserved more. Always. Please let me come see you. I miss you.

Belle stared at the words, blinking back the slow, stunned weight building behind her eyes.

Because if her mother had texted Charles that morning — if she had thought about Belle enough to even try — then Charles would have known.

He would have remembered.

There wouldn’t have been blank stares in the Ferrari garage.

 There wouldn’t have been celebrations swirling around her while she stood still, invisible.

There would have been a smile.

 A hug.

 A word.

Anything.

But there hadn’t been.

Because her mother hadn’t texted.

Not her.

And not Charles.

She hadn’t thought about her at all.

Belle felt the first tear slip free before she could stop it. Then another. And another.

Her hands shook as she lowered the phone to her lap.

She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, willing herself to breathe, to hold it together — but the ache was too deep. Too old. It cracked open the quiet places she thought she had stitched shut months ago.

The mattress dipped beside her, and Max’s arms were around her before she could say a word.

No questions. No demands. Just solid, unwavering Max, pulling her into his chest, pressing his chin to the crown of her head, wrapping her up like he could protect her from everything the world had failed to.

Belle buried her face in his hoodie and cried — deep, broken, shuddering sobs that shook her ribs and soaked the cotton between them.

Max held her through all of it. Rocked her gently like she was something precious. Whispered soft, fierce things into her hair — I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. I love you.

When the tears finally slowed — when Belle could breathe without gasping — she shifted just enough to look up at him.

“She lied to me,” Belle whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Max tensed, not pulling away, but going still — like a storm gathering quietly over open water.

Belle twisted the fabric of his hoodie between her fingers, needing something to hold onto. “My mother. In her messages. She said… she said she thought she had texted me on my birthday. That she checked and realized she sent it to Charles instead.”

Max didn’t say anything.

 Not yet.

He just waited.

“But if she had really texted Charles,” Belle said, blinking hard, “then he would have remembered. Wouldn’t he?”

Max’s jaw tightened against her forehead.

“He would have realized when he saw me. He would have known it was my day.”

 Belle swallowed thickly. “He would have said something. Anything.”

She felt Max’s hand, slow and careful, run up her spine — like he was grounding himself as much as her.

“They didn’t forget by accident, Max,” she whispered, the crack in her voice slicing the room in half. “They just… didn’t think about me at all. And now she’s lying to make herself feel better. Or maybe to make me not be angry anymore.”

There was a long, vibrating pause.

When Max finally spoke, his voice was low. Dangerous.

“She lied to you." Not angry for himself. Angry for her.

“She lied to your face to protect her own feelings,” he said, tightening his grip around her protectively. “And she didn’t even think about what it would do to you.”

Belle didn’t trust herself to speak.

“She didn’t check,” Max said, every word precise and sharp. “She didn’t text you. She forgot you. And now she wants you to comfort her guilt so she doesn’t have to sit with the truth.”

Belle closed her eyes, tucking herself deeper into his chest.

Max’s voice dropped even lower. Colder. Deadlier.

“They don’t deserve to be the ones to tell you how much you matter, Belle,” he said. “Not when they couldn’t even see you standing right in front of them.”

Belle felt herself break apart a little more — not because of the anger in his voice, but because of the fierce, unyielding love underneath it.

Max pulled back just enough to tip her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“They can lie to themselves all they want,” he said, voice rough. “But you’re not invisible anymore. You never were. You are the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen.”

Belle tried to smile but it broke halfway through, another tear slipping free.

Max kissed her — not rushed, not desperate — but slow and sure and reverent.

“I see you,” he murmured against her mouth. “I will always see you.”

Belle clutched his hoodie tighter, feeling the words stitch into the broken places inside her chest.

And when she whispered, “Thank you,” it was the kind of thank you that carried a lifetime of hope she hadn’t known how to say before now.

Max brushed her forehead with his lips, arms still wrapped firmly around her.

***

The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the city outside the windows, and the faint golden light spilling from the kitchen where Max was making tea.

The cats were already asleep, draped dramatically across the couch like tiny emperors, and Belle sat curled up at the dining table, phone in hand.

Her thumb hovered over the Instagram app for a long time.

She hadn’t posted anything in weeks. Maybe longer. Not since before everything cracked open — before her birthday…

It felt strange, almost dangerous, to think about letting the world see even a piece of her life again. To stop living like she needed to apologize for taking up space.

But she was tired. 

She was tired of pretending her life was something to be ashamed of.

She was tired of being invisible.

 Of hiding her joy like it was a crime.

She tapped into her camera roll.

The photo was simple. Max had taken it — taken earlier that afternoon, in the warm haze of the stables. Fleur was grazing and Belle’s arm was tucked around her neck, leaning against the warm white fur.

It wasn’t a professional shot.

 It wasn’t curated.

 It was real.

And for once, Belle didn’t care about anything else.

She clicked ‘post’ before she could talk herself out of it.

Caption:Some things were always meant to find their way back to you.

She stared at it for a moment, heart hammering — not with fear, but with something quieter. Something steadier.

Not everyone would understand.

Most wouldn’t even know what it meant.

But the people who mattered — the ones who knew her, who loved her — they would understand exactly what she was saying.

Max’s voice floated from the kitchen, casual and warm. “You want mint or chamomile?”

Belle smiled softly to herself.

“Mint,” she called back, slipping her phone onto the table, feeling lighter than she had in months.

No more hiding.

No more shrinking.

Her life was hers now.

 And she was finally — finally — ready to live it.

***

Instagram Post: @/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/charles_leclerc: …From where did you get a horse??

@/arthur_leclerc: ??? SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A HORSE AGAIN???

@/lorenzo_leclerc: Since when are you even riding again??

@/charles_leclerc: Isabelle. Please answer your phone.

@/arthur_leclerc: PLEASE RESPOND.

@/randomfan72: THE WAY SHE JUST DROPPED THIS WITHOUT CONTEXT???

@/f1updates: Isabelle disappearing for a week and then coming back with a horse is the most iconic thing I’ve seen in a while.

@/f1fanpage: Okay, but WHO GAVE HER A HORSE???

@/monacoroyalty: Isabelle casually revealing that she has a whole horse like it’s a new handbag is sending me.

@/gridgossip: He/she’s gorgeous! What’s their name? ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Fleur ❤️ She’s a 7 year old Selle Francais mare. 

@/emilie_abadie: God, Belle, she looks just like Blanche…

↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Like Mother, like Daughter ❤️

@/coralie.g: She looks like your childhood horse… 

↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Because she’s her last foal 😭 

@/horselover99: Omg did you always plan to start riding again? 🥹 ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: I never stopped wanting to. Just couldn’t afford to for a long time.

@/victorialaps: This is so random but… how did you even find her? ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: I didn’t. She was a gift. Best surprise ever.

@/f1updates: WAIT WAIT WAIT.

@/f1theories: GIFT?? FROM WHO??

***

The tea had just finished steeping when Max’s phone buzzed once. Then again. And again.

He frowned, setting down the mugs. It wasn’t like his phone to light up at midnight unless something dramatic had happened — and judging by the flood of notifications, the world had just decided to catch fire.

But when he flipped it over, his chest tightened in a very different way.

It wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t panic.

It was Belle.

Her name. Her Instagram. A new post.

Max opened it instantly, barely breathing.

The photo was simple, quiet — Fleur leaning into Belle’s hand, golden light painting everything soft around them.

But it wasn’t the picture that hit him hardest.

It was the caption.

some things are always meant to come back to you.

Max stared at the screen, heart thudding slow and heavy in his chest.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t a declaration.

It was a quiet, stubborn reclaiming of everything Belle had once been taught to hide — her dreams, her peace, her self.

And she hadn’t asked permission.

She hadn't needed anyone’s blessing.

She had simply... posted it.

Without apology.

 Without explanation.

Max set the phone down, grabbed both mugs carefully, and crossed the living room to where Belle sat curled up at the table, her knees tucked under her, the soft edges of exhaustion lingering around her eyes.

She looked up when she heard him, tentative, like part of her was still braced for criticism she didn’t deserve.

Max didn’t say a word.

He placed the tea down. Then he crouched in front of her, sliding his hands over her knees, resting his forehead gently against hers.

No words. Just this.

Just I'm proud of you.

Belle let out a soft, shaky breath, her hand sliding into his hair, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered — because sometimes, he was.

“You saw it?” she whispered.

Max smiled against her skin.

“I saw everything,” he murmured. “And I see you, liefde. Always.”

Belle’s breath hitched.

She closed her eyes and let herself believe it — let herself soak in the truth of it without second-guessing.

She wasn’t invisible here.

She was home.

And Max — Max was exactly where he had always promised he would be:

Right here. Always. With her.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Arthur: Shared Isabelle’s Instagram post

Arthur: …So. Uh.

Arthur: When were you guys planning on telling me that Isabelle suddenly has a HORSE?

Charles: SHE HAS A WHAT.

Lorenzo: Excuse me??

Arthur: A horse, Lorenzo. A living, breathing, four-legged animal. You know. Like the one that was sold when she was a teenager.

Charles: No. No way. That’s not possible.

Arthur: Look at the photo. LOOK AT IT.

Charles: It looks exactly like Blanche.

Lorenzo: That’s not possible.

Arthur: AND YET.

Lorenzo: Okay. Okay. Let’s just—think about this logically.

Arthur: Sure. Logically. Isabelle now has a horse that looks IDENTICAL to the one that was sold to pay for Charles' karting?!?!

Arthur: LOGICALLY, how does that make any sense?!

Charles: Who gave her a horse?

Arthur: WHO KNEW SHE STILL WANTED ONE???

Lorenzo: …Clearly, not us.

Pascale: …We should have known.

Arthur: …Maman?

Pascale: We took away something she loved.

Pascale: And then we never gave it back.

Charles: We didn’t have the money.

Pascale: No. But when we did have the money, we put it into restarting Arthur’s karting career.

Arthur: …

Charles: …

Lorenzo: Merde.

Pascale: And we never even considered doing the same for Isabelle.

Pascale: Not once.

Arthur: I—Maman, I didn’t even think—

Pascale: No. None of us did.

Pascale: She cried for weeks when we sold Blanche. And then, one day, she just stopped talking about it.

Pascale: I thought she had let it go.

Charles: She didn’t let it go. She just realized no one was listening.

Pascale: And I, her own mother, let her believe that if it wasn’t about racing, it wasn’t important.

Lorenzo: We all did.

Arthur: We failed her.

Pascale: And yet she still loved us enough to stay.

Pascale: Even when we didn’t see her.

Charles: We need to fix this.

Arthur: Step one: find out who gave her the horse.

Pascale: Step one: apologize.

Arthur: Step two: figure out how we didn’t even KNOW she was riding again.

Lorenzo: When would she have had the time?

Pascale: She found a way. Because we didn’t give her one.

Pascale: Do you know what hurts the most?

Charles: What?

Pascale: That I don’t even know what kind of life she’s been living.

Pascale: What she loves. Where she goes. Who she spends time with.

Pascale: She grew up right in front of me, and I don’t know her at all.

Arthur: …How do we fix this?

Pascale: I don’t know if we can. ****

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpillerIsabelle Leclerc just casually dropped a photo of a whole horse on Instagram, and her brothers had NO IDEA she was even riding again. The family drama is writing itself.

↳ @/LandoSimp44: How do you not notice your sister getting into an expensive, time-consuming hobby???

↳ @/FerrariF1Stan: Maybe because they’ve never paid attention to her interests in the first place…??

↳ @/LeclercFanGirl16: Charles and Arthur are spiraling in the comments, Lorenzo is confused, and Isabelle is just out here ignoring them all. QUEEN.

@/F1GossipGirlHold on. Isabelle didn’t just get any horse. If I’m reading this correctly, this foal is from her childhood horse. The one her family SOLD.

↳ @/MaxForPresident33: Oh, so she’s still THAT angry. And honestly? Good for her.

↳ @/RedBullRacingUpdates: The way she’s been quiet for two whole weeks and then dropped a horse like a bombshell?? I need to know who gave it to her.

↳ @/FerrariDramaAccount: Isabelle’s silence has been screaming for a week straight, and now this. The Leclerc brothers are doomed.

@/F1MemeLordLeclerc brothers: "We totally care about our sister." Also the Leclerc brothers: Completely unaware she’s been riding again and now owns a horse.

↳ @/CharlesFanClub: Yeah, Isabelle is 100% still mad. She really said, "You forgot my birthday? Watch this."

↳ ​​@/MonacoMess: Isabelle is SO passive-aggressive and I respect it.

↳ @/HorseGirlFC: I just KNOW she’s been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this. Iconic behavior.

@/F1InsiderTalk: No, but real talk—if her brothers had no idea she was even riding again, that means they haven’t been paying attention to her at all. That’s rough.

↳ @/TifosiQueen: She had a birthday and they forgot. Now she has a whole damn horse and they didn’t even know she still liked horses.

↳ @/MonacoGossip: Isabelle could disappear to another continent, and I swear they wouldn’t notice until someone tagged them in an Instagram post.

↳ @/ArthurFan27: I love Arthur, but the way none of them know anything about her is actually kind of sad.

@/ChaosModeF1I just KNOW Isabelle had this horse for a bit before dropping it like a bomb on Instagram. The drama, the suspense, the Leclerc brothers losing their minds in real time.

↳ @/MaxVerstappenDefenseSquad: The fact that she didn’t post anything about her birthday but came back with a horse tells me everything I need to know.

↳@/FerrariWoes: I feel like this was the final straw moment.

@/RedBullTroll33Okay, but WHO gave her the horse? Because that’s a serious gift.

↳@/ F1ConspiracyClub: If it was Charles or Arthur, they wouldn’t be so confused in the comments. If it was Lorenzo, he wouldn’t be freaking out too.

↳ @/FerrariPain42: Soooo… secret boyfriend? 👀

↳@/F1ShippersAnonymous: If this turns out to be a soft launch, I WILL lose my mind.

@/MonacoRoyaltyI don’t know who gave Isabelle Leclerc a horse, but I do know that person knows her better than her own family does.

↳ @/FerrariNation: …Damn. That’s actually heartbreaking when you put it like that.

↳ @/IsabelleLeclercDefenseSquad: She really just had to go out and find people who see her, huh?

↳ @/WhoGaveHerAHorse33: Someone get me the details. NOW.

@/F1ChaosModeThe funniest part of this is that Isabelle still hasn’t responded to any of her brothers. Just posted her horse and dipped.

↳ @/LeclercFamilyUpdates: The sheer level of pettiness. I love her.

↳ @/TifosiHeartbreak: Isabelle really said you forgot me, so now I’m forgetting you.

↳ @/FerrariShambles: I want a documentary about the exact moment Charles realized they were bad brothers.

@/F1SpicyTeaI know we’re all laughing, but this actually makes me so sad for Isabelle. Imagine your whole family forgetting your birthday, ignoring you for years, and then being SHOCKED when you move on with your life.

↳ @/MonacoMess: They didn’t even know she still loved horses. 

↳ @/FerrariF1Pain: The worst part? She didn’t even make a dramatic callout post about her birthday. She just let their silence speak for itself.

↳ @/TifosiAngstClub: She is the human embodiment of "I no longer expect anything from you."

@/F1ConspiracyClubIsabelle didn’t just buy this horse. Somebody gave it to her, according to her. Whoever they are, they know her better than her entire family.

↳ @/SoftLaunchDetective: If this is a secret boyfriend reveal, it’s the most dramatic and poetic one I’ve ever seen.

@/MonacoRoyalty: Isabelle Leclerc is the queen of quiet revenge. No loud callouts. No arguments. Just a perfectly timed Instagram post that says everything.

↳ @/FerrariTears: And the best part? Her brothers are LOSING IT in the comments.

↳ @/ArthurLeclercDefenseSquad: Arthur is panicking like she’s about to disappear forever.

↳ @/CharlesHasNoClue: Charles sounds like he’s five seconds away from personally investigating who gave her the horse.

↳ @/TifosiDetectives: The thing is, they should know. But they don’t.

@/TifosiMess: So let me get this straight:

Isabelle’s family forgot her birthday.

She disappeared for two weeks.

Charles finally remembers that he has a sister. 

Isabelle comes back with a horse.

Drops it on Instagram like it’s a casual Tuesday.

Her brothers have no idea where it came from.

I am obsessed with this timeline.

↳ @/FerrariAngst: I’m still stuck on "they didn’t even know she was riding again."

↳ @/CharlesNeedsHelp: The way they suddenly care now that it’s public.

@/F1SoftLaunchDetective: I’ll say it. Whoever gave her the horse loves her more than her own family does.

↳ @/FerrariHeartbreak: And that’s why the Leclerc brothers are panicking.

↳ @/RedBullInsider: Just waiting for the next phase of this drama. I know something bigger is coming.

↳ @/TifosiConspiracies: I have a gut feeling that when we find out who got her the horse, the internet will EXPLODE.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Arthur: I don’t really know how to start this.

Arthur: But I guess the first thing I need to say is—I’m sorry.

Arthur: I keep thinking about when I had to stop karting. How devastated I was. How unfair it felt.

Arthur: You know, when I was younger, I used to think we were the same.

Arthur: We both lost something for Charles. We both had to step aside.

Arthur: But the difference is, I got my second chance.

Arthur: And you never did.

Arthur: They gave me my dream back. But nobody ever thought to give you yours.

Arthur: And the worst part is, I never even thought about it.

Arthur: I was so focused on getting my own dream back that I never stopped to ask if you wanted yours.

Arthur: Or if you were even okay.

Arthur: I remember when they sold Blanche. You locked yourself in your room for days. Maman kept saying you’d get over it.

Arthur: But you never did, did you?

Arthur: I should have noticed. I should have asked.

Arthur: I should have known that you never stopped loving it. That you never moved on just because we assumed you did.

Arthur: But we never gave you a choice, did we?

Arthur: You were always the one who had to sacrifice something. You were always the one who had to step aside.

Arthur: And I never even thought about how much that must have hurt.

Arthur: I let myself believe you were fine because it was easier than realizing we left you behind.

Arthur: When I saw that horse, I thought my heart stopped. She looks just like Blanche.

Arthur: I had to read your post three times before it sank in. That you never let go of that part of yourself. That you found your way back.

Arthur: And none of us even knew.

Arthur: I don’t know where to start making this right. I don’t know if I even can.

Arthur: I don’t expect you to answer me. I don’t even know if I deserve an answer.

Arthur: But Isabelle, if there is even the smallest chance that I can fix this, that I can fix us—

Arthur: Tell me how. And I’ll do it.

Arthur: No hesitation. No questions asked.

Arthur: Je suis désolé, petite sœur.

Arthur: And I miss you.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: (sends screenshots) Belle is choosing violence. 

Carlos: She posted Fleur 😭

Alex: Softest betrayal ever. I’m crying.

Sebastian: That's not just any horse. That’s the horse.

Zhou: WAIT??? THAT'S THE FOAL FROM HER CHILDHOOD HORSE??

Fernando: The symbolism is destroying me. Quiet vengeance at its finest.

David: Imagine getting obliterated by your sister posting a horse.

Lance: Charles is about to have another breakdown isn’t he

Oscar: He’s already melting down in her comments.

Logan: WHO GAVE HER THE HORSE THOUGH

George: who do you THINK

Nico Hülkenberg: lol max the softest secret husband in existence

Daniel: max is so whipped it's beautiful

Lewis: He literally said “my wife wants to visit her horse” the other day with the softest voice known to man

Kimi: Good. Someone should love her properly.

Lando: the LECLERC BROTHERS are LOSING IT

Oscar: literally fighting for their lives in the comments while Belle is posting like nothing happened 😂

Fernando: This is what true passive-aggressive excellence looks like. I’m so proud.

Valtteri: horse girl revenge >>> everything

Zhou: also can we talk about how she hasn’t answered a SINGLE one of them

George: Do you think Charles is gonna figure it out soon??

Carlos: absolutely not.

Oscar: he's gonna lose his mind when he finds out Max bought her the horse

Daniel: WAIT TILL HE FINDS OUT THEY'RE MARRIED LMAOOOO

Lando: oh my god he still doesn't know

Lewis: beautiful chaos.

Alex: 10/10 no notes

Oscar: Honestly Belle just won the soft war without even lifting a finger.

Daniel: She dropped a horse and bounced. ICON.

George: Meanwhile Charles is running around Monaco like a headless chicken.

Carlos: good. he deserves to sit with this.

Fernando: actions have consequences. and sometimes those consequences come with four legs and a braided mane.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/coraliegaudin: I don’t think people really get how much Isabelle Leclerc sacrificed. I knew her at university, and she was one of the smartest, hardest-working people I’ve ever met. But she never seemed happy. A thread.

↳ @/coraliegaudin: She wasn’t the type to talk about herself. She showed up, did the work, and left. No parties, no celebrations, nothing. Just school and her jobs.

↳@/coraliegaudin: And she always had jobs. She tutored, did internships, and worked at a stable. Yes, a stable.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I remember seeing her come to class still smelling like hay, her hands rough from work. And the thing is? That was the only time she ever looked truly alive.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She never told people why, but I found out later—her family sold her childhood horse when she was a teenager.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She didn’t ask them to fix it. She didn’t ask for help. She just worked. Worked herself into the ground to afford even a few hours of riding time.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I remember once, someone asked her why she never celebrated her grades. She just said, “It’s not that important.”

↳@/coraliegaudin: Not that important. Graduating with top honors. Getting a degree. None of it mattered to her. Because all she ever wanted was something she lost years ago.

↳@/coraliegaudin: And now, she has a horse again. Not just any horse—the foal of the one she lost.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I don’t think people understand how huge that is. This isn’t just a gift. It’s her entire dream given back to her.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She spent years giving up things for other people. But someone finally gave something back to her.

↳@/coraliegaudin: If anyone deserves that kind of love and thoughtfulness, it’s Isabelle Leclerc. I hope she’s finally as happy as she always deserved to be.

***

Text Messages: Lorenzo Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Lorenzo: Isabelle.

Lorenzo: I know you probably don’t want to hear from me.

Lorenzo: But I need to say this.

Lorenzo: I’m sorry.

Lorenzo: I don’t know how we forgot your birthday. I don’t know how we’ve made you feel so invisible.

Lorenzo: But we did. And I hate that it took this for me to realize how badly we’ve failed you.

Lorenzo: You’ve been riding again. I didn’t know. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Lorenzo: I should have. I should have asked. I should have paid more attention.

Lorenzo: But I didn’t.

Lorenzo: I should have asked what you were up to. I should have…I should have known that you were riding again. And that you moved. And that you quit your job. But I didn’t. 

Lorenzo: I just assumed you were fine, even when you had every reason not to be.

Lorenzo: I don’t expect you to answer.

Lorenzo: I just need you to know—I see it now. I see you now.

Lorenzo: And I will spend however long it takes making sure you never feel forgotten again.

Lorenzo: I love you, Isabelle.

Lorenzo: Whenever you’re ready.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/Clara_Marelli: So I wasn’t going to say anything, but seeing all the speculation about Isabelle Leclerc and her new horse? I need people to understand why this is such a big deal. Because I knew her back when she lost her first horse, and let me tell you—it broke her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: Isabelle wasn’t just a horse girl, she was the horse girl. You know how some kids live and breathe a sport? That was her with riding. It wasn’t just a hobby, it was everything.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: She used to come to school with hay in her hair because she’d wake up early to ride before class. She had riding gloves permanently stuffed in her pockets. She sketched horses in the margins of her notebooks. It was who she was.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And then one day, she stopped.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: We were all confused. She never shut up about riding, and suddenly, she wouldn’t even mention it. If you asked about her horse, she’d just give this tight little smile and say, “She’s gone.” No explanation. No emotion. Just… gone.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: We only found out later that her family sold her horse to help fund Charles’ racing career. And look—I get it, racing is insanely expensive, and the Leclercs aren’t the first family to make sacrifices for motorsport. But this wasn’t just some hobby she could pick up again later.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: This was the thing that made her happiest, and it was ripped away from her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And what made it worse? She never complained. Not once. She just swallowed it, like she had already learned that what she wanted didn’t matter.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: After that, she changed. She got quieter. She stopped sketching horses. She stopped talking about anything she loved, really. It was like she decided—consciously or not—that if she didn’t care about things, they couldn’t be taken from her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And now, years later, she suddenly posts that she has a horse again. And her own brothers didn’t even know she was riding.

↳@/Clara_Marelli:  That tells me everything. It tells me that she never stopped missing it. That, at some point, she must have started riding again, but she kept it completely to herself. She didn’t tell her family. She didn’t trust them with it.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And honestly? That makes me so, so sad. Because they should’ve been the first to know. They should’ve noticed that she was still hurting.

↳@/Clara_Marelli:  Instead, she had to find her way back to something she loved on her own.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: Whoever got her that horse—because let’s be real, this wasn’t a random purchase—they didn’t just give her a gift. They gave her back a part of herself. And that means more than her family probably even realizes.

@/F1Girl99: This is actually so heartbreaking. The way she just shut down after losing her horse?? And her family didn’t even realize??

@/LeclercNation: Nah, this makes the whole thing so much worse. Like, it’s one thing to forget her birthday, but not even knowing she still rides??

@/redbullgirly: “She didn’t trust them with it” is actually such a devastating sentence. Imagine having to hide the thing that makes you happiest because you know your family won’t care.

↳@/arthurfairy: The fact that she got a horse again but didn’t tell a single soul in her family tells me everything I need to know about how much that hurt her.

@/gridgossip: Everyone’s talking about how sad this is, but can we also talk about who got her that horse? Because that’s not a small gift. That’s a “someone knows exactly what you lost and wanted to give it back” kind of gift.

@/tifositilidie: Imagine being Charles or Arthur and realizing you never even thought about getting her back into riding.

↳@/ohmyf1: The fact that they restarted Arthur’s karting career but didn’t do the same for Isabelle and just assumed she got over it… yeah, that’s rough.

@/chaoticquadrant: Isabelle’s silence about all of this is louder than anything she could’ve said.

@/pitlaneprincess: The fact that a random classmate knows more about Isabelle’s pain than her own family is WILD.

@/verstapwinning: I actually can’t get over the part where she just stopped talking about things she loved after they sold her horse. That’s not just sadness, that’s trauma.

@/softforcharles: I love Charles, but the way they all just assumed she was fine… like, did no one ever ask her if she wanted to ride again??

↳@/F1andChill: I’m just saying—if my sibling was secretly riding again and I found out from Instagram, I would simply pass away from shame.

@/IsabelleLeclercFan: The worst part? She didn’t even announce it like “Look what I got!” She just posted it, like it was a casual thing. That’s how you know it meant everything to her.

@/formula1tea: Okay, but do we think her family even realizes what this means yet?? Or are they still stuck on the “Wait, she rides?” stage?

@/offtrackchaos: Imagine Charles thinking she just outgrew the horse phase, only to find out she’s been hiding it from them for years.

@/arthurisstressed: Arthur’s probably having a full-blown crisis over this. You just know he’s the type to blame himself.

@/MaranelloMess: Isabelle’s whole family right now: “Wait… are we the villains?”

↳@/tifosiprincess: Yes. Yes, you are.

@/undercutf1: Like imagine realizing your sister got back into her childhood passion, something that was taken from her, and you had no idea. No one knew. That’s insane.

@/arthurwasfoundshaking: Arthur realizing he got his dream back but she never did… oh, he’s spiraling.

@/paddocksecrets: Her whole family just realized in real time that they don’t actually know her anymore.

@/charlesnation16: Charles must be freaking out because, in his head, Isabelle never even mentioned wanting to ride again. But the reality is she probably knew they wouldn’t care, so she never said anything.

@/leclercsdaughter: Imagine looking at your sister’s post and realizing someone else—not you, not your family—gave her back the thing you all took away.

@/mclarendreaming: The fact that there was ZERO lead-up. No hints. No casual mentions. Just BAM, full horse.

@/paddockwhispers: At this point, someone needs to check on the Leclerc group chat. I know they are LOSING IT.

@/padlockpundit: Someone said this isn’t just a gift, it’s an apology on behalf of the universe, and honestly?? Yeah.

@/blisteringbarnacles: I can’t tell what’s funnier—Twitter solving this mystery in real-time or the fact that Isabelle is probably watching all of this unfold while sipping tea.

@/hamiltonshalo: Someone find out how much horses cost because I need to understand just how deep this gift goes.

@/GridTea: Sorry, but how do you have a sibling making millions in F1, and you’re out here working three jobs and shoveling horse stalls just to afford riding lessons?? I need someone to make it make sense.

@/F1DramaFiles: So Charles was making Ferrari money and Isabelle was out here grinding like a broke college student?? He couldn’t spare a little “my sister should live like a human being” fund???

@/OverworkedLeclerc: She was out here studying, working multiple jobs, AND still showing up to races when she could. Meanwhile, her whole family forgot her birthday. I would simply cut everyone off.

@/HorseGirlAnon: Do you know how EXPENSIVE equestrian sports are? And she worked her own way back into it with no support? That’s insane. She deserved so much better.

@/TifosiMess: Charles in every interview: “Family is everything.”Meanwhile Isabelle: was forgotten at every major milestone in her life.

@/F1Receipts: It’s also the fact that Isabelle has never once publicly complained about it. No bitter comments, no shade—she just put her head down and worked. Meanwhile, Charles was out here with a whole family support system hyping him up.

@/F1Overthinker: Not to be dramatic, but if I were Charles, Arthur, or Lorenzo, I would simply never recover from the public dragging happening right now.

@/F1TeaSpiller: 

Charles: “I’m so grateful to my family for supporting me.”

Isabelle: literally working at a horse stable just to be around them again.

@/JusticeForIsabelle: Nah, the fact that she was grinding through multiple jobs while Charles was out here buying sports cars, yachts, and luxury vacations is actually making me sick.

@/MonacoMess: Me reading Isabelle’s old interviews where she barely mentions herself and only hypes up her brothers, knowing now they weren’t doing the same for her: [GIF: "This is so much worse than I thought."]

***

Text Messages: Pascale Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Pascale: Ma chérie, please talk to me.

Pascale: I saw your post. The horse… she looks just like Blanche.

Pascale: I didn’t know you were still riding.

Pascale: I should have known.

Pascale: I should have asked.

Pascale: I don’t have the words to tell you how sorry I am.

Pascale: When we sold Blanche, I told myself you would be okay. That you were strong. That you would move on.

Pascale: But that was just me making excuses. I should have fought harder for you.

Pascale: And then when we had the chance to give you back what you lost… we didn’t even think to.

Pascale: Isabelle, please. Say something.

Pascale: Ma fille, I know I don’t deserve an answer right now.

Pascale: I love you. So, so much. ***

Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Charles Leclerc

Sebastian: Charles. Saw Belle’s post. Wanted to check in.

Charles: I’m fine.

Sebastian: You’re not. And that’s okay. But pretending doesn’t help.

Charles: It’s just— She has a horse, Seb. A whole horse. And she never told any of us.

Sebastian: Maybe you weren’t listening.

Charles: I WOULD HAVE REMEMBERED A HORSE.

Sebastian: Would you? You didn’t remember her birthday. You didn’t notice she moved out. You didn’t notice she left her job. What makes you think you would have noticed a horse?

Charles: It’s a HORSE, Seb! Not a haircut!

Sebastian: It’s not about the horse. It’s about what the horse represents. Freedom. Love. A piece of herself you never asked about. Or thought to give back.

Charles: It feels like she lied to us.

Sebastian: She didn’t lie. She protected herself. There’s a difference.

Charles: She didn’t even give us a chance to fix it.

Sebastian: Charles. You don't get to demand trust from someone you ignored. Trust is built. It’s not owed.

Charles: I just— I thought she was okay.

Sebastian: Because it was easier to think that than to ask.

Charles: She posted a horse, Seb. A HORSE. HOW LONG HAS SHE BEEN HIDING A HORSE??

Sebastian: (typing) (long pause) Charles. Focus. It’s not about the horse.

Charles: IT’S A LITTLE ABOUT THE HORSE.

Sebastian: Focus.

Charles: I’m trying.

Sebastian: Try harder. She deserves better.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpiller: Okay, so if you’re confused about why Isabelle Leclerc’s new horse is causing a meltdown, buckle up, because this is some Shakespearean family drama.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Basically, years ago, when Charles was climbing the motorsport ranks, the Leclerc family didn’t have the money to support all three kids in racing. Arthur had to stop karting, and Isabelle—who was really into horseback riding—had her horse sold to fund Charles’ career.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Yes. You read that correctly. They sold her childhood horse to support Charles.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Now, obviously, funding a motorsport career is insanely expensive, and a lot of families make sacrifices. But imagine being a teenager, loving your horse, and then one day—boom. Gone.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: What makes it worse? Unlike Arthur, who eventually got the chance to restart his racing career, Isabelle never got that opportunity with riding. The family focused on Charles and never revisited her dreams.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Fast forward to now, and Isabelle just casually drops on Instagram that she owns a horse again—and it looks eerily similar to the one they sold.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Her brothers (Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo) all freaked out in the comments because they clearly had no idea she was even riding again, let alone that she had bought a horse.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller:  And this is where it gets messy. Because it means:

They never asked about her interests.

They had no clue she had started riding again.

They didn’t even know where she was living.

She never told them about any of this—which, like… speaks volumes.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller:  Anyway, people are connecting the dots and realizing Isabelle has probably been pulling away from her family for a while, and they just… didn’t notice.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Because let’s be real—how do you forget your sister’s birthday, AND not know she got back into the thing she loved most as a kid??

↳@/F1TeaSpiller:  TL;DR: The Leclerc brothers are in big trouble right now.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Oh, and the final kicker? Isabelle agreed in the comments that the horse was a gift. The way Isabelle phrased her post—“some things will always come back to you”—makes it sound like this horse is directly connected to the one she lost. Apparently it was her childhood’s horse last foal. 

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: If that’s true? Then someone—who is not her family—went out of their way to find a descendant of her old horse and give her back a piece of what she lost.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: And I have questions.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Because if her own family didn’t do this… who did?

***

The restaurant buzzed with quiet conversation and clinking silverware, candlelight glinting off polished glasses. It should have been relaxing — a rare, normal night in Monaco, tucked into a corner booth with Alexandra, sipping wine and trying to pretend that everything wasn’t on fire.

It wasn’t working.

Charles could barely focus on anything she was saying. His mind kept looping back to Belle’s Instagram post.

A horse. A goddamn horse.

Captioned cryptically, like some kind of soft dagger straight into his already-shredded guilt.

He hadn’t even known she still rode. He hadn’t known she had a horse.

What else didn’t he know? What else had he missed while he was busy pretending everything was fine?

He stabbed his fork into his salad with unnecessary violence.

Alexandra reached across the table, covering his hand. “Eat. You’re spiraling.”

Charles muttered something about not being hungry, but then — movement over Alexandra’s shoulder caught his eye.

He straightened immediately.

Across the room, near the outdoor terrace, sat two very familiar figures.

Emilie Abadie. And Lando Norris?!

Together. Laughing.

Leaning in too close over a shared plate of something fried.

It didn’t look like a casual meeting.

It looked like a date.

Charles’s blood pressure spiked instantly.

Because if Emilie was here — and laughing — that meant Belle wasn’t spiraling alone somewhere. Or worse — she wasn’t telling Emilie to tell him anything.

He shot up from his seat before Alexandra could stop him.

"Charles," she hissed, trying to grab his sleeve. "Sit down!"

But he was already marching across the restaurant, half-blinded by panic, guilt, and the deep, bone-deep need to do something.

Emilie spotted him halfway across the room. Her smile dropped like a rock into the ocean.

"Emilie," he said, voice tight. "We need to talk. About Belle."

Emilie set her wineglass down with infuriating calm.

"I’m having dinner," she said coolly. "Sit down or leave."

Charles didn’t sit. He couldn’t. The panic was a living thing inside him.

“She posted a horse,” he said, almost accusingly. “A horse! She never said anything! She’s still not answering me. You’ve seen her. You know. Why won’t you just—just tell me what’s going on?!”

For a second, Emilie just stared at him.

Then — like a blade sliding out of a sheath — her smile disappeared.

"You think you're owed answers now?" she asked, voice so sharp Charles actually leaned back a fraction. "After months of ignoring every warning sign? After standing in the same garage with her and looking through her like she wasn’t even real?"

Charles’s throat worked, but no sound came out.

"You want to know why she’s not answering you?" Emilie went on, soft and lethal. "Because you only want her when it's convenient. When it fits your schedule. When it doesn't mess up the perfect story you tell yourself about your family."

“Emilie—”

"No," she cut across him, fierce and furious. "You don’t get to interrupt. You didn’t text her. You didn’t notice she moved. You didn’t notice she quit her job. You didn’t notice when she smiled through being forgotten on the day that should have been about her."

Charles flinched like she’d slapped him.

"You forgot her birthday," Emilie said, each word a scalpel slicing down to bone. "And you think a few panicked phone calls are enough to fix that?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

"You don't love Belle the way you should," Emilie said, voice low, devastating. "You love the idea of her. The safe, quiet little sister who never asks for anything. Who never demands too much. Who lets you shine without ever threatening your light."

Charles stared at her, feeling hollowed out, feeling cracked open.

"You didn't see her when she needed you," Emilie said. "And now you don't deserve to see her at all — not until she says you can."

Beside her, Lando sat perfectly still, wide-eyed — half in awe, half in something dangerously close to admiration.

Charles shook his head, trying to hold onto something, anything.

“I just want to make it right—”

"Then start by not making it about you," Emilie snapped. "Start by realizing that sometimes you don’t get to be the hero of the story you broke."

Charles felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.

For a long moment, the restaurant spun around him — laughter, silverware, clinking glasses — but all he could hear was Emilie’s voice, merciless and true.

And he knew, in some terrible, undeniable way, that she was right.

He wasn’t the center of Belle’s story anymore.

He wasn’t even a footnote.

He had made himself a ghost in her life, and now he was furious that he couldn’t haunt it.

Emilie leaned back in her chair, perfectly calm now, like she hadn’t just torn him apart at the seams.

"Now," she said, reaching for her wine again, "go back to your table. Apologize to Alexandra. And maybe — if you’re lucky — figure out how to be someone your sister actually wants to let back in."

Charles didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

He turned away on shaking legs, retreating across the restaurant under the weight of his own failure.

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. I get it. I’m still going to say this anyway.

Charles: I was fifteen when they sold Blanche. I knew how much she meant to you. I knew how much it would break your heart.

Charles: And I still let it happen. I told myself it wasn’t my decision. That it was out of my hands. That it was for the greater good.

Charles: But that’s not the truth. The truth is, I was selfish. I was scared. I was so focused on keeping my own dream alive that I let them take yours away.

Charles: I didn’t fight for you. I didn’t even try.

Charles: I keep thinking about that day. The way you looked at them. At me. Like you finally understood that nothing you said was ever going to change it. And still, I stayed quiet. I just let it happen.

Charles: You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just… disappeared inside yourself. And we all pretended it would get better on its own.

Charles: It didn’t.

Charles: When Arthur got his second chance years later, we celebrated. But we never once thought about giving you yours. We just assumed you had "moved on."

Charles: I see now how wrong that was. You didn’t move on. You just learned how to survive being left behind.

Charles: And then we forgot your birthday. You were standing right there. Wearing Ferrari red. Smiling at me. And I still didn’t see you.

Charles: I keep asking myself how many times we made you feel invisible without even realizing it.

Charles: I don’t blame you for shutting us out. I don’t blame you for walking away. You deserved better than what we gave you.

Charles: And I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.

Charles: I don’t know how to fix this. Maybe I can’t.

Charles: But I want to try. If you’ll let me.

Charles: If you need space, I’ll give you space. If you need time, I’ll wait. If you never want to speak to me again, I’ll understand.

Charles: But if there’s any chance at all—any way to rebuild even a fraction of what we broke— I’ll do whatever it takes.

Charles: No excuses. No conditions. No timeline.

Charles: I’ll wait as long as you need. I’ll listen as long as it takes.

Charles: You mattered then. You matter now. You always have. Even when we were too blind to see it.

Charles: I love you. I’m so sorry I ever made you doubt that.

Hurricane - Part Three

{Emma blinks in surprise but manages to hold eye contact with Max. “I wasn't aware 'emotional support assistant' was my new job title.” She quips, grin ghosting at the edge of her lips. For what feels like the first time all weekend, Max laughs. It’s loud and genuine and sends a shiver of pleasure dancing over Emma’s skin. He shakes his head, scrubbing at his tired face with his rough, calloused hands. “I don’t want to be alone and I don’t want to go with anyone else.” }

warnings/notes: no warnings in this one, its pretty fluffy. thank you to my writing therapist @lestapiastrisgirl for holding my hand as i crash out on a nightly basis and reassuing me that i do not, in fact, suck at this whole writing thing. pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (fem original character) word count: 4.6k words

read hurricane on ao3 hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

Max slept in the next morning, something he didn’t often allow himself to do. He was drained from the past week, despite it being an off week, so he figured he had earned a little respite. Between the struggles he’d been having in the car since mid-last season to the drama around the second Red Bull seat, Max felt wrung out emotionally and just wanted to have a moment to breathe. Leaving Milton Keynes early the day before had been a start and even just one night in his own bed had him feeling back on the road to feeling better. 

The earthy scent of his favorite coffee brewing mixed with the smell of something sticky sweet drew him out of the deep sleep he’d been in. After coming home last night and hearing Emma play, the pair had spent a quiet evening with takeout and a movie before Max had turned in early, exhaustion from the week’s excitement making his bones ache. 

He’d woken up around 1am to the sounds of Clair de Lune floating through the cracks in his bedroom door and had stayed up longer than necessary listening to Emma play. It was a song he knew well and he had recognized it the second his eyes blinked open. His mother had played the song frequently when he was growing up along with a lot of classical music and the strains of the song provided him with a sense of nostalgic comfort that he’d been craving lately. The memories that the notes elicited grounded him in a way that nothing had been able to do in a very long time. 

The sunlight streamed into the bay windows that lined one of the walls of his bedroom as Max dug around in his closet for a clean t-shirt and shorts before wandering out to the open-concept kitchen. He paused in the archway, just out of Emma’s sight, as he watched her float around the kitchen. All four burners on the stove were switched on and Max strained to see that there were sausages and bacon sizzling away, what looked to be French toast nearly ready to be flipped, and scrambled eggs frying up in a pan. Two coffee mugs sat on the counter, one full of the dark liquid, the other sitting empty, presumably waiting for Max to wake up. 

Emma had on an ancient looking crewneck sweater, the vibrant crimson color faded to almost a purplish pink, sleeves shoved up above her elbows to keep them out of the feast she was in the middle of preparing. Half of her hair was tied up and away from her face, secured in place by a giant claw clip that managed to handle the thick locks without breaking. Her legs were nearly bare, the sleep shorts she wore were sinfully short, her mile long tanned legs on display for only Max to see. 

He swallowed thickly at the sight in front of him, the sheer domesticity of it making something in his chest ache for a life he never knew he yearned for. He’d never been one to dream about the day he settled down, got married, had kids and a home. It wasn’t him, wasn’t how he was raised. Jos always told him there would be time for that after racing and that if he allowed anything to get in the way of his laser sharp focus, Max’s career would suffer. 

The song Emma hummed in the back of her throat was familiar but not something he could totally place and the look on her face was open, bright, beautiful. She seemed so comfortable in his space, so at home in a kitchen that was usually sterile and bare and the way she brought life into Max’s home with barely any effort made Max’s chest ache in the most unfamiliar way. 

Max didn’t know how long he stood there, watching Emma move around his kitchen with a practiced grace that spoke of quiet confidence in a space where she felt like she belonged. It was heart achingly familiar and brightly brand new all at once, almost too much for Max to handle.

Eventually though, the spell was broken as Emma sensed she wasn’t alone anymore. When her eyes snagged on his frame, the smile that fluttered across her face nearly sent Max into cardiac arrest. 

“Good morning, sleepy head.” She teased, turning around to take the waiting coffee pot off the warmer and pour a generous amount into the waiting cup. “Milk? Sugar? There wasn’t any creamer in the fridge when you left so I didn’t know how you usually take your coffee or what to buy as a replacement.” 

The gesture was nice on the surface but Max knew there was an underlying anxiety to her monologue. From the short amount of time he’d spent with Emma, he’d clocked the fact that Emma was a textbook definition of people pleaser, almost to a painful level. She was constantly looking to him for approval, for confirmation that she’d done a good job or that Max wasn’t mad at her. The history behind those habits were an unknown to Max but he recognized a coping mechanism when he saw it.

“Whatever milk you have is fine. Sugar too.” 

Emma looked relieved as she turned to the fridge to get the small carton of milk. A bowl of sugar appeared shortly after too, in a ceramic dish that Max hadn’t even known he owned. They were quiet for a beat as Emma turned away to make sure the sausage wasn’t burning. 

“You’re in a good mood this morning.” Max commented over the rim of his mug, eyes not leaving Emma for a moment longer than necessary. 

Emma turned around, gaze instantly flicking towards the piano in the corner of the living room before darting back to look at Max. Those normally stormy gray eyes were bright this morning, happier than Max had seen them the entire time she’d been staying with him. A small smile tugged at the corner of Emma’s lips as she took a sip of her coffee. “Yeah,” She breathed, the sound sending a shudder down Max’s spine, “I guess I am.” 

There’s another lengthy pause, the silence blanketing the pair comfortably before Emma pushes a plate of French toast towards Max. “I know you’re probably on some sort of super strict diet for the season but once I start cooking it’s a little hard for me to stop.” 

Max grins as he stabs a piece of French toast with his fork before reaching for the butter. Emma slides the syrup over. “I think we can make an exception for this spread. Everything looks so good, Em.” 

Emma preened at the praise that tumbles from Max’s lips like it was the first time she’d ever heard a positive affirmation in her life. Not for the first time since Emma had come to stay with him did Max want to throttle whoever had caused her to behave like she was constantly making mistakes. 

 After one bite, Max hums, the sound low and satisfied, working it’s way across Emma’s skin. “And it tastes even better.” He says around the mouthful of food. 

As he digs into the plate Emma had piled high with food, his eyes wander around the expansive kitchen and living room. For the first time since arriving home, Max noticed something was different about his apartment. Nothing obvious, just a few quiet things that anyone else might’ve never notice. It was still his apartment of course. Nothing major had been moved or tucked away, it still felt like the place that he had settled into over the last few years.  

The cords on his sim right were a little more tidy, the brand new citrus candle that was burning low in the living room, the twin cat beds that had appeared underneath the piano while he had been gone. It made the apartment feel cozier somehow, like the place had been missing these small, gentle touches of a feminine hand. It should have had the hackles on the back of his neck rising, having someone that deep in the place he guarded so closely but having Emma there felt natural, like she was the last piece of the puzzle he’d been missing. 

Swaying a bit at the overwhelming realization, Max blinks and shakes his head in a desperate attempt to clear away the cobwebs of dangerous attraction that had no business being in on his mind. 

“I hope you don’t mind the cat beds I bought. Jimmy and Sassy kept trying to climb into the piano while I was playing and it was the only way I could keep them out and still practice.” Emma says halfway through the meal. 

Max grins in that genuine, open way does when he’s truly pleased. The corners of his eyes crinkled up, lips curling up in a lopsided boyish smile. “I appreciate you taking care of them, they’re social cats and I hate leaving them. They seem to be quite taken with you.” 

Emma leaned down scratch at Sassy’s ears after she had wandered into the kitchen as if she knew she was being discussed. “They kept me company while I had my quarter-life crisis on your couch for two days. We bonded.” 

“And what did you come up with while experiencing this crisis? Anything life changing?” Max hadn’t wanted to push last night to talk about the future. He hadn’t want to bring up Emma leaving because if he was being honest, and he quite often wasn’t with himself, he was enjoying having her here. It had been less than a week but she’d already imbued herself deeper into his life than he could have ever anticipated. 

“I’ve decided I’m going to marry rich and become a trophy wife.” She announced, eyes glittering as a wicked smirk kicked up at the edge of her mouth.

Max was so startled by her declaration, he choked out a laugh so loud Sassy went flying across the kitchen floor in a startled terror. 

Emma made a sound of offense before rolling her eyes. “I’m insulted you think my goal of being a trophy wife is so lofty. Am I really that hideous?”

When she sticks out her bottom lip in a pout, Max had to physically restrain himself to keep from reaching out and swiping his thumb across her outstretched lip, his fingers digging into the sides of his chair so hard his knuckles went white. Before he can come up with a response though, Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Reluctantly pulling it out, he’s unable to bite back the groan that starts in the back of his throat. 

“Everything okay?” Emma asks before popping a bite of bacon into her mouth. 

“Christian won’t stop emailing me about the stupidest shit after hours and on weekends. Marko too. It’s never anything important and most of the time could wait until I see them again.” Max frowns, reading the subject line: ‘NEW PR IDEAS FOR YUKI’. “I’m about to block them both.” 

Emma reaches out with her hand, motioning for him to hand over his phone, “I have an idea, can I try something?” 

Max easily slides the phone across the counter and watches, mesmerized, as Emma starts tapping away at his phone for several moments, her eyes fixed on the screen. As she works, she catches her bottom lip in between her teeth, nearly sending Max into another spiral so quickly he has to look away. 

“And…done! There you go, that should take care of your problems.” Emma looks up, sly grin stretching across her face as she hands back the phone. “I created a few rules in your inbox. Now anything that Christian and Helmut send you after hours will go directly into a separate folder instead of in your main inbox so you can choose when you want to look at their stuff instead of being bothered by their lack of boundaries.” 

