Hurricane - Part Three
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.
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started this for the lolz idk how max verstappen seduced me into writing fanfic again 10 years after my last piece (a one direction wattpad classic at age 12), with a full time job and living on the opposite side of the globe but here we go 🏎️🏎️ do NOT repost/translate my writing I only post on tumblr so lmk if u see anything sus 🤨
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READ IT HERE (3.8k word count)
♥️ Paradise - smut, dark
the one where after retiring from his successful racing career, Max Verstappen goes on to be team principal of his equally successful racing team. Too bad he just can't stop thinking about putting his star racer - you - out of commission permanently by getting you pregnant.
READ IT HERE (1.8k word count)
♥️ Devilish - smut, mafia! au
the one where you're the people's princess, as the daughter of the Mayor of Monaco. And you're determined to put your family's enemies behind bars - the infamous Verstappen mafia. But there's a fine line between love and war...and you learn this the hard way with Max Verstappen, the Dutch Leuuw.
READ IT HERE (9.5k word count)
♥️ Birthday Sex - smut
the one where you're Max's best friend and are determined to find him the perfect birthday present since he's spoilt you every year on yours. Just when you're ready to give up, inspiration strikes when you overhear him complaining about the one thing he wants in bed.
READ IT HERE (3.3k word count)
♥️ Unforgettable - smut, dark
the one where Max trains his innocent best friend to take him perfectly. Too bad you had no idea how far your beloved childhood friend had taken you training, given how you were usually peacefully asleep in his bed when he began.
READ IT HERE (4.2k word count)
♥️ Slow Down - smut, Twitter! AU
You and Max Verstappen have recently gone public with your relationship, a true enemies to lovers tale as Redbull’s golden boy and Ferrari’s princess. The public still think it’s all a PR scam…until your sex tape gets leaked. Your fans lose it!!
READ IT HERE
♥️ Vegas, Baby - smut
You and Max both take racing victories in Vegas 2024, you winning your first F2 race and Max of course taking his 4th WDC. What better way to congratulate your good friend and teammate than rewarding him with post race sex at the club after party?
READ IT HERE
betrayal and rescue (pt.2) | cl16
Summary: your ex betrays you, but luckily your teammate has your back.
Warnings: ferrari driver!reader, single mom reader, misogynistic comments, fluff and Charles being such a sweetheart.
Part 1
The last month living with Charles have been a real dream come true for you and Mia, he has been a very important support for both of you during this time, he's a very caring and gentle person, his soft touch and kind nature is what you and Mia needed to really start healing. It was a rare, lazy Sunday with no commitments pulling you two away from bed, Charles lay propped against pillows, dozing lightly with Mia curled on his chest. You smiled at their peaceful forms, carding gentle fingers through Charles' tousled and soft chocolate curls.
Mia stirred, yawning widely before spotting you. “Mama! Morning!” she crawled over to snuggle into your side, little hand gripping Charles' shirt.
“Good morning my pretty girl!” you say softly at her, kissing her cheek. “Good morning Charlie!” you giggled.
Chuckling softly, Charles' arms wound around both of you as his eyes fluttered open, he smiled sleepily. “Bonjour, mes amours.” he murmured, pressing kisses to your heads. (good morning, my loves)
You sighed contentedly, resting your cheek against his warm and comfy chest. In that moment, all the cares and worries of the world felt so far away, here in your very own cocoon of blankets, surrounded by the love of your makeshift family, nothing could touch the three of you.
Your mind wandered back over the torturous last months you've spent trapped in your ex's grip... the constant walking on eggshells, never knowing what might set off his volatile temper, never having that feeling of safety or protection, even in your own home with Mia...
Now, Charles' strong arms encircled you both, radiating an unshakable calm, warmth and safety you'd never known before. His affection for you and Mia was unconditional, showering you daily with kind words, gifts, and adventures that filled your hearts to bursting.
Tears welled in your eyes as you peered up at Charles' handsome, adoring face. “I never thought I could feel this happy and content.” you whispered. “You gave me and Mia the life, the family, we always wanted.”
Charles' gaze softened, brushing away your tears with his thumb. “I'm the lucky one, princess.” he insisted gently. “You both brought me more joy than I ever believed possible.”
Leaning down to capture your lips in a slow and tender kiss, he poured every ounce of love into it that you still had trouble believing was truly yours after so long in the darkness. But in Charles' light, you and Mia were starting to heal, to believe, and to understand that happy endings do exist for those who keep hoping.
Mia let out a squeal of happiness. “Dada, Mama! Kisses!” she said giggling.
Charles smiled at her. “We have multiple kisses for you too, petite étoile.” (little star)
He said and then he started to fill Mia's face with kisses, who giggled more and was so happy, you smiled when you saw them, it was your beautiful family.
***
The Miami race weekend brought new challenges as you and Charles tried to keep your blossoming relationship private amid the media frenzy in the paddock and social media.
You two arrived separately to avoid suspicion, only allowing your hands to brush as you passed beside each other in the paddock Charles' eyes lingered with a smile, filling you with warmth.
During the practice sessions your radios remained businesslike, but his frequent checks that if you were hydrated or had enough fuel said everything. Small glances across the garage were your only connection, yet more intimate than any public display could be.
Qualifying came, neither of you hold back—though whether from passion for racing or each other, even if you weren't sure. You were pushing your cars to their limits as if nothing else existed.
After that, you stopped by Charles' driver room under the guise of strategy debrief. But as the door closed, his lips captured yours feverishly. Your restraint finally snapped under the tension of the day, the kiss is very slow and soft, as you two break away from the kiss, you place your forehead against his.
You gazed up at him worriedly. “Do you think people will start speculating about us?” you whispered softly.
Charles brushed his lips softly over your forehead. “Let them speculate baby, I don't care who knows how much you and Mia mean to me.”
His words filled you with joy and longing for the day you could shout your love from the rooftops, but for now, this stolen moment between you two, where the world fell away, was enough.
The press conference after the qualifying session were in full swing, you fielded questions professionally about setup choices and tire strategies that put both of the Ferrari cars on the front row for sunday's race.
But one of the journalists had an accusatory tone. “Some think it's no coincidence you and Leclerc are performing so well together... Care to elaborate on rumors of an forbidden relationship distracting you both?”
You started to reply calmly when another cut in. “Yeah, she's probably just sleeping her way to the top! Honestly, what else is a pretty face good for in a man's sport?”
Venomous laughter rose from some journalists in the room, your chest tightened in panic and rage —this was your nightmare scenario. Being a woman and also being in motorsports, you have often encountered derogatory and unpleasant comments about you and about women in general, it's like most men are bothered by the fact that a girl is faster than them on the track or that women deserve a place everywhere as them, that includes sports too. Before you could respond, Charles suddenly grabbed his microphone.
“That is completely unacceptable.” he said in a low, dangerous tone that chilled the room. His green eyes blazed with barely contained fury. “She is one of the most talented and dedicated professionals in this paddock, regardless of gender. The disrespect shown here today is a disgrace to the sport.” Charles leaned over the mic, jaw clenched. “I suggest selecting your next questions more wisely and showing my teammate the respect she deserves not only as a driver, but as a human being... If not, this conference is over.”
An uneasy silence fell as Charles grasped your trembling hand supportively under the table, you took a calming breath, regaining composure.
You swallowed dryly. ”Our performances speak for themselves, which I think is good for the team.” you stated clearly. “Charles and I simply push each other to excellence through our competition and partnership, that's all.”
Max Verstappen also wanted to give his opinion on the journalist's misogynistic comment towards you.