Max tilts his head, eyes narrowed as he lifts his gaze from his phone to meet Emma’s eager expression. He’s quiet for so long that Emma shifts uncomfortably, wondering if she’d crossed a line. Maybe he didn’t like his things messed with. Maybe she had gone too far with her desire to help and it had made him angry. 

Why was she always messing everything up?

“Marry me.” Max mutters finally, half joking and half deadly serious and Emma blinks over at him. “Marry me and become my trophy wife, please.” 

Emma can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her at the sheer ridiculousness of the request. “You’re insane.” 

Max just smirks, sinking into the sound of her laughter. It’s light, sweet, and everything that he craves as the sound rakes itself over his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “I’m serious. You come in here, clean up my place and make it look like someone actually lives here, fill my fridge with all of my favorite things, and banish my bosses emails to a folder I never have to look at? That’s wife behavior right there, schat.” 

Emma’s cheeks go crimson but she manages to roll her eyes, “That sounds a lot like personal assistant behavior to me and if you need a lecture in the differences between wifey and assistant behavior, we have bigger problems on our hands, Verstappen.” 

“Then be my assistant.” 

Emma doesn’t have a response to that because she can’t quite tell if Max is still teasing her or not. The look on his face shifts into something more serious though and she struggles to catch up. She was still trying to recover from the faux proposal moments ago, the thought of marrying Max suddenly making her throat feel tight and cheeks feel hot. “Wait. What?” 

Max shrugs, feigning nonchalance as best as he can. “Horner has been after my ass for years to hire a personal assistant. He claims I miss too much and am spread too thin. To be honest, he’s probably just bitter I never return any of his emails but he does have a point.” He pauses, flipping his phone around in his hands as a way to channel the nervous energy buzzing through his veins. He hadn’t meant to ask her to be his assistant but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he didn’t want to take them back. 

“I don’t have any experience in your world, Max.” Emma says, worrying the corner of her lip. 

“You don’t need experience in motorsport to help me run my life. You need a job, a place to stay, a steady paycheck, right? I can give all of those things to you, Em. Let me help?” 

Emma drops her gaze away from Max’s for a moment, contemplating the offer. He was right, of course. She had nothing holding her back, no prospects. She’d spent the better part of the time alone in Max’s place searching for something, anything for her to do. Jobs that she was qualified for were few and far between in Monaco. The thought of going back to teaching and the politics that came along with it, made her stomach churn. Working for Max would save her from having to go back home with her tail tucked between her legs. 

“At least until you figure out what you want to do going forward.” He says quickly to fill the silence that filled the space between them. “You don’t have to be my assistant forever, just until you get back on your feet and decide what’s next.” 

A small grin ticks up at the corner of Emma’s lips and Max knows he’s got her.

“Alright, yeah.” She pauses, drawing in a deep inhale. There was a significant shift in the air as she studied Max sitting across from her, it was charged with something that neither of them were quite ready to face yet but they both knew was meaningful in a way they hadn’t ever anticipated.

“And who knows, maybe I’ll even find a rich race car driver to trophy wife me up, right?” 

Emma winks over at Max but the only thing that scuttles through his mind in response is ‘yeah, and that man will be me.’ 

The sun in Bahrain was relentless. While Emma considered herself relatively well traveled, she’d never been to the Middle East before. After going to Japan last week with Max, her head was spinning with how different her life had become literally overnight. 

After she had accepted Max’s offer, it had been decided that the easiest thing to do was hire Emma via Red Bull and pay her that way. This protected everyone involved and gave Emma the stability she’d been craving since being fired from her nightmare of a nannying job. It also gave legitimacy to her being in the paddock and the access to places where Max needed her to be. 

It was a simple enough job when it all came together. Manage Max’s email and personal schedule, make sure his meals were what his trainer needed them to be, when they needed to be there, ensure Jimmy and Sassy were visited by the pet sitter 3 to 4 times a day, handle his personal appearance requests that didn’t go through the Red Bull PR department. The tasks were easy for someone as organized and type A as Emma and she fell into the role seamlessly. 

Japan had been easy because Max had a mega weekend and the team was on the upswing. 

And then Bahrain happened. 

Emma was walking towards the parking lot of the paddock after the race Sunday night with another Red Bull employee when the shouts of someone calling her name stopped her in her tracks. The race had gone horribly wrong for Max and he’d told her to go ahead to the hotel without him because he’d be at the track for hours pouring over data with GP and the engineering team. Emma had wanted to get a head start on packing, for both Max and her anyway, so she had agreed and found a ride back with someone else. 

She turned around to see one of the PR interned sprinting after her, wild panic in her eyes. 

“Laurie, what’s wrong?” Anxiety fluttered in her chest briefly. Max had made it out of the car in one piece and as far as she was concerned her job was finished for the night.

Laurie struggled to catch her breath as stopped short of Emma and Rachel, the engineer she was getting a ride with. “Max. Refusing to do media. Won’t talk to anyone but you.” 

“What?” Emma shot a confused look at Rachel before returning her gaze back to the young woman. “Laurie, take a few deep breaths. Did you run here from the media pen?” 

Laurie nodded before dragging in a few more ragged breaths. It took a few more moments but eventually, her chest stopped heaving like she had just finished a marathon. 

“Ok, now slow down.” Emma started, placing a hand on Laurie’s shoulder. “What is going on? Where’s Max?” 

“He’s refusing to go to the media pen and do his interviews. The FIA officials are threatening fines, Horner is about to combust, and he says he’ll only talk to you.” 

Emma’s brows rose into her hairline as she exchanged another surprised look with Rachel. “Well, I guess I’m not going back to pack right now, am I? Go ahead without me, I’ll get a ride back with Max. Thanks Rachel.” 

Rachel nodded before wishing her good luck and turning back towards the parking lot. 

Emma turned back to Laurie, “Okay, where is he?” 

“Driver’s room.” 

“Okay, go to the pen and tell everyone Max wasn’t feeling well after the race. Blame the heat or something? And that he’ll be along in less than 20 minutes.” 

Laurie nodded before jogging off towards the media tent. Emma turned down a quiet alleyway on her way to Red Bull’s hospitality. 

It only took a few more minutes before she was standing in front of Max’s drivers room on the second floor of the suite. She’d spent most of her time in the room this weekend, watching the practice sessions and qualifying while working on getting Max’s inbox under control (something that was still a work in progress and causing her almost as many headaches as the driver who was currently throwing a tantrum). As she stood in front of the closed door though, there was a heavy air of anxiety and anger that hummed through the space. She knew what she’d find behind the door, had seen the way Max had looked furious when he’d gotten out of the car. 

Emma only had to wait a few moments after knocking softly to hear a strangled “Come in.” 

Pushing the door open with a gentle shove, Emma took a few steps into the room before spotting Max. Her heart ached when she saw the way he was folded in on himself, shoulders hunched, race suit still half-on, head in his hands. Despite it being a rough weekend for the team, Max had tried to take most of it on the chin. His temper had flared a few times here and there, a few stiff words for GP during the race, a few angry glances lobbed at a mechanic that happened to be in his way. No one had thought much of it as it happened. They were used to his moods, GP assured Emma a few dozen times there was nothing she could do to help. It was just something Max had to work through on his own. He’d done it before and he’d do it again. 

But this? The way he was curled in on himself like he wanted to shrink down to a size that couldn’t be seen, the way he refused to look up when Emma stepped into the room, the way his fingers gripped at his hair like he was trying to rip the pain away from his head? This was all a new side of Max that Emma had the feeling not many people had ever seen. 

In a flash, she was crossing the room before crouching in front of him. She doesn’t touch him, despite every inch of her body screaming that she should. She didn’t quite trust herself in that moment. Didn’t quite trust herself to be able to stop with a simple touch on the back of his hand. Emma was worried she’d want more and that? That was dangerous. 

“Max, what’s going on?” 

“I can’t do this.” He laments, eyes finally lifting up to meet hers. 

The pain and embarrassment sitting so plainly in his eyes had Emma’s heart squeezing painfully.  

“The car is just…I can’t drive it. I lost count of how many laps I spent stuck behind a fucking Alpine. An Alpine, Emma!” 

Emma nodded like she knew what that meant as Max stood to pace the small room. “Max,” She tries to placate, knowing that the time is limited and he was staring down the face of a hefty fine. “I bought you some time with the FIA but they’re out there yelling about fines and I think Horner might be close to having a stroke.” 

Max turns on her, eyes wild with rage and something else that looks a lot like anguish. “Well that makes two of us then.” He says miserably. “I’m not going to Jeddah.” 

The statement stops Emma in her tracks. “Wait, what? Max, I know the race was bad but you can’t just quit four races into the season.” 

“I’m not quitting, Em.” He says with a roll of his eyes and Emma resists the urge to swat at him for the sass. “I just need a few days to clear my head before I go straight into another race weekend.” 

“Okay, I can work with that. Let me get on the phone with your pilot and see what your options are while you’re doing media. I’ll figure out a place where you can go for a few days while I head to Jeddah to make sure everything is set up for you.” 

Max shakes his head, “No.” 

Emma pinches at the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. “Oh, God bless it.” She sighs deeply, shaking her head. “The hell do you mean, ‘no’? You literally just said you didn’t want to go to Jeddah?” 

“I’m not going without you.” 

Emma blinks in surprise but manages to hold eye contact with Max. “I wasn't aware 'emotional support assistant' was my new job title.” She quips, grin ghosting at the edge of her lips.

For what feels like the first time all weekend, Max laughs. It’s loud and genuine and sends a shiver of pleasure dancing over Emma’s skin. He shakes his head, scrubbing at his tired face with his rough, calloused hands. “I don’t want to be alone and I don’t want to go with anyone else.” 

Again, Emma found herself narrowing her eyes in a vain attempt to understand the man in front of her. “That…makes no sense. You want to be alone but you want me to come with you?” 

“I don’t want to go with anyone else.” Max pouts. 

Pouts. The four-time world champion that was known to make even the most experienced mechanic cower pouts at Emma. 

“Will you go out to the media pen and not be a sarcastic brute to the reporters if I agree to this?” 

A sly grin slips onto Max’s face as he nods, realizing he’s won. 

Emma sighs, the fight draining out of her as quickly as the tension seemed to be leaving Max’s body. “Fine.” She relents, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “But you owe me, big time. I had planned to spend the next few days comatose in a hotel room doing nothing but watching bad reality tv and eating even worse takeout.” 

Max’s grin widens, the relief evident in his suddenly brighter eyes. “I promise I will make sure I buy you the best takeout wherever we end up and you can even pick the TV we watch.” 

Emma levels a pointed look at him as she throws a bottle of water his way, “And you! You will be polite out there. You will answer their questions, even the stupid ones, without rolling your eyes so hard you risk a sprain. And you will not, under any circumstances, blame Jack or Pierre for your…unfortunate race. Got it?” 

“Deal.” Max agrees quickly, already moving towards the door. The heavy cloud of anger that had clung to him all weekend seemed to have lifted, replaced by a restless energy that was something Emma could make work. “What are we thinking? Somewhere with a good beach? I haven’t spent a day near the ocean in too long.” 

Emma follows him, grabbing his discarded team jacket from the back of a chair before wrapping herself up in the oversized garment. “Hold your horses, Verstappen. You still have about fifteen minutes of explaining to do to a very angry and tired contingent of journalists. Lets get through that first and then your ‘emotional support assistant’ will work her magic and find us the perfect escape.” 

As the pair walks out into the paddock and towards the media tent, a small smile plays on Emma’s lips. Emotional support assistant. She had to admit, the title had a certain ring to it, even if it made her sound completely ridiculous. And if it meant seeing that genuine smile on Max’s face again, she was willing to take on the role. Jeddah could wait an extra few days. Some bad TV and questionable takeout with a surprisingly vulnerable racing driver suddenly sounded like a far more interesting proposition. 

Tag list: @shelbyteller, @martygraciesversion381, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @imlonelydontsendhelp @nina-or-anna-or-nora @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx @mel164 @schumi-angel @myescapefromthislife @supertrashbread @sunny44 @tinystudentblaze-stuff @sarx164 @xoxomansee

stream madness pt. 4

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary: Twitch streams, chaos during trivia, and one very soft Lando Norris. Whenever Y/N shows up on stream, fans get more than they bargained for. Between Max F's third-wheeling, and Lando's doting habits, the internet can't keep up.

Words: 5.3k

Warnings: swearing, mentions of period, pregnancy

Five star michelin

The stream blinked to life, revealing a familiar setting: the sleek, modern kitchen of Lando’s Monaco apartment. The camera was already rolling, capturing a countertop neatly prepped with ingredients, and a few pots and pans waiting on the stove like soldiers at attention. Cooking stream? Unheard of.

Lando appeared on screen, a little out of focus as he fiddled with something just off-camera. He leaned down toward a mic and gave it a couple of taps.

“Can you hear me now?” he asked, eyes darting toward the chat as it exploded with responses. A few seconds passed before he nodded, satisfied. “Nice.”

From somewhere off-camera, a familiar voice chimed in. “You ready?”

“Mmhmm.” Lando stepped back into frame and clapped his hands together, “So—”

A sudden laugh burst from off-screen, stopping him mid-sentence. He turned his head, smirking.

“What?”

Y/N finally stepped into view, her expression amused. She wore one of his Quadrant hoodies, her hair pulled back casually, looking completely at home. “You and Max always do that,” she teased.

“Do what?” he chuckled, reaching out to tug her gently closer until she was tucked beside him, shoulder brushing his.

“The clapping,” she said, gesturing at him with a knowing smile. “Every time you guys film something, you both do that little clap before talking. It’s like a reflex or something.”

Lando rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “Whatever, hater…”

He turned back to the camera, hands twitching like he was going to clap again. “Anyways, so—” He froze, caught himself mid-motion, and looked right at her. “...Fuck. I really do it, huh?”

Y/N doubled over laughing, lightly shoving him. “I told you! It’s your little pre-performance ritual.”

Lando laughed too, bumping her gently with his hip. “I feel attacked in my own kitchen.”

“You should,” she grinned. “Consider this an intervention.”

“Alright, alright,” Lando grinned, finally pulling it together. “No more claps. Let’s cook before I develop another weird habit.”

“Tell them what we’re doing,” Y/N says, grabbing two aprons from the counter and tossing one to Lando.

“Right!” he nods, slipping the apron over his head. “We’re making dinner. From scratch.”

“That’s right,” she grins, stepping behind him to tie his apron strings neatly at the back. “Steak and mashed potatoes today, quick and easy.”

Lando scans the kitchen setup with a slightly exaggerated frown, lips pressed together as he surveys the ingredients. Y/N catches the look and raises a brow.

“What’s wrong?”

He exhales a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m actually kind of nervous. Chat’s gonna see how rubbish I am at this.”

Y/N’s face softens as he gently spins her around to tie her apron too, the motion slow and familiar. She glances over her shoulder with a small smile. “That’s why I’m here, bub. We’ll work as a team.”

He gives her a playful pat on the bum, earning a surprised little laugh as he says, “Alright, boss. What’s first?”

Y/N grabs a bowl of unpeeled potatoes and hands it off to him along with a peeler. “Wash them, peel them, cut them into quarters.”

Lando blinks. “Huh?”

She stifles a laugh. “Wash. Peel. Cut. Into quarters,” she repeats with a teasing squeeze to his arm, before turning toward the fridge.

He looks down at the potatoes, then to chat, then back at the potatoes, sighing as he walks to the sink. “Do I like... scrub them or something?” he calls over his shoulder.

“No need,” she answers, rinsing some herbs at the counter. “We’re peeling them anyway.”

And so the chaos begins.

Y/N gets to work seasoning the steaks and prepping the herb butter, while Lando stands at the sink, holding a potato like it might explode. He finally begins peeling, very slowly, occasionally pausing to read the chat.

“Hey! I’m not slow!” he says, pointing the peeler accusingly at the camera, eyes squinting playfully. “I’m just taking my time.”

From behind him, Y/N chuckles, drying her hands. “You are doing it quite slow, my love.”

She walks over with a chopping board and a knife in hand, peeking into the bowl beside him. “I’ve already seasoned the meat, made the herb butter, and cleaned up. And you—” she pauses, looking over at his bowl of potatoes “—have peeled exactly… three potatoes.”

Lando gasps like she’s just betrayed him on live television. “I think I'm doing a mega job.”

She laughs, nudging him gently with her hip as she starts chopping the peeled ones. "And I'm so proud of you"

The chat explodes in laughter, messages flying in:

“3 potatoes in 20 minutes 💀” “Y/N carrying as usual” “He’s trying his best leave him alone 😭”

Y/N takes over the potato duties without much of a fight, Lando had peeled just enough for her to work with. She dumps the chunks into a pot of water and sets it to boil, giving it a quick stir before turning to check on her newly assigned sous-chef.

Lando is now standing in front of the stove like he’s guarding a priceless artifact. The pan on the burner is still very much empty, not even a drop of oil or butter in sight, but he’s watching it with intense focus.

“You do realize the pan’s still empty, right?” Y/N asks, sliding up beside him, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

Without taking his eyes off the pan, Lando scoffs, “I’m aware, yes.”

She bites back a grin. “And you’re watching it like a hawk because…?”

“I’m waiting for it to heat up enough,” he replies, dead serious, hovering his hand just above the surface with surgical precision. “You said it has to be hot. Like hot hot.”

Y/N stares at him for a second, then laughs. “Okay, fair, but you could at least put some oil in while you’re doing your little steak meditation.”

Lando lets out a dramatic sigh like she’s asking him to do the impossible, but obliges, grabbing the olive oil and drizzling it into the pan with flair. “There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” she deadpans. “Now wait til it's smoking a bit.”

He narrows his eyes at the pan, nodding slowly. “Got it.”

From the corner of the room, her phone buzzes with notifications. Chat is thriving.

“Lando’s steak arc begins” “This man is doing yoga with a frying pan” “Protect the pan at all costs”

Lando peeks over her shoulder and squints. “I feel very attacked in this live stream.”

Y/N smirks. “Good. Means they care.”

Just then, the oil begins to ripple gently in the pan. She leans over, inspecting it.

“Alright, chef,” she says with a teasing salute. “You’re good to go.”

Lando straightens up dramatically, grabs the seasoned steak like it’s a sacred relic, and carefully lays it into the pan with a loud sizzle. He flinches slightly at the noise, glancing at her like, “Did I do that right?”

Y/N gives him a proud little nod. “That’s perfect.”

The satisfaction on Lando’s face is almost too much. He’s glowing like he just scored pole position.

“Yeah?” he says, biting his lip to hide the grin. “I mean… obviously.”

They both stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the stove, their expressions weirdly serious as they watched the steaks sizzle in the pan. The kitchen was quiet now, save for the soft bubbling from the potatoes and the satisfying sear of meat against hot oil.

Neither of them spoke. Just stood there. Staring.

Chat, however, was anything but silent.

“they’re both dissociating 😭” “brainrot live” “this is peak couple behaviour” “they’re literally the same person wtf”

Lando finally blinked out of it first. He glanced sideways and immediately burst into a quiet laugh, spotting the exact same zoned-out expression on Y/N’s face as she stared into the pan like it held the secrets of the universe.

She snapped out of it at the sound of his laugh, turning her head with a soft smile. “What?”

“You were giving me crap for staring at the pan,” he said, nudging her gently with his elbow. “You were literally dissociating watching the steak cook.”

Y/N blinked, then laughed, covering her face with one hand. “Oh my god. I was. I think the sizzle hypnotized me.”

Lando grinned, bumping her again. “Welcome to my world.”

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder, still smiling. “Brain empty. Just meat noises.”

Chat was in shambles.

“JUST MEAT NOISES” “meat trance 🧠✨” “someone screenshot this, I need it framed”

Not much time had passed, and now the two stood on opposite ends of the kitchen island, heads down, tongues slightly poking out in focus as they carefully plated their food.

Each had been assigned their own plate, it had somehow turned into a competition. And of course, they’d agreed that chat would vote on whose presentation was better.

“Stop hogging all the broccoli, baby!” Lando cried dramatically, pointing an accusing finger at her side of the counter. “I’ve got no garnish.”

Y/N scoffed, not even looking up as she arranged a small floret just so. “You knob, we’ve literally both got five each!” she exclaimed, gesturing wildly to her plate like she was presenting evidence in court.

Lando leaned over with a squint. “Yeah, but you’ve got all the pretty pieces!”

She froze mid-mash, then turned to look at him, face twisted in utter disbelief. “They’re all broccoli, you muppet! What do you mean ‘pretty pieces’?!”

“The round ones!” Lando argued back, now clutching his plate like it was his child. “Yours are, like… cuter!”

“I cannot believe we’re arguing about broccoli aesthetics,” she muttered, laughing as she snatched one off his plate and swapped it with hers. “There. Happy?”

He paused, inspecting the trade like a jewel dealer. “...Yeah, that’s fair.”

Lando glanced over at his plate, then at hers. His brow furrowed.

“How’d you do that?” he asked, confused, staring like her food was some sort of black magic.

Y/N didn’t even look up, too focused on delicately arranging the slices of steak just right on her plate. “What now?”

“Your mash…” he said, drifting over behind her to peer over her shoulder. “How’d you make it look like that?”

She let out a loud, surprised laugh, trying to push him away with one arm. “Lando! We literally have the same stuff. Go back to your side!”

“But yours is nicer!” he whined, barely budging under her efforts, grinning down at her like a menace.

“Then make yours nicer” she shot back, trying to block his view with her body.

Lando laughed, finally backing off with a shake of his head. He grabbed a clean spoon and stood over his plate like he was defusing a bomb. Slowly, carefully, he swiped it through his mashed potatoes in a swooping motion, eyes narrowed in focus.

“Done!” Y/N announced triumphantly, tossing her hands in the air. She wiped her hands on her apron and sauntered over to Lando’s side with a mischievous grin.

“Hey!” Lando yelped, quickly shifting to block her path with his hip like a human kitchen gate. “Back to your side!”

“I just wanna peek!” she laughed, trying to sneak a look over his shoulder.

Without warning, Lando wrapped one arm around her waist, effortlessly scooping her up like she weighed nothing. Y/N squealed in surprise as he spun her around and plopped her down directly in front of the camera.

“Stay there,” he said, grinning as he planted a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Talk to chat while I finish my masterpiece.”

Y/N blinked at the camera, momentarily stunned, before bursting into laughter. “This man really picked me up like I was a rogue toddler.”

Lando finally walked over to show his plate toward the camera with a dramatic spin. “Voilà. Chef Norris’s Signature Steak Surprise.”

Y/N tilted her head, pretending to inspect. “Surprise being you didn’t burn it?” She teases as she holds up her own plate to show the camera

“Oi,” he huffed, nudging her gently with his hip again. “Time for the votes. Chat—choose wisely.”

He moved to stand beside her as the poll popped up on screen: Whose plate wins? 🍽 🧡 Lando’s Luxurious Lunch 💚 Y/N’s Superior Steak Situation

The votes flew in fast.

“I swear, if you win because of the mash swirl…” Y/N muttered, squinting at the poll.

Lando grinned. “That’s called technique, love.”

The timer ticked down.

Y/N – 62% Lando – 38%

“YESSS,” she cheered, throwing her arms up again. “Justice for the broccoli.”

Lando slumped against the counter dramatically. “This is rigged. I demand a recount.”

Y/N leaned in, pecking his cheek. “Better luck next dinner, chef.”

------------------------------------------------------

Think fast

Being in a relationship with Y/N meant Lando had to stay constantly on his toes. In the early days, her endless pranks always managed to catch him off guard, whether it was the latest viral trend or some chaotic idea she came up with on a whim, he never stood a chance. These days, though, he liked to think he’d gotten better at spotting the signs, or at least bracing himself for whatever mischief she had up her sleeve.

“It’s not going to work.”

Y/N and Max Fewtrell strolled into the McLaren hospitality, phone in hand streaming live on twitch, making their way toward the back where Lando was supposed to meet them. He’d left the hotel a couple hours earlier for back-to-back meetings before free practice.

“When has he not fallen for one of your pranks?” Max asked, sipping his coffee with a knowing grin. “Just try it. Chat's going to love it”

Y/N shook her head, already laughing at the thought of Lando calling her out before she even made a move.

“The last two times, he shut me down before I even got the chance,” she said with a shrug. “He’s learning.”

They found an empty table tucked away from the crowd and sat down to wait. Max, ever the instigator, kept nudging her to try one of the latest pranks he’d seen trending on his feed, desperate for a dose of chaos and the chance to see his best friend publicly flustered.

The two sat like that for a while, answering a few questions every now and then. Before long, Lando’s voice rang out behind them.

“Oi! There you two are!”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder and grinned, standing up with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“You want your fix? Watch this,” she whispered to Max, stepping aside from the table just as Lando approached.

“Sorry, meeting ran long,” Lando said, pulling off his cap and tossing it onto the table.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “Think fast! I’m a random girl!”

Without warning, she lunged at him—arms outstretched, lips puckered dramatically, ready to play her role to perfection.

Lando’s reflexes kicked in fast. “Whoa!” he said, holding his palm out and catching her right in the forehead, effectively stopping her mid-charge.

“I’m happily taken, thank you very much,” he deadpanned, pushing her away gently but firmly, then wiped his hand on his pants with exaggerated disgust. “Please maintain a safe distance, stranger.”

Max burst out laughing while Y/N nodded proudly, even slow clapping.

“Mate,” Max wheezed through his laughter, practically spilling his coffee, “you’re like a trained puppy!”

“Proud of you, babe,” Y/N grinned, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Hey!” Lando ducked away dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Lady! Please… I just told you—I have a beautiful girlfriend!”

Y/N smacked his arm, laughing. “You muppet.”

Lando chuckled, finally letting his act drop as he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in. “Hello, my love. Trying to entertain Max and chat again, I see?”

“Someone’s gotta give them content,” she teased, and Max just shook his head, still grinning, proud to have captured the whole thing.

------------------------------------------------------

Just cause

Lando had been on Twitch with Max for hours now, deep in a chaotic stream full of banter, games, and far too much shouting. Y/N had been missing in action the whole time, curled up in bed for a nap when the boys started, and clearly forgotten amidst the noise.

When she finally stirred awake, the first thing she heard was Lando’s muffled shouting through the walls. Headphones on, game volume cranked, completely unaware of how loud he was being. With a sleepy smile, she grabbed her phone and hopped onto Twitch, curiosity getting the best of her.

Instead of Lando’s stream, she tapped into Max’s—knowing full well she’d get the better view and more unfiltered commentary.

“Hi Maxie” she typed, the grin already growing on her face.

“Woah, is that Y/N?” Max’s voice rang out, loud and clear through Lando’s headset.

Lando glanced over his shoulder instinctively. “She’s asleep in the room, mate.”

Max let out a laugh. “No, mate—she just said hi in my chat. Hi Y/N!”

Lando’s brows lifted in surprise, just as the sound of her soft footsteps approached from behind. Moments later, she was there—turning his chair slightly before straddling his lap without a word, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Oh—” Lando blinked, arms instinctively wrapping around her waist, one hand settling gently on her back. “Hi, baby. What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer—just shook her head and nuzzled into his neck, clearly not in distress, just craving closeness.

The chat exploded.

“OMG STOP” “They’re so cute I’m gonna cry” “IM SO SINGLE” “Watch Max clown them in 3...2...1…”

“Ewww! Get a room, you two!” Max called out through his mic, laughing.

“Shut up, Max,” Lando chuckled, slipping off one side of his headset and muting his mic. He leaned back slightly, guiding her face away from his neck so he could see her.

“Baby… hey,” he said softly, concern laced through his voice as his arms held her close. “You alright, my love?”

She smiled gently, still sleepy-eyed. “Hi.”

“Well, hello,” Lando chuckled, amused by the unexpected visit. He reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheek. “What’s wrong? You don’t usually do this… not that I mind—I quite like it, actually.”

She only shook her head, letting out a quiet sigh as she settled her head back on his shoulder, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck.

Lando’s smile faded into a soft frown, now slightly worried. “You feeling okay? Are you sick?” His hand instinctively moved to her forehead, checking her temperature.

She laughed, lifting her head to meet his eyes. “I’m okay, silly. I just… missed you.”

That one sentence made something warm bloom in his chest. He smirked, his hands now tracing slow circles on her back, already forgetting the stream still running in the background.

“Yeah?”

She nodded, now suddenly a little bashful under his gaze.

“I can end the stream,” he offered gently. “We can hang out in the room, maybe order some food and watch a movie?”

She shook her head. “Maybe later? Go finish your game… I’ll just stay here for a bit.”

Lando smiled softly and guided her head back down to his shoulder, pressing a tender kiss to the side of her head. “Alright, my love. One more hour—then I’m all yours.”

He leaned forward and unmuted his mic, the grin already spreading on his face. “Sorry—boyfriend duties,” he said proudly, as Max groaned dramatically and the chat predictably exploded again.

“bf of the year!” “THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER 😭” “MAX IS GONNA LOSE HIS MIND I LOVE THIS” “THE BAR IS ON THE FLOOR AND LANDO JUST LAUNCHED OVER IT”

------------------------------------------------------

Who knows me best?

The stream kicked off with the usual trio, but this time, they had a small whiteboard in hand. Lando sat center, eyes scanning his computer as he tweaked his Twitch setup.

“Ready?” he asked, giving his hair a final fluff before leaning back in his chair.

Max and Y/N finally set their phones aside, both nodding in sync with soft hums of agreement.

"So..." Lando clapped his hands to mark the start of the stream, prompting a chuckle from Y/N

“See? Told you he does that too,” Y/N said, leaning forward to look at Max.

Max grinned. “P said the exact same thing to me.”

“The clapping again?” Lando groaned, rubbing his cheek in mock frustration. “I swear I’ve been trying to stop. Someone tie me down already.”

“Y/N can do that tonight—like you two always do,” Max said with a cheeky smirk. “Right!” He punctuated the joke with a clap, then winced. “Ah, fuck. I did it too.”

That sent all three of them into a fit of laughter.

“We’re hopeless, mate,” Lando wheezed between laughs. “Alright, chat! We’re here for the ‘Best Friend vs. Girlfriend’ challenge—who knows me best?” He turned to Y/N with a playful look. “Or as she likes to call it…”

“‘Girlfriend versus Boyfriend,’” Y/N said, nodding seriously at the camera. “Because Max is my boyfriend’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, piss off,” Max laughed, shaking his head.

"I've started a poll, so you guys an vote on who you think will win" Lando says, handing each of them their own markers

“First question!” Lando grins, glancing between the two. “When and where was my Formula 1 debut?”

Max and Y/N immediately start scribbling on their boards, Lando casually jotting down his own answer with that signature smug smile.

Once they’re both done, Lando nods toward Max. “Alright, Max. You go first.”

Max flips his board with confidence. “2019, Australian Grand Prix.”

Lando chuckles and gives him a fist bump, flipping his board, revealing the same answer. “Point for Max.”

He turns to Y/N, who’s already rolling her eyes. “You got it wrong, didn’t you?”

“On the contrary,” Y/N says, flipping her board around with flair.

Lando and Max burst out laughing before she’s even finished reading.

“March 16, 2019. Australian Grand Prix. 3 PM local time,” she recites matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re fucking joking,” Max wheezes, clutching his stomach. “You gave her the questions beforehand, didn’t you?!” He shoots Lando an accusatory look.

“What?! No! I swear I didn’t!” Lando throws his hands up, still laughing.

“I’m just that good of a girlfriend,” Y/N shrugs, casually erasing her board and adding a neat little mark in the corner for the point she just earned.

“We weren’t even dating yet, baby,” Lando teases, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Yeah, but she definitely had a massive crush on you already,” Max adds with a smirk, wiping off his own board "Remember when you begged me to not tell him when I found out and you—"

"—Okay! That's enough from you Maxiepoo," she says clapping her hands trying to speed up the process "move on come on keep them coming!"

Lando chuckles and nods, reading another question off his phone, “Next one. What’s my worst habit?”

Both Max and Y/N immediately start writing without hesitation, clearly prepared.

Lando watches them suspiciously. “Why are you both so fast with that?”

Max flips his board first: “Biting his nails”

“Okay wow—” Lando starts.

But Y/N’s already turning hers around: “Saying ‘I’m fine’ when he’s clearly spiraling.” She underlines it twice for dramatic effect.

Lando throws his head back laughing. “Well fuck, I feel attacked.”

“You should,” Max says. “We’ve had an intervention, like, twice.”

“You ignored both,” Y/N adds, casually ticking her board again.

Lando just shakes his head. “You guys are supposed to be on my team.”

“No,” they say in unison. “We’re on the truth’s team.”

Chat? Loving it

"NOT THEM TEAMING UP ON LANDO" "Max and Y/N are so competitive with it" "lol i think they're playing who loves Lando more?" ------------------------------------------------

Mini Lando

It had been a two-week break between races, and Lando was soaking it all in, some sun, some sleep, and a whole lot of gaming with the boys back in Monaco.

Today was no different, Lando and Max were live on Twitch, lazily stacked in their usual setup, bantering, gaming, and occasionally getting completely distracted by chat. But there was one thing everyone in the comments couldn't stop talking about.

The clip had already gone semi-viral on F1 Twitter: Twitch stream, Max mid-sentence, Lando walking off-screen, only to pop back into frame quietly leaning over Y/N on the bean bag, hand resting softly on her stomach, the other brushing her hair away like some kind of soft boyfriend fever dream. That, paired with Y/N’s mysterious absence from this stream?

Yeah. The fanbase had collectively lost its mind.

“Where’s Y/N?” Lando reads aloud, scoffing with a half-smile as he leans back in his chair.

Max snickers but doesn't look up from his screen. “Mate, you’ve unleashed the internet. That clip’s everywhere.”

Lando chuckles. “I was literally just saying hi.”

“Sure,” Max says, dragging it out like he’s stirring something dangerous. “Saying hi with your hand on her stomach and playing with her hair like it’s a Nicholas Sparks movie.”

Lando defends, laughing now. “I was being a good boyfriend”

Chat explodes — everything from “we know what tired means” to “BABY LANDOOOOO??”

Lando shakes his head, clearly fed up with the stream chat spiraling out of control. With a sigh, he pulls out his phone and dials Y/N, holding it up on speaker for dramatic effect.

Almost instantly, her voice comes through, dry and familiar “You do know I’m in the bedroom, right?”

“Hi, my love,” Lando says sweetly, ignoring Max’s exaggerated eye roll. “Come here for a sec?”

Max doesn't miss a beat. “The tone shift is insane. Bro went from gamer rage to Shakespearean boyfriend in 0.2 seconds, someone study that.”

Lando reaches over and smacks his arm, earning a loud “Oi!” from Max.

“Lan,” Y/N groans on the other end, “I look like shit right now.”

“You always look beautiful, my love,” Lando says, dramatically and unapologetically simping. “Chat’s looking for you. And, apparently… baby Norris too.”

“Oh my Gosh,” she mutters, but the sound of movement comes through anyway.

Not a minute later, Y/N appears behind Lando’s chair, wrapped in a hoodie that definitely wasn't hers, her hair in a mess of clips and chaos. She leans down, placing a soft kiss to the top of Lando’s head.

“You called?” she murmurs.

Lando looks up at her like she hung the moon. “Hello, gorgeous.”

Max turns back around, still grinning. “Everyone thinks baby Norris is on the way.”

Y/N snorts. “We can’t even agree on getting a pet, and you guys think we’re having a child?”

Chat loses it. Lando’s smile widens as he reaches up and laces his fingers through hers.

“So that’s a no?” Max deadpans.

“That’s a hell no,” she says, laughing. “Not until he agrees to get a dog”

“Here we go again,” Lando groans, burying his face in her hand.

“I was just on my period, guys. Calm your T’s,” Y/N says casually, walking further into frame like she didn’t just drop a bomb on the chat.

Max chokes on his drink. “Okay then—!”

Lando just shrugs, grinning. “You wanted answers.”

Without missing a beat, Y/N walks over to the corner of the room and returns with a small basket cradled in her arms.

“Anyway,” she continues, unfazed by the hysteria in the comments, “look at the care package Lando got me.”

She plops down next to him and starts pulling items out like she’s hosting an unboxing video: a ridiculous amount of chocolates, sour gummies, a box of painkillers, a face mask, heating patches, and even a tiny plush dinosaur.

“For emotional support,” Lando adds, pointing at the dinosaur. "Tell everyone what you named him, baby"

“His name's Dino Ricciardo” Y/N says, nudging Lando with her shoulder. “He was just being a doting boyfriend, is all.”

Chat absolutely explodes — messages flooding “I’m crying real tears, this is PEAK boyfriend behavior”“CAN WE CLONE HIM?”“Dino Ricciardo world champ 2025”“Why am I single 😭”

Lando’s just grinning like an idiot while Max shakes his head. “Yeah, alright, you win. Everyone else can go home.”

------------------------------------------------------------

Cat gate

Lando and Max were lounging side by side in his gaming room, mid-break between rounds of Counter-Strike, when Lando’s phone lit up on the desk.

“Ooh, look who’s calling, chat,” he grinned, picking it up and flashing the screen toward the camera, a photo of Y/N, cheeks squished against his in a selfie. The chat instantly flooded with heart emojis.

“Probably misses me already,” he added smugly, answering with a teasing, “Hello, baby.”

“Yuck,” Max groaned beside him, visibly cringing as he read the chat explode with reactions to Lando’s soft tone. “Hate it here.”

“Hey, so, um… don’t be mad,” Y/N’s voice came through, the slightest bit hesitant.

Lando’s brows furrowed slightly. “That’s never a good start. What’s wrong, my love? You still out with Lily and Alex?”

“Yeah! We had such a good time—we played a little golf, got some lunch…” she said casually, but there was background noise now: distant music, a bit of wind, someone talking.

Lando glanced at Max, curious. “Sounds fun. You on your way back?”

“Almost home, yes. But okay, listen… there’s just this tiny thing.”

“Wait—" Lando cut in, scandalized. "You played golf without me? I’m actually offended.”

“Lan…”

“Traitor,” Max muttered, shaking his head at her through the mic. “She always says no when we ask.”

“Because Lily actually knows what she’s doing!” Y/N snapped back playfully, then sighed. “Anyway, that’s not the point—”

“You told him about the cat yet?” another voice chimed faintly in the background—Alex Albon, unmistakably.

Lando’s expression froze. “Cat? Did Alex just say cat? What cat?!”

Y/N laughed nervously, “Okay...you know what? We’ll talk about it later. We’re almost home. Ten minutes. Love you, bye!”

“Wait—we?” Lando sat up straighter, suddenly suspicious. “Baby, who’s we? Hello??”

The call had already ended.

Max burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re in trouble.”

Lando stared at the screen like it betrayed him. “What cat? Who is we?! Did she mean her and the cat?!”

Not long later, a soft knock echoed through the room.

Lando glanced at the door just as it creaked open, revealing Y/N’s head peeking in, her eyes wide with mischief and a grin tugging at her lips.

Max immediately leaned forward, laughing. “Oh, she’s definitely up to something. That’s the face of someone who’s just done something incredibly stupid… or incredibly amazing.”

Lando turned in his chair to face her, smiling despite himself. “Come in, baby. The stream’s on.”

She stepped fully into the room, and in her arms, curled up like a sleepy little angel, was a kitten. A tiny, soft-furred ball of fluff, blinking slowly and completely unfazed by the chaos around it.

“Before you say anything,” Y/N started quickly.

“Oh my god,” Max said, whipping his head toward Lando, his eyes wide with glee.

Lando just stared. “Baby… you didn’t.”

“We can’t. We’re barely even home,” he added, voice soft but edged with disbelief.

“I know,” she rushed out, walking toward him and gently placing the kitten in his lap. “Technically, she’s still Alex’s. One of their cats had a litter and I said we could foster one for a bit.”

Lando let out a breath as the kitten instantly curled into him, purring like a tiny engine. His hand instinctively began to stroke the soft fur.

“How am I even meant to carry a cat?” he muttered, spinning his chair a little to show the stream.

“Mate… what do you mean? You’re literally holding it,” Max deadpanned, watching in disbelief.

“So?” Y/N asked, bouncing slightly on her toes. “Can we keep her—for now? Alex said if you say no, that’s totally fine. We’ve got three months to decide.”

Lando looked up at her, caught somewhere between overwhelmed and completely smitten. “But I thought you wanted a dog?”

“I do!” she said, nodding eagerly. “But now they can be friends.”

Lando turned to Max for backup, but Max just shrugged. “Leave me out of this one, mate.”

Lando’s eyes flicked back to Y/N, a grin breaking across his face despite the chaos. He looked down at the kitten, now snoozing peacefully in his lap.

“What are we naming her?”

White Horse - Chapter 21: June 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent. Apparently I am once again messing up my chapter numbering on Tumblr. 21 is correct according to AO3 and Wattpad though. No, you didn't miss anything, I promise.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1GossipQueen: DID CHARLES JUST REALIZE MID-INTERVIEW THAT HE FORGOT HIS OWN SISTER’S BIRTHDAY??? HELP LMAO

@/monacosfinest: "Wait… we forgot." Nah, Charles, YOU forgot. The whole damn family forgot. How do you ALL forget???

@/f1tea:The way Charles’ whole face DROPPED when he put the dates together… This is cinema.

@/isabellesimpgc: This man just short-circuited ON CAMERA realizing he forgot his little sister’s birthday. I would be in hiding.

@/horsegirlupdates: ISABELLE WAS AT THE MONACO GP. SHE CELEBRATED WITH THEM. SHE SAID NOTHING. SHE JUST LET THEM ALL FORGET. I’M SICK.

@/f1trolls:Charles: "Do you have my phone? I need to fix this." Bro, there is no fixing this.

@/girlinthepaddock: The fact that Isabelle hasn’t posted ANYTHING since Monaco…

@/charlesleclercfans:Charles, buddy, you’re not getting out of this one 💀

@/f1chaos:Charles really went from “living his childhood dream” to “realizing he was the worst brother in real-time” in under five seconds. Iconic.

@/monacoprincess:The way he literally STOPPED TALKING, STARED INTO THE VOID, and then went, "Wait… we forgot." BRO. YOU FORGOT. YOU.

@/paddockgirlies:Isabelle spent her whole life supporting her brothers and they couldn’t even remember her birthday??? She didn’t even TELL them they forgot, she just let them be happy while she suffered in silence. I’M SICK.

@/girlwhocriessports: Okay but imagine being Charles and realizing ON LIVE TV that you forgot your sister’s birthday while the entire world watches. This is worse than any DNF he’s ever had.

@/ferrariwoes: Charles, in Monaco: "This is the best day of my life!"Charles, two weeks later in Canada: "Oh my god, I forgot my sister’s birthday."

@/isabellesimp: She just kept quiet and let them all forget. She didn’t even correct them. She probably just went home alone and cried. Do you understand how HEARTBREAKING that is????

@/paddockinsider: Ferrari’s biggest strategy blunder this year wasn’t even on the track—it was the entire Leclerc family forgetting Isabelle’s birthday.

@/F1TeaSpiller: Not Charles Leclerc realizing DURING AN INTERVIEW that he forgot his own sister’s birthday… and then Arthur and Lorenzo probably finding out THROUGH HIM. This family is actually unbelievable.

🔗 Clip attached

@/GridGossip:So let me get this straight:

Isabelle was in Monaco the entire weekend.

She celebrated Charles’ win with him.

She didn’t say a word about her own birthday.

And not a single one of her brothers remembered.

They really just treat her like she doesn’t exist, huh?

@/TifosiDrama:Not a single post. Not a single mention. She was right there, and they STILL forgot. I don’t blame her for ignoring them now.

@/OversteerObsessed: So you’re telling me Isabelle’s birthday was on the same day as Charles winning Monaco for the first time ever, and they were so caught up in the win that they just… forgot about her?? I’m actually speechless.

@/FormulaShady: The Leclerc brothers are about to have the worst sibling PR disaster in F1 history. Isabelle is LITERALLY the forgotten Leclerc.

@/WheelyFastWAGs: Isabelle spent years supporting her brothers—showing up to races whenever she could, celebrating their successes—and they can’t even remember her BIRTHDAY?!

@/TyreDegAndDrama: No, but let’s really sit with this: she was literally there. Not far away. Not off somewhere else. She was in Monaco, with them, and not one person thought, “Oh hey, it’s Isabelle’s birthday.”

@/OvercutOverload: Charles’ brain loading like an old Windows XP computer when the journalist asked about winning on his sister’s birthday.

@/Lap1Carnage: I need you all to understand how humiliating this is. You are a public figure. You win Monaco. A journalist gives you the perfect setup to say something nice about your sister. And instead, you find out ON LIVE TV that you forgot her birthday.

@/TifosiTears: I would like to formally apologize to Isabelle for ever associating her with the rest of them. She deserved better.

@/ChaosMode: The fact that fans remembered her birthday but her own brothers didn’t… Yeah, I’d be ignoring them too.

@/PaddockClownery: Imagine your family finally realizing they forgot your birthday WEEKS LATER because a journalist had to remind them. The bar is in hell.

@/F1BurnerAccount: The way he didn’t even tried to play it off like “Oh yeah, we celebrated privately” or something. Just full, raw realization on live TV.

@/F1Shambles: The fact that Isabelle has been radio silent on social media ever since Charles’ Monaco win is crazy. Not a single like, comment, or post. Just pure, calculated silence.

@/F1Shambles: The worst part? She did congratulate Charles. She literally posted on her story, “So proud of you, Charles!” right after the race, and then? Poof. She disappeared.

@/TifosiTears: No, because the fact that Isabelle still took the time to post a congrats for Charles, even after they forgot her birthday, and then just vanished is so much worse.

@/Lap1Carnage: So you’re telling me she remembered her brother’s biggest moment, but not a single one of them remembered her birthday? Yeah, no, that’s insane.

@/PaddockDrama: She posted for Charles, probably waited the whole day for someone to remember, and then dipped. That’s actually heartbreaking.

@/FrontWingDamage: Okay, but like… does anyone know if she had people around her that day? Like, friends? A boyfriend? Someone who did remember?

@/TyreDegAndDrama: I need to believe that someone in her life actually gave her the love she deserved that day, because if she spent it completely alone while celebrating Charles?? I will LOSE IT.

@/LightsOutDrama: It’s actually insane that her whole family was busy celebrating Charles, and not one of them was like, “Oh wait, isn’t today also Isabelle’s birthday?”

@/PaddockGossip: At this point, I’m praying she has some secret friend group or a boyfriend who treated her like a queen that day, because her family really did nothing.

@/ChaosMode: We need a national investigation into Isabelle Leclerc’s inner circle. I refuse to believe that nobody took care of her that day.

@/WDCworthy: What if she’s actually in a happy, secret relationship and her boyfriend was the only one who celebrated her? Imagine the plot twist.

@/PaddockMess: I swear if she had to spend her birthday alone, while her whole family was out celebrating Charles, I’m gonna start swinging.

@/OvercutOverload: The fact that she stayed silent instead of calling them out makes it so much worse. She didn’t even fight them on it. She just… left.

@/TyreWhisperer: This whole thing is giving “quietly heartbroken but won’t let it show” energy, and I hate it here.

@/PaddockBanter: Honestly, I don’t even need her to forgive them. I just want her to be happy with people who actually appreciate her.

@/LightsOutSlander: Praying she has a secret billionaire boyfriend who flies her around on private jets and showers her in designer gifts, because her family clearly isn’t doing their job.

@/PaddockRoyalty: This woman is literally giving “soft-spoken princess energy.” I need her to have a rich, older boyfriend who treats her like absolute royalty.

@/IsabelleLeclercFanclub: Forget the Leclerc brothers. We’re officially in our Protect Isabelle at All Costs era.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Charles: I just realised. I just—I can’t believe I forgot. Your birthday. Monaco. You were there. And we didn’t say a word. I didn’t say a word.

Charles:You smiled at me. You waved. And I didn’t even remember it was your day. I’m so, so sorry.

Charles: Please call me. Please. I need to talk to you.

Charles: I didn’t mean to forget. I swear. I didn’t— God, Isabelle. Please just pick up.

[Incoming Call: Charles Leclerc → Belle Verstappen] Status: No answer. Call forwarded to voicemail.

Charles (Voicemail): Isabelle, it’s me. Please pick up. I know I don’t deserve that right now but I… I need to hear your voice. I need to know you’re okay. We messed up. I messed up. I forgot the one day I shouldn’t have. And I didn’t even notice. I don’t know how I let that happen. I love you. Please… just call me back. Please.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Max Verstappen 

Emilie: He finally realized. Charles. The birthday. Belle. It hit him. Live. On camera. Mid-interview. It was honestly Oscar-worthy.

Max: wait what

Max: CHARLES REALISED??

Emilie:  Karun Chandhok brought it up during the post-race interview and you could see the panic download into his brain in real time. I watched it happen. It was magnificent.

Max:Since when are you watching press conferences?? You once told me F1 was “cars doing ring-around-the-rosy with ego problems.”

Emilie: I still stand by that! But I had a feeling someone was going to slip. And I was right.

Max: Belle hasn’t texted me yet. 

Emilie: Same. I tried calling. Went straight to voicemail. I’m going over. She might not answer the door but I’m staying the night either way.

Max: Thank you. Really

Emilie: She’s my best friend. You think I’d leave her to spiral alone while the entire Leclerc clan is just now realizing they’ve been garbage?

Max: I’m so pissed, Emilie. They made her feel invisible. And now they’re shocked she walked away?

Emilie: They don’t get to play the concerned family card after a year of not seeing her. After missing her birthday.

Max: She was right there. In the garage. She waved at Charles.

Emilie: And he smiled right through her. I’ve never wanted to throw an expensive shoe at someone more.

Max: you should’ve I would’ve paid the fine

Emilie: Consider it noted for next time.

Max: Let me know when you’re with her Tell her I love her Tell her I am coming straight home. 

Emilie: I’ll tell her.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Pascale)

Charles: guys GUYS we forgot Belle’s birthday

Charles: we forgot her birthday it was TWO WEEKS AGO she was IN THE GARAGE IN MONACO

Arthur: wait what …wait WHAT

Pascale: Charles, what are you talking about? We didn’t— … Oh mon dieu.

Charles: she didn’t say anything she just stood there and none of us said a word

Arthur: okay wait has anyone spoken to her since then?

Charles: I texted her about Canada no reply

Pascale: She hasn’t answered me either.

Arthur: I haven’t heard from her since I asked if she was coming to the factory visit. That was like… the week after Monaco?

Charles: she hasn’t answered ANY of us?? FOR TWO WEEKS??

Lorenzo: I just caught up. I’m going to her apartment. Right now.

Charles: please tell her I’m sorry tell her I didn’t mean to forget I didn’t—

Arthur: we all did, Charles don’t make it sound like it’s just you

Pascale: This isn’t about blame. It’s about fixing it.

Lorenzo: I’ll message when I get there. Don’t blow up her phone. Let me check she’s okay.

Charles: okay thank you

Arthur: tell her we love her please

Lorenzo: I’ll handle it. Let me talk to her. Just… give her space. Don’t crowd her all at once.

Charles: Okay. Please let us know when you get there.

***

Call & Message Log – Belle Verstappen’s Phone

(Missed Calls and Messages – All timestamps in Monaco Time)

Incoming Calls:

Charles Leclerc (19:02) – Missed Call → Voicemail Left

Arthur Leclerc (19:15) – Missed Call

Emilie Abadie (19:20) - Missed Call

Pascale Leclerc (19:27) – Missed Call

Arthur Leclerc (19:39) – Missed Call

Pascale Leclerc (20:01) – Missed Call → No voicemail

Arthur Leclerc: 19:17

Belle, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise either. I don’t even know how we missed it. Please text me back. I’m freaking out a little.

19:22

Are you okay? Please just say something. Anything.

20:03

I’m so sorry. We were idiots.

Pascale Leclerc: 19:25

Ma chérie… I didn’t realise. I thought I messaged you, but I sent it to Charles by mistake. That’s not an excuse. You deserved more. Always. Please let me come see you. I miss you.

20:12

We didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to forget. I love you, mon ange.

***

The sun had dipped low behind the Monaco rooftops, casting the living room in honeyed gold. The windows were cracked open, letting in the hum of the sea and the occasional passing scooter. The only sound inside the apartment was the faint, rhythmic purr of cats.

Belle was asleep on the couch, curled sideways with a throw blanket tangled around her legs. One of Max’s hoodies was pulled over her tank top, far too big on her and smelling faintly of motor oil and cedarwood. Sassy was curled on her feet, Lilly sprawled along her hip like a guard, and Jimmy had claimed the pillow beside her head, face pressed dramatically into her hair like he paid rent.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She’d only meant to rest her eyes.

But the last few days had caught up with her: the tension, the silence, the weight of being both forgotten and known too well.

The buzz of the apartment buzzer stirred her cats but not her. Only when Emilie let herself in—quietly, using the key Belle had given her months ago—did Sassy finally stretch and jump down, tail flicking as if to say you’re late.

Emilie padded through the flat on socked feet, arms full of a canvas tote bag stuffed with snacks, a fuzzy blanket she’d stolen from Belle’s apartment once and never returned, and a bottle of overpriced juice she insisted helped with “emotional hydration.”

She spotted Belle still asleep, cats half-glued to her like warm, fuzzy armor, and her heart cracked open.

Of course Belle had fallen asleep like this. Of course she hadn’t answered her phone.

Emilie set the tote on the coffee table and sank to her knees beside the couch, brushing a strand of hair from Belle’s face.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Sleeping Beauty.”

Belle blinked slowly. Her voice, when it came, was husky and quiet.

“Mm. What time is it?”

“Almost eight.” Emilie smiled gently. “You missed Max’s win.”

Belle sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes as Lilly gave a sleepy grumble and re-settled herself in her lap.

“He won?”

Emilie nodded. “Dominated. It was very on-brand. I texted him back for you. Said congrats and that you were passed out under a pile of cats.”

Belle huffed a breath of a laugh. “Thanks.”

“He asked if you were okay.”

“I’m…” Belle paused. “Better, now.”

Emilie hesitated, then sat down beside her fully, the cushions dipping slightly. “Charles realised.”

Belle’s body stilled.

“During the post-race interview. Karun Chandhok mentioned Monaco. Said something about your birthday being the same day as his win. And you could see it—click. Like his brain got punched in the face.” Emilie’s voice was flat. “He didn’t realise, Belle. Not until someone reminded him you exist.”

Belle exhaled slowly, hands curled in the fabric of the hoodie. “And now he’s spiraling?”

“Of course. Called you. Texted you. Voicemails. I think Arthur’s panicking too. Pascale’s probably mid-emotional breakdown.”

Belle looked over, finally meeting her best friend’s eyes. “You’re watching press conferences now?”

Emilie shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Lando made a joke on Twitch last week that press media days are ‘elite chaos.’ I got curious. Stayed for the spectacle. Didn’t expect it to turn into a soap opera starring your brother.”

Belle blinked. Then grinned—softly, genuinely—for the first time in days. “You’re watching F1 now because of Lando Norris?”

Emilie lifted her chin. “It’s not serious. It’s anthropological.”

Belle laughed, the sound cracking slightly at the edges, but real.

“I’m also staying here tonight,” Emilie added, pulling a blanket from the tote and draping it over them both. “Because I love you. And because Max will kill me if I leave you alone.”

Belle rested her head against Emilie’s shoulder, voice small. “You don’t have to fix it.”

“I’m not here to fix it,” Emilie murmured. “I’m here so you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

Belle closed her eyes again.

The texts from Charles buzzed softly on the coffee table. She didn’t reach for them. She didn’t need to.

Not tonight.

She had Emilie. She had Max. She had a stuffed lion upstairs and cats who loved her without question. And when she was ready—on her terms—she would decide if the rest of them deserved her again.

But for now?

She ignored the buzzing.

And let herself be held.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Oscar: He figured it out. CHARLES FINALLY FIGURED IT OUT.

Lando: WAIT WHAT SOMEONE PLEASE CONFIRM

Daniel: Karun said it was Belle’s birthday during the Monaco win and you could see Charles’ soul leave his body in real time. It was glorious

Carlos: He needed the right trigger (also I am still mad)

Lewis:  He was fully smiling at first Then hit the mental brick wall of oh no

George Russell: The smile-drop was cinematic. Might’ve been the most emotional acting we’ve seen all season.

Alex: Does anyone have the clip? For science?

Nico H.: I have it bookmarked.

Sebastian: He really didn’t realise until that exact moment? Not even a whisper before?

Zhou: I still can’t believe it took someone else saying her name for him to remember she has a birthday.

Logan: No, no, let’s all take a moment: He had an entire win In Monaco In front of his family And forgot his sister’s birthday

Oscar: SHE WAVED AT HIM.

Carlos: IN THE GARAGE IN FERRARI RED

Fernando: Imagine forgetting a sister who treats you like that.

Lance: My jaw is still on the floor. He spiraled like he was trapped in a washing machine

David: Live PR disaster. I actually winced.

Sergio Pérez: Dios mío. Max is going to be furious

Nico R.: Max doesn’t need to say a word. His existence is already revenge enough

George: Speaking of Max: Has anyone checked if he’s okay?

Oscar:  He’s not. But he’ll be home soon. 

Valtteri: This chat is giving Drive to Survive a run for its money

Lando: IMAGINE BEING BELLE Standing there. Birthday. Monaco. Forgotten. AND secretly married to Max Verstappen???

Daniel: Plot twist: she should dropped the wedding photos on Charles’ birthday Just for symmetry

Carlos: Don’t give me ideas I will do it

Oscar: He didn’t remember Until someone else reminded him she existed.

George: True.

Lewis Hamilton: Justice for Belle.

Daniel Ricciardo: Justice. And snacks. And ten thousand cats. She deserves it all.

Fernando: And peace. Away from that chaos.

Kimi: Took him long enough. 

***

Lorenzo stood at the foot of Isabelle’s old apartment building, staring up at the cream-colored stone façade like it might blink back at him. The shutters were open on the third floor—her floor—but nothing inside looked familiar. No string lights. No potted herbs on the windowsill. No pale curtains drifting in the breeze the way they used to when she’d leave the balcony door cracked open for the sea air.

He buzzed the door anyway.

Once. Then again.

No response.

The hallway was quieter than he remembered. Less lived-in. The echoes of memory were louder than the footsteps on the stairs as he climbed, more out of muscle memory than belief. He reached her old door and knocked.

No answer.

He stood there, unsure of what to do. His hands itched to call someone—Charles, Pascale, anyone—but that wouldn’t fix this. Not yet.

Then the door across the hall creaked open.

“Looking for Isabelle?” a warm, vaguely amused voice asked.

Lorenzo turned. An older woman stood in the doorway, wearing a robe and holding a mug of tea. Madame Fortier. He remembered her vaguely—Belle used to bring her pastries sometimes when she baked too much.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly unsure of his voice. “Is she home?”

The woman smiled, kind but surprised.

“Darling, she moved out almost a year ago.”

Lorenzo froze.

“What?”

Madame Fortier nodded. “Lovely girl. Packed everything very neatly. She left a plant on my windowsill as a thank-you.”

A beat passed. Lorenzo’s pulse ticked strangely in his throat.

“Where did she go?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

The woman sipped her tea, then tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Oh, she moved in with her boyfriend,” Madame Fortier said, smiling warmly. “Lovely man. Very polite. Treated her well, from what I saw. Always held the door. Picked her up in that fancy little car. She seemed happy.”

Lorenzo’s stomach dropped.

Moved in with her boyfriend.

 A year ago.

And none of them knew.

“Right,” he said, the word catching slightly in his throat. “Thank you.”

He walked back down the hallway slowly, like his legs were moving through water.

Outside again, the sunlight felt harsher than it had minutes ago.

Belle had always been the quiet one. The background Leclerc. Never the loudest voice at the table, never the one asking for attention. But she'd been the glue. The calm. The one who remembered birthdays. Who showed up at Arthur’s karting meets with water bottles and quiet encouragement. 

Who texted Lorenzo before his exams just to say you’ve got this.

And she hadn’t told them.

Not about the move.

Not about the boyfriend.

Not about… any of it.

It wasn’t just out of character. It was completely, utterly un-Belle.

She didn’t let people she loved run into walls like this. She didn’t let them go blind into guilt and panic. Unless—

Unless she’d stopped expecting them to see her at all.

Lorenzo felt that thought like a punch to the chest.

Had they really made her feel that invisible?

And someone else—some quiet, polite boyfriend in a fancy car—had known her better than any of them did.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Pascale)

Lorenzo: Update. She doesn’t live at her old apartment anymore.

Arthur: what?

Pascale: What do you mean she doesn’t live there anymore??

Charles: Lorenzo please tell me that’s not what it sounds like

Lorenzo: Her neighbor says she moved out. Almost a year ago. Moved in with her boyfriend.

Arthur: SHE HAS A WHAT

Charles: SHE HAS A BOYFRIEND??

Pascale: Since when?! She never said anything! She never brought anyone to dinner—did you meet him??

Lorenzo: No. None of us did, clearly.

Arthur: what if he’s the reason she’s not answering what if something happened

Charles: don’t say that don’t even think that she’s just mad at us right?

Arthur:  no but— think about it she hasn’t answered in two weeks. she didn’t say a word about moving. not a single thing about this guy. what if she’s not okay?

Pascale: She would’ve told us. She always told us if she was scared. Or uncomfortable.

Lorenzo: Not if she doesn’t trust us anymore. Not if she thinks we stopped listening.

Charles: no. no. no no no. I saw her in the garage. She smiled. She waved.

Arthur: people smile when they’re drowning, Charles

Pascale: I’m calling her again. Right now.

Charles: Already did. Straight to voicemail. I’ve texted. I’ve DMed. Nothing.

Arthur: what if something happened

Lorenzo: We don’t know that. Don’t spiral. But we do need to find her.

Charles: I can ask someone at Ferrari. Maybe they know where she’s been.

Pascale: No. No more waiting for her to come to us. We go to her.

Arthur: but we don’t know where she is

Charles: She has a boyfriend we didn’t even know about She moved out a year ago She’s not answering She’s not talking to any of us

Lorenzo: Then we find someone who has seen her recently.

Charles: Who? Because it’s clearly not us.

***

Charles sat by the window, motionless. The clouds blurred past beneath them, soft and ghostlike, but he didn’t see any of it. His phone rested in his hand, screen black, battery threatening to die with a solemn 9% glaring up at him. He hadn’t put it down since they’d left the tarmac.

No new messages. No calls. No Belle.

He’d left voicemail after voicemail. Texts that felt like fragments of apology and panic, all swallowed into silence.

Across the aisle, Nicolas Todt had his laptop open and his phone pressed to his ear, murmuring in rapid-fire French. Every few minutes, he would pause, pinch the bridge of his nose, and mutter something like “catastrophe” or “this is a PR disaster.”

Which, to be fair, it was.

“No, non, it wasn’t intentional,” Nicolas said sharply into the phone. “Yes, we’re working on a statement. No, she hasn’t responded.” 

Belle’s name had been trending since the post-race interview. Not because she’d done anything. But because Charles had forgotten her. On her birthday. In Monaco. While she stood right there in the garage, smiling like she didn’t want to be seen and knowing no one had remembered.

Charles swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

Across the cabin, Arthur sat slumped beside Alexandra. His arms were crossed tightly, mouth drawn into a hard line. He hadn’t said much since boarding. But his silence didn’t feel defensive. It felt heavy. Like guilt.

Alexandra was the only one not pretending to be calm.

“You forgot her birthday,” she said. Again. Quietly, but without softening the blow.

“I know,” Charles rasped, eyes fixed on nothing.

“No,” she said sharply, “you don’t. You forgot, Charles. All of you did. She was there. In the garage. And no one even looked at her properly.”

Arthur flinched beside her, but didn’t respond.

From the aisle, Joris Trouche—normally calm, endlessly competent, the kind of man who could manage a logistics meltdown without raising his voice—was pacing with thinly veiled fury. He’d tried sitting down twice. Failed both times.

And now, he stopped in front of them, tone clipped. Controlled. But barely.

“I’ve known Isabelle since she was thirteen,” Joris said, staring them down. “She sent me homemade cinnamon cookies when I was stuck in the hospital with a stress fracture. She used to ask how my mum was doing.”

He turned to Charles. “And you—she waved at you in Monaco. On her birthday. And you smiled like she was anyone.”

Charles opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Joris’s voice wavered—angry, but undercut by something else. Something personal.

“I’m angry at you,” he said quietly. “But I’m angry at myself too. I should’ve remembered.”

In the front cabin, Joris was pacing. He’d been quiet since takeoff, but now his temper was burning through the thin layer of professionalism that usually cloaked him like armor.

“I should’ve remembered,” Joris said suddenly, sharply. “I should have reminded you. I always remind you. And I—I forgot too.”

Arthur stirred. “We didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Joris snapped his gaze toward him. “You don’t have to mean it. You did it anyway. You only noticed her absence when it became public embarrassment. That’s not love, that’s damage control.”

Nicolas finally ended his call and shut the laptop with a soft but definitive click. “If anyone has a prayer of salvaging this, it’s not through spin,” he said. “It’s through action. Apologies. Honesty. Real words. Not just statements.”

Charles didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because Belle hadn’t responded to a single one of his messages. She hadn’t returned his call. She hadn’t even opened them.

And she always used to answer. Even when she was mad. Even when he didn’t deserve it.

He stared out at the clouds, jaw clenched, fists curled against his thighs.

He’d won in Monaco.

And lost the only sister he’d ever had.

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda

Charles:Where is my sister? Does anyone know where Isabelle is???

Charles: I’ve called. I’ve texted. She’s not answering. She’s not at her apartment. Her neighbor says she MOVED OUT A YEAR AGO. She’s GONE and I don’t know where she is!!!

George: Charles. Deep breath.

Carlos: She’s safe.

Charles: YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS???

Carlos: Yes. She’s not missing. She’s just not talking to you.

Charles: And YOU KNEW THAT??  You ALL knew she moved out and didn’t say anything???

Carlos: You forgot her birthday, Charles. You don’t get to have an opinion. 

Charles: You KNEW?! You KNEW and you didn’t tell me?? You remembered her birthday and let me humiliate myself in front of the world?!

Carlos: She told me not to say anything because she didn’t want pity cupcakes. Her words.  She asked for one thing. I respected that.

Charles: SHE’S MY SISTER.

Carlos: Then maybe you should have treated her like that.  

Oscar: Charles. Stop.

Charles: No, Oscar, he LET me forget!

Oscar: No. You forgot. YOU. He just respected her boundaries. She didn’t want a spotlight apology. She wanted to be seen before she disappeared. And none of you did.

Oscar: Belle asked Carlos not to tell you. Because she knew you’d make it about yourself.

Charles: Excuse me??

Oscar: YOU forgot her birthday. You smiled right through her in Monaco. You didn’t notice she moved out. You didn’t notice she disappeared. And now you’re mad at Carlos for respecting her boundaries?

Charles: I have a right to be upset!

Oscar: Belle has a right to protect herself. You’re upset because you’re losing control. She’s not missing, Charles. She’s finally choosing herself. And you can’t stand that it wasn’t you who got to decide when or how.

Lando: ...wow

Daniel: Oscar just cleared the entire grid.

George: No survivors.

Charles: Wait. Wait—how do you ALL know where she is?

Charles: Wait. WHAT ARE YOU NOT TELLING ME

Pierre: wait why does this chat feel like everyone’s in on something except me

Lando: She’s fine. She’s not alone. She’s safe. That’s all that matters.

Charles: HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT??

Oscar: Because she’s home.

Charles: What does that mean??

George: ...not our story to tell

Carlos: Exactly.

Yuki: What is happening. I feel like I skipped an episode.

Lando: Welcome to Drive to Survive: Emotional Damage Edition.

Oscar: Charles, stop texting. Start listening.

Charles: I need to fix it.

Carlos: Then don’t make this about you.

Lewis: And maybe… for once… Try earning your sister’s forgiveness instead of assuming you’re entitled to it.

Daniel: All I’m gonna say is… maybe next time don’t wait until post-race interviews to remember the people standing in your corner.

Lewis: And maybe sit with this one for a while before demanding answers.  Sometimes silence is the only language people have left.

Charles: … I just want to fix it.

Oscar: Then stop trying to own her pain. And start listening.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon and Lance Stroll)

Oscar: I might’ve gone too hard. But also I really don’t think I did.

Lewis: Nope. You didn’t. You said what needed to be said.

Carlos: I’ve been biting my tongue for two weeks. Thank you for saying it out loud.

George: You cleared him so thoroughly I think I need to book you for emotional landscaping.

Lando: You had him pacing like a dad who just realized he missed Parent-Teacher Night. It was glorious.

Daniel: Honestly? That was better than Spa 2021. You lapped him emotionally.

Alex: Did you see Pierre and Yuki’s confusion??  They looked like they opened Netflix halfway through season 3.

Oscar: They’re still trying to figure out why we all suddenly act like Max Verstappen is Belle’s guard dog husband.

Zhou: Wait. Should we add Pierre and Yuki to this chat? Like a prep class before the meltdown?

Logan: Absolutely not. They’ll trigger Charles into another “WHERE IS MY SISTER??” monologue and I’m emotionally out of snacks.

Esteban: Pierre would tell Charles. 

Mark: Back to the point—Oscar, you did good. He needed the mirror held up. Guilt isn’t the same as accountability.

David: And accountability isn’t the same as entitlement. He forgot that. You reminded him.

Sebastian: You all know what gets me? She didn’t even leave angry. She left quietly. And that says more than shouting ever could.

Carlos: That’s what kills me. She still doesn’t want us to fight over her. She just wanted to be seen.

Lewis: And now she finally is. By the one person who actually looked before it was too late.

George: Max is probably already privately planning to change his will and tattoo her name on his chest. 

Lando: He's in full "mine" mode. He’ll probably growl at anybody that comes close to her for the remainder of the week. 

Daniel Ricciardo: Wait until Charles finds out. About the wedding. About the “Mr. and Mrs. Verstappen” monogrammed towels.

Oscar: He doesn’t deserve to even have a fucking opinion about it. And he doesn’t get to drag Belle through more of his guilt spiral.

Lewis: And if he does?

Oscar: Then we remind him. She’s not invisible anymore. And she never has to be again.

Sebastian: Long live Belle Verstappen. She deserves peace.

Carlos: And we’re making damn sure she keeps it.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: I just saw the clip.  Charles finally realized, didn’t he?

Victoria: I want to throw my phone through a wall. How did it take a live interview for it to click??

Victoria: Is Belle okay? Please tell me she’s okay. Tell me you’re with her.

Max: I’m flying back tonight. Emilie’s with her now. She’s safe. Quiet. But… not okay. Not yet.

Victoria:  Of course she’s not. She was standing there in the garage and smiled at him, and he didn’t remember. I don’t know how she held it together.

Max: Because that’s what she’s always done. Hold it in. Make it easier for everyone else.

Victoria: Not anymore. She doesn’t owe them that. She never did. And if Charles tries to guilt her into “moving on,” I swear to God.

Max: He won’t get the chance.

Victoria: Good. And when you get home—hold her tight, okay?

Max: Always. I’ve got her, Vic. She’s not alone anymore.

Victoria: She better not be. Because if any of them make her feel small again, I will drive to Monaco and handle it myself.

Max: You’ll have to get in line behind me.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Jos: Just saw the clip. The post-race interview.

Max: He only realized because Karun mentioned it. Didn’t even remember on his own.

Jos: I want to drive to Maranello and punch something.

Jos: You tell me—right now—is she okay?

Max: Emilie’s with her. She says Belle’s sleeping. Quiet. She hasn’t messaged me yet. But I’m heading home. 

Jos: Good. Don’t leave her alone with that silence. She’ll pretend she’s fine. She’ll say it doesn’t matter. But this? This hurt her. You can see it in the way she vanished.

Jos: Belle doesn’t demand space. She disappears when she feels like no one wants her in the room.

Max: I know. She doesn’t have to say it for me to hear it.

Jos: I’m proud of her. She stood up for herself the only way she knew how. By walking away.

Jos: But I swear to God, if that brother of hers ever makes her feel like that again— I don’t care if he’s a Leclerc. I will make sure he never forgets who she is again.

Max: You’ll have to beat me to it. I’m not letting them near her until she says she’s ready. If she ever is.

Jos: That’s my boy. You take care of her. And tell her this family—the one she chose—has her back. Always.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie: I just watched the interview.

Sophie: Max… he forgot her birthday. She was standing in the garage. She smiled at him. And he didn’t even blink. Like she was nobody.

Max: He remembered live on camera. Karun said something about Monaco and her birthday, and it hit him mid-answer. You could see it crash into him.

Sophie: God,  I hope it crushes him.

Sophie: How is Belle? Have you spoken to her?

Max: Emilie’s with her. She says she’s safe. Sleeping. Quiet.

Sophie: She’s always quiet when she’s hurting. Always. You remember that, Max. The softer she gets, the harder she’s holding herself together.

Max: I know. That’s why I’m coming home.

Sophie: Good. She needs you. Not the Max who wins races. You.  The one who holds her hand when she’s anxious. The one who brings her tulips on Thursdays because she mentioned liking them once.

Sophie: Because the people who were supposed to protect her? They failed her.

Max: I’ll never let her feel like that again.

Sophie: I know you won’t. Because you see her. And that’s the most anyone can give someone who’s spent their whole life being overlooked.

Sophie: You tell her I’m coming by next week. No pressure. Just lunch. And she can sit on the balcony and not say a word if that’s all she wants. I’ll just be there.

Max: She’ll love that. She loves you.

Sophie: I love her. And if her family can’t act like it, she’s more than welcome in ours.

***

Max sat in his seat, elbow propped against the armrest, forehead resting against his knuckles as the private jet hummed through the night. The win from earlier that day already felt like a lifetime ago. He hadn’t celebrated. Not really. He’d shaken hands, answered the questions, smiled on the podium because it was muscle memory now.

But the second the press conference ended, the weight had dropped onto his chest.

Charles had realized. Finally.

Live. On camera. Because someone else—Karun, of all people—had mentioned Belle’s birthday.

It had taken that long. Two weeks.

Max had replayed the press clip on his phone once—watched Charles’ face shift in slow motion from charm to dawning horror. Watched him falter, then spiral. And Max hadn’t felt a drop of pity.

Because Belle had stood in that garage. She’d smiled. She’d waved. And her own brother had looked through her.

Across the aisle, Lando was sprawled in his seat with a blanket half-pulled over his face, earbuds in, legs stretched into Oscar’s personal space. Oscar had given up fighting it and was half-asleep against the window. Daniel was flipping through something on his iPad, likely pretending not to watch Max out of the corner of his eye.

The silence was comfortable. Familiar. But Max’s mind was anything but.

Daniel had commandeered the seat across Max and was watching the proceedings like a therapist in a sitcom.

Finally, Lando broke the silence.

“Sooo…” he said slowly, cautiously, “how’s Belle?”

Max didn’t even look up. “Emilie’s with her. She said she’s okay. Belle was sleeping. Under the cats. Emilie said she looked peaceful.”

Lando hesitated. “Right. So… you know… she’s safe?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re still brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” Max muttered.

Daniel leaned over the seat, grinning. “Oh, you are. Brooding with intensity. I haven’t seen this level of moody since Lando ran out of oat milk last week.”

“Hey,” Lando protested, “that was a crisis. And also—can we talk about how terrifying Emilie is?”

Daniel burst out laughing. “So your crush is confirmed.”

Lando went pink. “I do not have a crush.”

Oscar stretched, deadpan: “You stalked her on instagram and accidentally liked a post from 2019.”

“That was admiration! That’s different.”

Max finally glanced over, managing a small smirk despite the pressure in his chest. “You are a brave man,” he told Lando sagely, who glared at him. 

Lando groaned, pulling his hoodie over his head. “Why did I say that out loud?”

Daniel looked way too delighted. “Because you’re into emotionally terrifying women with sharp cheekbones and moral clarity. Honestly? Taste.”

Oscar nodded solemnly. “Elite taste.”

“I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Oscar yawned.

Max’s smile faded again as he looked back at his phone. The moment passed, quiet settling again like dust.

Lando, quieter now, asked, “Do you think Belle’s okay?”

Max didn’t answer right away. He was thinking of her curled on the couch. Of Emilie sitting beside her. Of their cats acting like tiny sentinels. He thought of the unopened texts, the unreturned calls.

“I think,” he said eventually, “she’s tired. Of being forgotten. Of being an afterthought. Of being quiet and still never heard.”

The other three fell silent. Even Daniel looked serious now.

Max looked down at the screen. Still nothing.

“But she’s not alone,” he added. “Not this time.”

Oscar nodded. “You’ll be home soon.”

Max’s voice was soft but certain. “Yeah. And when I get there, I’m staying. No more paddock games. No more silence. She doesn’t have to carry any of it alone anymore.”

Lando peeked out from his hoodie. “You’re like… scarily romantic for someone who once said feelings were ‘a distraction’.”

Max huffed a laugh. “Turns out she’s the only distraction I want.”

Daniel wiped an imaginary tear. “Beautiful. Print that on a mug.”

Oscar: “Tattoo it on your neck.”

Lando: “Put it on team merch. Limited edition.”

Max smiled faintly, then leaned back, still clutching his phone.

Let them joke.

Because the second they landed, he was going home. To her.

And this time, he wasn’t letting anyone—not a team, not a calendar, not even her family—make her feel invisible again.

***

Text Messages:  Alexandra Saint-Mleux & Belle Verstappen

Alexandra: Hey, Isabelle. I know it’s late. I just… I wanted to say I’m thinking about you.

Alexandra: Charles realized during the post-race interview. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so gutted. I wish it hadn’t taken that for him to see what he missed.

Alexandra: I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I’m sure a lot of people already have. But you didn’t deserve to be forgotten. You never have. And I’m sorry.

***

Text Messages:  Alexandra Saint-Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Alexandra: Hey. Just a heads-up before it hits you through someone else: We forgot Belle’s birthday.

Charlotte: …what?

Alexandra: All of us. Her entire family.

Charlotte: No. No way. It was during Monaco, wasn’t it?

Alexandra: Yes. She was in the garage, Char. Waved at Charles. Smiled at all of us. And not one of us remembered.

Charlotte: Oh my god.

Alexandra: Charles realized during a post-race interview today. The interviewer mentioned her birthday and I watched it hit him like a truck.

Charlotte: Is Isabelle okay?

Alexandra: She hasn’t answered anyone. Not even Pascale.

Charlotte: That’s not “okay.” That’s Isabelle shutting the world out.

Alexandra: Exactly. And the worst part? She didn’t say anything. She let us all forget. She didn’t expect us to remember.

Charlotte: Because we’ve done it before. Not like this. But still. God.

Alexandra: I texted her. No reply. She might answer you if you try. You’ve always been gentle with her.

Charlotte: I will. Thank you for telling me. And for not pretending it’s less awful than it is.

Alexandra: She deserves more than silence and spin. She always has.

Charlotte: I’ll try to reach her tomorrow. Even if she doesn’t answer… she’ll know someone tried.

Alexandra: That’s all we can do now. Try. And mean it.

***

The apartment was quiet when Max stepped inside.

Soft light filtered in through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the hardwood. The cats didn’t rush to greet him—they were already curled up in their usual spots, half-asleep and full of judgment. Sassy lifted her head briefly from the back of the couch, flicked her tail in acknowledgment, and went right back to sleep.

Max dropped his duffel gently by the door, kicked off his shoes without a sound, and padded into the hallway. Every step closer to the bedroom felt heavier. Not with dread. But with something deeper. Something like relief tied up in knots of worry.

He pushed the door open quietly.

There she was.

Belle, curled on his side of the bed, her frame barely a ripple beneath the duvet. One of his old shirts hung off her shoulder, too big and soft and completely hers now. Her hair was a mess, her breathing slow and steady.

He’d spent days missing her. And now, seeing her like this—peaceful, untouched by the storm her family had just realized they created—he nearly broke.

Max crossed the room slowly, sliding into bed behind her without a word. His hand found her waist beneath the blanket, fingers curling gently. His nose tucked into her shoulder, lips brushing against the skin just below her ear.

She stirred.

“Mm?” she murmured sleepily, voice raspy and warm. “Max?”

“Hey,” he whispered. “I’m home.”

Belle rolled toward him without hesitation, arms winding around his middle, burying her face in his chest like she hadn’t seen him in months. He held her tighter. One hand cradling the back of her head, the other tracing slow, soothing lines down her spine.

“Did Emilie let you in?” she mumbled.

“No. She left me a note that said ‘fridge is stocked, don’t screw it up.’” He paused. “Also, she stole my last protein bar.”

Belle huffed a sleepy breath of laughter. Then: “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Max said softly. “I’ve missed you.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were puffy, tired—but clearer than he expected. The ache he saw in them was quieter now. Calmer. He reached up, brushing his thumb gently beneath one eye.

“They all texted,” she said.

He nodded. “I know.”

“And called. Voicemails. Messages. Even Alexandra, I think.” Her voice was neutral, but her fingers had curled into his shirt. “I shut off my phone. I just… I can’t deal with them right now.”

“You don’t have to.”

She exhaled slowly. “They forgot, Max. Not just my birthday. Me. And now they’re panicking, but not because they miss me. Because they feel guilty. It’s not the same.”

Max didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let it settle between them, warm and safe and honest.

“They’ll say sorry,” he said eventually. “But that doesn’t mean you have to forgive them all at once. Or at all. That’s your call.”

Belle swallowed. “I just… I don’t know if I want to let them back in. Not after this. Not when it took two weeks and an interview for them to notice.”

Max leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Then don’t. You don’t owe them anything.”

She closed her eyes, breathing him in. His presence. His steadiness. The way he never told her what she should feel—just made space for what she did.

“You always see me,” she whispered.

“Always,” Max said. “Every day. Every version of you. Even the one who hides under a blanket and ghosts her whole bloodline.”

Belle laughed, watery and real. “I love you.”

Max smiled, burying his face in her hair. “I love you more.”

They stayed there, wrapped in warmth and honesty and quiet defiance.

Her family could wait. The texts could sit unread. The apologies could pile up.

Right now, she had Max. And that was enough.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Max Fewtrell: BRO. You saw it, right??  Charles fully crashed his soul mid-interview??

Lando: Unfortunately, yes. It was like watching someone remember they left the oven on... and also their sister.

Max Fewtrell: Iconic. Karun was like “her birthday, right?”  And Charles just downloaded a full panic attack.

Max Fewtrell: I screamed. Like—out loud. In public.

Lando Norris: It was kind of beautiful tbh. Like watching karma arrive with a mic and a production crew.

Max Fewtrell: Is his sister okay though? Do we know? Does she have a burner Twitter? I feel like she would.

Lando Norris:  She’s fine. Emilie’s with her.

Max Fewtrell: Who’s Emilie?

Lando Norris: ... She's Belle’s best friend.  Sharp. Dangerous. Possibly psychic. Says terrifyingly accurate things about my emotional state and then walks away in heels

Lando: She’s terrifying. Also brilliant.  And she’s like…scarily beautiful. 

Max Fewtrell: You have a crush on her, don’t you.

Lando: …I didn’t say that.

Max Fewtrell: YOU ABSOLUTELY DO OH MY GOD YOU DO This is the best gossip of the day and Charles had a meltdown on live TV

Lando: Shut up Also can we go back to Charles??

Max Fewtrell: No Because now I want to know why you know where Belle is And how you know Emilie’s with her And why you’re being so weirdly calm

Lando: …because I went to the wedding?

Max Fewtrell: THE WHAT

Lando: ...

Max Fewtrell: LAN THE WEDDING

Lando: Yeah. Belle and Max Verstappen. They got married. I was invited. Very small. City Hall. No media. Emilie picked the flowers

Max Fewtrell: MAX. VERSTAPPEN?!

Lando: Yes

Max Fewtrell:  YOU MEAN TO TELL ME CHARLES IS HAVING A BREAKDOWN ABOUT FORGETTING HIS SISTER’S BIRTHDAY AND DOESN’T EVEN KNOW SHE’S MARRIED TO HIS RIVAL???

Lando: Correct

Max Fewtrell: I need to lie down. And then I need popcorn And possibly therapy But also more of this

Lando: Same. Group chat is chaos Do not ask to be added It’s war in there

Max Fewtrell: This is better than Drive to Survive You’ve been sitting on this gossip for HOW LONG?

Lando: Long enough to know I value my life And Max Verstappen would kill me if I leaked it before they were ready

Max Fewtrell: Fair

Lando: You think Charles is spiraling now… Wait until he finds out Max is family now

Max Fewtrell: My god. This is better than Netflix.

***

Lorenzo had barely slept.

After learning Isabelle hadn’t lived in her old apartment for nearly a year, he’d paced half the night in his kitchen, replaying every memory, every text, every moment he should have noticed and didn’t. His phone was full of unanswered group chat pings and hollow apologies. 

By morning, he couldn’t sit still anymore.

He needed answers.

So he went to the one place he knew she would be at 8 am on a Monday morning. 

Her job. 

Atelier Renard Architects.  

Clean glass facade, minimalist signage, nestled on the edge of the marina like it had always been there. Isabelle used to say she loved that building more than half her portfolio—it knows exactly what it is and makes no apologies for it.

The receptionist didn’t recognize him at first. He introduced himself politely—Lorenzo Leclerc, Isabelle’s brother—and tried not to notice the pause.

Then the woman gave a hesitant smile. “Oh… Isabelle. Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“I just wanted to stop by,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “She’s not answering her phone. I thought maybe she was working, or—”

“Oh.” The woman’s expression faltered. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”

Lorenzo blinked. “What?”

“She… quit. Months ago. November, I think? Maybe early December. It was quiet. No big announcement. She just cleared out her office in one evening.”

Lorenzo’s stomach dropped. “Did she say why?”

The receptionist grimaced. “There were some internal issues. She seemed calm. Almost… relieved.”

Lorenzo stepped back slightly, reeling.

Quit.

She’d quit the one job she had fought tooth and nail for. The one thing she always lit up talking about.

And no one in her family had noticed.

Not one of them.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said gently. “I assumed you knew.”

Lorenzo nodded stiffly. “No, thank you. You’ve been kind.”

He left quickly. Didn’t wait for anything more.

Outside, he leaned against the edge of a planter and braced both hands on the cool stone, breath catching.

Isabelle hadn’t just moved.

She hadn’t just gone quiet.

 She’d walked away from everything they thought they knew about her.

And no one—not a single one of them—had been close enough to notice it happening.

She’d untethered herself from them all.

And now?

 Now they had no idea where she stood.

 If she was hurt. If she was gone.

For the first time in years, panic didn’t just flicker in Lorenzo’s chest—it bloomed, wide and wild.

He pulled out his phone. Called her again. Straight to voicemail.

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Emilie Abadie

Alexandra: Hey Emilie. I just wanted to check in. Do you know how Isabelle is doing?

Emilie: She’s resting. She’s emotionally exhausted. And no, she’s not answering anyone right now.

Alexandra: I figured. I wasn’t going to ask you to make her talk, I just… Wanted to make sure she’s okay. Truly.

Emilie: You all want to make sure she’s “okay” now. Where was that energy six months ago? Or a year ago? Or on her birthday?

Alexandra: I know. You’re right. We failed her. I’m not pretending we didn’t. I’m just trying not to make the same mistake twice.

Emilie: Then don’t turn this into your redemption arc. Belle is not your apology vessel. She doesn’t owe anyone grace she hasn’t given herself yet.

Alexandra: …Okay. That’s fair. I’m not trying to earn points. Just… trying.

Emilie: Trying is good. But don’t expect updates or access. She gets to choose who gets that now. And when.

Alexandra: Of course. Is she alone?

Emilie: No. Her boyfriend’s with her. He’s been looking after her. And he likes taking care of her.

***

Max blinked his eyes open just as Belle shifted in his arms and pushed herself up slightly, hair tousled and sweater slipping off one shoulder. Her eyes were tired, but calmer now. Clearer.

“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep.

“Hi,” he murmured back, brushing her hair behind her ear. “How are you feeling?”

She hesitated. “Better. Now that you’re here.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Belle sat up a little more, folding her legs under her. Max followed, still close, watching her carefully.

There was something in the way she looked at him now. Like she was on the edge of a cliff, heart in her throat, trying to trust the air would catch her.

“I have to tell you something,” she said softly, her fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve.

Max stilled. “Okay.”

“I was going to wait,” she said. “I didn’t want to do it over the phone, or in the middle of all the… noise. But you’re here now, and I don’t want to keep it from you.”

“Belle,” he said gently, “you can tell me anything.”

“I have something for you.”

Max blinked. “Is this a surprise-I- am-mad-at-you gift or a I-love-you-so-here’s-something-cute gift?”

Belle rolled her eyes, but her lips curved slightly. “The second one.”

“Good,” he said. “I was going to guess that anyway.”

She opened the drawer of her bedside table and pulled something out of it, only to placed it gently in his lap.

A lion plush.

Max looked down at it, brows drawing together. It was small, soft, slightly chubby around the middle with a fuzzy, mane and button eyes. Not something he’d seen before.

He ran a hand over its head slowly, confused but already fond of it. “Where did this come from?”

“I bought it the day after you left for Canada,” Belle said quietly. “I was shopping for a gift for Victoria’s baby, and I saw him. And I couldn’t put him back.”

Max looked at her, then back at the lion, frowning slightly in thought. “For Victoria’s baby?”

She shook her head. Her voice was soft, but steady. Belle’s eyes met his.

“For ours.”

The words hit him like a gear shift in slow motion. He blinked, heart thudding, mouth parting, but no sound coming out. He looked at her, really looked at her—at the hoodie draped over her shoulders, at the hand resting on her stomach without thinking, at the way her eyes shimmered but didn’t waver.

“You’re—” His voice cracked. “You’re pregnant?”

Belle nodded. “Twelve weeks, now. I thought it was the anemia at first. I went in for a check-up and they… they did an ultrasound.”

Max’s hand found hers without hesitation, fingers lacing tightly. “And everything’s okay?”

She nodded again, breath catching this time. “There was a heartbeat. A strong one. I saw it.”

He stared at her in awe, overwhelmed, his brain scrambling to keep up while his heart surged forward.

The plush lion sat between them on the bed, quiet and steady.

Max looked down at it, then back at her. “You’re serious?”

Belle’s voice cracked then, just a little. “I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I wanted it to be here. With you. Home.”

And Max—Max didn’t even realize he was crying until she touched his cheek, brushing the tears away with the gentlest smile.

“You’re having our baby,” he said, the words tumbling out of him like something sacred.

Belle’s breath caught.

And then Max let out a shaky laugh—half in disbelief, half in awe. “You’re having our baby.”

She bit her lip. “Is that… okay?”

“Belle,” he said, looking at her like she’d just given him the universe, “it’s perfect.”

He looked down, then up at her again.

“Twelve weeks?” he said. “So that means…”

“December,” Belle murmured. “Right before the new season.”

His grin was slow, bright, and stunned. “A Verstappen off-season baby. We’re so on-brand.”

Belle laughed, soft and teary.

Max reached past her, picked up the lion, and pressed it to her stomach with gentle reverence.

“Hey, little one,” he said quietly. “I can’t wait to meet you.”

***

White Horse - Chapter 19: June 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Pascale)

Pascale: Arthur, darling, don’t forget to pack your jacket for Montreal. It’s still chilly in the evenings.

Charles: It’s Canada, not the North Pole.

Arthur: I HAVE a jacket. You think I’m five?

Pascale: You never pack socks. I am allowed to worry.

Charles: Speaking of packing, who stole my hoodie?

Arthur: You left it at my place. 

Charles: Anyone want to do dinner after the race weekend? I think I’m staying a few extra days.

Arthur: Yes! Let’s do something simple. Pizza night?

Lorenzo: I’m in.

Arthur: I’m not paying.

Charles: No one asked you to.

Pascale: Isabelle, do you still have that panna cotta recipe from Mémé?

***

If her family noticed she was avoiding them, Belle didn’t care.

She wasn’t answering texts. She wasn’t returning calls. She wasn’t engaging in their attempts to “check in.” Because checking in should’ve meant something before they forgot her birthday. Before she had to celebrate Charles’ win while pretending that it didn’t sting that not a single one of them had thought of her.

So she ignored them.

Instead, she focused on work, throwing herself into her projects with meticulous precision. Deadlines were met early, site visits were scheduled without hesitation, and her inbox was clear before lunch. 

And when she wasn’t working, she was at the stables.

Her horse—her horse—was the one thing she allowed herself to fully indulge in. She spent hours at the barn, grooming Fleur, talking to her like she could understand every word. In some ways, Belle thought he did. Fleur huffed at her when she was tense, nudged at her pockets when she forgot treats, stood steady beneath her hands when she just needed a moment to breathe.

She could feel the foal kick against her hands when she brushed her, nudging her like he or she was already telling Belle, Hey, I am here!. 

The quiet routine of it soothed her. Mornings spent at the barn, afternoons dedicated to architecture plans, evenings curled up with Max.

Belle had always been the one to reach out first. The one who swallowed her pride, who made the first move, who convinced herself that things didn’t hurt as much as they did. She had spent years pretending that being forgotten, being an afterthought, didn’t matter.

She wasn’t pretending anymore.

Max was watching her, concern evident in the way he leaned against the counter, arms crossed but not in frustration—just waiting. Because he knew she wasn’t okay. And Belle hated that she couldn’t just brush it off, hated that the words I’m fine stuck in her throat like splinters.

So she said nothing.

“Belle.” His voice was gentle, coaxing. “You can’t avoid them forever.”

She let out a humorless laugh, setting her bag down with more force than necessary. “I’ve spent my whole life being easy to ignore. Why should it be any different now?”

Max frowned. “That’s not—”

“They forgot my birthday, Max.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, sharp and raw. “All of them. My brothers. My mother. They were so busy celebrating Charles that not a single one of them thought about me. Not for a second.”

He stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“I was standing right there,” she continued, voice shaking. “Smiling, hugging them, celebrating with them—and not one of them realized.”

Max’s jaw tensed. He had realized. He had held her that night, had felt the way she trembled when the weight of it all became too much.

“I kept thinking—this is it. This is the moment one of them is going to remember. But they never did.” She swallowed, shaking her head. “And now they’re texting me like nothing happened, like I’m just supposed to let it go because that’s what I always do.”

Max stepped closer, reaching for her hand. “You don’t have to let it go.”

Her fingers curled around his, gripping tight. “I don’t know how to talk to them without feeling like I’m screaming into a void.”

He squeezed her hand, grounding her. “Then don’t talk to them. Not until you’re ready. Not until you want to.”

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Charlotte: Okay. We never actually solved the Isabelle dating mystery.

Alexandra: Because it’s unsolvable. She’s a vault. I think even Charles doesn’t know.

Charlotte: Especially Charles doesn’t know. That man wouldn’t notice if she got married in front of him unless she handed him the bouquet and told him to hold it.

Alexandra: He’d probably ask why she was dressed up and where the catering came from.

Charlotte: Anyway. New tactic. We include everyone. Even the cursed options.

Alexandra: This is going to end in slander.

Charlotte: And that’s why we’re friends.

Charlotte: Charles – her brother. Illegal. Next.

Alexandra: Carlos – Has a girlfriend. Also I feel like he treats her like he treats his baby sister. 

Charlotte: Lando – is single. But is also too loud and too twitchy…

Alexandra: Put him on the list of possibilities regardless. 

Alexandra: Oscar – too sweet. He’d ask for permission to hold her hand. Also has a girlfriend. And Belle and Lily are friends. That would go against every girlcode. 

Charlotte: George – Carmen would kill her. 

Alexandra: Lewis – strong contender. They’re both calm. They like dogs. She could thrive in that quiet glam lifestyle.

Charlotte: And he has major “treat her like a queen in private, say nothing in public” energy. She’d eat that UP.

Charlotte: Okay. Now. Are you ready?

Alexandra: Oh no.

Charlotte: Fernando.

Alexandra: CHARLOTTE.

Charlotte: Think about it. Dominant. Mysterious. Daddy issues magnet. She likes men who speak softly but could ruin you.

Alexandra: And he would call her “bella” and offer her an espresso without saying a word. That’s dangerous.

Charlotte: She’d pretend to be annoyed by the attention and then buy a silk robe for his apartment.

Charlotte: I’m just saying. He has retired situationship energy. She’d never admit it, but she'd love it.

Alexandra: Lance Stroll -No.

Charlotte: Why not?

Alexandra: She’d get whiplash from how inconsistent his energy is. One day he’s moody spa dad, the next day he’s a TikTok e-boy in tactical fleece.

Charlotte: She’d spend half her life trying to figure out if he’s okay and the other half hiding his outfits.

Alexandra: Agreed. Logan Sargeant…Honestly I don’t think she ever even talked three words with him? 

Charlotte: Can’t see it either.  Alex Albon - also has a girlfriend. Isabelle doesn’t poach. She’s got morals.

Charlotte: Max Verstappen- …I mean it’s Max Verstappen. Power couple. Silent and intense. They’d communicate via eyebrow raises and telepathy.

Alexandra: Too risky. She would never do that. Also, Charles would die. Like actually. His soul would leave his body. And doesn’t he also have a girlfriend?

Charlotte: But isn’t Isabelle weirdly close with his sister?!

Alexandra: I think that’s only because they understand how it feels to have a brother in F1, right?

Charlotte: Sergio Pérez - too married. 

Charlotte: Daniel Ricciardo -  Too loud. Too chaotic. Too… Daniel.

Alexandra:  Agreed. 

Alexandra: Yuki Tsunoda– she’s too introverted for that kind of chaos. She’d cry trying to keep up with his snack schedule.

Alexandra: Zhou Guanyu – also a real option. They’re both elegant, soft-spoken, and I’ve seen her actually laugh at something he said. A real laugh.

Charlotte: That’s practically a proposal in Isabelle language.

Alexandra: And he’s calm enough not to flinch when she’s in her “I will disappear to the mountains with a book” era.

Charlotte: I want this one to be real. I could live with Zhou as my unofficial brother-in-law.

Charlotte: Valtteri Bottas -  He has a mullet and a calendar of his own butt. It’s not happening.

Charlotte: Nico Hülkenberg – too tall, too German. Married. 

Charlotte: Kevin Magnussen– Also married. 

Alexandra: Pierre Gasly – Charles would actually kill him. And Kika would fight Belle for even trying to flirt with him. 

Charlotte: Esteban – Also has a girlfriend, no way. 

Alexandra: Okay. Final contenders:

Zhou

Lewis

Lando

Fernando “surprise daddy issues” Alonso

Charlotte: Do you think she’d go that rogue?

Alexandra: Honestly? Apparently she once dated a sculptor in university who thought emotions were “bourgeois illusions,” so… yes.

Charlotte: God, she would be Alonso’s beautiful mystery woman.

Alexandra: She’d show up to a race weekend in his Aston Martin hoodie and say it was a gift from a friend and never elaborate.

Charlotte: And Charles would just go, “I didn’t know you liked green.”

***

“I got married.”

Simone blinked once. “That’s a strong opener.”