“Forgive me for being so bold, but I think that kind of comment is very out of place. I mean, considering that y/n is a mother and an exceptional driver and she deserves the same respect as all of us, right?” Max said, staring at the journalist, who was completely pale. “I think you should ask her about her race and strategy, and not about her private life, I don't know, that's just my opinion.” he said and dropped the microphone leaving everyone in the room speechless.
The rest of the questions thankfully remained respectful, but later, outside of the press conference room, Charles embraced you tenderly.
“No one gets to tear you down like that. You are so much stronger than their smallmindedness, okay?” he whispered in your ear.
You smiled up at him through happy tears, gripping his race suit. In that moment, you knew that with Charles by your side, you could overcome any obstacle that came your way.
Despite of those awful comments, the Miami Grand Prix was a huge success for both of you, with Charles taking victory and you claiming second place on the podium, the third 1-2 finish in the season for Ferrari, you're in total bliss. You two opted to skip the official afterparties and all the glamour, eager for some low-key family time.
Back at the hotel, Charles ordered a feast from room service while you and Mia showered away the sweat of the day. Emerging refreshed in pajamas, your heart overflowed seeing Charles play with Mia on the floor, her giggles echoing.
“Mama, dada won! Yay!” Mia squealed proudly as you bent to pepper her face with kisses, Charles beamed up at you, eyes sparkling.
“You were so incredible out there today babe!” he praised, helping you plate your overflowing meal spread across the suite's floors and furniture.
The three of you dined under the moonlight spilling through enormous windows, talking and laughing for hours as Mia dozed in your lap. Finally content and full bellies, the evening wound down with Mia yawning off to bed, Charles gathered you into his lap on the couch, kissing you so deeply and yet gently as if you were made of flickering glass.
“Thank you for giving me the family I never knew I wanted... For filling these months with a happiness I ever believed possible.” he whispered softly against your lips.
You cradled his handsome face, memorizing every beautiful line and facet. “I should be the one thanking you, you know? For trying to heal the wounds of my past and giving Mia and I the love and safety we always deserved.”
He shakes his head. “It has been such a pleasure, being with you and taking care of both of you it's been a journey, a beautiful one.” he whispered and you giggled softly.
Your relationship was far from traditional, that's for sure! But on nights like this, in the blissful quiet of each other's arms, it felt more right than anything you'd ever known.
***
You definitely enjoy the little breaks in-between races, it's were you can take a moment to ground yourself outside racing and just enjoy the calm and warm of your little family and that can be just a rewarding like a race win or a podium.
“Mama!” Mia screams a little. “A scary ghost is following me!” she says while running and giggling around the living room.
Almost a second later, Charles appeared hiding in a white blanket trying to catch Mia in his arms, but she runs away... He almost collide with the coffee table.
You laughed at their funny antics. “Oh no Mia! It's a really clumsy ghost.” you say while giggling.
“Boo! There's a sneaky little girl around here, I'm going to grab her in my arms and turn her into a little ghost!” Charles' said imitating the voice of a ghost.
Mia giggled again. “No, no! Bad ghost, really bad!” she covered her mouth. “Catch mama!” she said pointing at you.
You opened your mouth, shocked. “Me? But I'm just trying to make some tea!” you say. “It's not fair baby!”
You and Mia started run around the living room, making Charles crash almost with every single chair and the rug, you two laughed at him.
You feel and arm behind you. “Haha, gotcha!” he said in a mocking tone, making you and Mia collide to the rug, he took off the blanket, revealing is disheveled hair and a flustered cheeks.
“Dada, again, again!” she said giggling.
Charles giggled too. “Oh baby, maybe tomorrow, does that sounds good?” he asked her and she nodded.
You just smiled at him, you never saw him looking so radiant and joyful, it's like he's reliving things from his own childhood and it's so nice to see him like this with Mia.
You smiled. “You are a rather scary ghost and a little silly.” you giggled.
He chuckled softly. “Well, thank you, love! It's been years of practice.” he kissed your cheek.
“You know? You're amazing Charlie!” you say softly.