Belle smiled faintly. “Surprise.”

Simone leaned forward just a little, resting her notebook on her lap. “Want to walk me through that one?”

Belle exhaled, tilting her head back against the cushion. The ceiling fan turned lazily above them. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

“It wasn’t planned,” she said. “Well, not by me. I mean, Max proposed. And we’d talked about getting married, eventually. But then after everything with my birthday and the race and… all of it, I just didn’t want to wait anymore.”

Simone nodded, quiet and listening.

Belle picked at the label on the water bottle. “So we got married at city hall. The next day. Just our closest people. No announcement. No drama. No press. Just… us.”

“And how did that feel?” Simone asked gently.

“Like peace,” Belle said. “Like a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I didn’t feel invisible. Not for one second.”

Simone smiled softly. “That sounds like something worth holding onto.”

“It was,” Belle said. Then, after a pause, “It is.”

She sat in the quiet for a while, her gaze drifting to the window. A breeze moved the curtain like an exhale.

“But it came right after…” She hesitated. “They forgot my birthday. All of them. Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo. Maman. I was in the garage all day, and not one person remembered.”

Simone’s expression didn’t change, but Belle could feel her listening more intently.

“I didn’t want to be upset about it. It was Charles’ race—his first win in Monaco. I didn’t want to make it about me. But I stood there, in Ferrari red, and I felt like I didn’t exist.”

Her voice stayed even, but there was a rawness beneath it. “Carlos remembered. He asked me if he should tell them. I said no. Because if you have to remind people you exist, what’s the point?”

Simone waited a beat before responding. “That’s a very old wound, Belle.”

Belle looked down. “Yeah.”

“And how do you feel about marrying Max right after that?”

Belle gave a soft huff of breath. “Grateful. He reminded me I mattered. That I was seen. And it wasn’t because I asked for it. He just… knew.”

Simone nodded, watching her closely.

Belle was quiet for a beat. Then she blinked, shook her head a little, and murmured, “Sorry. I feel weird. Lightheaded.”

Simone straightened slightly. “How long have you felt like that?”

“I don’t know.” Belle pressed the water bottle to her cheek. “Since yesterday? Maybe the day before. Just a little dizzy. I figured it was stress or adrenaline. But it’s not going away.”

Simone raised a brow. “Are you eating? Sleeping?”

Belle nodded. “Yeah. Not perfectly, but enough. I had an iron deficiency a few years ago. Anemia. Maybe it’s that again.”

“I think it would be a good idea to get it checked,” Simone said gently. “Sooner rather than later.”

Belle nodded slowly. “I will. I promise.”

Simone smiled. “Good. You don’t need to power through everything, Belle. Not alone.”

Belle looked down at her hands.

“I’m not alone anymore,” she said softly. “That’s the part I forget.”

And for once, saying it out loud didn’t feel like tempting fate.

It felt like the truth.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, and Kimi Räikkönen)

Carlos: it’s been A WEEK ONE. WHOLE. WEEK.

George: You’re kidding.

George: I thought for sure someone would realise by now??

Oscar: They haven’t. Max said she hasn’t heard a single thing from any of them.

Daniel: I’m starting to believe they genuinely think Belle sprang fully formed into existence.

Lando: like Athena but in heels and with perfect emotional regulation

Carlos: I’m losing my mind. HIS OWN SISTER??? he FORGOT??

Alex: That’s actually unbelievable. I’m offended on her behalf.

Daniel: What do you MEAN the entire Leclerc family has just… ghosted her birthday like it never happened???

Carlos: No text. No call. No retroactive Instagram story with a cupcake emoji. NOTHING.

Sebastian: I can feel my blood pressure rising.

Nico R.: I am this close to sending Pascale an anonymous calendar.

Sebastian: Have they ever remembered without her prompting?

Oscar: Nope. Historically, Isabelle Leclerc was the family reminder system.

George: So now that she’s gone radio silent…

Lando: They’re just drifting through life like brainless goldfish.

David: The woman literally held that family together with calendar invites and emotionally intelligent sighs.

Fernando: They have lost their lighthouse. They are adrift in darkness.

Nico R.: Honestly, it’s kind of poetic.

Carlos: no. it’s INFURIATING. i saw her that day. she was STANDING THERE. in the garage. in red. 

Carlos: And she told me not to say anything. Said she “didn’t want a pity cupcake.” I think about that sentence every night before I sleep. 😠

Daniel: My blood pressure rises every time I remember this.

Oscar: She’s being so graceful about it and I hate that for her.

Sebastian: She deserves better. I hope Max gives her the world.

Lando: He gave her a horse and a wedding. He did okay.

Lewis: I think we need a plan. A coordinated operation.

Oscar: Operation: Make Charles Realise He’s a Disaster?

Alex: That might take longer than we have.

George: Can we start a countdown clock?

Alex: How long do we wait before Charles realises?

George: End of the season. Final race. Then we riot.

Fernando: Or we leave clues like a scavenger hunt. See how long it takes him to get to: “YOU FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY.”

Lewis: And when they finally do remember?

Oscar: Too late. She already married the only man who actually treats her like she matters.

Carlos: damn right she did.

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had been through a lot with Max Verstappen—championship battles, rain-soaked qualifying sessions, angry radio rants, and more tire compound debates than he cared to remember—but nothing could’ve prepared him for this.

The meeting was already running five minutes behind schedule, which—by Red Bull standards—meant it was practically a full-blown rebellion. Christian was flipping through his notes with a sense of purpose usually reserved for press briefings and budget cap discussions. Helmut was sipping black coffee like it owed him money. Checo was leaning back in his chair; and poor Gemma from PR was already clutching her notepad like it was a life raft.

GP sat with his tablet open, notes prepped. 

Max was… Max. Legs kicked out under the table, hoodie on, the faintest hint of smugness clinging to him like tire rubber after a street race.

They made it through power unit updates and marketing commitments before Christian asked, “Anything else we should know before we head to Canada?”

Max sipped his coffee. “Yeah, actually. I got married.”

Silence.

Utter, complete, stunned silence.

Gemma dropped her pen. Christian choked on his coffee. Checo looked like he’d just been told the sky was blue—zero reaction. Helmut blinked so slowly GP briefly considered calling a medic.

GP didn’t flinch.

Because, of course, he already knew.

Christian blinked. “You… what?”

Max nodded. “Married. Last week.”

“To whom?” Christian asked slowly, voice rising like a man realizing he’s stepped into a minefield.

“Isabelle Leclerc,” Max added, like he was announcing a new cat.

Gemma made a noise that GP could only describe as deeply managerial despair.

The room exploded.

“CHARLES’ SISTER?!” Christian yelped, almost standing.

Helmut Marko didn’t speak. He just turned his head, very slowly, and stared at Max like he was an alien.“You’re telling me… you married Charles Leclerc’s sister?”

Max nodded like they were discussing tire strategy. “Mhm.”

Gemma actually put her head down on the table.

“To clarify,” GP said calmly, “he’s not joking.”

“YOU knew?” Christian turned to him, utterly betrayed.

“I’m his race engineer,” GP replied, deadpan. “He tells me everything. Whether I like it or not. And I was the best man.”

Gemma made a small, distressed noise and began frantically flipping through her calendar. “Do we—do we have photos? An announcement plan? A press strategy?! Oh my God, do they even know in Maranello?”

“No,” Max said calmly. “We haven’t told anyone outside a few people. We like our privacy.”

GP didn’t even flinch.

Checo raised a hand. “I knew.”

Christian whirled. “You also knew and didn’t tell me?”

Checo shrugged. “I like my life. Also Belle looked beautiful in white.”

Helmut still hadn’t blinked. “And Charles?”

Max smiled, utterly unbothered. “He has no idea.”

Christian looked like he was about to combust. “You MARRIED Isabelle Leclerc, and Charles doesn’t know?!”

GP finally looked up. “You should’ve seen the garage in Monaco. She was invisible to them all weekend.”

That shut the room up.

Gemma put her head in her hands.

“Don’t worry,” Max said, far too cheerfully. “We’re going to post something soon. We just wanted it to be ours first.”

Christian sat back down like his soul had left his body.

Helmut finally spoke, voice low. “Just make sure we beat Ferrari in Canada.”

“Obviously,” Max said.

“I’m adding a press briefing to the schedule,” Gemma muttered, already reaching for her iPad. “And a PR damage control plan. And possibly a defibrillator for when Charles finds out.”

“I’ll bring snacks,” Checo offered.

Christian slumped back in his chair. “Next time, just send a memo.”

GP simply took another sip of his coffee and updated his notes:

Action Items:

Tire compounds

Charles may attempt murder – suggest more security in hospitality

Of all the chaos they’d weathered over the years, this might’ve been the most entertaining.

And somehow, exactly what he expected from Max.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: Mum just sent me this video of a duck in a raincoat.

Charles: I love that duck.

Lorenzo: Wait send it here.

Charles: He’s precious. His name is Biscotte.

Lorenzo: I’d die for Biscotte.

Arthur: We should get a duck.

Lorenzo: We cannot get a duck.

Charles: You sound just like Isabelle.

Arthur: Where is she, anyway? Haven’t seen her in like, weeks.

Lorenzo: She’s probably fine. You know how she is. Independent.

Charles: Yeah. Classic Isabelle.

***

The examination room was cool, almost too quiet, and Belle’s fingers twisted together in her lap as the doctor tapped something into the computer.

It had started as a check-up. Just routine. She hadn’t even told Max she was going—he had left for Canada, and she didn’t want him worrying over what she was sure was just her old anemia flaring up again.

The dizziness had crept up slowly—barely-there lightheaded spells, then the bone-deep fatigue, the occasional shortness of breath that made her pause halfway through brushing her hair. All things she’d felt before, years ago, when the iron levels had dropped low enough to make walking up a flight of stairs feel like climbing Everest.

She wasn’t worried about the dizzy spells. Not really.

She chalked them up to everything else: exhaustion, stress, not enough proper meals, the emotional fallout of a birthday that had quietly broken something inside her, and—most likely—a return of her old anemia. That had always been the explanation before.

Until the doctor, a middle-aged woman with a kind voice and gentle hands, glanced at her latest blood test results and hummed quietly to herself.

Belle shifted in her seat. “Is it bad?”

“No, not bad,” the doctor said, clicking through a few more pages. “Your iron is a little low again, but there’s something else. These hormone levels…” She looked up with a smile. “Have you taken a pregnancy test recently?”

Belle blinked. “A what?”

The doctor laughed softly. “I’m guessing that’s a no.”

“I came in because I thought I needed more iron.”

“You might,” the doctor said gently. “But these levels are more consistent with someone in the early second trimester. I’d like to do a quick ultrasound, just to check.”

Belle was still frozen when the nurse came in and helped her onto the examination bed. Still blinking in disbelief when the gel hit her skin. And completely silent when the screen next to her flickered to life with soft static… and then, suddenly, a tiny form.

And a heartbeat.

A heartbeat.

The doctor smiled again, reassuring and calm. “Well,” she said, adjusting the probe slightly, “there’s your explanation.”

Belle stared at the screen. The curve of a head. The flicker of movement. A little person, whole and real and—God—already so much bigger than she would’ve thought.

“You’re measuring right around twelve weeks,” the doctor continued. “Healthy heartbeat. Everything looks very good.”

Belle’s hand drifted hovered just above her own stomach like she was trying to connect the dots between what she was seeing and what her body had kept quiet for nearly three months.

“I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “I had no idea.”

“It happens,” the doctor said, kind. “Especially when the signs are subtle or easily mistaken. You’ve been under a lot of stress?”

Belle let out a hollow laugh. “You could say that.”

“Well,” the doctor said, pulling off the gloves, “Congratulations, Mrs. Verstappen.”

Belle just stared at the screen, the tiniest flicker of a heartbeat echoing through the room like a secret being whispered for the first time.

Twelve weeks.

Twelve weeks of carrying a life she hadn’t even known was there.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So she did neither.

She just pressed a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes.

Twelve weeks.

Her heart was still racing, her brain still catching up—but even through the shock, something bloomed warm and steady in her chest.

A heartbeat. 

A beginning.

A family.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Can you come over tonight?

Emilie: Of course. Do I need wine, sugar, firewood, or to hide a body?

Belle: Just you. Maybe chocolate. But mostly you.

Emilie: 👀 I’m bringing brownies and a hug and zero questions until you’re ready.

Belle: Thank you. I just… yeah. I need you.

Emilie: On my way as soon as I finish work. And I swear I won’t interrogate you (until at least the second brownie).

Belle: Fair.

***

Belle sat on the couch, knees drawn up beneath her, a soft throw blanket pooled in her lap despite the mild spring air drifting in from the open window. Her fingers twisted the corner of the fabric absently. Across from her, Emilie sat cross-legged, a steaming mug of rooibos tea cradled in both hands, watching her with quiet concern.

Belle didn’t look up.

Didn’t breathe in a different way.

Didn’t preface it with a sigh or a story.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

The words hung in the air, crisp and absolute, like the crack of thunder before the rain.

Emilie blinked. “I—wait. What?”

Belle raised her eyes, slow and steady. “Twelve weeks.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“Twelve weeks?!” Emilie nearly dropped her mug. “Belle! How—?”

“I thought it was anemia again,” Belle said, voice steady, almost clinical in its explanation. “I’ve been tired. Dizzy. It’s happened before. I booked a check-up just to be cautious, and then…” Her breath hitched. “The doctor said it was normal in pregnancy. And then there was… an ultrasound.”

Emilie’s face softened, mouth falling open slightly. “Oh.”

“I saw everything,” Belle whispered. “There was a heartbeat. Just… fluttering away. A baby.” She paused. “My baby. Ours.”

Gently, Emilie placed her mug on the coffee table and reached over, her hand brushing over Belle’s in quiet support.

“Have you told Max?”

Belle shook her head. “He’s in Canada. I couldn’t tell him over the phone. Not this. It’s too… big.”

Emilie nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s not a FaceTime conversation.”

“He’ll be back in a few days,” Belle murmured. “I keep thinking I’ll feel ready by then.”

“And do you?”

“No.” A pause. Then: “Yes. A little.” She smiled faintly. “We talked about it, before. Not in any serious planning way. Just… someday. After everything settled. But we weren’t trying.” Her hand drifted unconsciously to rest over her stomach. “I think part of me always hoped it would happen anyway.”

Emilie’s thumb moved gently over Belle’s hand. “You’ve always wanted this.”

Belle nodded. “And now it’s here. And I don’t know if I’m terrified or just… in awe.”

“You’re both,” Emilie said softly. “And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be.”

“I just needed someone else to know,” Belle admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Before him. Just… someone who could sit with me in this and not panic.”

Emilie’s smile was wobbly, but warm. “I’m doing my very best not to burst into tears or scream into a pillow, so you’re welcome.”

Belle laughed—a soft, wet sound—and wiped at her eyes. “You’re doing great.”

“You’re going to be a great mum, Belle.” Emilie’s voice didn’t waver. “And Max… Max is going to be ridiculous about it. Protective. Soft. Maybe a little panicked. But happy.”

Belle leaned into her, resting her head on Emilie’s shoulder. “I hope so.”

“He loves you,” Emilie said. “He’ll love this, too. It’s you. It’s his. That man would rebuild the planet if you asked.”

Belle closed her eyes and let herself breathe.

She wasn’t alone.

She never had been.

And when Max came home, she’d tell him.

The rest?

They’d figure it out together.

***

Instagram Post: @/f1hq

Comments: 

@/f1girlie: imagine marrying max and not telling the world. 

@/paddocktea: red bull pr team needs a drink and a nap IMMEDIATELY

@/f1lore: sooooo is this the soft launch or the chaos launch??

@/weheartgp: somewhere GP is just sipping his tea like he’s known for months. because he HAS.

***

Nico Hülkenberg was halfway through his second espresso when he spotted Kevin Magnussen exiting the Haas hospitality with his usual determined stride and a very distracted-looking PR intern trailing behind him.

Nico grinned.

“Hey, by the way,” he said cheerfully. “Did you know Max is one of us now?”

Kevin paused, raising an eyebrow. “Us?”

Nico tilted his head innocently. “The married ones. He got hitched.”

Kevin blinked. “Wait—Max Verstappen is married?”

“Yep,” Nico said, popping the “p” with far too much glee. “Secret wedding in Monaco. City hall. Small guest list. Lando dropped the photos like a grenade on the group chat. I’m still emotionally recovering.”

Kevin stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I never kid about matrimony, Kevin.” Nico leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like they were conspiring in a back alley. “It gets better. Wanna guess who he married?”

Kevin gave him a look. “Some model I’ve never heard of?”

Nico beamed. “Charles Leclerc’s little sister.”

Kevin actually stopped walking. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” Nico said. “Apparently she’s been dating Max in total secrecy for over a year. Nobody knew. Not even Charles. Especially not Charles.”

Kevin blinked. “So Charles doesn’t know his colleague is now his brother-in-law?”

“Correct,” Nico said, clearly delighted.

Kevin ran a hand over his face. “Oh my god.”

Nico sipped his espresso. “Welcome to Canada. The drama is international.”

Kevin exhaled. “I need a drink.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Nico said, already walking again. “The next group chat explosion is just hours away. I can feel it.”

And with that, they disappeared into the paddock chaos—two dads, too much gossip, and a rapidly approaching press session neither of them were emotionally prepared for.

***

Press Conference Transcript – Canadian GP

 Participants: Max Verstappen (Red Bull), Lewis Hamilton (Mercedes), Nico Hülkenberg (Haas), Lance Stroll (Aston Martin), Pierre Gasly (Alpine), Oscar Piastri (McLaren) Moderator: Tom Clarkson

Tom Clarkson: Okay, gentlemen. Thank you for being here. Let's get started. First question comes from Emily Zhang at The Race.

Emily: Hi everyone. This question is for Max—there’s been a lot of buzz this week because people spotted you wearing a ring. Are congratulations in order?

(Max looks up calmly, shifts slightly in his seat. Oscar stares straight ahead like he’s seen this movie before. Lewis bites back a smirk. Nico Hülkenberg snorts into his water bottle.)

Max: Uh… yeah. I got married.

(Pause. Lance blinks. Pierre visibly chokes on air.)

Pierre: You what?

Lance: Wait, seriously? Like, married married?

Max: Married married.

Lewis: (grinning) About time someone noticed.

Tom: Okay, wow—so this is breaking news?

Oscar: Not for all of us.

Tom: Right. Okay, so… Max, who’s the lucky person?

(Max raises an eyebrow and doesn’t answer. Lewis covers a laugh with a cough.)

Nico: I mean, should I tell them? I feel like I should tell them.

Pierre: Wait, wait—you knew too?!

Oscar: I was at the wedding.

(Lance audibly gasps.)

Pierre: Oh my God. What is happening.

Max: I just like to keep my private life private. That’s all.

Tom: Okay, okay, I have to ask—do you plan to make a formal announcement?

Max: Eventually. Maybe. Depends how nosey you all get.

Lewis: Don’t look at me. I kept the secret. Like a vault.

Nico: I, on the other hand, told Kevin Magnussen immediately. Because this is cultural.

Tom: …Cultural?

Nico: We, the Married Drivers™, must stick together.

Max: I didn’t realize this came with a club membership.

Nico: There’s a newsletter. You’ll love it.

Pierre: Wait wait wait—who did you even marry??

Max: Next question?

(The whole room erupts into chaos.)

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1teaaccount: MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST SAID "YEAH I GOT MARRIED" IN THE MOST CASUAL WAY POSSIBLE. DURING A PRESS CONFERENCE. OSCAR WAS AT THE WEDDING. PIERRE IS HAVING A LIVE MELTDOWN. I NEED A MINUTE. 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️

@/f1files: Max Verstappen casually breaking the internet mid-press conference and then saying “Next question” like it’s someone else’s problem is the most Verstappen thing I’ve ever seen.

@/chaosinthepits: Lewis Hamilton being smug. Nico Hülkenberg declaring a Married Drivers™ club. Oscar sipping his coffee like this is season 6 of a show he binged in one night. And Max? Max is just sitting there like he didn’t cause a media earthquake. Peak F1.

@/ferns_and_flags: me: trying to work max verstappen: married married also me: clears my schedule to investigate who tf the mystery spouse is

@/leclercsbiceps: pierre gasly's descent into madness upon hearing "i was at the wedding" from oscar deserves an emmy this is theatrical cinema #f1 #canadiangp

@/tifosipanic: Not Lance Stroll gasping like someone just spoiled the end of Titanic 😭😭😭 I love this sport.

@/formulawtf1: max: "I got married." lewis: grinning like a proud older cousin nico: "there’s a newsletter." oscar: "not for all of us." pierre: actively combusting this press conference has more plot twists than Drive to Survive #F1

@/wagsanonymous: me at 3am putting together a suspect board of all women max verstappen has ever spoken to in the past five years 🧵🧵🧵

@/journaldupitlane: MAX VERSTAPPEN IS MARRIED AND WE DON’T KNOW TO WHO F1 TWITTER IS ON FIRE I REPEAT 🔥🔥🔥

@/slowpitstop: “Max: Married married” “Pierre: WHO” “Max: Next question?” AND THEN HE JUST MOVES ON?? sir this is not a soft launch this is a strategic war tactic

@/oscarstanclub: Oscar Piastri has officially become the F1 Gossip Bestie™ he KNEW. he ATTENDED. he’s just sipping tea and watching chaos unfold like a pro

@/beyondthegrid: dear @F1 release the wedding photos. or the drivers' group chat logs. ideally both. sincerely, everyone

@/vettelismyco-pilot:

Lewis Hamilton saying “I kept the secret like a vault” with a grin should be illegal. I’ve never trusted a man more.

@/estebanoconstan: Pierre: “Who did you even marry?” Max: “Next question.” ME: screaming, crying, throwing the entire WDC leaderboard.

@/wheelsequalfeelings:  Okay but what if Mrs. Verstappen is Isabelle Leclerc. Just hear me out.

Private ✅

Gorgeous ✅

Speaks French✅

Likes Horses ✅ Coincidence? I THINK NOT.

@/gridgossipgirl:  Theories so far on who Max Verstappen married:

Isabelle Leclerc

A secret childhood friend who lives off the grid

A Red Bull engineer who’s been hiding in plain sight

That girl he looked at for 0.5 seconds in Austria 2023

Himself, for tax reasons

@/piastrivision: Oscar “I was at the wedding” Piastri refusing to elaborate is the most powerful move I’ve seen this year.

He knows. He’s watching the chaos. He’s THRIVING.

@/gridwivesanonymous: Okay but Max wearing a wedding ring, dropping “I got married,” and then pulling a Next question? is a level of chaos we were not prepared for.

It’s giving: she’s untouchable. 

@/itsyasminmf: My favorite part is Max being so calm. Like, “yeah I’m married.” No further explanation. No photos. No name. No vibe check.

Who is she??

Where did she come from??

Does she know the power she holds??

***

Charles Leclerc had been weirded out since he arrived in Montreal.

It wasn’t anything obvious—no one was throwing punches or shouting across the paddock—but there was a definite chill in the air. People were polite, yes. Just… distant.

Carlos barely nodded at him that morning in the garage. Alex made a joke during the drivers’ briefing, but his eyes hadn’t flicked toward Charles once. Even Lewis had given him a smile that felt more strained than usual.

And Daniel? Daniel Ricciardo, who normally greeted everyone like a long-lost relative, had given him a thumbs-up from a distance and then walked off like he had somewhere better to be.

It made Charles feel like he’d walked into a conversation halfway through and everyone had forgotten to tell him the plot.

“You’ve noticed it too, right?” he asked Pierre later, in the Alpine hospitality.

Pierre looked up from his espresso. “The weird vibes?”

“Yes! Everyone’s being so—so strange.”

Pierre squinted. “Maybe they’re just grumpy. Travel hangover or something.”

“Carlos barely spoke to me,” Charles said. “Carlos. He gave me a nod.”

Pierre raised a brow. “Okay, yeah. That’s definitely weird. Did you say something dumb in a press conference again?”

“I—non! I have no idea. Everyone’s being all secretive. Like I missed a group chat.”

Pierre leaned back in his chair. “You think it’s about you?”

Charles gave him a look.

Pierre nodded. “Okay, fair.”

There was a pause, the sound of engines in the background, mechanics shouting somewhere beyond the fence.

“Oh, also,” Pierre added, like an afterthought, “did you hear Max got married?”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Pierre sipped his coffee. “Yeah. Quietly. No media. I think only a few drivers were invited. No one knows who the girl is, though.”

Charles frowned. “Max? Married?”

“Mhm.”

“And no one knows who to?”

Pierre shrugged. “Some say it’s someone he met through racing. Others think it’s someone from his childhood? I don’t know. It’s weird how no one’s said anything.”

Charles rubbed his temple. “Why is everyone suddenly getting married and giving me the cold shoulder at the same time?”

Pierre grinned. “Maybe it’s karma. Did you forget someone’s birthday or something?”

Charles scoffed. “No!”

***

Esteban Ocon had absolutely no intention of eavesdropping.

In his defense, Charles and Pierre weren’t exactly whispering. They were sitting two tables over in the Alpine hospitality area, sipping espresso like it was a wine tasting, and talking with that animated, slightly too-loud energy that came from a mix of jet lag and general Ferrari drama. Esteban was halfway through a protein bar and minding his own business when Charles’ voice shot up in pitch like he’d just been electrocuted.

“Max? Married?”

Esteban blinked.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to tilt his head slightly, but something in Pierre’s very casual, very smug, “Yeah. Quietly. No media. No one knows who the girl is though,” caught his attention.

Max Verstappen. Married.

And apparently to someone so top-secret that even Pierre Gasly didn’t have a name? That was either the most carefully managed PR move in Formula 1 history—or something else entirely.

Esteban took another bite of his bar and stored the information in the mental folder marked “Paddock Chaos,” which was currently bursting at the seams.

Later, in the Aston Martin hospitality—peaceful, air-conditioned, and full of cucumber water—Esteban leaned toward Lance Stroll and casually said, “So, apparently Max Verstappen got married. I overheard Charles and Pierre talking. Charles looked like he’d swallowed a wasp.”

Lance paused mid-scroll through his phone. “I heard,” he whispered, sounding like he had seen an alien. “Max admitted it in the press conference. No one knows to whom.”

There was a long pause.

Then a voice behind them: “Yes, we do.”

Esteban turned—and immediately felt like he was twelve again and caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Fernando Alonso stood there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised like he’d been waiting his entire career for this moment.

“You do?” Esteban asked, cautiously.

Fernando just nodded. “Max married Isabelle Leclerc.”

The silence was immediate. Lance’s mouth fell open. Esteban blinked like someone had slapped him.

“Isabelle?” Lance said, voice almost cracking. “Charles’ sister Isabelle?”

“Mm,” Fernando said, looking entirely too satisfied. “The quiet one. The one who brings Charles coffee and vanishes into walls.”

Esteban just stared. “Does Charles know?”

Fernando tilted his head. “Do you think we’d be having this conversation if he did?”

“Oh my god,” Lance muttered.

Esteban could feel the chaos building like a weather system. “Wait—so Max married Charles’ sister, and no one told Charles?”

Fernando smirked. “Let’s just say… the Canada GP is going to be memorable.”

And with that, he walked off, leaving Esteban and Lance to sit there in stunned silence as the paddock spun on without them.

Esteban blinked. “I really didn’t mean to eavesdrop this hard today.”

***

Zhou Guanyu had seen a lot in Formula 1.

 Petty rivalries. Heated debriefs. Drivers throwing silent tantrums in hospitality. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the strange, simmering weirdness between Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz on the Thursday of the Canadian Grand Prix.

He’d noticed it in the paddock first.

 Carlos, standing stiff near the Ferrari motorhome, arms crossed, chewing through a conversation with his engineer like it personally offended him. Charles, twenty feet away, pretending to be very absorbed in his phone, except his jaw was tight and his responses to the press were… terse.

Too terse.

 Even for Charles.

Zhou didn’t consider himself nosy. But he was a driver, and therefore professionally attuned to weird vibes.

So when he found himself beside Oscar Piastri and Logan Sargeant near the McLaren espresso bar a few hours later, he didn’t waste time.

“Okay,” Zhou said, keeping his voice low. “What the hell is going on between Charles and Carlos?”

Oscar glanced up from his coffee. Logan nearly choked on his protein bar.

“What?” Oscar asked, too casually.

“They’re being weird,” Zhou said. “Weirder than usual. Did they fight? Did Charles forget Carlos’ birthday? Did someone dent the other’s scooter?”

Oscar sighed and looked over both shoulders. “I shouldn’t say anything.”

Zhou raised an eyebrow. “So you know something.”

Oscar hesitated. “It’s… not public.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Logan added helpfully.

Oscar gave him a look. Then, under his breath, he said:  “Charles forgot Belle’s birthday.”

Zhou blinked. “What?”

Oscar lowered his voice even more. “Like. Fully. Forgot. The whole family did. On race day. In Monaco.”

Zhou stared. “He forgot his sister’s birthday… at his home race?”

Oscar nodded grimly. “She was in the garage. Literally standing there in Ferrari red. And they didn’t say a word. Carlos was the only one who remembered. And he didn’t even say anything until after the race because Belle told him not to.”

Zhou blinked. “Wait—then why’s Carlos mad now?”

Oscar shrugged. “Because it’s been over a week and they still haven’t remembered. Not one of them.”

Logan muttered, “That explains the ice vibes.”

Zhou dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, but… why do you know all of this?”

Oscar coughed into his coffee. “I… may be in a group chat.”

Logan stared. “A group chat?

Zhou’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of group chat?”

“A support group for emotionally traumatized drivers who’ve witnessed Belle’s family be completely unaware that she exists,” Oscar deadpanned. “It’s also basically an emotional early-warning system for when Charles is about to get throttled.”

Zhou stared at them. “You people need hobbies.”

Oscar sipped his coffee. “We have one. It’s watching Max Verstappen become the most unproblematic romantic lead of 2025.”

Zhou blinked. “Wait. Max is dating Belle?”

Oscar grimaced. “No, he married her.”

“Oh no,” Zhou muttered. “Oh, no.”

And just like that, Zhou understood:

 Something deeply unhinged was happening under the surface of the paddock—and he had officially fallen headfirst into the softest, most dramatic subplot of the season.

Logan looked like he’d just been hit by a rogue space hopper. “That’s… that’s insane.”

“Everyone else knows,” Oscar added. “Lewis. Checo. Even Fernando.”

Logan buried his face in his hands. “No wonder Carlos looks like he wants to strangle someone.”

Zhou leaned back, stunned. “So Charles forgot his sister’s birthday and has no idea she’s married to Max Verstappen?”

Oscar sipped his coffee. “Correct.”

“Jesus,” Logan muttered. “This is like… F1: The Soap Opera.”

***

Oliver Bearman wasn’t technically supposed to be paying attention to the drama.

He was here as a reserve. A professional. Focused. Ready.

But also? He was eighteen, observant, and currently watching what felt like a Cold War being waged in broad daylight between two of the most recognizable drivers on the grid.

Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz were not speaking.

Oh, they technically were. There were nods. Professional exchanges. Brief, clipped updates in front of the engineers. But no banter. No inside jokes. No calm debriefs over espresso machines.

It was like someone had taken a blowtorch to their famously chill teammate chemistry and then just… walked away.

Oliver couldn’t stop watching it unfold.

And he also couldn’t stop talking about it. 

Kimi Antonelli was his newest victim, while they were both in hospitality rinking whatever disgusting protein shakes their trainer thought they should down. 

“Hey,” Oliver whispered, “Have you seen this?”

Kimi blinked. “Seen what?”

Oliver gestured subtly. “Them. Carlos and Charles. They haven’t smiled at each other once today. That’s not normal.”

Kimi squinted, as if only now registering the frosty atmosphere. “Maybe Carlos is angry that Lewis took his seat?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “It’s not that. They’d be more dramatic if it was about contracts. This is personal.”

Kimi shrugged. “Maybe Charles forgot Carlos’ birthday?”

“Carlos’s birthday was in September.”

“Maybe it’s delayed rage.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “No. This is fresher. I’ve been watching. This started in Monaco.”

“You studied it?” Kimi said, raising an eyebrow.

“I observed it,” Oliver corrected, because he was a responsible adult and definitely not gossiping like a paddock housewife.

Kimi tilted his head. “Okay, so what’s your theory?”

Oliver took a deep breath, eyes darting toward where Charles was pretending to read a telemetry report while Carlos muttered something to an engineer without so much as glancing in his direction.

“Alright,” Oliver said. “Theory one: Charles borrowed something from Carlos and never gave it back. Like… his espresso machine.”

“Espresso theft is serious,” Kimi acknowledged.

“Right?” Oliver nodded. “Or maybe—maybe Charles spoiled the ending of Drive to Survive before Carlos got to watch it.”

“That’s unforgivable.”

“Exactly. Or—and this is my strongest theory so far—Charles forgot something important.”

“Like what?”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “A birthday. An anniversary. A godchild’s christening. Something personal.”

Kimi shrugged. “Or maybe Carlos just found out Charles uses oat milk.”

“Now that would cause a meltdown.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, watching the two Ferrari drivers pass each other like ships in the night—professional, poised, and ice cold.

Finally, Kimi said, “You know what this reminds me of?”

Oliver turned to him, intrigued. “What?”

“That one time in karting when I called my teammate’s sister hot and he didn’t speak to me for two weeks.”

Oliver froze. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Kimi.”

“What?”

“WHAT IF THAT’S IT?” Oliver hissed. “What if this is about a sister?”

Kimi blinked. “Wait… Charles has a sister, right?”

Oliver nodded slowly, his eyes wide. “Isabelle.”

They stared at each other, the full conspiracy blooming in their minds.

“Oh my God,” Oliver whispered. “What if Carlos has a crush on Belle? And Charles just found out.”

“Or worse—what if someone else does, and Charles blamed Carlos?!”

“Holy shit.”

They stared back out at the garage where Charles and Carlos now stood side by side, not speaking, not looking at each other, arms crossed in near-perfect symmetry.

“This is better than a Netflix doc,” Oliver muttered.

Kimi popped his gum. “Think we’ll ever find out what actually happened?”

Oliver shook his head. “Nope. But I’m gonna keep guessing until I die.”

***

Belle pushed open the door to the boutique, the delicate chime above it greeting her like an old friend. The shop was quiet, tucked into a sun-drenched corner of the Rue Grimaldi, all pastel walls and honeyed wood. The kind of place that didn’t advertise but always had exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

She took off her sunglasses and slipped them into her bag, her fingers tightening slightly around the strap.

This was supposed to be simple.

 A gift for Victoria.

Victoria’s baby girl was due any day now. And Belle had promised herself she’d find something special. Something lovely and thoughtful, because of course Victoria’s daughter would be surrounded by love, but Belle wanted her to have a gift that came from her aunt—not just from "Max’s wife."

She found a dress first—a pale pink with hand-stitched flowers at the collar. Classic. Sweet. Then a matching blanket, soft as clouds, and hat with the same hand-stitched flowers. 

She set it gently in her basket together with a and a plush teddy bear so soft it felt like clouds in her palm.

Belle wandered slowly through the narrow aisles of the baby boutique, her fingers trailing over soft fabrics and pastel cotton. The shelves were filled with impossibly tiny clothes and lullaby-colored blankets, everything arranged just so, with little signs in looping handwriting that read “organic muslin” and “hand-knit in Provence.”

She wasn’t in a rush. She never was in here.

A shelf of plush toys caught her eyes:  Stacked in a neat row: lambs, bears, bunnies…

And one lion.

It wasn’t particularly large, or fancy. Just soft and golden, with a slightly crooked smile and a fuzzy mane. There was something in its face—warmth, maybe. Bravery. A kind of quiet fierceness.

Belle stepped closer, hand reaching out before she even realized what she was doing.

Her fingers curled around the lion’s little paw, and something inside her chest ached.

She hadn’t meant to buy anything for herself today. Or rather—for the tiny secret she was carrying. The one Max didn’t know about yet.

Belle pressed her palm against the curve of her stomach, still small, still subtle, hidden beneath a loose linen blouse. She wasn’t showing yet—not really—but she felt it now that she knew. The flutter of exhaustion that settled in her bones, the faint nausea in the morning, the warmth that bloomed behind her ribs when she thought about what was coming.

Max was still in Canada. Still flying around corners at 300 km/h like gravity didn’t apply to him. And this… this wasn’t news she wanted to deliver over FaceTime, with a lagging signal and the sound of tire guns in the background. She wanted to watch his face when she told him. Wanted to see the softness break across it. The quiet awe. The love.

Twelve weeks.

 She hadn’t told him. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she did. 

Desperately. Properly. Face to face.

She’d imagined it already. A hundred times. Max, sitting across from her, some ordinary evening in Monaco. A quiet smile, a hand on her belly, eyes gone wide and soft. Maybe he wouldn’t say much at first. Maybe he’d just hold her. Maybe he’d cry.

He’d be terrified. He’d be overjoyed. He’d be Max.

The lion toy was still in her hand.

Belle looked down at it and smiled. “You’ll be ours,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “You’ll keep the little one safe.”

She added it to the pile at the register without a word. The shop assistant didn’t ask—just wrapped the plush in soft tissue and placed it in a separate bag.

Two bags.

She left the boutique with two bags.

One for a niece Max already loved.

And one for a child he didn’t even know existed yet.

But he would.

Soon.

When the moment was right.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: You really said “I got married” like you were ordering lunch.

Max: Was it too casual?

Belle: You caused a paddock-wide meltdown in under 10 seconds. Pierre choked on air. Lance gasped.

Max: Oscar didn’t blink.

Belle: Oscar’s soul left his body at the wedding, he hasn’t blinked since.

Max: Lewis was proud of me. Nico welcomed me to the Married Men Club™. Apparently there’s a newsletter.

Belle: What’s in the newsletter?

Max: Tips on DIY crib assembly and how to hide sim rig receipts, probably. 

Belle: I should’ve seen that coming.

Belle: You handled it well.

Max: Thanks. I miss you.

Belle: I miss you too. But I did something today. Thought of you.

Max: Hmm?

Belle: Went shopping. Picked up a gift for Victoria’s little one.

Max: You didn’t have to do that, Schatje. 

Belle: I wanted to. It’s a little dress and a swaddle. Very soft. Very pink.She’s going to look like a marshmallow.

Max: She’s going to love it. Vic and the baby.

Max:Few more days and I’m home.

Belle: Bring yourself. And a trophy.

Max: Bringing all of it. And coming home to you.

Belle: We’ll be here waiting ❤️

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, and Kimi Räikkönen)

Carlos: it’s been 12 DAYS.

Carlos: AND CHARLES STILL HASN’T REALISED. 

Lewis: I’m genuinely losing my mind. 

George: At this point it’s not forgetfulness. It’s performance art. 

Daniel: Has anyone told him yet?? 

Carlos: NO. SHE SAID NOT TO. 

Alex: we made a pact. 

Oscar: I made a pact. and i’m regretting it. 

Nico H: update: i told Kevin. 

Carlos: WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT 

Nico H: Seemed fair. 

Lando: ...fair tbh. 

Daniel: ADD HIM 

Nico Hulkenberg has added Kevin Magnussen to the chat.

Kevin: what the fuck did I just walk into 

George: emotional support group 

Alex: for max & belle truthers 

Lewis: and leclerc accountability 

Kevin: cool cool. carry on

Oscar: ...i may have also told Zhou and Logan. 

Lando: YOU WHAT.

Oscar: They were there. They asked. I panicked.

Daniel: OH MY GOD 

Oscar Piastri has added Zhou Guanyu to the chat

Oscar Piastri has added Logan Sergeant to the chat

Zhou: hi. very honoured to be here. 

Lando: legend.

Logan: I’ve made popcorn. This is better than any paddock drama I’ve ever seen.

Fernando: I also may have mentioned it to Esteban and Lance.

Checo: So we’ve just abandoned secrecy entirely. Dios mío. 

Fernando Alonso has added Esteban Ocon to the chat. 

Fernando Alonso has added Lance Stroll to the chat

Esteban: hello chaos

Lance: why are there this many people here 

Carlos: because Belle deserves a small country’s worth of defenders

George: we are the UN now 

Sebastian: united in silent rage

Lewis: should we… start a betting pool? 

Oscar: on when charles remembers?? 

Carlos: yes. i’m taking “not before summer break” 

Nico R: i’m taking “not until their first baby is born” 

David: CHARLES IS GOING TO FIND OUT FROM TWITTER 

Lando: it’s what he deserves. 

Mark: belle’s not saying anything. max isn’t saying anything. and none of us are allowed to say anything. 

Zhou: so we just watch. 

Daniel: and judge. silently. supportively.

Kevin: this is better than Drive to Survive

Lance: you people are terrifying 

Esteban: and yet i feel comforted

George: long live the chaos

Lewis: I am going to tell Valtteri. 

***

Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Valtteri Bottas

Lewis: Valtteri. You up?

Valtteri: I’m in a ice tub with a beer, so yes.

Lewis: You’re gonna want to sit down for this. …Or float. I guess.

Valtteri: Alright, hit me.

Lewis: Max Verstappen got married.

Valtteri: I know. 

Lewis: To Charles Leclerc’s sister.

Valtteri: Isabelle?

Lewis: Yep. Belle.

Valtteri: does Charles know

Lewis: No.

Valtteri: oh my god. oh my GOD

Lewis: He forgot her birthday. The whole family did. She was in the garage. No one said a word.

Valtteri: i need to be in this group chat immediately

Lewis: I got you.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon and Lance Stroll)

 Lewis Hamilton has added Valtteri Bottas to the chat.

Valtteri: hello i have arrived this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me

Carlos: Welcome. We suffer here.

George: We scream in lowercase.

Daniel: You missed the “Oscar accidentally told Zhou and Logan” arc.

Oscar: IT WASN’T AN ARC IT WAS A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS

Valtteri: do i get to place a bet

Checo: Please. The pool is open.

Valtteri: i’m taking “charles finds out from a post-race interview when someone asks how he feels about being a brother-in-law to max verstappen”

Lando: OH THAT’S A GOOD ONE

Kevin: I’m taking “Belle shows up to Silverstone with a baby bump and he still doesn’t get it.”

Valtteri: this is the best chat i’ve ever been in

***

Fred Vasseur was many things—an engineer by trade, a strategist by necessity, and a reluctant babysitter of million-dollar egos by circumstance. But above all, he prided himself on reading people.

That was why the current state of the Ferrari garage was driving him mad.

The tension was unmistakable.

Carlos was stalking around with that sharp, clipped energy he usually reserved for backmarkers who didn’t move out of the way. He wasn’t being unprofessional—no, that would’ve been easier to handle. He was being polite. Controlled. Cordial. The worst kind of angry.

And Charles?

Charles seemed... confused. Like he didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but suspected the crime was high treason. He greeted Carlos like nothing had happened, and in return got a nod that could freeze the Tiber.

Fred watched it all from the corner of the garage with the growing sense that he was trapped in the middle of a drama he hadn’t been invited to.

Eventually, he'd had enough.

He cornered Carlos near the espresso machine, away from the engineers and the endless telemetry screens.

“Carlos,” he said, voice low and sharp, “is there something I need to know about?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. He didn’t even look surprised. He just stared into his tiny paper cup like it had personally betrayed him.

“Because if this is about strategy or some setup disagreement—”

“It’s not,” Carlos interrupted.

Fred blinked. “Then what is it?”

Carlos exhaled through his nose. “It’s Charles.”

Fred folded his arms. “Yes. I noticed.”

“He forgot her birthday,” Carlos said, eyes tight. “Not just him. The whole family. But him especially. She was in the garage. Right there. And he didn’t say a single word.”

Fred blinked. “Whose?”

Carlos looked up, jaw clenched. “His sister’s. Belle.”

Fred stilled. “She was in the Monaco garage. Quiet, like always. Wearing red. Not one of us said a word. And Charles—her own brother—walked past her like she was invisible.”

Fred’s throat tightened. “It’s been two weeks.”

Carlos nodded. “And he still hasn’t said anything. Still hasn’t realized.”

Fred sat slowly in the chair across from him, face unreadable.

He liked Isabelle. Always had. She’d been around for years—gracious, observant, unfailingly kind. She never asked for anything. Never wanted attention. And yet she had always been there.

Fred remembered when she was a teenager, sitting quietly at the back of the motorhome with a sketchbook in one hand and race notes in the other. How she brought pastries to the engineers during triple headers. How she remembered everyone's birthdays.

And no one—not one of them—had remembered hers.

Not even Charles.

“She deserved better,” Fred muttered.

Carlos hesitated. “She has better now.”

Fred looked up. “What do you mean?”

Carlos went still. And then—realizing too late—he winced. “Oh. That wasn’t supposed to—"

Fred’s eyes narrowed. “Carlos.”

“She’s with Max,” Carlos said, resigned. “They’ve been together for over a year. No one knew. It was private. But now? They got married. After Monaco.”

Fred blinked. “Max Verstappen.”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah.”

Fred stared at him.

Carlos winced. “...And Charles has no idea.”

***

Ten minutes after Carlos had dropped the truth on him like a live grenade, Frédéric Vasseur was walking—no, storming—across the paddock with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for breaking up fistfights or walking into meetings with Ferrari’s board.

The anger in him wasn’t loud. It was cold. Controlled. A heavy thing sitting low in his chest.

He didn’t bother knocking. Just swept through the entrance to the Red Bull hospitality like he owned it. No one stopped him.

Of course they didn’t. Everyone knew better when a man looked like that.

Christian Horner glanced up from his table, mid-sip of some expensive-looking sparkling water. The look that bloomed across his face wasn’t surprise. It was familiarity. Expectation. Like he’d been waiting for this confrontation.

“Fred,” Christian said, all false calm and executive charm. “Everything alright?”

Fred didn’t sit. Didn’t smile. Didn’t play the game.

His voice was low and razor-sharp.

“Why has your golden boy married my golden boy’s sister?”

There was the smallest flicker in Christian’s eyes—like a spark caught in glass. Then he leaned back in his chair, lips curling into that infuriating little smirk he always wore when things went exactly as planned.

“Ah,” Christian said lightly. “So it’s out.”

Fred’s jaw tensed. His hands clenched at his sides, itching for something to hold onto—control, maybe. Or the version of this reality where someone, anyone, had thought to tell him what was coming.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Christian raised an eyebrow.

“Because it wasn’t our secret to share,” he said simply. “Max and Isabelle wanted privacy. You know how Max is—he keeps what’s important close. And Isabelle?” He paused. “She didn’t want the attention. Didn’t want the headlines. Didn’t want to be part of the circus.”

Fred opened his mouth to argue—then closed it. Because he knew that about her. Always had.

Isabelle Leclerc had never courted the spotlight. Not like Charles, with his fanbase and flashes of brilliance. Not like Arthur, clinging to the family legacy. She was the quiet one. The one who stayed in the background. The one who did the work, remembered people’s birthdays, brought homemade pastries into the garage because “the people deserve it.”

And they’d forgotten her.

All of them.

His shoulders sagged.

“I always liked her,” he said finally, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “She is smart. Steady. She helps with setups in hospitality  sometimes. Not even on payroll. She didn’t need credit. She just… cares.”

Christian’s smirk softened, just slightly. “I know.”

Fred looked at him, his expression somewhere between fury and shame.

“She stood in the Monaco garage,” Fred said, his voice quieter now, rougher. “Wearing Ferrari red. On her birthday. And no one said a word. Not Charles. Not the team. Not even me.”

He rubbed a hand down his face. He felt old. Tired.

“Charles has no idea,” he added. “No idea what he missed. What he keeps missing. He’s going to find out the wrong way—through gossip, or a headline, or worse—and he’s going to implode.”

Christian didn’t argue. Just watched him, cool and quiet.

“And when he does,” he said finally, “I hope he understands something.”

Fred looked up. “What?”

Christian’s voice was steady. Not smug now. Just… resolved.

“It’s not Max he should be angry with.  It’s everyone else who made her feel like she didn’t matter.” A pause. “Including him.”

The words landed like bricks.

Fred stood there for a long time, letting the weight of it all settle on his shoulders.

The truth was this: Isabelle Leclerc had given them grace, patience, loyalty. She’d loved this team, and this team had forgotten her.

And Max? Max Verstappen, of all people, had seen her. Held her close. Protected what mattered to her. Not for the cameras. Not for the brand. But because he chose her.

Finally, Fred exhaled. It wasn’t anger in his chest anymore. It was grief. It was guilt.

“We failed her,” he murmured.

Christian nodded once. “You did.”

He reached for his glass, took a sip, and said—almost gently:

“Look,” he said, “you and I have dealt with our fair share of driver drama. But this? This isn’t about racing. This is about someone who was ignored by the very people she’s always stood up for. And Max… say what you want about him, but he saw her. Chose her. Cherishes her.”

Fred said nothing. He didn’t have to. The truth was sitting in his gut like a stone.

Christian smiled again—wider now, but not cruel.

“We take care of our own, Fred.”

And somehow, that—that—was the final blow.

***

Interview Transcript – Post Canadian GP 

Karun Chandhok: Charles, congratulations again on your Monaco GP win! That must have been an incredible moment for you.

Charles: grinning Yes, thank you! It was a very special race for me. Winning at home, in front of my family and the fans, was an unbelievable feeling.

Karun: And it happened on your sister Isabelle’s birthday too, right? That must have made the celebrations even more special!

Charles: smiling automatically Yes, it was— pauses —wait.

Karun: laughs lightly A birthday and a race win on the same day, that’s pretty memorable!

Charles: eyes darting to the side, like he's mentally calculating ...That was— his expression suddenly shifts, his smile faltering

Karun: noticing Charles?