He looks at you. “Really? Well, um... Thanks darling, the truth is I only do what I can.” he blushed. “It's just me.”
You kiss the tip of his nose. “And that's why you're so amazing! You're you, as silly as it might sound, you're so passionate and so gentle at the same time!”
Mia smiled and kissed Charles' cheek. “Mwah! Dada kisses!” she said softly and he giggled.
“Do you want kisses, petite princesse?” he said to Mia and she nodded. “Okay, here we go!” (little princess)
Then he proceeded to cover Mia's face with kisses all over and she let out loud giggles, you smiled at the beautiful scene, and you realized something very important... You were in front of the love of your life and your little ray of sunshine, maybe everything would have been very different if you had tried from the beginning with Charles, or maybe not, but you are very sure of one thing... You are at home, in your safe place, with your two favorite people, the ones who keep you on your toes most of the time, but you wouldn't change it for anything in the world, Not even all the podiums or victories the world has to offer you, nothing compares to this.
#Fernando Alonso
Toy Cars | Fernando Alonso x Mum! Reader
Summary: Fernando boasts about his step-sons to anyone who will listen. So, when you realise you want more, he's confused why your little family is no longer enough.
Warnings: angst, slight age gap. i pictured reader about 35
Requested: no
just a short one compared to the others
F1 Masterlist
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fernandoalo_official just posted
liked by astonmartinf1, aussiegrit and others
fernandoalo_official not been an easy weekend so far but it’s made easier when one of my favourite people is in the paddock
14,114 comments
jensonbutton but i’m not working this weekend?
→ lance_stroll we all know i’m his other favourite person
→ fernandoalo_official no, the twins are
→ user1 step dad nando has my whole heart
→ yn_ln mine too!
user2 a hug from fernando would heal me
→ user3 a hug from y/n would heal me
yn_ln weekends where i get to see you are my favourite
→ user4 i will never be normal about these two
→ user5 it’s the fact that he watches the f2 races because it gives him an excuse to hang out with y/n
astonmartinf1 our favourite couple
user6 need fernando to win now that he’s had his good luck hug
yn_ln just posted
liked by jensonbutton, lance_stroll and others
yn_ln back on track for the twins. both my boys did a wonderful job with high position finishes… oh and they were visited by an enthusiastic fan 😉
5,343 comments
fernandoalo_official i’ll be getting you in one of those karts next
→ yn_ln that’s going to take a lot of convincing, nando
→ fernandoalo_official i can think of a few ways, mi vida
→ landonorris ew
→ user7 mi vida!! i will never be normal about these two
aussiegrit how’d he get his hair that tall
→ astonmartinf1 it’s so full of secrets
fa_alonsokart calling the boss an enthusiastic fan is such a power move
→ user8 the fact that he let her and didn’t comment on it tho
lance_stroll they'll be taking his seat soon enough
user9 love how supportive fernando is of his step-sons
→ user10 he literally started a karting school so that he could help their karting careers
→ user11 the dad that stepped up
user1 what’s your favourite fa14 fact? mine is that he fell in love with y/n l/n, realised she had twins and immediately started enacting project alonso
→ user2 no because the twins were 11 when he met them and now they’re 15 and looking at f3 seats
user3 this is what i’ve been saying. fernando doesn’t just love y/n, he loves her children just as much, if not more
user4 fernando alonso puts all other step-dads to shame because he is always there for them, no matter how busy his life is
user5 i really need fernando to hurry up and propose because that is his family
→ user6 yes! he needs to make project alonso official by giving them all his last name
→ user7 and then more babies!
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comments
user8 why was this the cutest thing said by anyone ever. like those are his boys
user9 wait, so does this mean he doesn’t want kids?
user10 the way he cut that interviewer off because that his family whether they share blood or not
→ user11 i read it as he didn’t want to talk about it any more because he doesn’t want more kids and maybe he and y/n haven’t talked about it yet
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yn_ln just posted
liked by kellypiquet, alexandrasaintmleux and others
yn_ln an empty house for the week makes me realise that i miss hearing about cars
2,343 comments
user1 aw are the flowers from fernando?
kellypiquet max keeps trying to convince me to get another cat. don’t let him see this
→ maxverstappen1 too late
user2 wait, why isn’t she spending summer break with nando?