Charles: blinking rapidly No way.

Karun: chuckles, confused

Charles: quietly, more to himself We forgot.

Karun: hesitates

Charles: more urgently We forgot her birthday.

Karun: awkwardly I mean, I’m sure—

Charles: shaking his head, visibly spiraling No, no, no. We were all celebrating, but not her. Not for her. We didn’t say anything.

Karun: off-camera crew shifting nervously

Charles: running a hand down his face Oh my god.

Karun: Um—

Charles: turning toward someone off-camera Do you have my phone? I need to— shaking his head, exhaling sharply I need to fix this.

***

White Horse - Chapter 18: May 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The apartment smelled like raspberries the moment they opened the door.

Belle blinked. “Do you… smell cake?”

Max grinned. “I wasn’t the only one who remembered.”

“Max,” came a voice from the kitchen. “If you let her cry in an elevator last night and didn’t bring her back to a full-blown party, I will break your nose.”

Emilie.

She stepped into the room holding a knife in one hand and a bouquet in the other, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder like some kind of aggressively nurturing chaos fairy.

“Oh my god,” Belle whispered, stunned.

There were balloons—floating near the windows, tethered in groups of gold and pink and white. A stack of wrapped gifts sat near the sofa, all tagged with labels like “Open when you want to feel dangerous” and “This one is soft because you deserve softness.” A cake—raspberry, of course—sat on the dining table, frosted with piped lettering that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY BELLE.”

Max just closed the door behind them and kissed the top of Belle’s head as she stared, speechless.

Emilie crossed the room, shoved the flowers into Max’s hands, and pulled Belle into a full-body hug that somehow said I love you, I see you, and I will never let this happen again all at once.

“You’re early,” Belle whispered.

“I’m me,” Emilie said. “Of course I’m early. Of course I brought gifts. And of course I brought lunch, because I knew you two wouldn’t eat anything but adrenaline and each other today.”

Belle laughed—actually laughed—and Emilie pulled back just enough to study her face.

Then her eyes dropped.

“…What is that?” she asked, already grabbing Belle’s hand.

The ring glinted in the light. Emerald. Gold. Hers.

Emilie shrieked.

“You didn’t!”

Belle smiled. “He did.”

Max, very smug and still holding the flowers like a schoolboy in love, nodded. “She said yes.”

Emilie let out an actual squeal, tackled Belle in another hug, and then pointed the cake knife at Max.

“I’m planning the engagement party. You don’t get a vote.”

“Fair,” Max said, amused.

Belle just stood there, blinking back another round of tears. But they were different now.

Not the kind you cried because you were forgotten.

The kind you cried because someone—multiple someones—never stopped remembering.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Emilie squeezed her hand. “Always.”

***

The dishes were still in the sink. Balloons floated lazily near the ceiling. Emilie had slipped out with a wink and a leftover box of cake, promising to return with champagne and chaos “once you’ve finished your romantic post-engagement spiral.”

The apartment was quiet again.

Max and Belle were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, her head resting on his chest. One of the cats was asleep on the windowsill. The other had made a throne of the discarded wrapping paper pile.

Max's fingers moved gently through her hair. “So,” he said, voice soft. “What kind of wedding do you want?”

Belle blinked up at him. “You’re asking now?”

“I’m curious,” he said. “You’ve had a Pinterest board for this since 2013, don’t lie.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her fingers curled into the edge of his sweatshirt.

“I used to want the whole thing,” she said. “The cathedral. The dress with a five-meter train. The champagne tower and a dance floor with my name in lights. I used to picture a wall of flowers and an aisle that took two minutes to walk down.”

Max watched her quietly.

“I think,” Belle said slowly, “I wanted it to feel like something big enough that they’d have to see me. Maybe if the day was big enough, loud enough… my family would finally pay attention.”

He didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need him to.

“But now?” she whispered. “After this week? After all of it?”

She sat up a little, just enough to look at him. Her voice stayed soft.

“I just want you.”

Max’s eyes softened in that way that made her feel like a secret being cherished. “You’ve always had me.”

Belle smiled—small, but certain. “Then I don’t need anyone else in the room. Not unless we want them there. I don’t need to prove anything. I don’t need anyone to clap for a day they didn’t help me dream about.”

Max nodded, his hand moving up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “So… Vegas?”

That made her laugh, for real this time.

“Maybe not Vegas. I don’t think I am the Elvis Chapel kind of girl,” she teased him. 

“We can do whatever you want,” he said. “We can elope. We can do something quiet in the mountains. Or a beach. Hell, we can marry at the stable if you want. Just you, me, Fleur, and a priest who doesn’t ask too many questions.”

Belle’s heart tugged in the gentlest way. “I want it to feel like… peace. Like home. Not performance.”

Max leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Then we’ll make it peaceful. We’ll make it ours.”

She exhaled into his shoulder, her ring glinting softly in the low light.

“I spent so many years trying to imagine what it would feel like to be loved loudly,” she said. “But being loved quietly by you is so much better.”

Max didn’t say anything. He just kissed her again, softly—like a promise.

And in that moment, Belle knew: She didn’t need chandeliers or glittering crowds or performances wrapped in lace.

She just needed Max.

“I just want you,” she said, eyes closing. “I want to marry you in the quiet. Somewhere small. Somewhere soft. No cameras. No pressure. Just… us.”

Max’s hand found hers, threading their fingers together gently.

“Good,” he said. “Because that’s all I ever wanted too.”

Belle opened her eyes and looked up at him, searching.

“You’re really okay with that?” she asked. “No big party, no headlines, no Red Bull-themed fireworks?”

Max grinned. “Fireworks are overrated. And I already won the only prize I ever actually wanted.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “That was cheesy.”

“I’m in love. It’s allowed.”

She leaned up and kissed him, slow and sure, and when she pulled back, her voice was lighter. “Let’s elope.”

Max blinked. “Wait—really?”

She nodded. “Let’s find somewhere just for us. Paris. Nice. I don’t care. As long as it’s you.”

He looked at her for a long moment. His whole expression softened, all edges gone.

“Then let’s do it,” Max said.

Belle smiled. Really smiled.

And for the first time in years, the future felt like hers.

***

After dinner—if leftover cake and Max feeding her strawberries from the fridge counted as dinner—Belle curled back into the couch in her softest pajamas and his hoodie, legs tucked under her. Her hair was slightly damp from the bath she hadn’t even realized she needed, and her engagement ring still caught the low light like it had something to say.

Max was in the kitchen, drying two wine glasses that had only been used for juice. She could hear him humming under his breath, some melody half-remembered from a road trip months ago.

Belle opened her phone.

Not for Instagram.

Not for texts.

Just… curious.

She searched: “How to get married in Monaco.” Then refined it: “Civil wedding Monaco how.” Then, after clicking through a very official-sounding government page with questionable font choices: “Monaco City Hall marriage appointment calendar.”

And there it was.

A calendar. A short list of dates and times.

And one of them—the very next morning—was wide open. Unclaimed. Slotted between some dignitary from the Chamber of Commerce and a local couple named Elise and Jean-Luc.

Belle stared at it.

Blinking.

The kind of opening that didn’t just feel like coincidence.

It was like the universe had sighed and said, Here. Have something just for you.

“Max?” she called, still staring at the screen. Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears—half laughter, half disbelief.

He appeared around the corner in an instant, towel slung over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

She turned the phone toward him.

“Monaco City Hall. Tomorrow. 11 AM.”

Max leaned in, reading it, then looked at her with a slow, blooming grin. “Are you serious?”

“I didn’t expect it to be available,” she said. “But… it is. And I live here. You have residency. The paperwork is fast. They’ll process it same-day if we show up with our IDs and two witnesses.”

Max’s grin widened. “We have IDs.”

“And Lando owns a suit,” she added, deadpan.

Max laughed, that warm, throaty sound she loved. “You want to do it tomorrow?”

Belle nodded once, heartbeat flickering behind her ribs like a match just caught flame.

“I think I really do.”

Max dropped the dish towel on the counter and walked straight over, pressing a hand to her cheek, thumb brushing along her jaw.

“Then it’s tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s get married in the place where it all started.”

Belle smiled—dizzy, delighted, a little breathless. “This is insane.”

“This is us.”

And it was.

No big parties. No cathedral. No guest list with people who only remembered her when it was convenient.

Just a city she loved, a man who never forgot her, and an appointment slot.

Perfect. Just like them.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase 

Max: You already back in the UK?

GP: Nope. Flight got rescheduled. Still in Monaco. Why?

Max: Perfect.

GP: …Why is that perfect. Max.

Max: Because I need a witness.

GP: A what now.

Max: Witness. Like for legal purposes. You’re free tomorrow morning, right?

GP: Max.

Max: City Hall. 10:45. Wear something decent. I’m getting married.

GP: I’m sorry. You’re WHAT.

Max: Marrying Belle. Surprise.

GP: Surprise???

Max: We’re keeping it small. Quiet. Just us and a few people who won’t ask stupid questions or ruin it.

GP: Max.

Max: I’m sending you the location. And yes, I already have the paperwork.

GP: Of course you do.

Max: You in?

GP: Like I’d miss the moment you marry the best decision you’ve ever made.

Max: See you at 10:45.

GP: I’m bringing tissues. Don’t judge me.

Max: Never.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max and I are getting married tomorrow. City hall. Just something small. Just for us. Will you come?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???? TOMORROW??? CITY HALL??? SMALL???

Isabelle: Yes. No fuss. Just us. That’s all I want.

Emilie: Oh my GOD. You are not getting married like you’re renewing a driver’s license. You need flowers. A cake. A moment, Belle.

Isabelle: I don’t need any of that. I just want him. That’s it.

Emilie: Yes, yes, eternal love, devotion, blah blah blah. BUT. You are still getting married. You will wear a dress. You will hold a bouquet. You will eat something that tastes like joy and sugar and victory.

Belle: I’m not even sure what I’m wearing yet 😅 We haven’t thought that far ahead.

Emilie: THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE ME. Do you still have the white dress we got a few weeks ago? The one that made you look like a romantic novel with legs?

Isabelle: ...Yes.

Emilie: Good. Wear that. It’s perfect. Simple. Elegant. You. I’ll take care of the rest.

Isabelle: Em—no pressure, really. Please. I don’t want a production.

Emilie: This won’t be a production. It’ll be a love letter. With flowers. And maybe a three-layer cake.

Isabelle: Emilie 😭 You really don’t have to—

Emilie: Belle. You’ve planned everyone else’s birthdays, surprises, parties, and holidays since you were like what, twelve?! Let someone do it for you this once. Let me.

Isabelle: ...Okay. But just a little. No spark machines. No confetti cannons.

Emilie: Deal. But I am bringing champagne. And I will cry.

Isabelle: I wouldn’t want it any other way. 💛

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: You have a camera, right?

Lando: …yes?? What kind of question is that?

Max: Like, a real one. Not your phone.

Lando: Yes, Max, I own a camera. Why??

Max: I need you to document something.

Lando: What kind of something?

Max: Just be at Monaco City Hall tomorrow. 10:30. Bring your camera. Wear a suit. Preferably not orange.

Lando: MAX.

Max: Yes?

Lando: ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW???

Max: Yes.

Lando: YOU’RE JUST DROPPING THAT ON ME AT MIDNIGHT???

Max: It’s 11:43.

Lando: Oh, my mistake. PLENTY OF TIME TO PROCESS THE FACT YOU’RE SECRETLY GETTING MARRIED.

Max: Not secretly. Just quietly.

Lando: Max.

Max: What.

Lando: I’M HONORED BUT ALSO PANICKING. Do you want, like, pictures or VIBES?? Do I need a tripod?? Am I the witness?? Do I bring champagne?? WHAT’S MY ROLE HERE.

Max: Your role is “friend with a camera who knows how to shut up.”

Lando: I can be that.

 Wait—can I still cry a little?

Max: Only if it’s behind the camera.

Lando: Deal. Lando:I don’t even know what shoes to wear for a Verstappen emergency elopement

Max: Don’t overthink it. You’re just the photographer.

Lando: You’re getting married in Monaco city hall and I’m the photographer?? What the hell kind of fairy tale speedrun is this?

Max: The efficient kind.

Lando: Who else is gonna come?

Max: Just us. People we trust. 

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Hey. Don’t freak out.

Victoria: That is exactly how you make someone freak out.

Max: Belle and I are getting married tomorrow. Monaco City Hall. It’s just us. Very small. Wanted you to know.

Victoria: MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN

Max: Uh-oh

Victoria: YOU ARE NOT GETTING MARRIED WITHOUT ME THERE I WILL WADDLE DOWN THE AISLE MYSELF SEND. YOUR. BLOODY. JET.

Max: Vic. You are literally weeks off of from giving birth.

Victoria: And I will do it IN THE AISLE of City Hall if I must. Tell Belle I will not miss her wedding. I love her more than most of our blood relatives.

Max: I mean. Same.

Victoria: SEND THE JET. I will sit like a queen with my feet up and my compression socks on.

Max: You sure Tom won’t tie you to the couch?

Victoria: He’s already packing snacks. You think he wants to deal with me if I don’t go?

Max: …That’s fair.

Victoria: Also I already picked out your wedding gift. I knew you two would elope. I felt it.

Max: You're terrifying.

Victoria: I'm hormonal. There's a difference. See you tomorrow.  PS: tell Belle I cried. But like, emotionally. Not hormonally. Even though it was a little bit both.

Max: You’re completely insane.

Victoria: You’re the one marrying a Leclerc.

Max: Touché.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie: So. I hear you’re eloping.

Max: …Hi, Mama.

Sophie: Don’t “hi mama” me. Are you really getting married tomorrow?

Max: Yes. City Hall. Small. Just us. And apparently my 34 weeks pregnant sister, because Victoria is very dramatic and refuses to be excluded.

Sophie: So am I. You are not getting married without me there. 

Max: You’re not mad?

Sophie: Why would I be mad? You’re marrying the woman you love. If you’d done it with cameras and fireworks, I might’ve been suspicious.

Max: It just felt like the right time. After everything. She needed to feel chosen. Not tolerated. Not remembered late.

Sophie: She is chosen. By you. By all of us who actually pay attention.

Max: She still thinks she’s too much. Or not enough. Depending on the day.

Sophie: Then tomorrow, you remind her that she’s both. Too much for the wrong people. And more than enough for the right one.

Max: I’ll remind her every day.

Sophie: I know you will. Now go to sleep. You’re getting married in a few hours and I expect you to look well-rested in photos.

Max: Love you, Mama.

Sophie: I love you too, Maxie. Now go love your girl.

***

Group Chat: WHAT IS HAPPENING

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: GUYS

Lando: EMERGENCY

Lando: MAX IS GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW

Oscar: I… sorry, what?

Daniel: Did you hit your head again? Like, genuinely. Because this feels concussion-coded.

Lando: I’m serious!!! City Hall. 10:30. Monaco. To Belle. IT’S HAPPENING

Oscar: Wait wait wait. Like married married??

Lando: YES LIKE “I DO” MARRIED

Daniel: Holy shit. I did not have “Max Verstappen casually elopes with Charles Leclerc’s sister” on my 2024 bingo card but here we are.

Oscar: Did they even tell anyone??

Lando: They told ME. And then Max was like “you have a camera, right? wear a suit” like this is just a casual errand.

Daniel: Does Charles know

Lando: ABSOLUTELY NOT HE WILL COMBUST WE’RE TALKING INDEPENDENT-NUCLEAR-REACTION LEVEL MELTDOWN

Oscar: I need you to calm down so I can freak out at a normal pace.

Lando: WHAT DO I EVEN WEAR WHAT IF I CRY I’M NOT READY FOR THIS I WAS EMOTIONALLY UNPREPARED

 I’M GOING TO SOB THROUGH THE LENS BELLE IS GOING TO LOOK SO PRETTY MAX IS GOING TO BE SO SOFT I’M GOING TO NEED A DESIGNATED HUG

Oscar: What are we supposed to wear?! Are we coordinating?? Do I bring flowers?? 

Lando: I DON’T KNOW I’M PANICKING I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF I’M A GUEST OR THE PHOTOGRAPHER OR BOTH

Daniel: You’re definitely crying, though. Let’s be honest.

Lando: 100%. I already feel it building

Oscar: Okay but seriously—do we all go? Did he actually invite us?

Lando: He said it’s small. “Just us. People we trust.”  Which… I think is us?

Oscar: Do we need to bring gifts?? What’s the etiquette on emergency weddings?

Daniel: I can’t believe we’re invited and Charles isn’t

Oscar: I can. Max said “people we trust.” That tells you everything.

Daniel: God, I love this sport.

Oscar: This isn’t the sport. This is a secret Verstappen wedding at City Hall with zero warning and maximum chaos.

Daniel: Exactly.

Lando: I need to sleep so I don’t have puffy eyes but I’m emotionally compromised

Oscar: Same. See you both in the morning?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: You still in Monaco?

Jos: Yes. Leaving tomorrow evening. Why?

Max: City Hall. 10:45.

Jos: …What’s happening at City Hall?

Max: Getting married.

Jos: To Belle?

Max: Obviously to Belle.

Jos: You’re telling me this now?

Max: We decided tonight. There was an opening. She doesn’t want a big wedding. She just wants peace. Me. Us.

Jos: Good. She’s smart. And you’ve taken long enough.

Max: Will you come?

Jos: Wouldn’t miss it.

Max: It’s quiet. No press. No team. Just us. Some friends we trust. Family.

Jos: I said I’ll be there. Don’t make me get sentimental about it.

Max: Too late. You already like her more than you like me.

Jos: She’s never crashed a go-kart out of spite.

Max: That was one time.

Jos: Still counts.

Max: Thanks, Papa.

Jos: You’ve done good, Max. Really good. See you in the morning.

***

Emilie Abadie had been awake since three in the morning. .

Not because she was nervous. She wasn’t the one getting married. 

It was Belle’s wedding. And that meant it had to be perfect.

Because Belle would never ask for perfect. Belle would shrug and say “just something quiet, just us” with that soft look in her eyes like she didn’t dare hope for more. But Emilie had spent the last seven years learning the difference between what Belle asked for and what she deserved.

And today, she deserved everything.

And perfection, as it turned out, required bribing a florist with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, whispering at a baker’s front door like a criminal, and coordinating a last-minute restaurant buyout with a maître d’ who still remembered Belle and Max’s first date like it had happened yesterday.

It was still early. The sun hadn’t quite cleared the rooftops of Monaco. But Emilie was already in motion—dressed, phone in hand, espresso in the other, a determined woman on a mission.

The florist had said it couldn’t be done. Snowdrops weren’t in season. They’d laughed—laughed—when Emilie asked.

Laughed. Emilie still remembered when Belle had told her about her favourite flowers. Fragile, quiet, perfect. Blooming in the cold, when nothing else did. Just like Belle. 

Emilie Abadie didn’t take no for an answer.

She made five calls. 

Then ten. 

Then offered double the price. 

Then triple. 

Someone from a specialty hothouse near Nice came through. A courier had arrived an hour ago, carrying a chilled box like it held diplomatic secrets.

Now, the bouquet sat in a vase on Emilie’s kitchen counter. Fragile white snowdrops, soft eucalyptus, and one or two sprigs of pale forget-me-nots.

Because Emilie was dramatic, and because Belle deserved to be remembered in every way that mattered.

The cake was next.

Not a tiered monstrosity. Just something beautiful. Elegant. White chocolate and raspberry with buttercream. The baker—an angel Emilie had gone to culinary school with for exactly three weeks—had rolled her eyes at the timeline and then agreed with a huff. “Only because it’s for Belle.”

Of course it was.

Emilie knew how much Belle had given. To her family. To her brothers. To Ferrari. To everyone except herself.

She’d watched Belle quietly shrink herself for years—make room for Lorenzo, for Charles, for Arthur, for Charles’ career, for the Leclerc family myth. 

Belle never asked for much. Never expected anything back.

So today, Emilie would give her everything.

The final piece fell into place just after sunrise: lunch at the restaurant where Max had taken Belle on their first date. The cozy one tucked behind the port with the ivy-covered terrace and the little hand-painted plates. Emilie had called the manager at 6:15 a.m.

“I need the whole place,” she’d said. “15 people. Three bottles of Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque. No fuss. No press. Max and Belle Verstappen.”

The Manager had paused and looked at Emilie:. “Ah,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “For the couple who ordered the wine, then forgot to drink it because they were too busy falling in love?”

By 6:00, the venue was booked. The menu was set. The staff had already started laying out fresh linen.

Emilie checked the list one more time—flowers, cake, lunch, Max’s boutonnière, Belle’s shoes.

Everything was ready.

Emilie slipped her phone into her bag, gave the bouquet one last fond glance, and smiled to herself.

Because today—finally—was about Belle. Not Charles. Not their mother. Not a team or a trophy or anyone else’s spotlight.

Today was hers.

And Emilie Abadie would make sure not a single petal was out of place.

***

The morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden light across the kitchen tile. It was quiet, peaceful, and smelled faintly of toast and coffee.

Max stood barefoot at the stove, his curls still messy from sleep, flipping something in a pan with practiced ease. Belle was perched on the counter in one of his old shirts, legs swinging gently, a mug of tea cradled in her hands.

“So,” Max said, without looking at her, “do I get to call you Mrs. Verstappen by noon?”

Belle smirked into her cup. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

He turned, brandishing the spatula. “It is. You’re marrying a man who owns three sim rigs and talks to his cats.”

“Bold of you to assume that’s not the exact reason I said yes.”

Max grinned and came closer, slipping between her knees as she set her mug down. His hands landed on her hips. “You nervous?”

“No.” She let her forehead rest against his. “Just… full.”

“Full?”

“Of everything. Gratitude. Peace. Butterflies.”

Max kissed her, gentle and grounding. “Good. Me too.”

The moment was quiet again. Warm and soft.

Until—  BANG.

The front door flew open.

“—DO NOT PANIC,” came Emilie’s voice from the hallway, “I have the cake, I have the emergency double-stick tape, I have the snowdrops—do not ask how—and I am here to take the bride.”

Belle groaned and leaned against Max’s shoulder. “She’s already started.”

Max was laughing when Emilie rounded the corner, her arms full of garment bags, shoe boxes, and a box of pastries balanced precariously on top.

She froze at the sight of them. “Okay, this is cute and domestic, but time is ticking and you—” she pointed at Belle with a dramatic flourish, “—need to be in a robe, drinking champagne, and pretending to be relaxed.”

Belle slid off the counter. “We haven’t even had breakfast.”

“I brought croissants. And mimosas. And eye masks. Let’s go.”

Max raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“Absolutely,” Emilie said, already dragging Belle toward the hallway. 

Belle shot Max a helpless smile over her shoulder as she was swept away into the bedroom. 

Max chuckled and turned back to the stove. “She’s been waiting for this since the day we met.”

“YOU PROMISED NEVER TO SPEAK OF THAT,” Emilie shouted back.

The apartment settled for a beat.

And then the doorbell rang.

Max opened it to find Victoria, already glowing despite being eight months pregnant, her husband Tom hauling what appeared to be a bouquet the size of a toddler, and both of their sons clinging to his legs like adorable koalas.

Sophie was right behind them, holding a wrapped box and beaming. “Where’s my daughter-in-law?”

Max stepped back. “Currently being kidnapped by a woman wielding florals and threat-level energy.”

“Ah,” Sophie said brightly, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “So the usual.”

Victoria waddled in and immediately headed for the kitchen. “Where’s the coffee? I need caffeine and at least one chair that won’t collapse under me.”

Tom followed with the flowers. “We brought noise. And crumbs. You’re welcome.”

The boys immediately made for the cats, causing a small riot in the living room.

Max leaned back against the counter, a smile tugging at his mouth as he watched his family pour in. “This is going to be a day.”

“Of course it is,” Sophie said, setting down her gift. “You’re marrying the best girl in Monaco.”

And just then, as if summoned, Emilie poked her head out of the hallway.

“Max,” she said solemnly. “You’re not allowed to see her for at least three hours. Also, she’s glowing. Prepare yourself.”

Then she vanished again.

Max laughed, shaking his head. “I already am.”

***

Max was mid-cleanup from the first round of croissant carnage when the intercom buzzed again.

He pressed the button. “Yeah?”

“Delivery,” came Oscar’s voice, dry and very much not a delivery person.

Max buzzed them in.

Thirty seconds later, Oscar and Lily walked in—Lily looking radiant in a pale floral dress, Oscar in a navy suit that made him look vaguely uncomfortable but also suspiciously good. There was box of macarons in Lily’s arms and Oscar carrying a bottle of champagne with all the solemnity of someone delivering a newborn child.

Lily kissed Max’s cheek. “Where’s Belle?”

“Bedroom,” Max said. “Emilie has barricaded the door. I’m not allowed to breathe near it.”

“Good,” Lily said. “You’ll see her when she’s ready. And not a second before!” she call over her shoulder as she made her way to where all the women had disappeared to. 

“Do we look like well-adjusted guests?” Oscar asked, holding out the champagner, just as the doorbell rang again

Tom opened it this time—and immediately stepped back to avoid being hit in the face by a wildly enthusiastic Daniel Ricciardo, who practically burst in with his arms open.

“IT’S WEDDING TIME, BABY!” Daniel yelled, already grinning like he’d won the lottery.

Max raised his coffee cup without looking up. “You’re three hours early.”

“I brought champagne. I’m never early. I’m… emotionally prepared.”

Before anyone could respond, the door buzzed again.

“Please let that be someone calm,” Max muttered, walking to the door just as Lando arrived—In a grey suit, camera strap across his chest, looking like a documentary filmmaker who’d taken a wrong turn into a very glamorous rom-com.

“Okay,” Lando said in lieu of a greeting, “I brought the camera, the backup camera, the battery pack, and three lenses I don’t know how to use, but they make me look professional. Also, Lily said if I forgot to wear a tie, she’d strangle me with it, so here.” He pointed to the pale blue tie knotted (badly) around his neck.

“You’re fine,” Max said. “Unless Emilie sees that knot.”

“I tied it,” Lando said defensively. “I didn’t say I tied it well.”

“You’ve had years to learn how to tie a tie,” Oscar muttered.

Daniel patted Lando’s shoulder. “It’s fine. You look like a best man in a Netflix wedding movie about a surfer who marries his childhood pen pal.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“I know what I said,” Daniel replied, stealing a macaron.

Max raised an eyebrow at Lando. “You know how to use that camera, right?”

“Please,” Lando said, lifting it and adjusting the lens. “I’m going to make you look like Vogue Monaco meets soft romance. This is going to go viral.”

Before Max could close the door, a final knock came—this one slower, more composed.

He opened it to GP, impeccable in a dark suit with a navy tie, and Jos, arms crossed, expression somewhere between “approving” and “this is ridiculous.”

“Everyone’s here?” GP asked as he stepped in.

“No explosions yet,” Max said. “Just Daniel.”

“Rude,” Daniel yelled from the kitchen, where he was now petting Jimmy the cat and eating a croissant at the same time. 

Jos gave Max a firm nod as he walked in. “You’re dressed?”

“Soon.”

Jos looked around the apartment, at the whirlwind of laughter and movement, at the family Max had built around himself. He gave the smallest huff—soft, for him. “Good turnout.”

“I think Daniel invited himself,” Max said dead pan. .

Jos glanced around again. “Still. Good people.”

Max nodded. “Yeah. The best.”

***

Belle had always imagined getting ready for her wedding surrounded by chaos.

She thought it would feel frantic, like the final fifteen minutes before a birthday dinner she wasn’t sure anyone would show up for—stressful, too loud, a little heartbreaking.

Instead, it felt like calm.

It felt like quiet laughter drifting in from the kitchen, the scent of espresso and lilacs filling the apartment. It felt like warm hands braiding the back of her hair, like silk slipping over her skin, like music humming low from the speaker on the windowsill.

It felt like peace.

She sat on the edge of the bed, barefoot, as Victoria carefully clipped the final snowdrop into her hair. Emilie was crouched by the full-length mirror, fussing with the hem of Belle’s dress, hung up. Lily and Sophie were there too, with Lilly the cat having decided that Lily the human was her new favourite person, while Sophie was rooting around Belle’s jewellery box for earrings to wear. 

It should’ve hurt.

That it wasn’t Pascale doing her hair. That it wasn’t her mother reminding her not to forget earrings or perfume or to stand up straight when she walked. That there was no Leclerc fussing around her, pretending to know best.

But somehow, it didn’t.

She’d braced herself for the ache—for the empty chair, the hollow weight of what should’ve been. But the ache never came.

Because these women? They were enough.

They were more than enough.

Then Victoria cocked her head, glancing toward the bedroom door. “By the way, are your brothers coming?”

Emilie stiffened subtly from her place near the hem. Lily glanced down at her nails.

Sophie, sipping her tea, looked up in quiet expectation.

Belle hesitated.

And then—because the lie felt too heavy in her throat, and because this was her wedding day, and she was done making excuses for people who couldn’t be bothered—she exhaled and said, simply, “They forgot my birthday.”

The room stilled.

Victoria blinked. “What?”

Belle looked down at her hands, resting in her lap. “It was race day. Monaco. Charles was on pole. Ferrari was chaos. I was in the garage all day and no one said anything. Not Charles. Not Arthur. Not Lorenzo. Not even Maman.”

Sophie sat very still. Her expression didn’t shift immediately—like she hadn’t quite processed what she’d just heard.

Victoria, on the other hand, reacted instantly.

“You’re kidding,” she said, straightening up. “They forgot? All of them?”

Belle nodded once. “I didn’t remind them.”

“But you were there,” Victoria said, voice rising. “You were literally standing in the garage wearing red! You’re his sister—how do you forget that?!”

Sophie’s mug landed gently on the vanity table. She didn’t speak, just watched Belle carefully, her eyes full of something Belle couldn’t name yet.

“They looked right through me,” Belle said, not bitter, just… quiet. “Like I wasn’t even there. Like I was just…invisible.”

Victoria stood up abruptly. “I swear to God, if I wasn’t about to pop out a baby I would’ve dragged Charles by the ear into a flower shop myself.”

“Vic,” Belle said, soft but firm.

“No,” Victoria said, eyes shining now. “You stood by them. All weekend. All year. You show up for every stupid photo call and PR stunt and family function, and they forgot your birthday?”

Emilie stayed crouched on the floor, head bowed over the dress, silent but trembling with restrained rage.

Lily’s hands were folded tightly in her lap.

Belle reached out and touched Victoria’s hand, grounding her. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“No,” Belle agreed quietly. “But you remembered.”

That made Victoria pause. Her face crumpled for a second before she leaned forward and pulled Belle into the gentlest hug she could manage with her belly between them. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered fiercely. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Belle blinked, eyes stinging but dry. “It doesn’t matter today.”

Sophie knelt beside her then, unexpectedly, and took her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. 

“I know,” Belle said. And she did. “You’re here. That’s more than enough.”

Victoria wiped under her eyes. “Do you want us to say something? To tell them?”

Belle shook her head. “No. I want to see how long it takes.”

The silence settled again.

And then Sophie squeezed her hand and said, with quiet certainty, “You’re not invisible anymore, sweetheart. Not here. Not ever again.”

And that was what Belle held onto, as she stood and turned toward the mirror—surrounded not by the family she’d been born into, but by the one she’d found along the way.

The right people had remembered.

And that was enough.

***

The bedroom door clicked gently shut behind Sophie as she stepped into the hallway, needing a breath. Just a moment of stillness. The wedding would begin in a little over two hours, and Belle—darling, radiant Belle—was in her bedroom with snowdrops in her hair and an ache buried so deep behind her smile Sophie could feel it like a bruise under her own ribs.

She leaned lightly against the wall, one hand wrapped around her teacup, the other resting protectively over her heart. She didn’t cry—not easily, not anymore. But her chest felt tight.

Footsteps approached, soft and quick. Emilie, Belle’s best friend, slipped out of the bedroom a moment later, arms crossed, mouth pressed into a thin line. She looked like she was holding back a war.

Their eyes met.

“You knew,” Sophie said quietly.

Emilie stilled. Her expression didn’t change. “Max told me,” she said quietly. “Belle didn’t want it to become a thing. She didn’t want pity.”

Sophie’s grip on her teacup tightened.

“She said she wanted to see how long it would take them,” Emilie added, her voice softening. “How many days would pass before someone noticed.”

Sophie looked away, blinking hard at the hallway wall. “Her own mother,” she murmured. “Her own brothers forgot her birthday.”

Emilie’s jaw clenched. “Her brothers. Her mother. Ferrari. Nothing. Not even a text. Carlos was the only one who remembered, and she begged him not to say anything because she didn’t want pity.”

Sophie’s stomach twisted. “And she stood in that garage, all day…”

“In red,” Emilie said, voice flat. “Supporting Charles. Watching them celebrate. She didn’t ask for much, Sophie. She never does.”

“She gave them everything,” Emilie said. Her voice cracked, just slightly. “And they forgot her birthday. They forgot her.”

Sophie nodded, eyes shining but clear. “Not anymore. Not after today.”

There was a long pause, filled with the sound of faint laughter from the living room and the low hum of a wedding morning in motion.

Then Emilie exhaled shakily. “Max said she broke down the second she saw him.”

Sophie closed her eyes for a beat.

It wasn’t just forgetfulness. It wasn’t a mistake. It was neglect wrapped in a red suit and family pride. It was inexcusable.

“She’ll never be alone again,” Sophie said, her voice steel beneath the softness. “Not while I’m breathing. Not while Max is.”

“I know,” Emilie said. “That’s the only reason I didn’t walk into Ferrari and slap someone.”

They stood in silence again, shoulder to shoulder.

Then Sophie reached over and gently squeezed Emilie’s hand.

“You did this for her,” she said. “The flowers. The cake. The restaurant. You gave her the kind of day they never thought to.”

Emilie’s eyes went glassy. “She deserves perfect. I couldn’t give her perfect, but—”

“You gave her love,” Sophie said firmly. “And that’s what matters.”

***

The apartment had quieted.

Everyone had settled into easy, pre-ceremony chaos—little moments scattered across the rooms like confetti before the storm. Daniel was dramatically explaining champagne etiquette to Oscar, who looked halfway between fascinated and alarmed. Lando was on the floor, coaxing Jimmy the cat into an impromptu wedding-themed photoshoot. Tom sat cross-legged on the couch, reading a picture book to Luka and Lio, the boys draped over him like sleepy lion cubs.

Max stood in the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, back to the counter, staring out the window toward the glittering stretch of Monaco coastline. The city buzzed quietly beyond the glass. But in here, for now, there was stillness.

The kind of stillness right before the most important lap of your life.

GP stepped up beside him without a word, mirroring his stance with practiced ease. They didn’t speak at first. They didn’t have to.

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” GP said eventually, voice low.

Max nodded. “I know.”

“You were always good,” GP added. “But you’re not just good now. You’re… grounded. Steady.”

Max exhaled, eyes still on the view. “She gave me somewhere to land.”

GP’s expression shifted just slightly—quiet pride, maybe. “You’ve always fought for every tenth, every inch. But with Belle? You stopped fighting yourself.”

Max glanced at him, something tired and raw in his eyes. “She sees everything. Even the parts I didn’t want anyone to see.”

“She never asked you to change.”

“She didn’t have to,” Max said. 

They stood in silence again, until a familiar voice cut in behind them.

“She’s not just your landing place,” Jos said, stepping into the kitchen, arms folded. “She’s your spine.”

Max turned, but didn’t speak.

Jos’s face was set. Not angry, but serious in that sharp, bone-deep way that came from decades of knowing how to read race tape and sons in equal measure.

“I wasn’t easy on you,” Jos said quietly. “I know that. I pushed too hard. Expected too much. Thought it was the only way you’d be great.”

Max swallowed, but didn’t interrupt.

“But Belle…” Jos looked toward the hallway, where a burst of laughter echoed from the bedroom. “She gave you something I couldn’t. Peace. Balance. You didn’t slow down. But you stopped burning out.”

GP gave a soft hum of agreement, but said nothing.

Jos stepped forward, brow furrowed now. “And she shows up for you. For everyone. All the time.”

Max nodded slowly. “She does.”

Jos shook his head, voice tight now. “So why the hell did her family forget her birthday?”

The silence hit like a dropped hammer.

Max looked up, sharp. “You know?”

“I overheard Emilie talking to Sophie in the hallway,” Jos said. His voice was low, but thunderous. “You’re telling me her entire family forgot? Her mother? Her brothers? Even Ferrari?”

Max’s jaw clenched.

GP was still, hands in his pockets, but his voice came out even. “They didn’t just forget. They looked straight through her in the garage. Carlos was the only one who noticed. She told him not to say anything.”

Jos looked furious in the quiet way only a father could—like he was cataloging every hurt, every slight, and filing them away for later retribution.

“She stood there,” he muttered. “All day. On her birthday. Wearing red. And they didn’t see her?”

“She didn’t cry until after,” Max said, his voice low. “But when she did… it broke her.”

Jos looked at him. “She tell them?”

“No,” Max said. “She’s done reminding people she exists.”

Jos’s shoulders shifted, like he was bracing himself against something. “Good. Let them feel that silence.”

Max stared down at his coffee cup for a moment, then set it aside.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life making her feel seen,” he said, steady now. “The way they never did. The way she deserves.”

GP gave a quiet, approving nod. “Then you’re ready.”

Jos didn’t say anything for a long beat.

Then he stepped forward, placed a firm hand on Max’s shoulder, and said, with something rough in his voice, “She’s already ours. But make it official.”

Max blinked hard.

***

The kitchen had been peaceful—a relative term, given there were six men, two toddler, three cats, and a bottle of champagne open by 9 a.m.—but peaceful by Verstappen standards. 

Max was leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee while Jos surveyed the chaos in thinly veiled amusement, and Tom tried to get jam off his shirt collar thanks to a child-induced pastry incident.

Then the storm arrived.

Emilie swept into the kitchen like a tiny, immaculately-dressed hurricane, her eyes narrowing the instant she caught sight of Lando.

“Why,” Emilie said, appearing in the doorway like a Roman general entering enemy territory, “are half of you not wearing ties?”

“You,” she declared, pointing with a precision that would’ve made a military officer proud.

Lando looked up from where he’d been fiddling with his camera settings. “Me?”

“You call that a tie?” she said, already moving toward him like a missile in heels. “What is that knot? A shoelace? A cry for help? Is that your idea of a tied tie?”

Lando looked down at the pale blue knot that resembled something between a tangled seatbelt and an existential crisis. “Technically… yes?”

Emilie sighed so dramatically it could have won an award. “Come here.”

Lando, blushing furiously, stood like a man facing execution. “You’re kind of scary,” he muttered.

“I’m not scary,” she said, adjusting his collar. “I’m just French and disappointed.”

Max leaned against the counter, watching with mild amusement as Lando was wrangled into place. Emilie was adjusting the tie like she’d done it a thousand times, completely unfazed by the 5 feet, 6 inches of confused British man blinking at her.

Lando stood frozen, blinking down at the very pretty girl fixing his tie with the terrifying precision of someone who had made wedding planning a full-contact sport.

“Can I breathe yet?” Lando asked, voice faint.

“When I say you can,” Emilie replied sweetly, stepping back and tilting his chin. “Fashion is pain,” Emilie said sweetly, patting his cheek. “Suffer with dignity.”

“I’m… scared of her,” Lando muttered to Max once she turned away.

“You should be,” Max replied, utterly unbothered.

“Okay,” Emilie said, spinning on her heel, “who’s next—”

Her eyes landed on Tom.

Tom, who had attempted to get away with a cravat.

She narrowed her eyes. “What is this? Pride and Prejudice?”

“I was trying to be elegant,” Tom said defensively, one child clinging to each of his legs like barnacles.

“This is Monaco, not Pemberley,” Emilie replied, already reaching into her tote bag like Mary Poppins from hell. “Lose the cravat.” 

Five seconds later, Tom had a new blue tie around his neck. 

Jos, leaning near the counter with a coffee, smirked.

“I’d like to see her try that with me,” he muttered.

Emilie pivoted.

Jos raised a brow.

She raised both.

“Unless you’d like to be mistaken for security and asked to stay outside,” she said coolly, “you’ll put one on.”

There was a pause.

Then—without breaking eye contact—Jos slowly reached for the tie GP handed him with what looked suspiciously like amusement.

“I like her,” he said to no one in particular.

Emilie snapped her fingers at Daniel next. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Daniel asked, grinning. “This tie is excellent. It has tiny cartoon race cars on it!”

“And you are a groomsman not a children’s birthday clown,” Emilie replied. “Change. Now.”

“But—”

“I will burn it,” she said calmly. “I have a lighter in my purse.”

Daniel blinked. “Wow. Okay. Yep. Good. I’ll change.”

Only Oscar and GP escaped unscathed—Oscar because Lily had pre-approved his ensemble, and GP because he was actually a functional adult. 

Emilie gave them a nod of silent approval. “Finally. Men who understand basic dress codes.”

Max was watching all of it from the corner, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest and a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Emilie spotted him.

“You’re next.”

“I already did mine,” Max said, lifting his chin.

Emilie narrowed her eyes, came closer, and tugged gently at the knot. It was fine. Almost perfect.

“It’s crooked.”

He didn’t even argue. Just tilted his chin and let her fix it. She did so with practiced fingers, then stepped back and gave him a once-over.

“You’ll do.”

Max smirked. “High praise.”

“You’re marrying my best friend. You’re lucky I didn’t make you wear the floral pocket square.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Max said, grinning.

Then the apartment stilled.

Because the bedroom door opened.

And Belle stepped out.

Max looked up—and every word left his brain.

She stood there in the soft light of morning, her white dress falling like water around her, the snowdrops tucked into her curls catching the sunlight. Her hands were folded gently in front of her, her eyes finding his across the room.

Max didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The chaos of the morning vanished.

It was just her.

Standing in the archway in a white dress that somehow managed to be simple and devastating at the same time. Her dark hair was curled and loosely pinned, a few snowdrops tucked gently above her ear. She had one hand loosely holding a bouquet, and the other nervously adjusting her sleeve. Her eyes swept the room, soft and uncertain—

Until they found his.

Max forgot how to breathe.

“Hi,” she said, voice quiet, like it was just for him.

Max swallowed. His throat was suddenly too tight.

He took a slow step forward, then another, like any sudden movement might shatter the moment. When he stopped in front of her, his hands hovered for a second before finally settling on her waist.

“You’re—” He couldn’t finish.

Belle tilted her head. “I’m what?”

Max blinked, and his eyes burned. He hadn’t expected that.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You’re so—”

She smiled, soft and real and a little shy.

“Max,” she said gently, reaching up to brush her fingers against his jaw. “Breathe.”

“I can’t,” he admitted, voice cracking. “You look like a dream I’d never let myself have.”

Belle’s smile faltered—just for a second—then turned into something deeper. Warmer. Her eyes shimmered.

Daniel, somewhere behind them, sniffled. “Okay, I take it back. This is romantic enough to ruin my day.”

“Shut up, Daniel,” Oscar muttered.

But Max didn’t hear any of it.

He only saw her.

The girl who’d stood in a Ferrari garage on her birthday and been forgotten. The woman who’d cried in his arms and still said yes. The one person who saw him fully and never once turned away.

And now she was standing in his kitchen—in their kitchen—in a white dress and snowdrops.

Looking at him like he was home.

“Ready?” she whispered.

Max nodded, his hands tightening gently on her waist.

“More than ever.”

And when he kissed her—just once, careful not to smudge her lipstick—the whole room exhaled with them.

They had a wedding to get to.

But for that moment, they were already everything.

***

Belle had walked into a hundred government buildings before. Cold hallways. Beige walls. Bored clerks behind scratched counters. Monaco’s city hall should have felt the same—official, impersonal, municipal.

But today?

It felt like walking into a cathedral.

This wasn’t the wedding she had imagined as a little girl.

There was no aisle of flowers. No choir. No dramatic gown or fanfare or chandeliers. Her mother wasn’t there. Neither were her brothers. There were no headlines.

And still—it was perfect.

This was hers.

This was theirs.

Small. Quiet. Real.

She squeezed Max’s hands. He squeezed back.

And as the officiant began to speak, Belle felt a slow warmth fill her from the inside out.

You’re not invisible anymore, she told herself. You never were. Not to him.

And in that moment, under the soft light and quiet vows and steady eyes of the only man she’d ever trusted with her whole heart—

Isabelle Leclerc became Belle Verstappen.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t need the world to notice.

She had everything she needed right in front of her.

She hadn’t written anything down for the vows.

There was a version of Belle that would have. That would’ve planned every word, practiced every pause, agonized over saying it all just right.

But not today.

Because nothing about Max had ever needed performance.

The officiant nodded to her gently. “Belle?”

She took a breath. And then another. Max didn’t rush her. He just waited—hands in hers, thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles, grounding her.

“I don’t think I ever believed love could be soft,” she said quietly. “Not the kind that lasts. I thought it had to be earned. Proved. Negotiated into place.”

Her voice wavered. Max didn’t blink.

“I spent so much time being the one who remembered everyone. Who carried everything quietly. And I think I started to believe that was the best I could hope for. That if I was useful enough, maybe I’d be loved in return.”

She looked up, eyes shining.

“And then I met you,” Belle continued. “And you didn’t ask me to perform. You didn’t ask me to be anything but exactly who I already was. You saw me. Even when I didn’t want to be seen. Especially then.”

Her voice shook, just a little. Max’s thumb brushed across her knuckles.

“I’ve spent so much of my life holding other people’s pieces,” she said, “but you—Max—you were the first person who held mine. Quietly. Gently. Steadily. You never tried to fix me. You just stayed.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she let it. Didn’t wipe it away.

“So I promise to stay, too. To be soft where the world is hard. To be the quiet when everything gets too loud. To love you in the way you’ve always deserved but never asked for.”

And when she smiled, Max smiled back—like the sun had finally come up.

The officiant nodded to him.

“Max?”

He exhaled, but didn’t look away from her. He lifted her hands to his lips first, kissed them gently, and held them between them like they were the only steady thing in the world.

“I don’t remember the moment I fell in love with you,” he said softly. “It just happened, like a breath you take…quietly and then all at once.”

Belle’s breath caught. He held her gaze, steady and unwavering.

“I never thought I’d be lucky enough to love someone like you,” he said softly. “Someone who sees through everything. Who remembers the smallest things and never asks for credit. Who holds the weight of the world and still has room to make me feel like I’m home.”

His voice cracked then.

“You are not invisible. Not to me. You never were. I see you, Belle. Every version. Every scar. Every soft edge you try to tuck away. And I love you for all of it.”

Belle’s lips trembled.

Max’s thumb brushed along her hand again.

“I promise to hold you, every day. To never let you feel alone in a room full of people again. I promise to be your quiet, your home, your person. Forever.”

There wasn’t a sound in the room. Not a breath. Even the officiant cleared his throat like he needed a second.

Belle didn’t speak.

She just leaned forward—slow and sure—and pressed her forehead to Max’s.

And everything else fell away.

Her hands were still in his. Her forehead was resting against Max’s. Her heart was loud—but steady.

She could feel his breath on her cheek. The way his thumbs brushed hers. How he didn’t look away. How he never did.

The officiant’s voice was calm, warm. “Do you, Max Emilian Verstappen, take Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” Max said instantly. No hesitation. No breath between.

“And do you,  Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc, take Max Emilian Verstappen to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” she whispered, and it was the easiest truth she’d ever spoken.

The officiant smiled.

“Then by the authority vested in me by the Principality of Monaco, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

A pause.

“You may kiss—”

But Max didn’t wait.

He kissed her the second the words left the officiant’s mouth.

It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was grounding. Fierce. Like he’d been holding his breath for a lifetime and could finally exhale.

Belle kissed him back just as hard, hands in his hair, heart pounding.

There were cheers. Scattered applause. Laughter.

And then—

“NOW!” Daniel’s voice rang out from the back like a commander on a battlefield.

Belle broke the kiss just in time to see it:

A blur of chaos. Daniel and Oscar  tossing flower petals like overenthusiastic flower girls, flinging them directly at them. 

Belle let out a laugh so sudden it startled even her. Max was still holding her hand, laughing softly too, eyes never leaving her.

“Seriously?” he murmured under his breath.

“This was always going to happen,” Belle replied, grinning.

Victoria was crying. Sophie was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief Jos was blinking suspiciously fast. 

And Emilie?Emilie was smiling so big Belle’s heart almost burst.

Belle looked back at Max—her husband. Her husband—and felt something settle in her chest.

This was hers.

Messy. Soft. Completely perfect.

And just beginning.

Max leaned down again, kissed her forehead. “Mrs. Verstappen,” he said, voice low and thrilled and a little overwhelmed.

She smiled up at him. “Mr. Verstappen.”

And Belle had never, ever felt so seen.

***

Belle hadn’t stepped into Overture in over a year.

It still looked the same—tucked into a quiet side street just off Port Hercule, all pale stone and soft wood, sunlight spilling through ivy-wrapped windows. There were no banners. No “Congratulations” signs. No garish floral arches.

Just one long table set under a canopy of olive branches in the back courtyard, decorated in quiet whites and soft greens. Candles flickered in the breeze. Snowdrops—snowdrops, in May—were tucked into every napkin ring.

Belle turned to Emilie, who only raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t ask how. I threatened a florist and bribed an importer.”

“You’re terrifying,” Belle whispered, blinking back tears.

“You’re worth it,” Emilie replied.

Laughter echoed as guests filtered into the courtyard. Daniel declared he would be in charge of pouring champagne. Lando was trying to fit three cameras into one discreet corner. Jos already had a drink in hand and was engaged in a deeply serious conversation with Oscar, who looked vaguely terrified. Lily and Sophie had settled into a side table with quiet smiles and quiet tears.