→ user3 because he’s on holiday
→ user2 without her?
→ user4 they don’t have to spend every minute together. he’s allowed to have a break
user5 guys, y/n and fernando don’t follow each other anymore?
→ user6 i thought you were lying but then i checked and it’s true :(
→ user7 oh that captions hit extra hard
user8 no because her entire life is racing and now that it’s not there, she realises she misses it
→ user9 she misses him
user10 i’m so confused. they were so in love like two weeks ago. what happened?
user11 no because i can’t imagine seeing fernando without y/n
user12 is he still going to support the twins?
user13 but you were supposed to get married to fernando and have lots of little alonso’s
→ user14 maybe one of them didn’t want that
→ user15 can’t imagine it being alonso, he thinks the world of the twins
→ user16 true. he does mention them in almost every interview
user1 when i remembered f2 were racing this weekend, i was so happy because that meant yn and nando content and then i remembered they’d broken up
→ user2 all the tweets on here are tearing my heart out as well
user3 they’ve not spoken to each other once today
user4 yes she walked straight past him but there’s clips of her entire face crumpling as soon as she’s past him
→ user5 yes! i saw that. her colleague had to usher her into the garage before she started crying
user6 the fact that fernando spent the entire time watching her though
→ user7 even when people were talking to him, he was full on staring at her
→ user8 brokenhearted lover boy made no attempts to hide it
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Baby Fever Angst Series
Love that I mentioned request for Esteban once and I already have 5 requests 😂 I didn't realise there was that much love for Ocon considering I can never find any fics for him
tag list
White Horse - Chapter 9: November 2023 - 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...I think that's it?
Part 1 of November, Part 2 will follow.
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/PitLanePrincess: Isabelle Leclerc is the ultimate fashion inspiration for people who actually have to get dressed for work. A thread on why she’s the best follow if you want outfits that are stylish and wearable. 🧵⬇️
@/PitLanePrincess: Love the WAGs who serve high fashion, but let’s be real—I am not showing up to a Monday meeting in a full Mugler catsuit. Isabelle? She gives you real outfits. Blazer, midi skirt, chic top = effortless.
@/PitLanePrincess: She mixes high and low so well, but the best part? She actually responds when people ask where things are from.
@/PitLanePrincess: She genuinely answers people??? I messaged her once about a bag, fully expecting nothing, and she just. Replied. Like a normal person.
@/PitLanePrincess: I swear she could afford to wear designer head-to-toe, but she chooses to mix H&M, Mango, and Zara with her Max Mara coats and Chanel flats. It’s aspirational but still possible.
@/PitLanePrincess: She rewears things!!! Some of these girls wear a $6K dress once and never again. Meanwhile, Isabelle’s been styling the same Max Mara coat for three years and making it look fresh.
@/PitLanePrincess: Also, she actually wears realistic shoes?? No five-inch stilettos, just sleek boots or comfy-yet-chic heels..
@/workwearqueen: If I ever ran into her in real life, I just know she’d be so sweet. Like, I could compliment her outfit, and she’d compliment mine back.
@/GridGossip: Some of these WAGs are giving editorial fantasy, which I love, but Isabelle is the one actually giving wearable inspiration.
@/everydayelevated: Isabelle Leclerc, if you see this, just know we appreciate you 🫶💖
***
The first time, Isabelle didn’t even think about it.
Max’s grey sweater—the one he practically lived in—had a hole in the sleeve. She watched him tug at the fraying threads absentmindedly, completely unaware of how worn it looked, how it sagged off his frame like it had given up.