Their table filled slowly—Victoria easing into a seat with a dramatic sigh, her hand protectively on her bump, Tom at her side, two rambunctious boys wrecking havoc. Emilie adjusted every flower and napkin with military precision. Someone had even tied the cats’ names onto little placeholders even though they were obviously not present.

They toasted with champagne and laughed until they couldn’t breathe.

There was no DJ. No cake tower. No press outside.

Just a warm breeze. Clinking glasses. The people who had shown up.

Midway through lunch, Daniel stood abruptly, champagne flute in hand. “To Max and Belle,” he grinned. “May your love be as steady as GP’s voice in Max’s ear, and as dramatic as Oscar trying to parallel park.”

Oscar, mid-bite, choked.

Belle laughed so hard she had to put her fork down.

And then, as the laughter died down, GP stood. Slowly. Unassumingly. Everyone quieted with the kind of instinctive respect only earned by someone who rarely asked for the room.

GP cleared his throat, glancing briefly toward Belle, then Max.

“I’m not one for speeches,” he said, hands loosely folded, gaze sweeping the table. “But I’ve watched Max for a long time. Through wins and losses. Through fire and fury and everything in between. And I’ve never seen him more certain. More grounded. More… at peace, than when he looks at you, Belle.”

She looked down, blinking fast. Max took her hand under the table.

GP’s voice softened. “So thank you. For being that peace. For loving him the way he didn’t even know he needed. You make him better, Belle. But not because you ask him to change. You make him better by seeing him. Fully. And somehow, without ever stepping onto the track, you’ve become the most important part of our team.”

He lifted his glass. “To you both. For reminding us that there’s strength in stillness, and love in the quiet corners.”

Belle blinked fast, lips parted, chest aching in the best way.

Max reached over, tangled their fingers together under the table.

The meal ended with a cake—simple, white, laced with raspberry and white chocolate. Belle stared at it, already emotional, as Emilie leaned over and whispered smugly, “Don’t cry. You’re wearing mascara.”

“I hate you,” Belle whispered.

“You love me.”

Belle reached over and took her hand, eyes shining. “I do. I really, really do. Thank you for all of this. For… everything. You gave me the kind of day I didn’t know I was allowed to want.”

Emilie’s expression softened. “You deserved it. All of it.”

This wasn’t the wedding Belle had once imagined—the ballroom, the crowd, the spectacle.

It was better.

It was quiet, and full of laughter. It smelled like eucalyptus and honey. It tasted like home.

And most importantly: it felt like love.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, and Kimi Räikkönen)

Lando: 👀

[sends: 5 stunning, sun-drenched wedding photos from Monaco city hall. Max in a dark suit, Belle in a soft white dress, snowdrops in her hair] ❤️💍

Lewis: wait. wait. WHAT?

George: Lando Norris what the hell is this

Carlos: wait wait wait is that— IS THAT BELLE??? AND MAX?!?

Alex: THOSE ARE WEDDING PHOTOS REAL WEDDING PHOTOS WITH FLOWERS AND RINGS AND A WHOLE EMILIE IN THE BACKGROUND??

Mark: Holy shit they did it.

George: WHO TOOK THESE?? THESE ARE VOGUE-LEVEL

Fernando: Monaco’s lighting really is superior.

David: YOU DID NOT JUST POST THAT

Nico H:  Lando WHAT

George: I— IS THAT MAX?! IS THAT BELLE?! IS THIS—THE WEDDING???

Daniel: ICONIC UNHINGED NO NOTES

Lewis: That’s the softest chaos I’ve ever seen. Also: beautiful. Congratulations to them both ❤️

Sebastian: That’s what love should look like. Simple. Fierce. True. Charles is going to set something on fire when he finds out.

Mark:  He’s going to kill Max. Actually. Kill him.

David Coulthard:  What are the odds we have to physically restrain Charles on sight

Nico R: Charles has not seen this yet, has he?

Carlos: …Charles is actually going to try and murder Max.

Nico R.: I give it 48 hours before Charles makes it about himself.

Nico H.: With his bare hands.

Sebastian: I’ll visit Max in prison. Bring snacks.

Lando: do you think if we just… don’t answer his calls… we can delay this

Kimi: Congrats. Cake looks good.

Lando: in conclusion: love won (also please someone hide me)

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/SpottedInMonaco: Saw Oscar Piastri and Lily Zneimer leaving Monaco city hall earlier today. Suit. Dress. Smiling. That wasn’t a casual brunch outfit, I’m just saying.

@/GridGossip: I BEG YOUR PARDON.

@/TifosiTears: oscar piastri getting married and not telling us would be the most oscar piastri move of all time

@/mclarenmoments: DO NOT JOKE ABOUT THIS. I AM FRAGILE.

@/NicolePiastri: OSCAR. OSCAR JACK PIASTRI.

If you got married today and didn’t tell your MOTHER, I swear to GOD—

@/NicolePiastri: Do you think I don’t have Twitter alerts? Do you think I wouldn’t FIND OUT???

@/NicolePiastri: TEXT. ME. RIGHT. NOW.

@/OscarPiastri: Hi Mum. Deep breaths. I did not get married.

@/NicolePiastri: Are you SURE?

@/OscarPiastri: Very sure. I was just a guest. Completely unmarried and ringless.

@/NicolePiastri: Then WHY were you at city hall in MONACO??

@/OscarPiastri: Because people get married and sometimes I get invited!

@/NicolePiastri: Noted. But if you actually do get married without telling me, I will start a podcast called "My Son Got Married Without Me."

@/OscarPiastri: Duly noted.

@/PitLaneParanoia: Okay but if it wasn’t Oscar’s wedding… then whose was it???

@/gridshenanigans: WAIT. Wait wait wait. What if it was Lando’s wedding???

@/McLarenSpy: He has been weirdly quiet since the win in Miami…

@/chaoticpaddock: IMAGINE if Lando Norris just casually got married and let everyone spiral about Oscar instead.

***

Stream Transcript: Lando Norris & Max Fewtrell

Lando: (leans back in his chair, stretching) “Okay, chat, before you all start spamming—yes, I saw the Twitter stuff. Yes, I was at Monaco City Hall. No, I didn’t get married. You can all calm down.”

Chat:YOU GOT MARRIED?! WHO WAS IT THENOSCAR OR LANDOOOOOWHAT DO YOU MEAN "NO" STOP LYING TO US NORRIS

Max Fewtrell: (joining the stream, headphones askew) “Wait, wait, wait. Back up. What did I just walk into?”

Lando: (grinning way too hard) “Twitter thinks I got married.”

Max F: “...Did you???”

Lando: (sputtering) “What?! No! No, mate—God—why would I—? No!”

Max Fewtrell: (squints at him through the screen) “You’re acting weird. That’s exactly what someone who secretly got married would say.”

Lando: (waving his hands) “I was just at the city hall, okay? I was a guest. I brought my camera. That’s it.”

Chat:"JUST A GUEST" SUUUREHE’S FREAKING OUT OMGLANDO WHO WAS ITWHY ARE YOU SO SHADY

Max Fewtrell: “Wait… was it Oscar?”

Lando: (visibly sweating) “I—NO—it wasn’t Oscar. He was also a guest! He brought… macarons. Like a very elegant little wedding guest. And he wore a suit!”

Max Fewtrell: (laughs) “So if it wasn’t you or Oscar… who got married?”

Lando: (looks directly at camera, then away, then back again) “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Max Fewtrell: “Oh my God. It was someone! You little cryptid! You’re hiding something!”

Lando (visibly flustered): I WAS A GUEST. I HAD A TIE. THAT’S IT.

Max F: You’ve never worn a tie willingly in your life.

Lando: (panicking, adjusting his headset) “I’m just saying… maybe some people like their privacy, alright? Not everyone wants a big flashy wedding. Some people like… small things. Quiet things. With like… flowers and—”

Max Fewtrell: “Mate, you’re digging a hole. You might as well tell us.”

Lando: (points at camera) “Nope. I’m loyal. I’ve been sworn to secrecy. That’s it. That’s all I’m saying.”

Max Fewtrell: “Sworn to secrecy means it was someone! Confirmed! Chat, we’re getting somewhere.”

Lando: (leans forward, whispers into mic dramatically) “Chat, if I mysteriously disappear after this stream… I was never here.”

Chat: RIP LANDOHE’S GOING TO BE TAKEN OUT BY THE WEDDING MAFIATHIS IS BETTER THAN DRIVE TO SURVIVEFREE HIM

Max Fewtrell: “So to summarize: Oscar did not get married. Lando did not get married. But someone did. And Lando is freaking out.”

Lando: (facepalming) “Why did I open my mouth.”

Max Fewtrell: “Because you love chaos. That’s why.”

White Horse - Chapter 17: May 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Alexandra didn’t mean to become an investigator.

It wasn’t like she’d shown up to the Monaco GP Qualifying with a magnifying glass and a corkboard. But when you’d been dating Charles Leclerc long enough—and surviving his family dynamics even longer—you learned to pay attention. To the tone. To the silences. To the details no one else saw.

Which was why, as she sipped her matcha in the shaded calm of the Paddock Lounge, Alexandra looked across the table at Carmen Montero Mundt and said, without preamble:

“I think Isabelle has a boyfriend.”

Carmen snorted. “What?”

“I’m serious,” Alexandra said, leveling her with a look. “She has a Chanel bag and a new bracelet. And she isn’t flinching when her brothers snap at her these days.” 

Carmen blinked, clearly caught off guard. “That’s… quite a list.”

“She’s glowing,” Alexandra continued. “Like, actual glowy skin, soft hair, new moisturizer who this kind of glow. And she’s started saying no to her brothers. You don’t wake up one day and grow a spine for no reason. Something changed.”

Carmen laughed, a little too loudly. “Okay, okay. I mean… that’s crazy, though. Right? Isabelle? Dating? In this paddock?” She waved a hand. “Wild idea.”

Alexandra narrowed her eyes.

Carmen looked away.

“You know something,” Alexandra said flatly.

“What? No. I just—”

“Carmen.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m being supportive.”

“You’re squirming,” Alexandra said, setting her cup down. “You know something.”

Carmen opened her mouth. Closed it. Fiddled with her sleeve.

“If I did know something,” she said carefully, “Charles would absolutely not be allowed to know.”

That was confirmation enough.

Alexandra leaned back, lips twitching. “Oh my God.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Carmen said quickly, holding up her hands.

“You just did,” Alexandra whispered, eyes wide. “She’s seeing someone. She is.”

“I never confirmed that,” Carmen insisted, eyes darting. “This is purely hypothetical.”

“But you said Charles can’t know,” Alexandra replied, voice low. “Which means it’s someone Charles would hate. So. Let’s play a game.”

“No games,” Carmen said immediately.

Alexandra smiled sweetly. “Is it Lando?”

Carmen visibly short-circuited.

Carmen choked on her coffee. “What? No!”

Alexandra narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Lando is—no. No. Absolutely not.”

“Is it Lando?!” Alexandra repeated, scandalized. “Oh my god.”

Carmen clutched her water bottle like it might save her. “Alex, I’m begging you—I didn’t say it was Lando!”

Alexandra’s brain was already spinning. “Wait. It’s someone in the paddock, isn’t it?”

Carmen made a noise that could’ve been a cough or a plea.

Alexandra gasped. “It’s someone in the paddock. You just confirmed it!”

“No I didn’t.”

“You totally did.”

“I absolutely didn’t.”

“You’re panicking, which means I’m right.”

Carmen buried her face in her hands. “I hate you.”

Alexandra grinned. “You love me.”

“I will never survive Charles finding out.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell him.”

Carmen peeked through her fingers. “You won’t?”

“No,” Alexandra said, a little too gleefully. “Because I want to figure it out myself. And then I want to sit front row for the chaos when Charles does find out.”

Carmen groaned. “You’re evil.”

Alexandra took a victorious sip of matcha. “Isabelle has clearly been holding out on us.”

She glanced across the paddock, just in time to catch a glimpse of Isabelle—composed, chic, wearing that ridiculous bracelet that no one on her salary bought herself—speaking calmly to a Ferrari engineer.

Alexandra smiled.

Game on.

***

Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, painting golden streaks across the navy-blue sheets. The faint hum of the city below filtered through the open balcony doors, mingling with the distant sound of waves hitting the rocks. The air smelled like salt, fresh linens, and a hint of Max’s cologne lingering on the pillows.

Isabelle stirred, shifting slightly beneath the covers. Before she could open her eyes, a warm hand slid over her waist, pulling her back against a familiar chest.

“Stay,” Max mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

She smiled, settling against him. “We have to get up soon.”

Max let out a low hum, nuzzling into the back of her neck. “Later.”

She turned in his arms, finally opening her eyes to find him watching her with that soft, drowsy expression he only ever wore in the mornings. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, and there was a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looked at her like he had nowhere else to be, like nothing in the world mattered but her.

His lips curved into a slow grin. “Happy birthday, Schatje.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. “Thank you.”

Max propped himself up on his elbow and reached over to the nightstand, grabbing a small, velvet box. “I know you said no gifts until tomorrow, but…” He handed it to her. “I want you to have this today.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow but took the box, flipping it open. Inside, a pair of delicate diamond studs glimmered in the morning light. Simple, timeless—exactly her style.

Her throat tightened.

“Max,” she whispered, brushing her fingers over one.

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Your real present comes tomorrow,” he promised. “But I wanted you to have something for today, too.”

She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. “I love them.”

Max grinned, looking satisfied with himself, before rolling over her to reach for his phone. “We have time before we leave. Do you want scrambled eggs?”

She laughed, pushing at his chest. “You just want an excuse to make a mess in the kitchen.”

“I would never.”

She let him pull her out of bed anyway.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: 🕯️ I have lit the ceremonial birthday candle 🎂 You have officially survived another year of Leclerc-related nonsense 🪩 Proud of you, love you, and am mentally blowing up balloons in your honour.  (Also: do not lift a single finger today. Your brothers are on their own.)

Isabelle: It’s 6am. But thank you 🖤

Emilie: You’re welcome. Now go eat something sugary and dramatic and let Max spoil you.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria:  Happy birthday, Belle 💛 Victoria:   The boys made you a card—well, Luka drew a race car and Lio ate half a crayon, but it’s heartfelt. 💛 Victoria:   There’s cake waiting when you come up next ❤️We miss you.

Isabelle: Thank you, Vic ❤️ Tell the boys I love them. And I accept race cars with open arms.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie: Happy Birthday, Belle! I know the day will be loud, but I hope someone takes a quiet moment just for you. You are thoughtful, steady, and stronger than you think. And you are so very loved.  Thank you for everything you’ve brought into Max’s life. Into ours.  We’re lucky to have you.

Isabelle: Thank you, Sophie. That means more than I can say.

Sophie: No need to say it. Just know.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Oscar Piastri

Oscar: Happy birthday, Belle! Lily says I have to include emojis so: 🎉🎂🧁💐 Thanks for adopting me into Monaco and teaching me how to not get run over by mopeds. (And how to find the best cheese…and saving my back from that couch.)

Isabelle: Thank you, Oscar 🧡 You were an excellent Monaco adoptee. Very teachable. Solid cheese instincts. 10/10 dodging reflexes. Good Luck today!

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Lando Norris

Lando: happy birthday, belle!! i was going to say something cool and poetic but i’m not awake enough for that. you’re a legend even when you scare me a little. (in a good way.)

Isabelle: thank you, lando 🧡 You’re not so bad yourself—even when you’re making that face you make mid-qualy. Legend recognizes legend. Appreciate you. Good Luck today!

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Lily Zneimer

Lily: 🎉🎂 HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY TO MONACO’S MOST UNDERAPPRECIATED GEM 💄👑 I hope today is full of peace, good coffee, and zero passive-aggressive family drama. (But just in case—it’s me. I’m your escape plan. Say the word, and we’re disappearing into McLaren hospitality with iced matchas and moral superiority.)

Isabelle: You had me at iced matcha and moral superiority. I’ll find you if the walls start closing in. Thank you, lily. Truly.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Daniel Ricciardo

Daniel: 🎈🎂 BELLE DAY!!! 🎂🎈

The only person I trust to emotionally manage Max Verstappen. Hope someone brings you flowers. And maybe a pony. If they don’t, I will personally cause a scene.

Isabelle: Thank you, Dan🩵 If a pony appears on my balcony, i’ll know who to blame. 

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Lewis Hamilton

Lewis: Happy birthday, Belle. I hope someone reminds you today how deeply you’re appreciated—not just for what you do, but for who you are. Thank you for keeping half the grid emotionally intact. Sending love. 

Isabelle: Thank you! Sending love right back. Good Luck today! ***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Gianpiero Lambiase

GP: Happy Birthday, Belle. Hope today brings you at least half the peace you bring Max. (And maybe a cupcake that isn’t from a sponsor.)

Isabelle: You saying that means more than a dozen cupcakes. (Though, for the record, I am on the lookout for a non-sponsored one.) Thank you 🩵

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Jos Verstappen

Jos: Happy birthday, Belle.

Isabelle: Thank you 🩵

***

The garage was buzzing already.

Ferrari reds were everywhere—technicians checking monitors, Charles pacing with purpose, Arthur trying to look official in his headset like he wasn’t a nervous wreck. Pascale stood just outside the garage in heels that defied logic, talking animatedly to a photographer. Lorenzo was in full PR mode, coordinating something Belle didn’t want to know about.

It was chaos. Familiar, electric chaos.

No one had said anything.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even Arthur’s usual teasing “how does it feel to be ancient?” that she half-dreaded every year.

She didn’t know why she’d expected anything different. The race had swallowed them whole—Charles was starting on pole in Monaco. Nothing else existed. Not today.

Belle stood off to the side, near the rows of tire blankets, half watching the team run through final checks. Her arms were crossed loosely, her Ferrari pass swinging gently at her hip. She was calm. Mostly.

No one looked at Belle.

Not one person.

Not even the Ferrari comms girl who usually remembered these things and handed out team cupcakes with candles and Instagram captions.

Belle didn’t say a word about it.

She stood near the tire warmers, half-watching the screens, arms folded in her red windbreaker like she belonged—like she wasn’t a little hollow around the edges.

She didn’t need much. A nod. A quiet “happy birthday” from someone who shared her blood. 

She wasn’t a child. But she wasn’t made of stone, either.

“Belle,” came a voice from behind her, low and steady.

She turned. Carlos.

He was already in his suit, helmet in his hands, gloves off. His brows furrowed as he stepped a little closer, angled out of earshot from the others.

“Did they really all forget?” he asked quietly.

Belle gave a noncommittal shrug. “Race day. Everyone’s focused.”

Carlos looked unimpressed. “You’re Charles’ sister. You’re part of this team.”

“Not when he’s on pole at Monaco,” she said, her voice smooth. Not bitter. Not angry. Just… flat.

Carlos hesitated. “I could say something.”

Belle looked up at him, her eyes steady. “Please don’t.”

Carlos turned to face her more fully. “Belle—”

“I mean it,” she cut in gently, but firmly. “Don’t tell them. I don’t want a pity cupcake rushed from hospitality at the last minute. I don’t want a half-hearted ‘Oh my god, I forgot!’ over Charles’ shoulder after he wins Monaco.”

Carlos clenched his jaw, visibly holding back the urge to argue.

Belle folded her arms. “Let them forget. At least then it’s honest.”

“That’s not how it should be.”

“I know,” she said, softly. “But it’s how it is.”

Carlos looked at her for a long moment. 

A beat passed between them—quiet, unsaid, respectful.

Then Carlos exhaled, stepping back. “Feliz cumpleaños, Belle.”

“Gracias, Carlos.”

And just like that, he rejoined the team, already putting on his gloves, focus shifting toward the grid.

Belle didn’t move for a long time.

The noise swelled again. Charles laughed somewhere in the distance. Her mother was likely telling a cameraman how proud she was. Ferrari staff bustled past her, not one making eye contact.

Belle stayed silent.

She didn’t want fanfare. She didn’t need attention. But what she did want—to be remembered, without being the one to remind them—was clearly too much today.

So she folded her arms, stared at the screen, and reminded herself it was almost over.

And next year, she’d spend her birthday somewhere quiet. Somewhere far away from red walls and cheers that weren’t for her.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso and Kimi Räikkönen)

Carlos: we have a situation.

it’s belle’s birthday.

and her entire family has forgotten.

including ferrari.

including CHARLES.

it is 20 minutes to lights out and not. one. word.

Oscar: I’m going to throw something.

George: You’re kidding. Please say you’re kidding.

Carlos: do i look like i’m joking?? she’s just standing there. like nothing’s wrong. like she’s not quietly dying inside.

Lando: okay well now i’m dying inside

Alex: I feel physically ill

Daniel: WHAT EXCUSE ME???

Lewis: You’re joking Please tell me you’re joking

Carlos: no. I asked her. no one said anything. not a text. not even a joke. not even her own mother.

Lando: is this a new low?? is this the actual lowest the Leclercs have ever gone??

Daniel: I’m in a race suit and I want to cry. WHAT DO WE DO??

Oscar: We should tell Max, right? Like. Surely he should know??

Carlos: If we tell Max he’ll cause a scene.

George: He would literally buy out all of Cartier Monaco mid-race and hand-deliver it to her at parc fermé.

Fernando: Do not underestimate that man. 

Lando: we’re going to hell for this but do we… see how long it takes before someone notices?

Lewis: We don’t tell them. We watch and we wait. Let’s see how long it takes them to remember without her saying a word.

Mark: Ten bucks says they still won’t realise by the time Charles gets to the podium.

David: Make it twenty. I’ll double it if their mother starts crying and still doesn’t remember.

Alex: Yes. I want data. I want timestamps.

Daniel: I want Ferrari’s social team to panic at 8pm when they realise they posted five shots of Charles and zero birthday wishes for the sister in their garage.

Sebastian Vettel: We’ll make it up to her later. But let them feel this silence.

Carlos: She said not to tell them. she said—and I quote—“I don’t want a pity cupcake.”

Oscar: I respect her so much it hurts

George: She’s the most composed person I’ve ever met And they just… forgot

Nico H.: This is going to haunt me until I die

Alex: We need to do something. Like now.

Sebastian: Tell her we remember. That we care. Also—flowers. Immediately.

Mark: Seconded. No one ignores that girl on her birthday.

Nico R.: Are we sending a coordinated surprise or staging an intervention?

Oscar: What’s our over/under on how long it takes for Charles to realise

Alex: If he wins: never.  If he DNFs: thirty seconds

Fernando: Either way, he’ll make it about himself

***

Text Messages: Carlos Sainz Jr. & Max Verstappen

Carlos: I know it’s race day. But I need to tell you something.

Max: Is Belle okay?

Carlos: She’s fine. She’s… not saying anything. Her entire family forgot her birthday. 

Max: …What?

Carlos: No one said a word. Not Charles. Not her mother. Even Ferrari didn’t acknowledge it.

Max: You’re sure?

Carlos: I asked her. She shrugged it off. Said not to say anything. Said she didn’t want a “pity cupcake.” She’s just standing in the garage. Alone. Like she’s used to it.

Max: I’m going to kill someone. I swear to god.

Carlos: She said let them forget. She meant it.

Max: I can’t just do nothing.

Carlos: I didn’t say do nothing. I said let them do nothing.

Carlos: You do what you do best. You show up for her.

Max: I always do.

Carlos: I know. I just thought you should know before she pretends it didn’t matter.

Max: Thanks. I owe you.

Carlos: You don’t. But I’ll take beer.

Max: Done.

***

Max’s helmet rested against his hip like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

The garage was loud—buzzing with the usual tension of Monaco race day. The sound of compressed air guns, the low thrum of engines firing in intervals, the blur of pit wall calls and tire heat readings. But he barely registered it.

His whole body hummed with fury.

Not at Ferrari. Not at Charles.

Not even at the race.

At them.

Her family.

Carlos had texted him in a quiet moment, just minutes before Max was supposed to get in the car. He’d said it carefully, like someone diffusing a live wire.

She’s fine, he’d said. Her entire family forgot her birthday. 

Max hadn’t spoken for a full fifteen seconds.

Not even Charles. Not Arthur. Not Lorenzo. Not her mother.

Not the people who called her sweet when she baked for them. Not the team that draped her in red when it suited their image. Not the brother whose name she still defended in interviews, whose wins she supported even when her own milestones went ignored.

Max should’ve expected it.

He had expected it, in a cynical, detached sort of way. He’d seen the patterns—how easily they forgot her. How quickly they looked through her. Belle had always been the quiet background to their spotlight. The steady one. The peacemaker. The girl who remembered everyone else’s birthdays.

But this?

On her birthday?

On the day Charles was starting from pole in Monaco—his home race, his fairy tale, his childhood dream teetering on the edge of reality—they couldn’t spare a moment to remember her.

Not even Arthur’s usual teasing. Not a cupcake. Not a card from Maman. Not a stupid “Happy Birthday” badge from Ferrari’s comms team.

Nothing.

She hadn’t said a word. She never did. She was standing in that garage—arms folded, expression unreadable, surrounded by people in red who didn’t see her at all. Like she was just a shadow of the name stitched into their driver’s suit.

Max hadn’t seen her yet. But he didn’t need to.

He felt it.

He always felt it when she was hurting.

He turned slowly, trying to quiet the storm behind his ribs, and found GP near the telemetry monitors.

“GP,” he said, low and tight.

GP looked up immediately, blinking at the look on Max’s face. “You okay?”

“No,” Max said. “But I’ll deal with it. I just needed to say it out loud.”

“Say what?”

“They forgot her birthday,” Max said. “All of them.”

GP went still.

“Her brothers. Her mother. Ferrari. All of them. Not a text. Not a smile. Nothing.”

GP swore softly.

“She told Carlos not to say anything,” Max added, jaw clenched. “Didn’t want a ‘pity cupcake.’”

GP didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Max exhaled hard. “And Charles is about to win Monaco.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

Because he couldn’t even bring himself to feel bitter about that—not really. Charles had worked for it. Earned it. Fought tooth and nail for years to cross this particular finish line. But the fact that his win would be the reason Belle went unnoticed? That the whole paddock would celebrate while she stood quietly in the shadows?

It made Max’s skin itch with something close to rage.

He hated them for it.

He hated how easily they took her for granted. How they smiled when she made their lives easier and then left her to disappear behind the noise.

And he hated that this would become a story Belle told herself—proof she wasn’t worth remembering. That her soft presence, her quiet kindness, her constant steadiness, somehow made her forgettable.

She wasn’t.

Not to Max.

Never to Max.

“I’m going to finish this race,” he said quietly, voice like steel.

GP met his eyes and nodded. “Yeah. I know you are.”

“And after that, I’m taking her home.”

“Good.”

Max didn’t move for a beat. He stared at the garage wall across from him, past the chaos of prep and the blinking monitors, and thought of her.

He thought of the way she still smiled at her family like she was proud of them.

He thought of the way she folded into his arms like it was the only place she was ever allowed to fall apart.

He thought of how easy it would be to make today better. To remember what they didn’t. To hold her hand and say, I see you. I always see you.

He pulled his helmet on.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1HistoryMaker: HE DID IT. HE FINALLY DID IT. CHARLES LECLERC WINS HIS HOME GRAND PRIX.

@/MonacoMagic16: I’M CRYING, YOU’RE CRYING, THE ENTIRE PRINCIPALITY OF MONACO IS CRYING.

@/RedFlagged: Ferrari actually didn’t ruin his race. Miracles do happen.

@/​​PitLaneProphet: Charles Leclerc winning Monaco is like a fairy tale finally getting its happy ending.

@/ScuderiaSimp: Charles crying, his team crying, the whole of Monaco crying, me crying in my living room—this is cinema.

@/RacingRoyalty: Not to be that person, but isn’t it also Isabelle Leclerc’s birthday today? Like… what a day for their family.

↳ @/F1Detective: So Charles wins Monaco on his sister’s birthday? This man really said, “Happy birthday, Isabelle, here’s the greatest achievement of my career.”

@/MonacoMonarch: Not to be dramatic, but I think the entire country of Monaco is going to declare today a national holiday.

@/ScuderiaFaithful: CHARLES LECLERC. MONACO GRAND PRIX WINNER. WE WAITED. WE SUFFERED. WE PRAYED. AND FINALLY, IT HAPPENED.

@/FerrariTifosi: Ferrari finally gave Charles a functional strategy in Monaco. I need a moment.

@/ScuderiaForever: CHARLES LECLERC WINS MONACO. I AM SCREAMING. I AM CRYING. I AM KISSING THE STREETS OF MONTE CARLO.

@/F1StatsGuy: Charles Leclerc becomes the first Monegasque driver to win the Monaco Grand Prix in 93 years. And all it took was years of heartbreak.

***

When Charles crossed the finish line, the world broke open around her.

The Ferrari garage erupted—screaming, fists in the air, champagne already being shaken loose from the back fridges. There were hugs, backslaps, high-pitched shouting in Italian. Team radios buzzed and clicked, Charles’ voice half-choked with emotion as he screamed in disbelief over the comms.

He’d done it.

 He’d won Monaco.

His home. His heartbreak. His ghost track.

And Belle was happy.

 Genuinely, undeniably happy for him.

She stood in the shadow of the celebration, just out of the camera frame, tucked near the telemetry screens with her arms loosely folded across her chest. Her lips were curved in something like a smile, her eyes glassy but bright. She clapped when the others clapped. She even let herself cheer when the Ferrari engineers surged forward like a wave.

She watched Arthur leap into Charles’ arms. Watched Pascale cry and kiss both her sons like the world had ended and been reborn in red and gold. Lorenzo filmed the moment on his phone with the focus of a man who would post it ten seconds later. The garage was shaking with joy.

And no one looked at Belle.

Not even once.

No passing “Happy birthday.” No late realization. No elbow nudge from Arthur, no cheek kiss from their mother. Not even the Ferrari comms girl with her clipboard full of media notes and scheduled shoutouts.

Nothing.

She didn't even know why she was still waiting. She should've known. She did know. But hope was funny that way—it always showed up, uninvited.

The hollowness wasn’t sharp. Just heavy. Just tired.

She felt it most when she watched Charles climb the fence to his team, red gloves in the air, face split in triumph. She felt it when the anthem played and the grandstands sang with him. She felt it in every photo she wasn’t in, every cheer she smiled through, every red flare that lit up the sky without once glancing her way.

It wasn’t malice. Just absence.

And Belle knew absence better than most.

Carlos found her at some point in the swirl of it all. He didn’t say anything. Just passed her a bottle of water, stood beside her for a while like a silent sentinel. She didn’t speak either. He didn’t need her to.

Later, when they followed the team up toward parc fermé, someone handed her a headset and someone else ushered her toward the group photo. She stood on the end. Smiled. Did her part. She had practice, after all.

She caught Charles’ eye once—just once—as he grinned like the world was finally giving him what he’d fought so long for.

After the photo, Belle quietly stepped away. Back into the shadows of the paddock. Back to silence.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t sigh. She just… breathed. Steadily.

She was proud of him. She really, truly was.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

***

Instagram Story: @/isabelleleclerc

***

He was waiting for her that evening. After the race…after the celebrations…she had texted him that she was on her way home…and he had come downstairs to wait in the lobby of the building they lived in…

He knew something was wrong the moment she stepped into the elevator with him and the doors closed. 

Belle didn’t move like herself.

She was too still. Folded in. Shoulders curled inward like she was trying to disappear into the seams of her own body. Her hands were clutched in the sleeves of her windbreaker. Ferrari Red. Worn over a cream coloured ress. 

She didn’t look at him—not when the doors opened, not when they slid shut. Just stood there blinking, like she wasn’t crying yet, but would be. Soon.

Max—who knew every version of her—recognized this one.

This was Belle when she’d given too much and received nothing back. When she’d swallowed every hurt and pretended it was fine until the silence pressed against her ribs.

She was unraveling. Quietly. Completely.

“Hi,” he said softly. Like a rope thrown out to sea. “I knew you’d leave early.”

She didn’t answer.

She took one small step forward.

Her knees buckled.

He caught her before gravity could.

She fell into his chest like the air had left her lungs. Her hands clutched at his hoodie—white-knuckled, shaking. Her face buried itself just beneath his collarbone. Her breath hitched, shallow and sharp. Not sobbing. Not yet.

But he felt it coming.

And God, he wanted to kill someone for it.

“They forgot,” she whispered.

Max closed his eyes.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

“All of them. Maman. Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo. Even Ferrari.” Her voice caught on the name. “Not even a text. Not even a joke.”

His jaw tightened until it hurt.

Max wanted to scream. He wanted to take every single person who called themselves her family and demand how they could stand beside her and not see her. Not notice the way she always noticed them. How she remembered birthdays, anniversaries, meaningless preferences about milk and Spotify playlists.

Belle held the whole damn family together like an invisible thread. And they’d looked straight through her.

“They looked through me,” Belle whispered, her voice breaking completely now. “Like I wasn’t even there. Like I was just… invisible.”

Max wrapped his arms around her like armor.

“You’re not invisible,” he said fiercely, pressing his mouth to her hair. “You’re everything. And I see you, Belle. I always see you.”

She made a sound then—small and broken—and the dam burst.

She sobbed like it had been building all day. Her whole body shook against his. The kind of grief that wasn’t about one thing but all of it—every quiet dismissal, every missed moment, every time she’d made herself small so someone else could shine.

Max didn’t speak. Just held her. Let her cry. Let her fall apart the way no one had ever given her permission to do before.

By the time they reached their floor, her legs barely worked.

Max carried her inside.

He didn’t ask if she was hungry. Didn’t ask if she wanted to talk.

He filled the bath instead. Lit candles. Got her out of her Ferrari red windbreaker and the cream dress she had worn and into the water, slow and careful, like she might shatter if he moved too fast.

He washed her hair in silence. Brushed it back from her face. Whispered her name and little nothings—soft words meant to ground her, not fix her.

Belle didn’t say anything more.

She just curled into him, damp and shivering in one of his old Red Bull shirts, and shut down completely.

He got her into bed. Tucked the duvet around her like a shield. Slipped in behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, face pressed to the back of her neck. The cats climbed up and curled against her legs—silent, instinctive.

She didn’t move. Barely breathed.

But slowly, eventually, her breathing steadied. Like maybe the worst had passed. Or maybe she just couldn’t carry it anymore.

Max lay there, wide awake, rage blooming quiet and white-hot behind his ribs.

He thought of the garage. Of Charles laughing, soaked in champagne. Of Pascale gushing to a camera crew, pride sparkling in her eyes. Of Arthur pretending to be important in a headset and Lorenzo posing for photos.

Not one of them had seen her.

She’d stood there, right there, in her red jacket and her quiet grace and her heartbreak—and not one of them remembered.

Max hated them in that moment. All of them.

They didn’t deserve the version of Belle they so often took for granted.

And in the quiet, he made himself a promise.

They would never get to hurt her like this again.

Not by accident.

 Not by carelessness.

 Not by forgetting the girl who remembered everyone else.

Let them celebrate Charles. Let them flood Instagram with podiums and champagne and family pride.

He would be the one who never forgot her.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso and Kimi Räikkönen)

Carlos:Charles still hasn’t realized.

Oscar: I thought he’d realize when Ferrari posted the celebration gallery.

Lewis: You’re telling me he looked at her IN THE GARAGE on her birthday, won the most emotional race of his life and still didn’t realize she was standing right there and it was her birthday??

Carlos: Yes. That’s what I’m telling you.

Daniel: WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM.

Alex: Everything.

Nico H.: This is the most committed man has ever been to the concept of obliviousness.

Mark: I think he deserves a prize for this.

Sebastian: A slap is a prize now?

Fernando: We should start a timer. See how long it takes him.

Lewis: We already are. George made a spreadsheet.

George: Currently it’s at around 16 hours. 

Oscar: Should we… drop hints?

Carlos: Belle doesn’t want pity cupcakes. Remember?

David: What happens if he remembers a week late?

Lando: We release the tapes.

Alex: There are tapes???

Lando: There are always tapes.

Nico R.: How do we not tell him?

George: Because now it’s a scientific experiment and also a moral failing.

Sebastian: Also because if he finds out now, it’ll be a dramatic guilt spiral and Belle will have to comfort him and she deserves better.

Mark: Can we send her flowers anonymously again?

Sebastian: Already handled.

Oscar: We should send her a plaque. “Survived the Monaco GP and her entire family’s emotional incompetence.”

Lando: New merch idea???

David: I want in on that.

Kimi: this chat is insane

Daniel: That’s rich coming from you.

Kimi: tell leclerc he’s an asshole.

Carlos: She told me not to.

George: So we do nothing.

Oscar: Except passive-aggressively track it like the disappointed siblings she deserves.

***

Belle woke up in the quiet.

The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the early sea breeze. The city was still sleeping off champagne and street rubber. And Max… Max hadn’t moved.

He was lying beside her, still in the same hoodie he’d held her in last night, one arm curled protectively around her waist like he’d never once let go.

Her eyes were dry. Her throat sore. Her chest hollow.

But she wasn’t crying anymore.

Belle just felt still.

Slowly, she shifted beneath the blankets. Max stirred instantly, his hold softening so she could move, but his eyes opened the second she sat up.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “How do you feel?”

Belle pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them loosely. Her voice came out steady. Too steady.

“I’m done.”

Max blinked. “Done?”

“I don’t want anyone to say anything to them,” she said. “Not yet. Not today.”

“Belle…”

She shook her head. “I want to see how long it takes. How many days pass before someone notices.”

Max sat up beside her, eyes on her face. “That’s going to hurt.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a long pause. The kind where most people would fill the silence with softness or sugar.

But not Max. He just waited.

“They forgot me,” Belle said. “And I think part of me always knew they would, eventually. I just didn’t expect it to be… so easy for them.”

Max’s hand brushed gently down her back. “You don’t have to forgive them.”

“I don’t even want to talk to them,” she said quietly. “Not right now. Not this week. Maybe not ever. I don’t want explanations. I don’t want excuses. I don’t want Charles saying he was too focused or Maman pretending she got the date wrong. I don’t want a retroactive Instagram post or some half-wilted apology bouquet.”

She turned her head and met Max’s eyes.

“I just want silence. Because that’s what they gave me.”

Max nodded once, slow and sure. “Then they get silence.”

She exhaled. Closed her eyes. Rested her cheek against his shoulder.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t bitter. She wasn’t even angry anymore.

She was just done.

She didn’t need to rage. She didn’t need to beg. She didn’t need to remind them why she mattered.

They should’ve known. And now, she was done teaching them how to love her.

The silence stretched again, but it felt easier now. Not so sharp around the edges.

Max stayed still for a moment longer, just letting her lean against him. Letting her breathe. Letting her exist without needing to perform for anyone’s comfort.

Then, he kissed the top of her head and stood.

Belle didn’t ask where he was going. She just stayed curled beneath the duvet, watching him move through the bedroom with quiet purpose.

When she finally followed the smell of something warm and toasty, the kitchen was already glowing with morning light. Monaco’s buildings gleamed gold just beyond the windows, and the sea sparkled like it didn’t know what day it was—or what it had cost her yesterday.

Max was barefoot, still rumpled from sleep, flipping something on the stove with quiet concentration.

Belle leaned against the doorframe. “You’re making pancakes?”

Max glanced over his shoulder. “Kind of,” he said. “You had a rough day. I figured a breakfast that doesn’t ask too much of you was a good idea.”

She blinked. “Pancakes ask nothing of me.”

“Exactly.” He nodded at the table. “Sit. I made tea.”

There were two mugs already waiting. Her favorite blend. A little honey on the side. A tiny bowl of berries that definitely hadn’t come from their fridge.

“Did you go out this morning?” she asked, touched but suspicious.

“I have resources,” Max said, which usually meant “I bullied someone over text until they delivered groceries before sunrise.”

Belle sat.

He placed a plate in front of her a moment later—pancakes with lightly caramelized edges, fresh raspberries (her favourite), and just a touch of powdered sugar. Not fancy. Not showy. But thoughtful.

Just like him.

Max sat across from her, sipping his coffee, watching her with the kind of quiet that meant he didn’t need to talk unless she wanted him to.

They ate in near silence. Belle didn’t finish everything. She didn’t need to. Max didn’t comment on it.

It wasn’t until he stood to rinse the dishes that he finally said, with a little smile tugging at his lips— “So,” he said. “Now that you’ve had coffee and carbs and emotional catharsis…”

Belle raised an eyebrow.

“…do you want your actual birthday surprise?”

She froze.

Max smiled, crooked and careful. “I know yesterday made it hard. And I didn’t want to push. But I have something for you. Well. Two somethings, technically.”

Belle narrowed her eyes. “Two?”

Max stood, offered his hand. “Trust me?”

She didn’t hesitate as she took it. “Always.”

He pulled her to her feet gently, not rushing her, not asking her to smile. Just kissed her knuckles and said, “Put on something comfortable. We’ve got a drive ahead.”

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Max Verstappen

Oscar: Hey. Just wanted to check in on Belle. How’s she doing?

Max: She cried herself to sleep yesterday. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her fall apart like that.

Oscar: Shit.

Max: Yeah.

Oscar: Is she… okay today?

Max: She’s quiet. Said she’s done.

Oscar: Done like…?

Max: She doesn’t want to talk to any of them. Doesn’t want apologies. Doesn’t want excuses. She just wants silence. Said it’s what they gave her, so she’s giving it back.

Oscar: She’s allowed to be done.

Max: Yeah. I’m not going to stop her.

Oscar: You shouldn’t. They don’t deserve her patience.

Max: They never did.

Oscar: Is there anything you need?

Max: No. I’ve got her. Just… make sure people don’t push her. Don’t try to fix it.. She’s drawing the line.

Oscar: Got it. Tell her we’re here if she needs anything.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso and Kimi Räikkönen)

Oscar: Update from Max: Belle cried herself to sleep last night. And this morning she said she’s done with all of them.

George: …Jesus.

Lando: This is actually heartbreaking. I feel physically sick.

Carlos: She didn’t even look sad. That’s the worst part. She looked like someone who expected it.

Daniel: Max must be losing it.

Oscar: He is. But he’s also calm. The kind of calm where you know someone’s promising vengeance in five languages.

Lewis: And she still doesn’t want anyone to say anything to them?

Oscar: Nope. She just wants silence. Said it’s what they gave her, so she’s giving it back.

Alex: I’m going to scream.

George: How long do we think this goes before Charles realizes?

Fernando: Forever.

Mark: Until she is pregnant and married and they notice the child, maybe.

Sebastian: Even then, they’ll probably ask if it’s a friend’s baby.

Lando:  She stood in the garage on her birthday and they all just looked past her. I can’t get over that. 

Alex: And she didn’t say anything. She gave them every chance.

Sebastian: She gave them years of chances.

David: That’s the part I can’t get past. She was right there.

Carlos: I asked her if she wanted me to say something. She said, “At least this way, it’s honest.”

George: She always showed up for them. Every birthday. Every event. Every podium.

Sebastian: And they never noticed when she needed someone to show up for her.

Alex: I hope they feel that silence for a long, long time.

Mark: They will. Max will make sure of it.

***

The drive was short—fifteen minutes, maybe twenty with traffic—but Belle didn’t ask where they were going. She just watched the streets of Monaco blur past the passenger window, the sun bright against the water. Everything shimmered with the afterglow of race day.

The city was still coming down from its high.

Belle, however, was just beginning to breathe again.

When Max pulled onto a narrow road, Belle blinked. She knew the turn. Knew the uneven curve of the gravel path. Her heart tugged hard against her ribs.

“Max,” she whispered, sitting up straighter.

He parked, turned off the engine, and looked at her.

“We’re here,” he said softly.

Her favorite stables—one she had visited countless times over the years. Where she still had her twice weekly riding lessons. 

“Max…”

He just smiled, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Come on.”

She followed him, her steps a little hesitant, excitement bubbling beneath her skin. The barn was already awake with morning energy—horses shifting in their stalls, soft neighs filling the air, the scent of hay and earth grounding her instantly.

And then she saw her.

A grey mare, soft-eyed and dappled silver, resting quietly in the corner of a sun-warmed paddock. She turned as Belle approached—calm, regal, familiar in a way that made Belle’s lungs forget how to work.

It was like looking through time.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Max moved beside her, voice low. “Her name’s Fleur. Short for Blanchefleur. She’s Blanche’s daughter.”

Belle’s knees nearly gave.

“I found her,” Max went on, voice low. “She was in Italy. Pregnant. Due in a couple months. Emilie helped me track her down.”

Belle’s legs went weak. She reached for the fence without thinking, steadying herself with one hand.

Fleur lifted her head and looked straight at her—calm, curious, and somehow impossibly familiar. Those eyes. That stillness. Belle hadn’t realized how much she missed that kind of stillness. The kind that didn’t expect anything from her.

“She looks like her,” Belle whispered. “Her eyes—God. Max…”

Max reached for her hand again. Her fingers trembled when they laced with his.

“I know I can’t bring Blanche back,” he said. “But I thought maybe… you could have a piece of her. And something for the future, too.”

Fleur stepped toward the gate, nosing at the wood gently. Belle lifted her hand without thinking, fingers trembling as she touched soft fur. The tears started behind her eyes, hot and dizzying.

“She’s beautiful,” Belle whispered. “She’s so beautiful.”

“She’s yours,” Max said simply. “Both of them are.”

Belle looked at him, wide-eyed, stunned. “You… bought her?”

Max nodded. “She’s yours. To ride. To keep. To just visit, if that’s what you want. You don’t have to prove anything to her. Or to me. Just be hers. Let her be yours.”

Belle didn’t know what to say. She only knew how it felt—like someone had placed the missing piece of her life back into her hands, quietly, without expectation.

Her throat closed up with emotion. “Max…”

“I know they’ve taken things from you,” Max said, his voice breaking just a little. “Blanche. Your birthday. The way they look through you like you’re air. I can’t give it all back. But I can give you this. Something no one can take away.”

Belle turned fully toward him—and that’s when he moved.

He sank to one knee in the sand, quiet and sure, pulling a small box from his jacket pocket. Her breath hitched.

He looked up at her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted to protect.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Max said softly. “And I want to spend the rest of my life making sure you’re never invisible again. Not for a single moment.”

Belle didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then he opened the box.

A ring. Elegant. Understated. An emerald set in gold—delicate and bold all at once.

She made a sound—barely a breath—and dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands flying to his shoulders, tears spilling freely now.

“Marry me?”

“Yes,” she whispered. 

She pulled him into her arms, face buried in his neck, both of them kneeling in the sand and sunlight and soft smell of hay and horses.

“Yes,” she said again, just to say it.“Yes. Max. Of course, yes.”

Because this time, she wasn’t forgotten. She was chosen.

And Max had made sure of it.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes. Max. Of course, yes.”

***

SYNOPSIS Lando Norris is notorious for being a party boy—a fuck boy, even—with his numerous entanglements, fleeting thrills, and reckless nights. He's never expected to find anyone who could make him want more. But then he spots you—grounded, responsible, and effortlessly captivating—and he realizes he might be in trouble. All it took was one conversation, one exchanged number, and suddenly, the life he’s always known doesn’t seem as fulfilling anymore.

CHAPTERS ᡣ𐭩 One: I Thought I Had Everything, I Was Lonely ᡣ𐭩 Two: Got My Head In The Clouds, Counting All My Stars ᡣ𐭩 Three: Could You Tell Where My Head Was At When You Found Me? ᡣ𐭩 Four: Me And You Went To Hell And Back Just To Find Peace ᡣ𐭩 Epilogue: In My Ears, Said The World Was Ours

Strawberry Season - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she was his plus-one, his accessory, his afterthought. but Lando Norris? he made her laugh before her boyfriend even noticed she’d stopped smiling (6.7k words)

content: sad/comfort, slow burn, he falls first, stuck in bad relationship (non-graphic), mutual pining, mention of fish!

AN: I was having a nostalgic day and suddenly I remembered Shawn Mendes exists. listened to Treat You Better and now boom this was made. big kiss to you all!! don't forget you deserve someone who makes you smile <3

--------------------------------------------------

The Hôtel Hermitage had a way of dressing the evening in silk and scent—amber light dancing off champagne flutes, velvet murmurs weaving between notes of string quartets, the faint hush of the sea just beyond the terrace.

You arrived on your boyfriend's arm, perfectly polished, smelling faintly of oud and confidence. Your gown—a midnight blue silk with delicate beading at the shoulders—glistened like the reflection of stars on still water. He, in a tuxedo he hadn’t even ironed himself, gave you a cursory once-over, the kind usually reserved for window displays or weather forecasts.

"You clean up well. When you try," he remarked, the words soaked in backhanded charm and just enough volume to make the sommelier glance over with subtle disapproval. "Didn’t expect that dress to actually work on you."

Then he kissed your temple like one might stamp a document—detached, obligatory—and peeled off toward a group of men with hedge funds and zero personalities, tossing the comment like a grenade dipped in cologne. He chuckled at his own wit before they even reacted, already anticipating the hollow laughter of men who mistook cruelty for charisma.

You blinked once, twice, then turned on your heel and made for the bar.

"One strawberry martini, please," you said to the bartender, your voice calm and glossy, though your chest felt like it was holding its breath. The bartender gave a subtle nod and began working in quiet sympathy.

You leaned your elbow on the marble and exhaled. Your reflection in the mirrored back wall looked elegant and mildly amused. That, at least, you could live with.

"Your boyfriend’s tux looks like it’s been through customs, dry-cleaned with a rock, and ironed with a shoe."