So the next time she was out, she picked up a new one. Nothing dramatic. Same color. Same softness. Just... better. Better fabric. Better fit. Something that looked like him, only a little more cared for.
When she handed him the small box later that night, she hesitated—half-expecting him to shrug it off or barely notice.
"Your old one was falling apart," she said quickly, when he raised an eyebrow at the offering.
Max lifted the sweater out, turning it over in his hands. Then, with typical nonchalance, he peeled off the old one right there in the living room and tugged the new one on.
Isabelle watched carefully as he moved, adjusting the sleeves, testing the stretch.
After a moment, he nodded, satisfied. "Yeah. This is nice."
She exhaled, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. He didn’t realize it, but that was all the encouragement she needed.
After that, it started happening more and more.
A pair of jeans—no longer skin tight but a more relaxed fit that flattered his strong thighs… A new jacket—light, practical, something he would actually wear but wouldn’t make her wince when she saw it in photos.
She was careful. Isabelle never pushed, never tried to change how he dresses. Max liked simple, comfortable clothes, and she respected that.
She just made sure those things fit properly. Looked effortless instead of careless.
She told herself she wasn’t interfering.
She really meant to believe that.
But then Max walked into the living room one afternoon wearing an ancient Red Bull polo—wrinkled, slightly faded from too many washes—paired with sagging sweatpants that looked like they might give out at any moment.
Isabelle, mid-scroll on her phone, just... stopped.
Stared.
"Max, mon amour," she said carefully, setting her phone down. "Do you actually like that shirt?"
He looked down, frowning as if only now realizing what he was wearing. "Uh... yeah?"
"Are you sure?"
His frown deepened. "...Should I not?"
She sighed, standing up and crossing the room, smoothing down the skewed collar. "It's fine," she lied, fingers lingering longer than necessary. "But... you’re a world champion. You could look like it off-track too."
Max raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Are you saying I dress badly?"
Isabelle paused, choosing her words with painstaking care. "I’m saying... you have potential."
Max squinted at her, crossing his arms. "I wear what’s comfortable."
"I know," she said patiently. "But comfort and style aren’t enemies. You can have both."
Max narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Are you planning something?"
"No," she said, way too quickly.
Which was how, the very next day, she dragged him into a high-end boutique in Monaco.
Max resisted, obviously. He grumbled when she handed him a proper button-down. Scoffed at the tailored jacket she picked out. Refused—loudly—the first two pairs of trousers she suggested.
It took a fair amount of coaxing—and maybe a few well-placed kisses—to get him into the fitting room.
But when he stepped out...
Isabelle knew.
She folded her arms across her chest and smirked as Max caught sight of himself in the mirror and visibly paused.
The sharp lines of the jacket, the way the button-down skimmed his frame, the clean, simple look that made him seem even more confident, even more himself—it was all there, clear as day.
"Huh," Max said, tilting his head.
"Huh," Isabelle echoed, smug.
Max frowned at his reflection, pulling at the jacket slightly, testing the fit. His mouth twitched—like he hated to admit it—but even he couldn’t deny what he saw.
"Alright," he muttered. "Maybe you have a point."
Isabelle beamed, grabbing another item off the rack with a glint in her eye.
"Good," she said, already handing it to him. "Because we’re just getting started."
***
Max learned pretty quickly that shopping with Isabelle wasn’t a quick in-and-out mission.
It was a strategic operation. A full-scale reorganization of his wardrobe. And apparently, his entire life.
At first, he protested. Loudly.
“I don’t need that many clothes,” he grumbled as she held up yet another impeccably tailored jacket, inspecting it with that critical little tilt of her head.
“Yes, you do,” Isabelle said without even looking at him. “You can’t wear Red Bull merch everywhere, Max.”
“I literally can,” he pointed out.
She gave him a look—the kind that somehow managed to say you absolute idiot without her even opening her mouth.
“And you shouldn’t,” she said sweetly.
He groaned, but he took the jacket from her anyway, grumbling under his breath as he did.