You turned. The man beside you held a glass of something expensive and looked far too pleased with himself. He was, annoyingly, the kind of handsome that didn’t need to try. Hair—perfectly careless. Smile—dangerously self-aware. The overall vibe? Trouble, tailored in what I assume is Tom Ford.

You laughed, sharp and immediate. "Do you know I spent half the afternoon trying to convince him to iron that shirt? Offered him a steamer. He looked personally victimized by the concept of chores. Hopeless."

He looked delighted. "So this was a collaborative failure. Now I feel bad for mocking it. Sort of."

"Don’t. I made one polite suggestion and he acted like I’d insulted his entire lineage. I refuse to be held responsible for his fashion choices," you said, the corners of your mouth finally giving in to a smile. The knot in your chest loosened just a little—this was the most fun you’d had all evening.

"I can’t tie my own ties," he offered casually. "So really, who am I to talk?"

"What do you do, then? Just let your girlfriend do it for you?"

"No girlfriend, just clip-ons. Or my mate George. He’s so posh he probably learned to tie a bow tie before he could tie his own shoes."

You laughed again, lighter this time. The sound surprised you with how easy it felt.

"Well," you said, "I can't even walk in my So Kates for an hour, so I’m in no position to judge anyone tonight."

His eyebrows lifted like you'd said you walked here barefoot. "That’s borderline inhumane. Those are incredibly uncomfortable, right?"

"Horrible," you admitted, sipping your drink. "But the real perk is that I now have a perfectly valid excuse to leave this party in about thirty minutes."

He tapped his glass against yours. "To noble suffering."

"And men who can’t tie ties."

"Ouch. That was personal."

You grinned, the martini smoothing out something tight in your chest. The conversation rolled along like it had always been waiting for an excuse to begin.

"Lando," he said suddenly, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you, Lando," you replied, taking it, your grip easy, your smile laced with light amusement.

You tilted your head slightly. "I think I recognise you—from the racing, right?"

His brow quirked, caught somewhere between pleased and intrigued. "Guilty."

You sipped your drink, eyes glinting. "Well, it’s easy to remember a face like that."

"In the positive way?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "Please."

His posture straightened just a touch. The smirk didn’t leave his face, but something about it softened at the edges.

"I’ll try not to let that go to my head," he said, a beat late, his voice just a little warmer, his eyes twinkling amused. 

"You already did."

"Unfair. That was disarming. You’re very good at this."

"At what?" you said, feigning innocence.

"Catching me off guard in a way that’s... annoyingly effective."

"I have a talent," you said, sipping your drink.

"You do," he replied, gaze lingering just a second too long before he added, "and you’re very distracting."

You arched a brow. "Good distracting or 'tripped-over-my-own-feet' distracting?"

"Bit of both. Still deciding."

You laughed, shaking your head, the edge of your smile refusing to leave.

And just like that, the night took on a different hue. The room still sparkled, but its edges softened. You talked about Monaco in winter, about awful hotel carpets, about how Lando once tried to cook pasta in a kettle. There were no pauses, no polite silences. It was ridiculous and lovely and utterly unserious.

At some point, your boyfriend reappeared in the distance, laughing too loudly with someone whose blazer had dragons embroidered on the sleeves.

Lando clocked it instantly. "Should I spill something on him? Not on purpose, obviously. But also maybe very much on purpose."

"Tempting," you said.

He set his glass down. "But we’re too elegant for that."

"Allegedly."

The music swelled, a slow turn from something glittering into something that signaled the end of the night.

You sighed and glanced at the crowd. "I should go find him."

Lando leaned against the bar with a smirk. "Are you sure? He gives off strong 'brings up his net worth in casual conversation' energy."

You smirked. "You’re terrible."

"But right."

"No comment."

As you walked away, he called after you, "Next time, I’m bringing backup shoes for you."

You didn’t turn. But your smile stayed with you, long after the violins began their last swell.

…

The paddock terrace buzzed with the sort of energy only Monaco could host—where money didn’t whisper, it practically shouted through linen suits and Hermès bags, and everything smelled faintly of jet fuel and overpriced champagne.

You arrived on your boyfriend’s arm, your heels clicking softly on the polished concrete, your dress catching the breeze in a way that had drawn more than a few glances already. The adrenaline in the air was contagious. You couldn’t help it—you were excited. This was your home turf, after all. Monaco at its absolute peak.

You leaned over slightly, catching your first glimpse of the pit lane just below the terrace’s glass railing. The sound, the scent, the movement—it all made your heart flicker.

“This is amazing,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I can actually feel the vibration of the engines from here.”

Your boyfriend barely glanced up from his phone. “Yeah it’s whatever,” he muttered. “Look—those guys in the corner, that’s who I need to speak to. Go entertain yourself, will you?”

You opened your mouth, but he was already off, striding toward a group of Loro Piana-clad finance types who looked like they’d never broken a sweat in their lives. One of them gave you a cursory glance before turning his attention back to whatever new tax loophole they were dissecting.

Left alone, you drifted toward the edge of the terrace, your fingers lightly brushing the glass. You looked in the distance, taking in the beautiful track. The air that smelled like tyre smoke. Somewhere, a commentator’s voice crackled through loudspeakers.

Then you heard it—cutting through the din like it was aimed just for you.

“Hey, Strawberry!”

You blinked, turned your head.

Down in the pit lane, Lando was looking directly at you, leaning casually against the garage barrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin that bordered on criminal. “Good to see you again!” he called up, already looking far too pleased with himself.

Your smile widened despite yourself.

He pointed upward, voice still carrying. “What? You thought I’d forget your cocktail of choice? Strawberry martini, wasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. A few heads turned to see who he was yelling at. You gave a little wave, pretending not to enjoy the attention.

"Fancy seeing you here."

“You look bored up there!” he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth for dramatic flair. “Wanna come down and see where the fun actually happens?”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.

He motioned toward the stairs behind you. “Come on, Strawberry. I’ll even let you wear the team radio.”

You glanced back toward the terrace. Your boyfriend was still deep in conversation, probably pitching himself like a startup, laughing with one hand in his pocket and the other balancing a drink he hadn’t even offered you.

So, you turned back to Lando—who was now dramatically miming putting on headphones like he was in a music video—and tilted your head like you were still considering it.

"Alright then," you called down. "But if I trip in these heels, I’m blaming you."

"I'll catch you," he yelled back, utterly unfazed. “Or I’ll sue the FIA for putting stairs in a paddock. Either way—worth it.”

You made your way down the metal staircase, the heels clicking like castanets, and by the time you reached the bottom, Lando was already holding out a pair of headphones and an access bracelet with a kind of smug reverence.

“For you, madame,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your official ticket to the chaos.”

You put on the bracelet with a smile, already feeling a little lighter.

“For the record,” he said, holding out the headset, “I don’t offer these to just anyone.”

You took them. “Oh, so I’m special.”

“Undoubtedly.”

You slipped the headphones on as he stepped back, hands in the pockets of his race suit, clearly satisfied.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice a little louder now with the headset in place, “you do this for all the guests who look mildly unimpressed by the view upstairs?”

“No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Just the ones I secretly hope stick around.”

You gave him a look—curious, not skeptical—and he added quickly, “Because you’ve got good race-watching energy. Very calm. Slightly elegant. Makes the garage look better.”

“Right,” you said, clearly amused. “You just want me to make you look cool.”

“Impossible task,” he admitted with a grin. “But I admire your optimism.”

The garage buzzed around you—technicians moving with purpose, radios crackling, tyres getting shuffled like oversized poker chips. And yet, somehow, everything in your little corner felt... light.

“Not gonna lie,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “I like stealing a few quiet minutes when I can.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot during weekends like this I can imagine.”

He glanced at you, thoughtful for a moment, like he wanted to ask something but decided against it. Then his expression shifted back to its usual mischief.

“Want to see something fun?”

You blinked. “Fun in a normal person way, or in a ‘you drive 300km/h for fun’ way?”

“Both,” he said, tilting his head toward the car in the middle of the garage—sleek, low, and absolutely radiating menace. “Come on. Get in. You’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “Earned it how?”

“For surviving the upstairs crowd without launching yourself off the terrace,” he said, already grinning. “Also, I feel like you'd suit it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just want to see me try to climb into that thing in a dress.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, unapologetic. “But I’ll make it look like I’m being a gentleman helping you in. Good for my PR.”

You laughed but still let him offer his hand. His grip was steady, warm, guiding you in with an ease that made the whole moment feel weirdly... natural.

Inside, the cockpit felt surreal—like slipping into another universe. Tight, sharp, oddly comfortable in a way that made you sit up straighter.

You looked up at him. “I feel like I need clearance from air traffic control.”

Lando smirked. “You look good in it.”

You raised a brow. “Is this part of your usual garage tour?” He grinned. “Only the deluxe version. Very limited availability.” 

“Mm-hmm.”

He crouched beside the car, arms resting on the edge, expression suddenly playful. “Alright—race start. Lights out. Whole world watching. What’s your move?”

You pretended to think. “Adjust my lip gloss. Then floor it.”

He burst out laughing. “Unreal. No notes.”

You smiled, settling back slightly in the seat, the hum of the garage around you fading into a softer kind of focus. His eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, making you feel a bit warmer than you would’ve liked to admit. 

“Okay,” you said eventually. “I like your version of fun.”

“Told you.”

Just then, you heard your name.

Lando glanced up behind you, his smile dimming just slightly.

You followed his gaze.

There, at the top of the stairs, your boyfriend had finally noticed. Arms folded. Sunglasses pushed down just enough to show a flicker of something more than irritation. 

You shifted slightly in the seat, your back instinctively straightening, your smile thinning.

“I should probably head back,” you murmured, glancing up again. “Before that turns into a thing.”

Lando’s eyes were still on you.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and smooth. “I kind of like that I get under his skin.”

You gave him a warning look, but your smile gave you away.

“He’s... not great with this sort of thing.”

Lando leaned one arm casually against the car, just close enough that his shoulder brushed the edge of yours. “What sort of thing? Someone actually talking to you? Enjoying you?”

You swallowed. “He’s just protective.”

“He didn’t look all that interested twenty minutes ago.”

You didn’t respond.

Lando straightened up slightly, his grin flickering into something more assured, less teasing. “You don’t have to explain it. But I’m not sorry for this.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, you forgot the tension humming above the pit lane.

You laughed softly. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, grinning.

You climbed out carefully—again with his help, though he tried very hard not to smirk when your heel caught slightly on the floor.

“Thanks for inviting me down,” you said, adjusting your dress.

He nodded. “Anytime. Next time you should stay for the race.”

You paused at that, surprised, amused, and... something else. Then you turned, stepping away, the noise of the pit building back around you.

“Bye, Strawberry!” he called after you, voice light and full of sunshine. “Try not to break hearts on your way up!”

…

The lunch reservation was for 13:00. The cancellation came at 12:52.

“Something came up. Just a quick game at the club. Have to raincheck.”

You stared at the message like it might change if you blinked hard enough. It didn’t. The text sat there on your screen, casual and infuriating, like a shrug in Helvetica.

The maître d’ at the café had already asked if you’d like to be seated twice. You smiled politely, murmured a no thank you, and slipped out before you started feeling more humiliated than hungry.

The sky was unfairly pretty for a bad day—clear and soft, with sunbeams brushing the cobblestones as if Monaco itself had no idea someone had just bailed on you for nine holes and overpriced cigars.

You didn’t want to go home. You weren’t angry, not quite. Just tired in a way that lingered behind your ribs. So, instead, you wandered a few streets over—past a bookstore, a gelato stand, and finally, a small flower shop with wide windows and hydrangeas stacked like frosting.

You paused. Then pushed the door open.

The scent hit you first—green, sweet, almost cold from the water buckets lining the floor. Peonies, roses, lavender, tulips. All in quiet conversation. The florist gave you a gentle bonjour from behind a counter cluttered with ribbon and stems.

You wandered aimlessly. No plan. No occasion. You just needed to feel like something soft could still be held in your hands.

You reached toward a bouquet of pale pink peonies—petals feathered and ruffled, like they were mid-sigh.

“I was hoping you’d go for those.”

You turned—half startled, half already smiling.

Lando was standing in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, a grin threatening the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a zip-up and trainers, casually gorgeous in the way some people just are when they’re not trying.

“I was going to say,” he added, stepping further inside, “you look like someone who could use a bouquet.”

“You following me now?”

He shrugged. “Just happened to be across the street. Monaco’s small and you have a way of catching my eye.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.

Lando stepped past you and plucked the peonies from the bucket like he’d been sent here by divine instruction.

“Don’t,” you started, watching as he pulled out his card.

“I insist,” he said smoothly, not even looking back. “They look like you.”

That made you pause. “Soft and overpriced?”

He smirked. “Chic, delicate, vaguely intimidating… but in a very classy way.”

You huffed a laugh and shook your head as he paid, thanked the florist with a grin that probably earned him three free carnations, and handed the bouquet to you like it was an Olympic medal.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

You looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “I was just trying to walk off a lunch that didn’t happen.”

“Rough day?”

You nodded once.

He hesitated. Then: “Come on. Let me walk you home. Or somewhere. I’m excellent at distracting people.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you busy?”

“Not even a little.”

You stepped outside together, the late sun catching the edge of your bouquet. He fell into step beside you like it was instinct.

“So,” he said, as you turned the corner, “what car would you never be caught dead in?”

You squinted. “Like… ever?”

“Yes. Immediate judgment. Go.”

You thought. “Anything that looks like it was designed by someone who hates joy. Or a Fiat Multipla.”

“Very specific. I respect it.” He nodded solemnly. “For me, it’s the ones with faces. Like, cartoon villain faces. Headlights that judge you.”

You burst out laughing. “What kind of car trauma are you working through?”

“Deep and unresolved,” he said gravely. “I once had a rental that made me feel like it wanted to eat me. Never again.”

The conversation spiraled from there—into ugly rims, hideous spoilers, the tragedy of beige leather interiors. Every few steps, Lando pointed out a car and gave it a nickname. 

"That one’s definitely a Greg. Greg works in insurance and never tips."

You laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that catches you off guard and warms your ribs a little.

And then—your phone buzzed in your bag.

You glanced down. His name lit up the screen.

Lando noticed the pause.

You looked at the call. Then pressed the side button, letting it disappear. You didn’t say anything about it, and he didn’t ask.

But he smiled. Just slightly.

It was the quietest rebellion you’d made in a while. And it felt... right.

A few minutes later, as you reached your street, you slowed.

“This is me.”

He nodded, eyes flicking up toward the front of your building like he was memorising it for later. Or just being nosy. Hard to say.

“Thanks for—well, for all of that,” you said, lifting the peonies slightly.

“Anytime,” he replied, and you believed him.

You turned to go.

“Oh, and hey,” he called, stepping backwards down the street, that familiar grin slipping into place. “If you ever need help judging more terrible cars…”

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it lightly in your direction. You caught it—his number, scribbled on a business card with Lando (flower expert) scrawled beneath in messy handwriting.

“…now you know where to find me,” he finished.

You looked down at the card, then back up.

“I do now,” you said, smiling—soft, amused, and something else you didn’t want to name yet.

And you didn’t look back until your door had closed behind you—and the peonies were already in water. 

…

Your birthday started with a buzz—literally, from your phone. Noon. A text.

Happy bday x

No call. No emoji. No punctuation enthusiasm. Just lowercase indifference and a kiss like a formality. Like he'd done his civic duty and could now go about his day in peace.

By the time your boyfriend actually arrived at the party—a whopping two hours late, no explanation—you were already knee-deep in hugs, flowers, Aperol spritzes, and the cake was nearly finished.

The rooftop was busy. Sun-drenched. Monaco glittered in the background like it knew it was part of the aesthetic. Friends mingled, music hummed, someone had started making mimosas in a blender for reasons no one could quite explain.

And then there was Lando.

He’d arrived on time, casually cool in a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of sunglasses perched in his curls.

You hadn’t expected him to come, not really. But you’d invited him anyway—half as a joke, half because he was one of the only people lately who made things feel lighter. Since the flower shop, you’d been texting—mostly memes, random complaints about ugly cars, and his very intense opinions on croissants. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d started looking forward to his name lighting up your screen more than you should’ve.

So when he appeared with a cheeky smile and a gift bag in tow, you nearly forgot to keep pretending you weren’t waiting for him.

“Hey, birthday girl,” he said, putting the bag on the gift table. “No refunds or returns.”

You grinned. “Perfect. I was just saying how I wanted to make my own life harder today.”

“Glad to contribute.”

Your boyfriend showed up five minutes later.

No apology, no excuse. Just sunglasses, a glance around, and a distracted kiss on the cheek before he handed you an envelope.

Inside was a gift card. For skincare.

“I figured you’d appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for the people around you to hear. “Don’t want an old lady by my side, yeah?”

Someone laughed awkwardly. You didn’t.

You smiled. Thinly. The kind that feels more like a paper cut than anything resembling joy.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, folding the card and tucking it into your bag.

Lando had seen it. The whole thing. He didn’t say anything at first—just sipped his drink, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.

A few minutes later, he drifted close, nudged your elbow lightly, and said, “Mind if I borrow the birthday girl for a sec?”

You blinked. “Sure?”

He led you away from the crowd and toward the quieter corner of the terrace, near the railing. The music faded behind you. The breeze picked up, cool against your neck.

“I really wanted to personally give this before I have to leave.”

He pulled something small from his little gift bag.

A Cartier box.

You looked at him, suddenly cautious. “Lando, what—”

“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t mortgage a yacht or anything.”

He flipped the box open with a little dramatic flair.

Inside: a sleek, elegant watch—timeless and perfectly understated, the metal catching the sunlight just enough to glow. When you looked closer, you spotted it—on the back of the face, engraved in the corner, a tiny strawberry.

You looked back up at him.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets now. “So you know when it’s time to leave,” he said lightly, then winked. “Or when it’s time to stay.”

You laughed, a real one this time, head tipped back just slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I should be offended,” he murmured, carefully fastening the clasp around your wrist. “But you are right.”

“Don’t say anything yet,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “I have a speech.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” He stepped a little closer, enough that you had to tilt your chin just slightly to keep looking at him. “Won’t say it’s well prepared, though.”

You glanced up. “No?”

He shrugged, then looked at you—not performative, just sincere with a glint of trouble behind it. “I figured you already knew. That you’re kind. And bright. And that you maybe make half of Monaco feel slightly boring in comparison.”

Your eyes caught his, something warm pooling between the humour and whatever was quietly rising beneath it.

“But also,” he added, tone shifting back to the familiar grin, “you’ve tolerated me for weeks, so I figured you deserved a prize.”

“Ah,” you said. “So it’s a pity watch.”

“It’s a prestigious pity watch,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, fingers brushing over the charm. “Truly.”

A few friends called your name in the distance, but you didn’t move yet.

When you finally hugged him goodbye, it lingered. A second too long. Not enough to make it obvious—but enough that you both noticed.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hand pressed lightly against your back, and neither of you made a joke this time.

And that’s when it hit you. That soft, uncomfortable, quiet truth slowly creeping up on you.

You didn’t want to go back to the party.

You didn’t want to go back to him.

You just wanted to stay in that warm, safe, ridiculous moment a little longer.

…

It had been one of those dinners where the wine flowed more freely than the conversation, where the seating was all wrong, and the playlist too curated to feel spontaneous. You’d arrived on time, makeup set, dress clinging just right, genuinely hoping the night might turn things around.

He had promised he’d come.

You’d waited. You made polite conversation with strangers. You checked your phone under the table every ten minutes. At 10:14pm, a message finally came.

Running late. Take a cab? x

You stared at it. The ‘x’ annoyed you most—like it could soften the blow. Like it meant anything at this point.

You slipped out quietly, offering the host a graceful excuse. No one really noticed. You walked down the hill alone, heels clicking against wet stone. The rain started halfway to the road—first soft, then persistent, warm but unrelenting.

By the time you reached the corner, you were soaked. Your jacket was thin and decorative. Your hair clung to your cheeks. A cab passed. You raised your hand too late. Another didn’t even slow.

Then headlights curved around the bend.

A sleek black car eased up to the curb, quiet and smug.

The window rolled down.

“Need a ride, Cinderella?”

Lando.

You blinked at him through the rain.

He was in a hoodie, hair damp, wearing Nike slides like he’d rolled straight out of a student flat. His smile was all teeth and trouble, curls damp at the edges, and yet he looked exactly like what you didn’t know you needed.

You exhaled through a laugh. “What are you even doing here?”

“Padel,” he said simply, “with the boys. Charles insisted we needed some cardio. Alex brought protein shakes. It was big.”

You didn’t move.

He nudged the door open from the inside. “Get in. You look like a drenched sad poodle.”

You slid into the passenger seat, wet fabric against warm leather. The door thunked shut, muting the storm instantly.

The cabin smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sweat and jasmine air freshener. It was... comforting.

Lando glanced over. “You alright?”

You nodded, even though the answer was somewhere closer to no.

“Why were you walking?” he asked.

You stared out the window. “My ride bailed on me.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Then, quieter: “Right.”

You could feel the temperature drop half a degree in the silence that followed.

He turned onto a quieter road, headlights sweeping over puddles, rain tapping steadily on the roof.

Then he cleared his throat. “Padel really roughed us all up today.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you professional athletes?”

“Oh, yeah. You’d think we’re all coordinated and elite and whatever,” he waved vaguely with one hand, “but I’ve never seen grown men lose their dignity faster than when we play anything outside of racing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re telling me Charles Leclerc isn’t good at everything?”

“God, no,” Lando said, perking up. “Charles is awful at most sports. He insists though he could’ve been a pro footballer. Brings it up every time he can.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious,” Lando grinned. “He once missed three serves in a row at padel, slammed the racket down, and said, ‘It’s because my reflexes are trained for football.’”

You snorted. “He did not.”

“And then there’s George,” Lando said. “Who, by the way, calls padel ‘cheap tennis for the common folks’ but still never declines an invitation.”

You laughed. “I assume this is the same George that helps you tie your bows?”

“Absolutely.” Lando continued, “And then there is Alex who has the coordination of a baby giraffe. He runs like he’s buffering.”

You were laughing now, fully, warmth curling in your chest.

“So what about you?” you asked, glancing sideways. “How much do you suck?”

“I’d like to think I’m one of the better ones in the group,” he said confidently.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s definitely not true.”

“I’m amazing at everything, especially other sports.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a god at golf,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Elite. Practically unbeatable. Some say Tiger Woods retired just to avoid me.”

“Some say?”

“Me. Just me. But I say it with conviction.”

You grinned, resting your head against the seat, the storm outside softening under the steady purr of the engine.

“You’re good at this,” you said after a pause.

“At what?”

“Distractions.”

He smiled, but didn’t answer.

A few minutes passed like that—quiet, easy, the kind of silence that felt earned. The kind you didn’t want to break.

Then Lando turned off the main road.

You lifted your head. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, flashing you a quick glance. “Don’t worry, I’m not kidnapping you. Yet.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Two turns later, he parked in front of a small café tucked between shuttered boutiques. Soft orange light glowed from the windows. The sign above the door read Clémentine in fading script.

“I need hot chocolate,” he said. “And you, tragically, look like you do too.”

You laughed. “This your secret spot?”

He grinned. “Sort of. George’s girlfriend loves this place. Alex’s girl says it feels like a Wes Anderson film. Charles’s thinks they do the best croissants in Europe—which is wrong, but she’s charming so we let it slide.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So this is… an exclusive tier”

He gave a small, lopsided grin. “Yeah. You’d fit right in.”

You blinked, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

He looked over the roof of the car and winked. “Let’s go, Strawberry.”

…

Inside, the café was quiet and warm, the kind of place that smells like something’s always in the oven. The barista gave Lando a knowing nod.

“Deux chocolats chauds, extra cream, and an extra cookie, please,” he said as you slid into a corner table.

Your dress was still damp at the edges, and your heels had started to pinch, but the chair was soft and the lighting was kind. 

You watched him as he pulled off his hoodie—without a word—he held it out to you across the table.

“You’re shivering,” he said simply.

You hesitated, then slipped it on. It was warm, oversized, and smelled faintly like him—cologne, laundry detergent, and something like orange peel. It pooled around your wrists like it belonged there.

He dropped into the seat across from you, in a plain white t-shirt slightly creased and still damp at the collar. He looked maddeningly effortless. 

When the drinks arrived, he handed yours over carefully, fingers brushing yours as he passed the mug.

“I think you forget how extraordinary you are sometimes,” he said.

No grin. No teasing glint in his eye. Just sincerity, like it had been sitting quietly on his tongue for a while, waiting for the right moment.

You looked at him.

And for a heartbeat too long, the world went still.

Then, gently, you lowered your gaze, your hands tightening around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

Something softened in your chest. Something that hadn’t for weeks.

…

The invitation had come via text, in true Lando fashion.

Hiya there’s this art auction Friday. Charles’s girlfriend’s hosting. Could be fun. Come with? Low pressure, high snacks.

You hadn’t even known Lando liked art, let alone attended charity auctions hosted by the Monaco elite, but the message made you smile. You’d read it twice. Maybe three times.

He followed up, minutes later:

Bring your boyfriend, if he won’t spontaneously combust in a room without talking about stocks.

That was how you ended up on the guest list for a night you weren’t supposed to remember as the one where everything finally snapped.

You didn’t know Alexandra—not really. You’d seen her tagged in posts with Charles, always in Dior or vintage Alaïa, always looking like she’d been drawn rather than born. But the invite felt personal in a way you couldn’t explain. Like Lando had meant for you to have something nice.

You showed up with your boyfriend.

He was already half-distracted before you arrived, scrolling his phone as the car pulled up outside the villa, barely glancing at the curated sculpture garden or the warm lighting glowing out from the glass facade.

“Art shows, what a waste of time and money,” he said, adjusting his watch, not even pretending to be excited about going with you. “Hope I can do some decent networking, make something of my night at least.”

As expected, he made a beeline for the restroom the moment you stepped inside. You hated how much relief washed over you—but deep down, you just didn’t want his sulking to cloud your first impression.

But then—you spotted Lando.

He was standing near the champagne tower, wearing a charcoal jacket with the sleeves half-rolled and a grin like he’d been waiting for you.

He caught your eye and made a show of pretending to squint. “Strawberry?” he said dramatically as you approached. “Wow. Look at you, pretending not to know me in front of the important people.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping you’d stay over there a little longer.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded solemnly. “But then I wouldn’t get to tell you how unreasonably hot you look.”

You gave him a dry smile. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

“And yet, somehow, you keep showing up.”

Just then, a lilting voice cut in—velvety, amused.

“Is this the infamous Strawberry?”

You turned.

She was every bit the Monaco fantasy: Alexandra, in vintage Saint Laurent, hair pinned like a Vogue spread, a glass of champagne in one hand and the quiet confidence of someone who knew every art dealer in the room—and their secrets. And yet, the way she looked at you felt nothing but warm.

“I’ve heard things,” she said, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “Mostly from this one, who dramatically insists he doesn’t talk about you, and then does. A lot.”

You laughed, surprised. “Doesn’t sound like him at all.”

Lando raised his eyebrows in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable slander in my own presence.”

Alexandra gave you an approving once-over, eyes twinkling. “You look incredible, by the way. Please tell me you’re staying for the cocktails after. We have a pianist who’ll play Taylor Swift if you bribe him with compliments or €20.”

“That might be the most compelling reason I’ve ever been given to stay at a party,” you said, grinning.

Alexandra gave you a grin from ear to ear, amused. “I’m really so happy to finally meet you! I can already tell we are going to be great friends! You should meet my dog.”

You smiled. “Oh my god! I would love to!”

“Already regretting introducing you two,” Lando said. “Feels like I’m third wheeling.”

“That’s your own fault, Norris,” Alexandra said, sipping her champagne. “You have been hyping her up for weeks, of course I’m excited.”

You looked at him. “Oh really?”

Lando didn’t even blink. “All good things. Mostly.”

Alexandra raised her eyebrows at you. “He actually tried to be subtle about it. It was cute.”

You bit back a smile. “I can imagine.”

“I’ll come find you later,” Alexandra added, brushing your arm. “Got to make sure Charles hasn’t lost Leo yet. So nice to meet you, lovely!”

She slipped off into the crowd with the grace of someone born to host art auctions and mild chaos.

“She’s my new favourite person,” you said.

“I’m going to pretend that doesn’t hurt,” Lando said. “But only because you look stupidly good tonight.”

He sipped his champagne, eyes back on the crowd like he hadn’t just said something that made your pulse tick strangely in your wrist.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t think of anything clever fast enough.

But the flush in your cheeks said enough.

You gave him a side glance.

…

Laughter drifted lightly through the space, more polite than genuine, the kind of sound bred in auction houses and villas with good acoustics. You let yourself drift for a while, away from the main crush of guests and the low buzz of clinking flutes and unsolicited business pitches.

Lando had disappeared into a conversation across the room—arms folded, half-listening, already looking for an escape route. You wandered along the perimeter, letting your eyes pass over sculpture and canvas, nothing really sticking—until something did.

A Monet.

Not loud. Not the centrepiece of the evening. Just tucked off to the side, quietly luminous. The colour was soft, the light dreamlike, and it hit you all at once—how rare it was to stand still in front of something that didn’t need to impress anyone to be worth something.

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t move either.

And then, out of nowhere, a voice landed at your side.

“You’re not seriously getting emotional over that, are you?”

You blinked once.

Your boyfriend had materialised beside you, the corner of his mouth turned up in that smug, half-bored way he always wore at events that weren’t about him.

“It’s just some smudged garden scene,” he added, barely sparing it a glance. “Looks like the guy couldn’t be bothered to finish it.”

You said nothing.

He chuckled, nudging your elbow like he was letting you in on a joke. “Honestly, my niece brought home something just like this last week—finger paints, but same idea.”

You turned toward him.

And for once, your voice didn’t waiver. “Do you ever get tired?”

He raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being so obnoxious.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I was joking—”

“I know you were not. You just have to be an asshole all the time,” you said, stepping back. “I’m so done with this.”

You handed him your untouched champagne without looking at him again.

And then you walked.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… forward. Certain.

Across the room, Lando caught sight of you. He paused mid-sentence, head tilting ever so slightly, eyes following the clean line of your exit. He didn’t know what had happened. But he knew enough.

And he didn’t see the man behind you calling your name, confusion creeping into frustration, his voice rising in your wake.

…

The days following the gala blurred into a haze of solitude. You hadn't anticipated the weight of ending a relationship that had, for too long, been a source of discomfort rather than joy. Even though it felt like a relief to be free, the fresh perspective you had now gained made looking back on the relationship seemingly harder, being disappointed in yourself for sticking around so long.The walls of your apartment seemed to close in, each corner echoing with memories you'd rather forget.

Then, an unexpected message illuminated your phone screen. It was from Alexandra.

Hii! I know we've only met once, Charles is hosting a yacht party this weekend. I'd love for you to come. It'll be fun, and I think you could use a night out. What do you say?

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Alexandra's warmth was palpable, even through text. The idea of attending a lavish yacht party was daunting, especially solo, but the prospect of genuine company was tempting. Before you could overthink it, you quickly responded you’d be there.

…

The evening of the party arrived with a golden sunset casting its glow over Monaco's harbor. As you approached the yacht, its grandeur was undeniable. Laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of music. Taking a deep breath, you stepped aboard, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you of the fluidity of the moment.

You hadn’t arrived with a dramatic entrance, but you may as well have. There was something in the way you carried yourself—unhurried, unbothered, glowing without trying—that turned heads. The white sundress moved like water around your legs. Your hair was soft, undone. You looked like summer had chosen you personally.

"Hey! You made it!" Alexandra's voice rang out, genuine delight evident as she approached, her embrace warm and reassuring.

She beamed the moment she saw you. “You look like revenge dressed in satin. Come ruin someone's night—in a good way.”

"Thank you! I’m so excited!" you replied, grateful for her presence.

She linked her arm with yours, guiding you through the throng. "Come on, let's get you a drink and introduce you to some people."

So you mingled.

You laughed. You listened. You accepted compliments with a smile that didn’t flicker with doubt this time. The isolation of the past few days had left you sharper, oddly steadier. You hadn’t expected to feel so… grounded. You were alone, technically. But not lonely.

And then—across the deck—you felt it.

Someone watching.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Lando stood near the upper rail, half-leaning into conversation with Charles and George, drink in hand, curls damp like he’d only recently dried off. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive without meaning to be, and he was laughing at something George was saying—until he saw you.

Then he stopped laughing.

His eyes softened. Lit up. Like you’d just stepped out of a dream he wasn’t finished having.

He didn't move immediately. Just watched. And when you finally gave him a smile—small, knowing—he excused himself, barely disguising it.

You turned back to your conversation, heart thudding quietly.

When he reached you, it was casual. Or it would’ve been, if not for the very specific way he looked at you. As if seeing you tonight had knocked the wind out of him slightly.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice easy, but with that familiar edge of amusement.

You tilted your head. “Trying my best. Alexandra told me to come ruin someone’s night tonight.”

Lando’s gaze swept over you, amused. “I’ve got a pretty good candidate.”

You met his look head-on. “You volunteering?”

“I’m begging.”

You took a step closer, just enough. “Careful. I take those kinds of requests seriously.”

His voice dipped. “I was hoping you would.”

You laughed.

He smiled, pleased.

“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said, a little quieter now. “I didn’t want to push.”

“I needed a few days,” you replied honestly. “To unpick a few things.”

Lando nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something more, something gentler, but didn’t want to risk it here.

“Want to see the good part of the boat?” he offered instead, gesturing subtly toward the back. “It’s less busy, better view of the sea.”

“Are you offering a tour or an escape plan?”

“Both,” he said. “But this is not my boat so don’t blame me if we get lost mid-tour.”

You smiled, setting your glass down. “Alright. Lead the way.”

He offered his hand this time. Not his arm. His hand. Like it was only natural you’d take it.

And you did.

…

The further you got from the music and noise, the more the sea became the soundtrack. The laughter and clinking glasses behind you faded into something muted and unimportant. Lando walked beside you—not rushing, not talking. His thumb brushed against yours every few steps, like a quiet question he didn’t need answered yet.

At the stern, it opened up—a wide, quiet deck, low to the water, with just enough light to see but not enough to distract from the stars. The sea lapped gently around the hull. It smelled like salt and sun.

You leaned against the railing, feeling the breeze touch your skin. Lando stood beside you, but not too close.

“Nice out here,” you murmured, looking up.

He glanced over at you. “You suit starlight. That’s unfair.”

You gave him a look. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Absolutely,” he said, eyes warm. “I’ve been holding back for weeks.”

You laughed, quiet and real. He grinned, pleased.

But then, after a second, he sobered. His gaze drifted down, toward the water, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted.

“You look happy,” Lando said lightly, almost teasing. “I almost didn’t recognise you without the polite ‘I’m-fine’ smile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Wow. Go ahead and expose me.”

“I’m serious,” he said, this time softer. “It’s good to see you like this.”

You glanced at him, and for a moment, he didn’t try to dodge the feeling in the air. He looked out at the sea and back again.

“I hated seeing you pretend,” he said finally. “These past few months… at the garage, the brunch, the auction—you were always there, but it felt like part of you was somewhere else. You still smiled, still made jokes, still looked beautiful, but…”

He trailed off. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Just because he meant all of it.

You didn’t speak right away.

“You wanted to throw him in the harbour, didn’t you.”

A beat.

“Every single time,” Lando said, with no apology.

That made you laugh again, but quieter this time. Almost sad.

You looked down at the rail, fingers brushing the edge. “I wasn’t really fooling anyone, was I.”

“You fooled plenty,” he said. “Just not me.”

You looked away for a beat. Then quietly, “I haven’t been unhappy around you, though.”

Lando froze.

When you turned your head back, he was watching you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

“Say that again,” he said, almost joking. Almost.

You smiled, small and real. “You’ve been the exception, Lando. You’ve always felt like... a relief. Like I could let out a breath I never knew I was holding.”

His expression cracked open at the edges—something flickering across it, equal parts surprise and affection.

“I’ve been trying not to say something,” he said eventually, his voice lower now. “But it’s getting... impossible.”

You arched a brow. “To me or to you?”

He looked at you deeply, green eyes soft but with a sparkle. “Me. Definitely me.”

There was a beat of silence, hanging between you like a held breath.

“You just keep making it harder,” he added, almost laughing at himself. “Showing up looking like this. Laughing at my stupid jokes.”

You stared at him. He raised his hands, just slightly.

“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s easy to hide behind that. But I’m not playing with this. I’m not here to push or expect anything you’re not ready for.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I just… I need you to know. I’ve been falling for you since the gala.”

The words didn’t feel rehearsed or dramatic—just honest. And they landed like something you’d been waiting to hear without realising.

You stayed still, listening.

“Since the dress,” he went on, his smile tugging softly at the corner of his mouth. “Since the strawberry drink. Since you made fun of my bow tie.”

You laughed—quiet and barely there. But it was real.

“Since you made me want to stick around,” he added, “even when you were barely looking at me.”

His eyes met yours fully now. “You’re magnetic,” he said, simple as anything. “Warm. Sharp. And really hot even when you look like a drenched puppy.” He exhaled lightly. “And I just… I didn’t want summer to end without you knowing.”

You stepped closer.

Close enough to feel the change in the air, the shift in his breathing.

You placed your hand on his chest, light but certain.

“Lando.”

He didn’t move.

“If I kiss you, is it going to be a problem?”

His answer was immediate, and sure. “No.”

Then, softer. “But only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long, quiet second.

“I do.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it since May. Maybe longer.

And then you kissed him.

Slow, at first. Curious. The kind of kiss that asks before it takes. His hand hovered near your waist, the other brushing your jaw with the gentlest touch—as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted slightly, that control cracked.

His arm wrapped fully around you then, the kiss deepening with a sudden warmth that made your stomach twist. He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks. Like he'd held every grin, every brush of your arm, every stolen look in his chest—and finally let them out all at once.

You felt it in the way his hand slid up your back, in the way his mouth moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm.

When you finally pulled apart, your breath hitched.

His forehead leaned against yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then you smiled, just a little. “So… did I ruin your night after all?”

Lando let out a low, breathless laugh. “You can ruin my life, for all I care.”

He leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

And then he kissed you—like he had nothing left to hold back. Like the wait had been worth it. Like it had always been leading to this.

…

It was the kind of Sunday that felt like a soft breeze. The kind where you woke up to Lando already beside you, hair a mess, voice rough with sleep as he offered to make pancakes—and then promptly convinced you to go out for groceries instead. A domestic detour. A small adventure disguised as an errand. Like you had so many of these past weeks with him.

You hadn’t argued. Not really.

Now, somewhere between the mangoes and the melons in your favourite Carrefour, you were watching Lando shake a pineapple like it had personally offended him.

“That’s not how you check if it’s ripe,” you said, barely holding in a laugh.

He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s not? Then why did that woman on YouTube tell me to do it?”

“You watched a pineapple tutorial?”

“Research is key,” he said, placing it carefully into the cart. “Anyway, I came prepared.”

“You’re such a dork.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You pick the snacks, I’ll handle dinner?”

He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then promptly wandered off to the crisps aisle like a man on a mission.

You lingered in the herb section, still debating parsley versus basil, when a voice behind you slid into your spine like cold water.

“Well. You look good.”

You turned.

He looked the same—your ex. A little too polished, sunglasses indoors, holding a bottle of overpriced green juice that screamed aesthetic punishment.

“Thanks,” you said simply. “I’ve been feeling better.”

It wasn’t petty. Just honest.

He blinked, clearly not expecting honesty.

You were just about to step away when—

“Oh, no. No no no,” Lando groaned from the next aisle, appearing with a look of theatrical dismay. “There’s a full seafood crime scene back there. Half the ocean’s laid out. I’ve never seen so much salmon.”

He stopped short when he saw you. And him.

His entire posture shifted.

He stepped up beside you, one hand sliding effortlessly around your waist, grounding and easy. He didn’t force it. Just filled the space.

“Hi,” Lando said, his tone calm, eyes flicking to the man in front of you. “I’m Lando.”

Your ex gave a tight nod, straightening slightly. “We’ve met.”

Lando’s gaze dipped to the man’s basket—almond milk, snack bars, and two tubs of something suspiciously protein-packed and aggressively vanilla.

“Solid haul,” Lando said, casual. Then, after the smallest pause, “Though I’d go easy on the sugar. Causes hair loss, you know. Wouldn’t want to risk it, considering your current situation.”

He didn’t smile. Just winked. Cheeky enough to pass for humour. Sharp enough to land exactly where it needed to.

Your ex blinked again. Offered no reply. Just turned back toward the juice aisle with the grace of someone trying not to trip over his own ego.

“Lovely to see you,” Lando called politely, already nudging the cart forward—his hand still warm around your waist.

You let him guide you down the aisle, heart flickering with quiet satisfaction.

“Hair loss?” you asked, giggling, once you were out of earshot.

He shrugged, eyes forward, lips twitching. “What? It was observational science.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple. “But I’m yours.”

You laughed, soft and real, tucking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Credit Cards

Pairing: max verstappen x girlfriend!reader

summary: max needs Ollie and Kimi out of his house — so he gives them his credit cards and a vague list

a/n: another fun one to write 😂 also I laughed so hard at this picture of him…

a/n2: ok so this was kinda requested? Imma be honest — I veered wildly of course from the actual request but I hope you like it anyway

a/n3: also a little something for @sinofwriting who saw nothing!

Masterlist | Taglist | Rookie Masterlist

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Private Messages, Max and Ollie/Kimi

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Private Messages, Kimi and Ollie

Bluesky

user1: oh my god this was Ollie???

↳user2: if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes…

↳user1: you’d guess it was Charles’ parking??

↳user2: yeah

user3: omg that’s Ollie?

↳user2: and Kimi!

↳user3: awwww that’s so cute — they’re together in Monaco?

↳user2: yup!

user4: i wonder what brought them out??

↳user5: right? Last I knew they were still holed up with max and y/n

↳user4: for my own peace of mind — I’m saying cravings

↳user5: I love that so much

user6: no blood test needed here…

↳user7: not at all

↳user8: god I hope that’s not actually genetic 😂😂

Private Messages, Ollie and Kimi

Bluesky

user9: no way 🤣🤣

user10: did someone actually buy that many diapers???

user11: this is gonna be my new Roman Empire!

user12: omg I saw this too and I swear to god it was Ollie and Kimi!

↳user13: the drivers??

↳user12: yes!

↳user13: seriously???

user14: if these ARE Ollie and Kimi — that’s hilarious. Do they understand how kids work?

↳user15: I’m guessing not 😂

user16: that’s so many — do you think y/n might be having multiples??

↳user17: we don’t actually know when her due date is…I thought, based on size, it might be soon but it’s possible she’s still early and is just having 2 or 3?

↳user18: this is so horribly invasive?

↳user19: absolutely true! It’s (more) likely that Kimi and Ollie just didn’t know how many diapers to buy

user20: god I wanna know how they’re gonna get them back to their house…

↳user21: OMG that’s such a good point — it’s not fit in their car…

Private Messages, Kimi and Ollie

Bluesky

user22: big same!

↳user23: oh to be so spoiled…

↳user22: I’d love nothing more

user24: that was Ollie!! I saw him coming out of the Chanel store!

↳user25: literally start talking rn

↳user24: nothing much to say honestly — he was following Kimi I guess, who like booked it out of the store, and i managed to get a selfie with Ollie!

↳user24: he said something like they were doing some shopping for baby lion!

↳user25: Stop. That’s so adorable!

user26: are max’s adopted kids shopping for his unborn kid right now??

↳user27: that’s absolutely what it looks like

↳user26: I love that more than i can say

Private Messages, Kimi and Ollie

Bluesky

user28: they’re just little kids really

user29: oh that’s so adorable

user30: I swear I saw them stop for ice cream before they went in the toy store

↳user31: well they’ve apparently been out all day — they need a pick me up 😂

user32: ok but I need to know where max and y/n are? Cause you know our chronically online queen has like alerts to her kids names?

↳user33: that’s a good point!

↳user32: she’s been suspiciously absent so far today…

user34: update! They made a bee-line to the LEGO section of the store and are now sitting on the ground comparing different racing sets

↳user35: hopefully not for the baby! That’s bad

↳user34: I’m gonna go out on a limb and say they’re buying it for themselves — Kimi keeps trying to sneak more and more Mercedes sets into their cart and Ollie is just replaced them with the Ferrari and Haas ones

↳user35: omg 😂😂

user36: ok but how do I die rn and reincarnate as a specific baby??

↳user37: same but im like asking for a friend!

↳user38: im not. I need to know for myself

Private Messages, the Pride

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff @taylorrrrrrrrrrswiftttt @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @anunstablefangirl @evie-119 @sugarfreerbr @princessesgarden @tukes @mayax2o07 @teti-menchon0604 @galaxygurlll @star73807-blog @shelbyteller @ihaveitprinteddout @lilymaleshka @kuolonsyoja @allthings-fandom @mountainshuman @hannahmotors10 @moonypixel @nikfigueiredo @daisydaze111 @deephideoutmilkshake @loveyahachoo @raizelchrysanderoctavius @dying-inside-but-its-classy @mimisweetz @books-fangirl-books @bookishprophecy

64.media.tumblr.com

White Horse - Chapter 17: May 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: Maman’s birthday next week—what’s the plan?

Arthur: Isabelle? You usually handle it.

Isabelle: Not this year.

Lorenzo: Sorry, what?

Arthur: Lol okay, very funny. What’s the plan?

Isabelle: I’m serious. I’m not doing it this year.

Charles: Wait. What do you mean you’re not doing it?

Isabelle: I mean you three can plan it this time. I’m not the family secretary. Not anymore.

Charles: Since when?

Isabelle: Since I realized I’m the only one who ever does it, and you all expect it like it’s a given. I’m not your personal event planner.

Arthur: Okay, but… you like that stuff.

Isabelle: I like when people contribute. I don’t like being taken for granted.

Charles: Whoa.

Arthur: Is this because I forgot to Venmo you for the gift last year?

Isabelle: That was two years ago, Arthur. And you still haven’t.

Lorenzo: This feels aggressive.

Isabelle: It’s not. It’s a boundary.

Charles: Okay but can’t you set it… after Maman’s birthday?

Arthur: Yeah. This is really inconvenient.

Isabelle: It’s not supposed to be convenient for you.

Charles: I don’t like this version of you.

Belle: I don’t like being the only adult in the room. So I guess we’re even.

Arthur: So you’re really not doing anything?

Isabelle: I am getting flowers from all of us. I am ordering the cake. I am doing my own gift for Maman. If you three want to do a joint gift, you can do that, but I am not planning it. One of you can book the restaurant.   

Lorenzo: This feels like a test.

Isabelle: It’s not. But you’re definitely failing it.

Charles: I feel emotionally manipulated.

Lorenzo: I feel abandoned.

Arthur: I miss the old Isabelle. The one who covered for us.

Isabelle: I don’t. She was a doormat. ***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: Okay so we still don’t have a gift for Maman and Isabelle is being stubborn.

Charles: She said “boundaries.” Since when does she have boundaries?

Lorenzo: She said she’s not helping. She meant it.

Arthur: This feels personal.

Charles: I feel abandoned. I feel like I’ve been emotionally left on read.

Lorenzo: We should’ve started this earlier.

Arthur: We always start this last-minute and it’s fine because Isabelle does everything.

Charles: She’s so good at it though. She likes organizing things.

Lorenzo: We need to be strategic. What would Isabelle get?

Arthur: Peace. Quiet. 

Charles: So a spa day?

Lorenzo: We’re not sending our mother to the spa again. She’s starting to think we believe she’s stressed.

Arthur: She is stressed. We exist.

Charles: I had an idea last night. What about a puppy?

Lorenzo: Absolutely not.

Arthur: What if we just… get her a necklace? Generic. Safe. Shiny.

Charles: No creativity. She’ll know we panicked.

Lorenzo: We are panicking.

Arthur: You know what would solve this? If Isabelle told us what to do.

Arthur:  I feel like a neglected plant.

Charles: I feel like the plant someone gave Isabelle to water, and now she’s like “it’s not my plant.”

Arthur: Cool cool cool. So we’re getting Maman a plant and pretending we planned it?

Lorenzo: ...We’re hopeless.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Charles Leclerc

Charles: Okay but hear me out: What about a pottery class for her and her friends?

Isabelle: Charles it’s 2am

Isabelle: Go to sleep.

Isabelle: Maman doesn’t even like pottery. 

Charles: How about a goat?

Isabelle: A what?

Charles: A goat. Like a cute little goat. They’re trendy right now.

Isabelle: She lives in an apartment, Charles.

Charles: A small goat.

Isabelle: No.

Charles: You said I had to contribute. This is me contributing.

Isabelle: This is you spiraling.

Charles: Okay but this looks nice right?? (sends link)

Isabelle: That is a garden gnome wine holder, Charles. 

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon and Nico Hulkenberg)

Oscar: HE DID IT

George: HE ACTUALLY DID IT

Carlos: LAAAAAAAAAANDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Alex: My BOY MY TWITCH STREAMER MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT CHAOTIC SUNBEAM

Daniel: I’M CRYING IN PUBLIC WHO LET HIM BE THIS FAST WHO ALLOWED THIS WHO HANDED HIM A TROPHY AND SAID “YEAH, OKAY”

Lando: guys…

Carlos: YOU’RE HERE? GO POP CHAMPAGNE

Oscar: Put your phone down. Go cry. We’re doing it for you.

Nico H: Congrats, man. Seriously. That was a hell of a drive.

Lewis: Five years. FIVE YEARS. You deserve this.