By the time they left the boutique, Max was carrying more bags than he had ever carried in his life.
He looked like a particularly fashionable pack mule.
He kept muttering about "overkill" and "consumerism," but every time they passed a shop window, he caught himself glancing sideways—checking the fit of his new coat, adjusting the collar just slightly. He thought Isabelle didn’t notice.
She noticed.
She just didn’t say anything. Smugness was a reward best delayed.
That night, Max thought the ordeal was over.
It wasn’t.
Isabelle helped him “put everything away”—which, he quickly realized, meant completely dismantling his existing wardrobe.
At first, she just meant to hang the new things up neatly. Then she opened the closet.
And froze.
"This is a disaster," she said, hands on her hips.
Max, lying sprawled across the bed and scrolling through his phone, barely glanced up. "It’s fine."
"It’s not fine," Isabelle said, already pulling out a hoodie that looked like it had been through a minor war.
Within minutes, there were piles everywhere—keep, donate, burn immediately—and Max could only watch as his closet was systematically conquered.
When she was finally done, the place looked... Organized. Manageable. Almost stylish.
Max sat up, surveying the damage. "Wow," he deadpanned. "It’s like I live here and yet I have no control over my own belongings."
Isabelle smirked, smoothing out a freshly hung blazer like a queen surveying her kingdom. "You don’t," she said, utterly unapologetic. "I do now."
Max shook his head but didn’t argue.
Instead, he stayed right where he was, watching her fold a few sweaters with that little furrow of concentration she always got when she was focused.
A thought crossed his mind, and he grinned.
"You’re enjoying this," he accused.
She shrugged, not even pretending to deny it. "I like making sure you look good."
Max swung his legs off the bed, stood, and crossed the room to wrap his arms around her from behind.
"I already do look good," he teased, resting his chin on her shoulder, feeling her laugh vibrate against him.
She hummed, pretending to think it over. "Hmm. You look better now."
Max laughed, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. "Fine. You win."
Isabelle turned in his arms, smiling up at him like she knew exactly how thoroughly she had just triumphed.
"You’ll thank me later," she promised.
And he did.
When he walked into the paddock a few days later—wearing a properly fitted shirt, no skinny jeans, no wrinkled team hoodie in sight—he caught the double takes.
The subtle stares. The media whispers. Even a few casual compliments from people who usually didn’t say a word to him about anything off-track.
Max just smirked, tugging his new jacket straight as he passed by.
Yeah.
Isabelle was right.
Again.
And maybe—maybe—he didn’t mind at all.
***
Instagram Post: @/f1hq
Comments:
@/LightsOutMemez: Forget the championship. The biggest win of the season is whoever got Max out of those cursed skinny jeans.
↳@/PaddockSpy: Max Verstappen in an outfit that actually fits him… we are witnessing history.
↳@/ChecoMode: You’re telling me Max Verstappen had style potential this whole time and we never knew???
@/GridGossip: I don’t know what’s more shocking—the fact that Max won again or the fact that he did it while dressed like an actual style icon.
@/YukiFanClub: The only logical explanation is that Max’s girlfriend run interference. No man just wakes up one day and decides to dress better ON HIS OWN.
↳@/WAGWatch: Whoever picked this outfit, we thank you for your service.
↳@/RedBullChaos: This is definitely the work of a woman. And we love her for it.
↳@/PaddockSpy: I don’t know who’s responsible for Max Verstappen’s wardrobe glow-up, but I hope they’re having a great day.
@/ChecoP1: Max Verstappen’s biggest flex isn’t his trophies. It’s the fact that he now has functional drip.
↳@/MaxAndCats33: If he posts a mirror selfie in this outfit with his CATS, I’m actually going to lose my mind.
@/RedBullChaos: This is definitely the work of a woman. And we love her for it.
@/PaddockSpy: I don’t know who’s responsible for Max Verstappen’s wardrobe glow-up, but I hope they’re having a great day.