Daniel: Do we throw him a party? Do we kidnap him and fly to Ibiza?

Alex: Yes. Obviously. We ride at dawn.

Carlos: He’s never allowed to say “I’m not good enough” again. I will slap him.

Lando: Okay okay okay 😭😭 I just… can’t believe it happened I thought I was gonna throw up before the last lap

Daniel: I’m gonna rewatch the podium 14 times. You SMILED. Like, real smiled. Oscar was lowkey crying. Don’t let him lie.

Oscar: I WASN’T …shut up

Lewis: See? You’re loved. You’re really loved.

Sebastian: This is what we call earned joy. Enjoy every second, Lando. I’m so, so happy for you 🧡

Daniel: I’m printing out today’s timing sheet and framing it

Alex: We were on Norris Watch for years. YEARS.

Checo: Congrats, man. You’ve waited a long time for this. Really happy for you.

Nico R: You’ve had the pace for a while. Today you had the moment. Bravo.

Oscar: And now he’s won. And he’s still just a slightly dehydrated raccoon in designer sunglasses

Lando: I can’t even be mad

Kimi: Took you long enough.

George: Okay but do we start placing bets on win #2 now?

Carlos: Let him breathe 😭

Lewis: Enjoy it, mate. Every second. You earned this.

Fernando: It was inevitable. That’s all.

George: Do we throw him a party? I vote party.

Mark: He’s in Miami. The party’s coming to him.

Sebastian: Just don’t let Daniel plan the itinerary.

Daniel: I’M A DELIGHTFUL PARTY PLANNER. I’VE MATURED.

Lewis: No you haven’t.

Alex: Absolutely not.

Oscar: Zero evidence of that.

Lando: I love you guys. Thank you. Seriously

George: We’re gonna get so insufferable about this

Lando:I’m gonna go sob in the shower and then drink a really big coconut

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Lando Norris

Isabelle:  You did it. 🧡

Isabelle: You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know… I’m really, really proud of you.

Isabelle: You earned this. Every second. Every race you stayed calm. Every joke you cracked when you were hurting. Every time you smiled for fans even when you didn’t feel like it. You never gave up. And today? It all paid off.

Lando: …you’re gonna make me cry again and I’ve already cried twice.  that’s my limit for the year

Belle: Sorry 😌 I’ll save the long, emotional voice note for later

Lando: Don’t you dare Actually Do it

Isabelle:  I will. After you finish that coconut

Lando: HOW DO YOU KNOW I’M DRINKING A COCONUT

Belle: Because I know you. And you looked like you were already planning it the second you stepped on the podium

Lando: okay fair thank you, Belle really

Belle: Always. Now go celebrate. I’ll be cheering from here.

Lando: From Monaco?

Belle: From the rooftop. With our cats. They’re proud of you too.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Isabelle Leclerc

Max: Going out with Lando for a bit. Post-win celebration. He earned it.

Isabelle: Aww 🧡 That’s sweet of you. Be nice to him.

Max: I am nice. I’m bringing him shots. That’s nice.

Isabelle: That’s dangerous. Try not to start a bar fight.

Max: Promise. Love you. 

[Monday, Much, Much Later]

Max: BELLE

Max: U R SO PRETTY

Max: LIKE. ACTUALLY. PRETTY PRETTY

Max: U should be here u’d hate it but like also u’d look SO HOT in this lighting

Max: lando said i’m soft now bc i said ur voice is my favorite sound so i punched him in the arm

Max: soft???? bro i’m in love what does he want me to do. deny it???

Max: anyway ur eyes r the best part of monaco u can quote me

Max: i miss u

[Much, Much Later]

Isabelle: Good morning, poetic disaster 💋 How’s the head?

Max: 🥲 Loud. Everything is loud. Why does my soul feel hungover.

Isabelle: Probably because you told me my eyes were the best part of Monaco and then threatened to fight Lando for calling you soft.

Max: …Did I actually type that?

Belle: Verbatim. You also called me “pretty pretty” and claimed I’d look “SO HOT in this lighting.” Capitals included.

Max: I hate myself

Isabelle: Don’t. It was very charming. Drunk and feral, but charming.

Isabelle: You did tell me my voice was your favorite sound.

Max: Okay that one stands. I mean it.

Isabelle: I know you do. Still going to make you suffer for the rest though.

Max: I was vulnerable. Weak. In my tequila era.

Isabelle: You were in love and dramatic. It was kind of perfect.

Max: You still love me?

Isabelle: Soft bro, I’m in love. What do you want me to do, deny it?

Max: 😤 Uncalled for.

Isabelle: Call me when you’re functional. 

Max: You’re too good to me.

Isabelle: I know. I’m Monaco’s best feature, after all.

Max: Can confirm. ***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Isabelle Leclerc

Emilie: Okay so… Question

Isabelle: That’s always a dangerous start.

Emilie: Who is this Lando person And why is everyone crying because he won something

Isabelle: Oh my God. You really don’t know anything about F1, do you?

Emilie: Absolutely not. I know Max drives fast, and you’re too pretty to be emotionally stable, that’s it.

Isabelle: Valid.

Emilie: But seriously. My entire timeline is full of sweaty orange hats and people screaming “HE FINALLY DID IT.” What did he do? Did he climb a mountain? Invent a vaccine?

Isabelle: He won his first Formula 1 Grand Prix. He’s been in F1 for five years. Always came close. Never quite made it.Everyone’s been waiting for this.He’s a good guy. Deserved it.

Emilie: Huh. He’s the guy with the curly hair, right?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the jawbones?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the voice that’s suspiciously hot for someone named Lando?

Isabelle: …Why do you care?

Emilie: I don’t!!

Isabelle: You do. You’ve never asked me about a single driver. Not once. And now you’re googling him like a concerned historian.

Emilie: I’m just… doing research. You know. investigating the cultural phenomenon

Isabelle: Uh-huh. Is this cultural phenomenon wearing a papaya-colored race suit and has curly hair?

Emilie: Fine. He’s cute. He looked happy. The bar is so low.

Isabelle: He is cute. And he should be happy. He’s a good guy.

Emilie: You sound like you’re trying to sell me a family dog.

Isabelle: He’s very sweet! Loyal! Thoughtful! Max calls him chaotic sunshine. I call him emotionally transparent. You’d like him.

Emilie: So a golden retriever.

Isabelle: With slightly better hair.

Emilie: Does he bite?

Isabelle: Only when provoked. Or when Max makes a joke about his height.

Emilie: Hmm.

Isabelle: Oh no.

Emilie: What?

Isabelle: You’re thinking about him.

Emilie: Absolutely not.

Emilie: This is slander.

Isabelle: This is me knowing you better than you know yourself. And I’m telling you: he’s a good one. A little chaotic. But real.

Emilie: He smiled like…like he waited years for this. I noticed that. I hate that I noticed that.

Belle: Yeah. That’s why people cried. It wasn’t just about the win—it was about him. He needed it. And he earned it.

Emilie: …Okay maybe I get the hats now.

Isabelle: Give it three days. You’ll be watching fan edits on TikTok and pretending it’s research. I have been there. 

***

Belle had done what she said she would do—and no more.

She’d ordered the cake. She’d picked up her mother’s favorite flowers that morning: cream roses and blue hydrangeas, wrapped in soft white paper. She’d even arrived early to set them on the table herself, with care, because that was the kind of daughter she was. Or used to be.

Now, she was the kind of daughter who kept her word but stopped letting herself be steamrolled.

Pascale arrived right on time, kissed Belle on both cheeks, and immediately gave the restaurant a once-over.

“This place wasn’t my first choice.”

Belle smiled tightly. “Arthur booked it.”

“Ah. Well.” Her mother’s eyes skimmed the mirrored walls, the packed tables. “At least it’s… clean.”

Belle gestured to the bouquet from all of them, and the beautifully chosen gift bag she had chosen for her gift to her mother. It was a hand painted silk scarf from her mother’s favourite small boutique in Nice.  “Happy birthday, Maman.”

“Oh, thank you, darling.” Pascale barely glanced at them. “How thoughtful. Did you and the boys coordinate?”

“No,” Belle said evenly. “They’re doing their own gifts this year.”

Pascale’s brow twitched. “Oh?”

“I told them weeks ago.”

“Hm.” She lifted the bag without really looking at it. “Just from you?”

“Yes. Just me.”

The rest arrived five to ten minutes late, as if they’d all agreed to stagger themselves and then forgot the timing. Arthur looked panicked, Charles like he was trying too hard not to look panicked, and Lorenzo came with Charlotte in tow, who smiled politely and looked like she already regretted it. Alexandra walked in beside Charles and kissed Pascale on the cheek like a diplomat entering a war zone.

“Happy birthday, Pascale” Alexandra said. “You look wonderful.”

Pascale’s smile returned. “Merci, cherie. You always say the right things.”

“Unlike your sons,” Charlotte muttered under her breath, loud enough for Belle to hear.

Charles sat beside Belle and leaned toward her. “So… I take it the restaurant’s not a hit.”

Belle didn’t even glance at him. “What gave it away? The menu or Maman’s expression?”

As the waiter listed off the specials—every one of them garnished with fennel—Belle watched her mother’s face tighten.

“I thought I said last year I hated fennel,” Pascale said lightly.

Arthur mumbled, “It was the only place with a table.”

Charlotte’s voice was gentle. “It’s a beautiful spot though.”

“Yes,” Pascale said with a tilt of her head. “But not terribly thoughtful. I would’ve preferred a nice picnic at home,” Pascale muttered, opening her menu as though it had personally offended her.

Belle stayed quiet. She wasn’t the one who chose this.

Though the one thing she agreed with: Even the wine tasted horrific in this restaurant. She pushed her white wine glass far away from her, the acidic smell hitting her nose and making her want to scrunch her nose. 

The gifts came next. Or rather, the lack of them.

Arthur had hastily shoved a gift bag onto the table with the receipt still inside. Lorenzo offered wine. 

And Charles? Charles offered nothing but a vague “It’s arriving later, it’s like... experiential.”

“Experiential?” Pascale repeated, arching a brow.

“It’s a class,” Charles added quickly. “Pottery.”

Their mother stared at him like he had sprouted wings. 

“Pottery?!” Pascale asked and Charles swallowed, nodding, looking like he was regretting all his life choices. 

Belle didn’t look up, but Alexandra choked into her water and muttered, “I told you.”

Belle sipped her water.

“Oh,” Pascale continued, “and what’s this?” She picked up the card. “Just from you, Isabelle?”

“Yes,” Belle said simply.

“No group gift this year?”

“I asked everyone to handle their own,” she replied. “I did the flowers and the cake. And the card. That was enough.”

Pascale gave a little hum of amusement. “Well, I suppose you have become very independent lately.”

Belle met her mother’s gaze. “I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.”

“No, no, of course not,” Pascale said, voice breezy. “It’s just… you used to take such pride in pulling everything together. You were always so good at it.”

“That was the problem.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “To be fair, you didn’t exactly help us this year.”

“I told you what I was doing. You just didn’t listen,” Belle said calmly.

“You used to remind us,” Charles mumbled. “You used to care.”

Belle’s jaw twitched. “I still care. I just don’t want to be treated like the family secretary anymore.”

“I think she misses being in control,” Lorenzo muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Charlotte glanced at him, sharp. “Or maybe she’s just tired of being taken advantage of.”

“Exactly,” Alexandra said. “God forbid she set a boundary.”

Pascale, still smiling, turned to Belle. “Cherie, no one’s saying you have to do everything. It’s just… you’re so capable. When you stop doing it, everything falls apart.”

“Maybe that means everyone else should step up,” Belle replied.

Pascale gave a laugh that sounded delicate and dismissive all at once. “Well, clearly no one stepped up today.”

She said it like a joke. Like a shrug. Like it wasn’t her sons who had forgotten, scrambled, improvised. Like it was somehow Belle’s fault for letting them fail.

Belle felt the burn in her chest—not anger, not really. Just exhaustion.

She’d done her part. More than her part. But it would never be enough, because the moment she stopped doing everything, the blame quietly shifted to her.

“You could’ve reminded them,” Pascale said again, softer now. “You know how your brothers are.”

“Yes,” Belle said. “I do.”

“Well,” she said lightly. “I suppose this is what adulthood looks like. Everyone suddenly too busy to remember their mother.”

“I remembered,” Belle said.

“You always do, darling. It’s just that this year… you remembered differently.”

And there it was.

Not cruelty. Not even anger.

Just the kind of soft-edged disappointment Belle had spent most of her life trying to avoid.

The rest of lunch passed in half-hearted conversation and clumsy attempts at jokes. The cake arrived—beautiful, perfect, and, predictably, unacknowledged.

Belle watched her brothers clap, watched her mother blow out the candles, watched it all carry on like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t just been told—kindly, sweetly, carelessly—that she was the glue, and glue isn’t allowed to come undone.

Alexandra leaned closer, her voice low. “You okay?”

Belle forced a smile. “I will be.”

As they all stood to leave, Pascale leaned in and kissed her cheek again.

“Next year, maybe we go back to the usual way. Less… disjointed.”

Belle didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t sure the old way would ever return.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: I survived.

Emilie: Emotionally or just physically?

Isabelle: ...Barely both.

Emilie: How bad?

Isabelle: Let’s just say the cake was perfect and no one noticed. Arthur brought a gift bag with the receipt still inside. Charles gave her a pottery class. A POTTERY CLASS. And Lorenzo recycled a bottle of wine she gave him last year.

Emilie: I’m sorry. Did they try to offer her used wrapping paper too?

Isabelle: Honestly wouldn’t have been surprised. She looked at the card—my card—and asked if it was just from me. Then she said everyone was too busy to remember their mother. I reminded her that I remembered. She said: “You always do, darling. It’s just that this year… you remembered differently.”

Emilie: … Wow. Soft weaponized guilt in its final form.

Isabelle: I’m so tired. I did what I said I would. Flowers. Cake. My own gift. I set boundaries. And it still felt like it was my fault everything else fell apart.

Emilie: That’s because it isn’t about the gifts. It’s about control. You stopped doing everything, and instead of realizing they need to grow up, they decided you were the problem.

Isabelle: She said things “fell apart” because I stopped doing it all. Like it was inevitable.

Emilie: Because no one in your family wants to believe they’re part of the problem. It’s easier to blame the glue than to learn how to hold things together.

Isabelle: I didn’t cry. I thought I would. But I didn’t.

Emilie: That’s not because it didn’t hurt. It’s because you’re exhausted from caring so hard for so long. And you knew exactly how today would go.

Isabelle: Yeah.

Emilie: I’m proud of you, by the way.

Isabelle: For what? Ruining lunch?

Emilie: No. For not letting them pull you back in. You didn’t break your boundary. You kept your head high. You even brought the right cake like a damn queen.

Isabelle: I don’t feel like a queen. I feel like… a disappointed intern who can’t quit because the office is run by her family.

Emilie: Then consider this your resignation letter. Effective immediately. From now on, you only show up to enjoy the cake—not to organize the entire damn bakery.

***

The apartment was unusually quiet.

Max pushed the door open slowly, balancing a paper bag in one hand—her favorite pastries from that little place by the port—and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

“Belle?” he called.

No answer.

He kicked off his shoes and padded through the hallway. Her shoes were by the door, her bag hanging from the hook. She was home. But the lights were still off, the curtains half-drawn.

He stepped into the living room, expecting to find her reading or curled up with her laptop.

Instead, he found her asleep on the couch.

Belle never napped. She was the kind of person who filled silence with tasks, who felt guilty if she rested too long. Her idea of downtime usually involved organizing something or researching a new fabric for a client.

But now?

Now she was curled up in the corner of the couch, one arm tucked under her cheek, her breathing slow and steady. She’d kicked off her heels, and one strap of her dress had slipped slightly down her shoulder. Her brow was furrowed, even in sleep.

And all three cats were piled on top of her.

Jimmy was sprawled across her legs, completely dead weight. Lilly was curled protectively against her stomach, one paw gently resting on her arm. And Sassy—who rarely let anyone touch her—was nestled against her neck, purring like a motor.

Max smiled softly.

The cats knew. Of course they did.

He moved quietly, setting the bag of pastries down on the counter and crouching beside the couch. He didn’t wake her. He just watched her for a moment—her lashes dark against her cheeks, the faint smudge of exhaustion still lingering under her eyes. There was something heartbreakingly small about the way she’d folded in on herself. Like she’d tried to make herself take up less space.

He reached out and gently brushed her hair back behind her ear.

Belle stirred, but didn’t wake. Lilly opened one eye, flicked her tail, and went back to purring.

Max exhaled and whispered, “I’m sorry it was shit.”

She didn’t need to tell him. He’d seen the signs before she left: the tight smile, the perfectly chosen scarf, the way she’d stood just a little too straight. He knew Pascale. He knew her brothers. And he knew the weight Belle carried when they made her feel invisible for having a spine.

He reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over her gently, tucking it in around the cats. Jimmy let out a tiny grunt but didn’t move.

Max kissed her temple. Light. Barely there.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

He sat on the floor beside her, leaning against the couch, and let his hand rest on hers, careful not to disturb the cats. She shifted slightly, her fingers curling instinctively into his.

The apartment stayed quiet, but now it felt full. Safe.

Eventually, Belle would wake up. Eventually, she’d downplay it all, say she was fine, say it wasn’t that bad.

But Max would remember the way she napped in the middle of the day like her body had finally crashed, like she’d had to hold herself together for too long.

***

She woke up slowly.

There was warmth on her legs. Something heavy on her chest. A light pressure on her hand.

For a moment, she didn’t move—just let herself feel the quiet. The absence of expectations. The strange relief of not having to speak.

Then she blinked and registered the familiar weight of Jimmy on her thighs, Lilly tucked into her side, and—

Sassy. On her shoulder. Sassy, who hated everyone except Max and her. 

She turned her head slightly and saw Max sitting on the floor beside the couch, head tilted back against the cushion, his fingers still laced with hers. His thumb stroked over her knuckles slowly, rhythmically, like he’d been doing it the whole time she slept.

“How long have you been there?” she whispered.

His eyes opened. “Long enough to be offended none of the cats chose me.”

Belle gave a weak, sleepy laugh. “You didn’t bring treats.”

“I brought toys last week. I feel that earns me some credit.”

She stretched, only a little, careful not to disturb the cats. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She looked down at their hands. Her voice was quiet when she said, “It was awful.”

Max didn’t respond right away. He waited.

“I knew it would be,” she continued. “I was ready for it. I thought I was. But—” She paused. “It still got to me.”

“Of course it did,” he said gently. “Because you’re not made of stone, no matter how good you are at pretending.”

She swallowed. “She didn’t yell. None of them did. That’s the worst part. Just these… little jabs. Like I ruined things by not doing what I always do.”

He brushed his thumb along the back of her hand again. “Because they don’t want to admit how much they rely on you. It’s easier to pretend you’re being difficult than to admit they’ve taken you for granted.”

“I felt like the villain for saying no.”

“You weren’t,” he said firmly. “You were the only one who showed up the way she deserved.”

“She said I remembered differently.”

“You remembered honestly,” Max said. “And with boundaries. That’s a good thing.”

Belle exhaled slowly. “I hate how tired I am.”

“That’s what happens when you carry everyone else’s expectations for fifteen years.”

She closed her eyes. “I just wanted her to notice. Not the card. Not the scarf. Me.”

Max was silent for a long beat. Then he shifted, stood, and gently sat on the edge of the couch beside her, nudging Jimmy out of the way with minimal protest.

“You know what I noticed?” he asked softly.

Belle looked up at him.

“You walked into that lunch knowing it would suck. You still brought the cake. You still picked out the flowers and got there early and remembered everything that matters. But you also stood your ground. You didn’t shrink. You didn’t apologize for having limits.”

She blinked fast.

Max reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

“You didn’t fail them, Belle. They failed you. And she—she missed the point. But I didn’t.”

She let out a breath that trembled more than she wanted.

Belle reached for him then—slowly, tiredly—and he leaned down so she could rest her forehead against his chest. His arms came around her without hesitation, strong and warm and steady.

And for the first time all day, Belle didn’t feel like she had to hold anything together.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: The horse is here.

Emilie: WAIT WHAT???

Max: She’s perfect. Big eyes. Very soft nose. Looks at me like she knows I have no idea what I’m doing.

Emilie: Oh my god. Congrats! You now own 1.5 sentient drama llamas! I didn’t think you’d pull it off this fast!!

Max: Neither did I. I just nodded and wired the money whenever someone looked at me confused.

Emilie: Bold of you to admit that. How’s Fleur settling in?

Max: Good so far. The stable manager is in love with her. She’s very sweet…very gentle. But listen—can you help me with something?

Emilie: That depends. Do I need a forklift?

Max: No forklifts. But maybe a… horse stylist?

Emilie: ...Max.

Max: I want to get her everything she needs. Feed, brushes, gear, blankets, treats, toys, whatever. But I don’t trust myself not to forget something vital and end up buying her a dog collar by mistake.

Emilie: You think a grooming kit is the same thing as a dog leash???

Max: I bought a horse off emotional impulse, Emilie. Anything’s possible.

Emilie: Fair. Okay. Emergency horse wardrobe coming right up.

Max: You’re a lifesaver.

Emilie: I know. What’s the budget?

Max: No budget.

Emilie: …Max.

Max: Buy her the kind of things you’d buy if you were spoiling a horse for someone you love. Go full chaos. Embroidered halter, custom saddle pads. I don’t care.

Emilie: You just said the words “go full chaos” to me. You realize this is going to spiral.

Max: If the horse ends up with a Swarovski encrusted hoof pick, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Emilie: I’m making a list. She needs turnout rugs. Stable rugs. Lightweight blankets. Fly masks. Brushing boots. Halter. Lead rope. Hay net. Saddle pad. Grooming kit. Oh—and a personalized nameplate. Obviously.

Max: I’m overwhelmed.

Emilie: I haven’t even started color coordination yet.

Max: Color coordination???

Emilie: You think I’m putting Belle’s horse in random mismatched gear like some common gelding??

Max: …No?

Emilie: Good answer.

Max: Make her look like she belongs to someone who loves her.

Emilie: That’s easy. She does.

Max: Also... get something for the foal too. It’s still baking, but I want it to have everything once it shows up.

Emilie: You're going to be the most unhinged horse dad in the south of France.

Max: That’s the goal.

Emilie: Okay. I’ll drop everything and build Fleur’s shopping cart of dreams. Expect a delivery van full of horse nonsense by tomorrow.

Max: Thank you. Seriously. I just want everything to be perfect.

Emilie: It will be. She’s going to lose it. In the best way.

Max: That’s the plan.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Hey. You know about horses, right?

Lando: … Why would I know about horses?

Max: Because your sister and your mum ride. That makes you, like… horse adjacent.

Lando: Max. MAX. Being horse adjacent is not the same as being a horse expert.

Max: Do you know how to tell if a pregnant horse is okay?

Lando: MAX WHAT

Max: I got Belle a horse. Actually two. Well, one horse, and she’s pregnant, so technically 1.5 horses.

Lando: I’m sorry back up- You WHAT? YOU BOUGHT A PREGNANT HORSE???

Max: Yes. For her birthday. It’s the foal of her childhood horse. The horse passed away, but the daughter is alive. So I bought her. Fleur. That’s her name.

Lando: Jesus Christ.

Max: She’s perfect. But she’s in foal and due later this summer and now I’m spiraling.

Lando: Okay okay okay. Deep breaths. Why are you spiraling??

Max: Is it normal for her to not eat as much hay? She was eating like crazy when she arrived and now she’s just… slower. Max:  She seems fine. She’s drinking. She let me pet her today. Max:  But what if she’s not fine and I miss something and the foal is in danger and Belle gets attached and then—

Lando: MAX

Max: WHAT IF I’M A BAD HORSE DAD

Lando: Okay first of all: You are very much not a horse dad. You are a stressed boyfriend with access to wire transfers and too much emotional capacity

Max: Unhelpful.

Lando: Second: Flo and my mum both ride. Hang on, I’ll ask.

(Two minutes pass.)

Lando: Okay. Flo says: “Mares get weird when they’re in late pregnancy. Appetite changes, temperament shifts, they get clingy or distant. As long as she’s drinking water and not acting colicky or in pain, she’s probably fine.”

Max: What does colicky mean?

Lando: Horse tummy ache apparently. Signs: pawing at the ground, lying down and getting up a lot, rolling on her side, not passing gas or poop.

Max: She’s not doing any of that.

Lando: Cool. Then Flo says you can stop freaking out and maybe go touch grass.

Max: I would but I’m watching her through the stall window to make sure she blinks evenly.

Lando: You need a hobby.

Max: This is my hobby now. I’m going to be the best horse dad Monaco’s ever seen.

Lando: You’re terrifying. Flo says you should talk to a vet if you’re this stressed. There are equine pregnancy specialists.

Max: I already booked one. They’re coming Thursday. And I bought her a new salt lick. And a bigger water bucket. And more bedding. Just in case she’s nesting.

Lando: Nest??? You think she’s a raccoon now???

Max: SHE’S CARRYING A TINY HORSE INSIDE HER I DON’T KNOW WHAT SHE NEEDS

Lando: Okay wow. This is actually incredible You’re losing your mind and it’s so pure

Max: She’s not just a horse. She’s Belle’s horse. She’s family now. And her foal will be, too

Lando: Max Verstappen, 3x World Champion, is scared of a pregnant horse.

Max: You don’t understand. If anything happens to that horse, Belle will never recover. And I’ll never forgive myself.

Lando: Okay, I’m texting Flo again. You need like. A Horse Dad Hotline. She’s gonna make a guide. Expect a PDF.

Max: Perfect. I’ll print it. And laminate it.

Lando: You’re completely unhinged and I love it. Belle has no idea what she’s in for, does she?

Max: Nope. But I do. And I’m not screwing this up.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso and Kimi Räikkönen)

Lando: UPDATE. Max has officially entered his next evolutionary stage: Horse Dad

Carlos: what???

George: what do you mean Horse Dad.

Lando: HE TEXTED ME FOR HORSE ADVICE. Apparently  he bought Belle a horse for her birthday next week…and said horse is pregnant. AND NOW HE’S SPIRALING.

Oscar: he bought her a pregnant horse???

Lewis: This man does not know how to do things at 50%.

Alex: Imagine being an unborn foal and your literal horse granddad is Max Verstappen.

Daniel: What was he panicking about ?

Lando: "Is it normal for her to eat less hay?" "She blinked too slowly." "Am I a bad horse dad." "I think she’s nesting." "I bought her a new salt lick just in case."

Oscar: nesting?? she’s a horse not a squirrel??

Sebastian: This is beautiful. I love this for him. And for the horse.

Checo: Didn’t he just buy this horse last week???

Lando: YEP. And he’s already at the stage of “watching her breathe through the stall window like a Victorian widow.”

David: I’m crying. Verstappen, World Champion, afraid of pregnant mare.

Checo: He deserves this stress. This is what happens when you spend 300k on a pregnant horse with no clue what you’re doing.

Mark: That foal is going to be raised like equine royalty.

Fernando: It will be a champion. I can feel it.

Alex: Do NOT let Max hear that. He’ll start building it a trophy shelf.

George: How did we get here

Lando: Anyway I told Flo and my mum and now they’re making him a Horse Dad PDF Guide

Alex: Max Verstappen: Race car driver, emotionally fragile boyfriend, horse dad with laminated charts.

Nico H: I’ve never been more afraid of him

Oscar: I just want to see Belle’s face when she finds out

Lewis: She's going to cry

 And then thank him And then cry again And then probably cry on the horse

Lando: And Max will cry because she’s crying. And the horse will just blink slowly like “why are the loud mammals leaking”

Oscar: i love love.

Fernando: We are watching the evolution of a man.

Daniel: Max Verstappen used to destroy the grid. Now he panics about hay consumption

Sebastian: This is growth.

Sebastian: Should we all send baby gifts for the foal?

Lewis: You mean we’re not already?

Fernando: I have already arranged a custom halter and embroidered blanket.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri

Lando: Okay this might be a stupid question

Oscar: Those are your specialty, go on

Lando: Should we get Belle a birthday gift?

Oscar: Like… us? Together??

Lando: Yeah. Like a joint thing. I don’t know. A friend gift. A “we know your family’s exhausting but we like you” gift.

Oscar: Honestly? I like it. She deserves it. Especially after Max went full Horse Dad™

Lando: Right?? Like, I’m not trying to compete with two horses but like… a little gift?

Oscar: Yeah, yeah. Something thoughtful. Wait—hang on. Lily’s reading this over my shoulder now.

Lily (via Oscar): YES. GET HER SOMETHING. I LOVE HER.

Lando: I mean that tracks. Everyone who meets Belle ends up weirdly attached.

Oscar: Max didn’t even stand a chance

Lily (still hijacking): Ask your sister for horse-related gift ideas!!!

Lando: You mean Flo?

Oscar: Yeah, Lily says she’ll know what would be good for a new horse owner or something cute Belle can use at the stable.

Lily (via Oscar):  Or something for the baby horse!!! They imprint, right??? GET THE FOAL TO IMPRINT ON YOU GUYS.

Lando: I don’t think we can plan imprinting, Lily.

Oscar: She says that sounds like quitter energy.

Lando: Okay but seriously I will text Flo.

Oscar: We could do like… a fancy grooming kit?

Lando: Or like a custom halter for the foal? 

Oscar: That’s actually so cute. What if we get it in Max’s helmet colors?

Lando: STOP I’M EMOTIONAL

Oscar: Lily is now googling “tiny horse birthday hats” so things are escalating. 

Lando: Belle gets Max, two horses, and emotional support F1 drivers

Oscar: Our love language is semi-coordinated panic

Lando: Okay. I’ll ask Flo for ideas. Lily can continue the hat research.

Oscar: She’s already measuring things on the screen. I think we’re locked in.

***

Belle closed her laptop with a soft sigh, the click of the hinge sounding louder than it should’ve. The apartment was calm—Max behind her, drying dishes from dinner—but inside her head, everything felt overfull.

She crossed to the counter, reached for a glass, and filled it slowly at the sink. Her shoulders ached. Her chest felt tight. Not in a dramatic way—just… tired. The kind of tired that curled up somewhere inside and stayed, no matter how many hours of sleep she got.

Max’s voice was gentle, behind her. “You okay?”

She nodded before answering. “I ordered something for Mother’s Day.”

He turned from the cupboard, brow raised. “For your mother?”

Belle hesitated, and that was enough for him to catch it.

“Yes,” she said, carefully. “For Maman. From all of us.”

There was a pause. She could feel his eyes on her even as she kept hers on the water glass.

“From you and your brothers?” Max asked quietly.

Belle nodded again. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

When she glanced back, Max was just watching her. Not angry. Not judgmental. Just… knowing.

“You’re still saving them,” he said.

Belle straightened slightly. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” she repeated, too fast. “I just… I don’t want another disaster. I don’t have the energy for more awkwardness or guilt. I just want it to be done. Clean.”

“You’re the only reason it won’t be a disaster,” Max said softly.

Belle looked down at the water glass. Her hand was trembling slightly. She hadn’t realized.

“I’m just so tired, Max,” she said, and the words came out smaller than she meant them to. Like admitting it made her feel even more fragile.

Max stepped toward her and touched her wrist, grounding her.

“Then why spend what little energy you have on something that only drains you more?”

“Because if I don’t,” she whispered, “Maman will be disappointed. And my brothers will make jokes. And the silence will feel like blame. It’s easier this way.”

“It’s not easier,” Max said. “It’s just more familiar.”

Belle didn’t answer. Her throat felt tight.

Max pulled her gently into his arms, wrapping her in the kind of hug that made everything quiet for a second. Belle leaned into it like someone letting go of something heavy she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

“You don’t have to fix everything to be a good daughter,” he murmured into her hair. “Or a good sister.”

She closed her eyes.

“Don’t remind them,” he added, quietly but firmly.

She pulled back slightly to look up at him. “What?”

“Don’t message the group chat. Don’t nudge them. Don’t drop hints. Let them forget. Let them feel what it’s like when you don’t carry it for them.”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “They’ll blame me.”

“Then let them,” Max said, brushing her hair back from her face. “You don’t owe them your peace.”

“I don’t know if I can ignore it,” she whispered. “It’ll just sit there in my chest like a rock. The whole day.”

“Then I’ll carry it,” he said. “Let me carry it for you.”

Belle’s eyes burned.

“Maybe next year,” she said softly. “Maybe next year I’ll be strong enough not to do it at all.”

Max didn’t push. He just nodded, kissed her temple, and held her tighter.

She didn’t have to say thank you. He already knew.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Happy Mother’s Day, Mama ❤️ Hope you’re relaxing this morning.

Sophie: Thank you, sweetheart 💕 Just had breakfast with Tom & Victoria. Luka made me a card 🥹

Max: He’s a better artist than me already 😂 Your gift should’ve arrived by now. Did it get there?

Sophie: Yes! Just opened it ☺️You didn’t have to get me anything 😌

Max: Yeah, but you deserve it. Spa weekend for you and Vic—Belle helped me pick it. She remembered you mentioned it in passing once.

Sophie: Wait, the place in Provence? With the mineral baths?

Max: That’s the one. Belle remembered the name and everything. She’s… kinda incredible at that.

Sophie: Belle remembered that from months ago?

Max: She remembers everything. She’s scary-good at it.

Sophie:She really is the sweetest. You should’ve booked for three. Belle should come with us.

Max: I suggested it. She said she didn’t want to intrude.

Sophie: She would say that 😤 Tell her I’m demanding she join. It’s non-negotiable.

Max: …You sure? You and Vic don’t want a mother-daughter trip?

Sophie: She is like a daughter to me, Max. And Victoria loves her. You know that.

Max: Okay, okay. I’ll tell her.

Sophie:  I’m adore her. She fits. Like she’s always been here.

Max: Yeah. Feels like that to me too.

Sophie: So bring her over soon. I want to give her a proper hug for this gift. And for looking after you.

Max: I’ll try to drag her away from the horses. 

Sophie: Of course she is. Tell her thank you from me. Truly.

Max: Will do ❤️ Love you.

Sophie: Love you too, Maxie. ***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc & Alexandra Saint Mleux

Charles: Merde. Is it Mother’s Day today???

Alexandra: Yes.

Charles: No one said anything?! Isabelle didn’t remind us this year. She always reminds us.

Alexandra: She’s not your personal assistant, Charles.

Charles: But she knows I forget stuff like this. She usually sends the group chat the schedule with reminders and emoji codes and—

Alexandra: She shouldn’t have to. You’re almost thirty. You should know when Mother’s Day is without your sister hand-holding you through it.

Charles: Okay, but she always does it. And this year she suddenly decides she’s “setting boundaries” and just lets me walk off a cliff??

Alexandra: You forgot your mother. That’s on you. Don’t you dare try to make it Isabelle’s fault because she finally decided to stop mothering you.

Charles: Wow. Okay. Didn’t realize you were on her side.

Alexandra: I’m not “taking sides.” I’m telling you that blaming your sister for your failure is weak. And unfair.

Charles: I’m stressed, okay? I forgot, I feel like crap, and now you’re yelling at me.

Alexandra: No. I’m calling you out because this isn’t the first time you’ve pulled this. The second something goes wrong, you look for someone else to blame.

Charles: That’s not fair.

Alexandra: Isn’t it? Last month it was your trainer’s fault for not updating your calendar. Before that, it was your PR team for not reminding you about a shoot. Now it’s your sister for not telling you Mother’s Day was coming?

Charles: I just didn’t expect this from you.

Alexandra: You mean honesty? Accountability?

Charles: I don’t need a lecture right now.

Alexandra: Maybe not. But you need to grow up.

Charles: Are you seriously turning this into a moral crisis?

Alexandra: You forgot Mother’s Day. You blamed the one person who used to quietly make sure you didn’t screw it up. And when I told you the truth, you made me the problem too.

Charles: Alex…

Alexandra: I love you, but I’m not going to pretend this version of you isn’t exhausting sometimes. Figure it out, Charles.

Charles: Wait—are you seriously mad enough to—

Alexandra: I’m not leaving. But I’m done coddling you.

Charles: ...Okay.

Alexandra: Start with a phone call to your mother.

Charles: Yeah. Okay.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: So… today’s Mother’s Day.

Arthur: Yeah. Not that anyone would’ve remembered.

Lorenzo: Would’ve been nice to get a heads-up this year.

Arthur: Right? A little calendar emoji would’ve gone a long way.

Charles: You always used to remind us, Isabelle.

Lorenzo: Kind of your thing.

Isabelle: I’m not doing that anymore.

Charles: We noticed.

Arthur: You could’ve at least said something.

Isabelle: I did. Before Maman’s birthday. I said I wasn’t organizing family events anymore. I meant it.

Lorenzo: Yeah, but Mother’s Day’s different.

Charles: It’s not like we’re asking you to do everything. Just a reminder. One message.

Arthur: Instead we’re all waking up to guilt and no plan.

Isabelle: Then maybe next year, plan ahead. Put it in your phones like everyone else.

Lorenzo: You didn’t even mention it once this week.

Isabelle: Because it’s not my job.

Charles: You used to care about this kind of thing.

Isabelle: I still care. I just care about my own mental health too.

Arthur: So what, we just look like idiots today?

Isabelle: I sent a gift from all of us. Card, flowers, everything.

Charles: Wait… seriously?

Isabelle: Yes.

Lorenzo: You didn’t tell us.

Isabelle: I just did it because I didn’t want her to feel forgotten.

Arthur: That’s kind of manipulative, Belle. Doing it and not telling us.

Isabelle: What’s manipulative is expecting me to do everything, and then blaming me when I don’t.

Charles: You’re really different lately.

Isabelle: I’m tired. So I handled it, one last time. You’re welcome.

Lorenzo: Well. Thanks, I guess.

Arthur: Next year maybe give us a little warning?

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Pascale: My darlings ❤️ Thank you so much for the beautiful flowers and the card. They arrived this morning and made me cry (in the best way). You always know just what I love. I feel so lucky to have you. 💐✨

Charles: Aw, Maman ❤️ You deserve it!!

Arthur: Glad you liked it 🥹 Happy Mother’s Day!

Lorenzo: Only the best for you, Maman 😘

Pascale: You boys did so well! So thoughtful. And the message in the card… so sweet. Isabelle, you must’ve helped them pick it, didn’t you? It had your touch.

Lorenzo: We definitely had it covered 😌

Charles: Worked as a team.

Arthur: Isabelle deserves the credit though. She’s always the best at that stuff.

Pascale: Well, however you did it—thank you. I feel very loved. The flowers were perfect. Isabelle: Glad you liked them, Maman. Happy Mother’s Day.

Pascale: Love you all. 💕

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: She sent the Mother’s Day gift from all of them.

Emilie: Of course she did. Let me guess: they acted surprised and then took credit?

Max: Yep. Pascale sent a thank-you in the group chat. Her brothers responded like they’d done something.

Emilie: I’m going to scream into a pillow.

Max: Belle didn’t say anything. Just said she was glad Pascale liked it.

Emilie: She’s still saving them.

Max: I know. And they still don’t see it.

Emilie: They don’t want to. It’s easier to let her carry it all and pretend that’s normal.

Max: She told them she wasn’t going to be the family secretary anymore. Then she quietly handled everything anyway. Because she knew they’d drop it. And she didn’t want Pascale to feel forgotten.

Emilie: That’s the curse of being the responsible one. You’re punished whether you do it or not.

Max: Exactly. And now they’ll just expect it again next year.

Emilie: She deserves better.

Max: I keep telling her that.

Emilie: It’s not just about hearing it. She has to believe it. And she doesn’t. Not deep down.

Max: Yeah. I know.

Emilie: How is she?

Max: Quiet. Too quiet. She’s not upset, exactly—just… hollow. Like it’s easier to feel nothing than admit she’s hurt.

Emilie: I hate that I know exactly what that looks like on her.

Max: She just sat down after lunch and said, “It’s done now. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Emilie: That’s Belle for “I’m hanging on by a thread but don’t want to be a burden.”

Max: I wanted to say something. Call them out for her. But she just looked so tired.

Emilie: You’re doing more for her by holding her right now than anything they’ve ever done.

Max: I still wish I could do more.

Emilie: You do more just by noticing. By seeing her.

Max: I don’t want her to keep being the one who holds everything together.

Emilie: Then be the one who holds her together. That’s what she needs. Someone who won’t let her feel invisible.

Max: Yeah. That I can do.

Emilie: Good. Because I swear, if I see another “thanks for the flowers, guys!” message in that family group chat, I’m throwing someone into the harbor.

Max: I’ll drive the boat.

***

The water was warm from the sun, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue, and the city below hummed with distant life—Monaco moving through another glittering afternoon like it always did.

Max floated lazily on his back, eyes closed, one hand trailing through the water, while Belle sat on the pool steps, scowling down at the knot of her bikini top.

She tugged at the strap again, muttering, “This thing is definitely tighter than last time.”

“You said that last week too,” Max murmured without opening his eyes.

“Because it keeps getting tighter.” She frowned down at herself. “Did it shrink in the wash?”

Max cracked one eye open. “You sure it’s the bikini and not you?”

She gave him a look. “Subtle.”

“I’m just saying, maybe the girls are staging a growth spurt.”

Belle rolled her eyes, but her fingers paused against the fabric. They were… sore. More than usual. And she’d been bloated for days. And tired.

It was probably hormones. Or stress. Or the five cookies she’d eaten for lunch.

Max swam closer and rested his arms on the edge of the step beside her, his chin propped lazily against them. “If it’s bothering you, just take it off. No one can see up here.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You wish.”

“I absolutely do,” he said cheerfully.

She flicked water at him and leaned back, letting the sun warm her shoulders. The strap still dug in a little, but she tried to ignore it.

Max let his eyes drift closed again. “This is nice. Quiet. Feels like we’re the only people up here.”

Belle sighed. “We kinda are. You made sure of it, remember? ‘Private rooftop pool, non-negotiable.’”

“Worth every euro.”

She reached out and laced her fingers with his underwater. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

After a moment, she said, “You know my birthday’s on Monaco GP weekend this year?”

He groaned softly. “That’s criminal scheduling.”

She smiled faintly. “Right? Sunday. Race day.”

He looked at her. “Do you want to celebrate after the race? I could try to arrange something small—”

“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “No pressure. Let’s just do something the day after. Quiet. Just us.”

Max tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” She kicked her legs slowly in the water. “Honestly, I don’t care about parties. I just want to sleep in, eat something sweet, and maybe hang out with the horses.”

He grinned. “You want a Belle Day.”

“Exactly.”

“I can deliver a Belle Day,” he said. “I will make an itinerary. I’ll laminate it.”

She laughed, and he leaned forward to kiss the tip of her nose.

“Day after Monaco,” he said. “It’s yours.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/OscarPiastri: Searching my family tree to find any trace of Monégasque roots

@/Charles_Leclerc: I can adopt you if needed. 

@/OscarPiastri: No need, mate — your sister already agreed to!

@/Charles_Leclerc: what

@/F1fanatic91: I’m sorry. WHAT.

@/girlsonpole: charles's WHAT????

@/chaoticprancinghorse: Isabelle Leclerc SAID SHE WOULD ADOPT OSCAR??? excuse me??????

@OscarPiastri (replying to himself a few minutes later): for context: Belle showed me around monaco when i first moved. Gave me the full tour. Taught me where to find the best bakery, the best dry cleaners, and which shortcuts avoid tourists. Basically made it feel like home. honorary monegasque confirmed. (Also later adopted my girlfriend, who I am quite sure, she likes more than me.) 

@/raceweekendchaos: charles offering to adopt oscar like a good pal only for oscar to casually reveal he’s already been adopted by belle leclerc is SENDING me

@/tifositalks: charles: i can adopt you oscar: too late mate your sister said yes charles: error 404 charles.exe has stopped working

@/piastriblues: i have been alive for 21 years and never felt this much secondhand embarrassment for charles leclerc

@/f1fluff:  this is so accidentally wholesome it hurts

@/gridgossip: ISABELLE GAVE OSCAR A WELCOME TO MONACO TOUR??? ARE YOU KIDDING THAT'S SO CUTE

@monacominis:  oscar piastri having isabelle leclerc as a big sister figure is EXACTLY the kind of off-track crossover i live for

@chillycharles: charles was offering adoption papers but isabelle already issued a citizenship through pastries and dry cleaning recs. elite move.

@/Charles_Leclerc (finally replying):  I see I am no longer needed. (Enjoy the bakery recommendations, they are very good.)

@/OscarPiastri: Thanks, mate. You're a great backup option.

@/scuderiawifey: ok but this is actually adorable??? like belle really just took oscar under her wing????

@/wheelnutsanon: also charles reacting like he just learned he has a secret second sibling is killing me

@/gridgossip: BREAKING: Oscar Piastri has been unofficially adopted into the Leclerc family. Charles found out through Twitter.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: What is this about you “adopting” Oscar??

Isabelle: Hello to you too, Charles.

Charles: Seriously, Isabelle. Twitter thinks you’ve absorbed him into the family. You couldn’t mention that?

Isabelle: He asked me where to get pastries when he moved here. I answered. That’s not exactly international news.

Lorenzo: So you adopted him through croissants and Google Maps. Makes sense.

Charles: And the internet’s obsessed with it. Again. This is exactly how the Lando rumors started.

Isabelle: Charles.

Charles: No—don’t “Charles” me. You’re always like this. You do some tiny thing in public, the fans lose their minds, and I get blindsided before quali.

Charles: This is not a joke. It’s race weekend. At home. I don’t need distractions right now.

Isabelle: Then maybe stop scrolling Twitter two hours before FP?

Charles: I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t always causing speculation.

Lorenzo: Are we back on the “Belle is dating Lando” thing?

Charles: YES. Because people think she adopted Oscar and is soft-launching into the Norris family.

Isabelle: I’m not dating Lando. Or Oscar. Or anyone in orange.

Charles: Can you just be low-profile until Sunday? 

Charles: I want to win at home without the press asking if my sister is secretly engaged to my teammate’s former teammate. Is that too much to ask?

Isabelle: Don’t worry, Charles. I’ll keep a low profile.

***

Belle exhaled slowly, settling onto a high stool of McLaren’s hospitality.

“This is so much calmer than Ferrari,” she murmured.

Lily tilted her head. “Too much espresso and shouting over there?”

“Too much everything. Ferrari feels like performance art fueled by adrenaline and barely restrained stress. The walls are tense. Even the coffee judges you.”

Lily laughed. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Our chaos is cozy. Loud, but cozy.”

They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment, letting the hum of track activity drift over them.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Then, casually—too casually—Belle said, “So… do you happen to know if Lando is single?”

Lily blinked, turned her head very slowly. “I beg your what?”

Belle smiled innocently behind her sunglasses. “Just curious.”

“Is this like... a casual curiosity or a capital-C Conspiracy curiosity?”

“It’s for a friend,” Belle said sweetly.

“Oh my god.” Lily’s grin widened. “Your Emilie?! The one with the arched eyebrow and emotional X-ray vision?!”

“The very same. She asked about him after Miami and then insult-complimented him. Which means she’s intrigued.”

Lily gasped. “That’s basically a declaration of intent.”

“I thought so too,” Belle said smugly.

“She’d eat him alive.”

“He’d love it.”

Lily clutched her chest. “This is my favorite subplot of the season. And yes, as far as I know… Lando is tragically, gloriously single.”

Belle grinned. “Perfect. I’m just collecting data. Like a responsible friend.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Belle finished the last sip of her iced coffee and stood, stretching slightly before reaching for her sunglasses case.

“I should head back,” she said, a little regret in her voice. “If I’m gone too long, someone at Ferrari will think I’ve defected.”

Lily grinned. “You’d be welcome. Just saying.”

Belle gave her a wink. “Good to know.”

They hugged briefly, and Belle made her way down the narrow stairs of the McLaren motorhome, back toward the paddock’s center. The roar of engines was slightly muffled here—just enough to hear the hum of conversation, the clicking of photographers resetting lenses, the low static of radios. She moved easily, weaving between teams and team staff.

She’d just passed the Pirelli tent when she spotted him, unmistakable despite the sunglasses and cap—Jos Verstappen, chatting with a Red Bull staffer, nodding at something on a clipboard. He looked up as she approached, pausing mid-sentence.

He was not an easy man—everyone knew it.

She’d seen the way people stiffened when he walked past. Heard the stories. Max never sugarcoated them. His childhood hadn’t been easy; Jos was hard, demanding, relentless. Too much, sometimes.

And yet, Max still loved him.

Not blindly. Not without scars. But intentionally.

Max called him after every race. He texted him when things went wrong

Max loved him.

That was the part Belle always circled back to. Not in blind forgiveness—but in this fierce, complicated loyalty that had shaped who he was. Max could talk about his father’s mistakes and still want to protect him in the same breath.

And Belle, Belle who had lost her own father earlier than she should have…she understood that. The absence still ached. Quietly. Persistently.

Belle had never been on the receiving end of Jos’s temper. Never once. He’d been gruff, sure—especially the first time they met. But not unkind. Not to her.

She suspected that made her an exception.

The paddock thought Jos was all bark, all judgment. But Belle had sat beside him during lunch more than once, sipping coffee while he quizzed Max on fuel mapping like it was a Sunday crossword. She’d seen the sharpness soften when Max smiled, heard the pride he buried under complaints about tire strategy.

It was strange, maybe, but she liked him. Not in a warm, fuzzy way—but in the way you respect a hurricane for what it is and appreciate it when it spares your house.

There was a rare kind of steadiness in people who didn’t lie to themselves about who they were. And Jos knew exactly who he was.