@/SoftLaunchDetective: First, he dresses better. Next, he starts smiling more. Before you know it, he’s dropping a blurry hand pic on his story.
↳@/DRSDrama: If this man posts one artsy Instagram story of his hand intertwined with someone else’s, I’m DONE.
@/FIAFits: The fact that it took this long for Max to upgrade his wardrobe tells me that he fought this change for MONTHS.
@/DTSTherapist: This is like when a man gets a haircut after years of looking the same and suddenly everyone realizes he’s actually attractive.
↳@/SoftLaunchAnon: Max Verstappen having a wardrobe evolution was not on my 2023 bingo card.
@/PaddockFashion: Okay but the best part is that it’s still so Max. Just… upgraded.
↳@/OversteerStyle: It’s like someone took his usual wardrobe and just refined it a little. No drastic changes, just subtle improvements.
↳@/TireDegTrends: He’s still wearing jeans, just… normal-fitting ones. And the shirt? Still casual, but suddenly it works.
↳@/StyleUnderCut: This is the equivalent of adding a subtle aero upgrade that shaves off two tenths per lap.
↳@/WAGWatch: Whoever did this didn’t erase Max’s essence, they just polished it. A true masterclass.
@/DriveToSurviveChaos: Netflix better not cut this from the next season. This is important.
***
The first thing Lewis Hamilton noticed when he walked into the paddock was not the weather, or the press, or even his own team's busy chatter.
It was Max Verstappen.
Specifically, Max Verstappen looking... polished.
Lewis actually stopped mid-step, doing a blatant double-take.
Max wasn't wearing the usual crumpled team polo and horrendous skinny jeans combo he seemed genetically programmed for. No. Today, Max was wearing dark, well-fitted jeans, a simple but perfectly tailored black jacket over a clean, crisp white t-shirt. His hair looked like it had seen a brush in the last 24 hours. His trainers were still comfortable, yes—but new. Coordinated.
Lewis stared at him like he was an alien.
"Am I in the wrong paddock?" Lewis muttered under his breath.
George Russell sidled up next to him, carrying a coffee, and followed his gaze.
He whistled low under his breath. "Well, well, well. Look who discovered fashion."
Lewis shook his head slowly. "No, I'm serious. What happened. Who is that."
Max caught sight of them then, gave a casual nod, utterly unfazed.
George narrowed his eyes, studying him.
"I mean... he's still Max," George said. "Just upgraded."
Lewis blinked, stunned. "I didn't even know he owned a jacket without a sponsor logo on it."
"Maybe," George said, taking a slow sip of his coffee, "maybe it's the girlfriend effect."
Lewis turned to him. "The what?"
George shrugged, completely serious. "You get a girlfriend who actually cares about what you look like, and suddenly—" He gestured vaguely at Max. "—that happens."
Lewis frowned. "He’s had girlfriends before."
George grinned. "Yeah, but he’s never dressed like he wanted to impress anyone before."
Lewis squinted, suspicious. "Do we even know if he has a girlfriend?"
George raised an eyebrow. "Do you think he picked that jacket out himself?"
Lewis opened his mouth. Closed it. "...Good point."
Meanwhile, Max strolled past them, earbuds in, calm as anything. No logos, no oversized hoodie, no worn-out sweatpants. Just effortless, unsettling effort.
Lewis watched him go, still frowning.
"I don’t like it," he muttered.
George laughed. "You’re just mad because he’s pulling it off."
Lewis huffed. "I’m mad because now I have to outdress Max Verstappen. And that was never supposed to happen."
George clapped him on the back, grinning. "Welcome to the new world order, mate."
As Max disappeared into the Red Bull hospitality, several team members turned to watch him too, murmuring quietly.
Because when even Max Verstappen starts dressing suspiciously well... You know something’s up.
***
Daniel Ricciardo was minding his own business—sort of—lounging near the espresso machine, casually watching the paddock buzz by, when Max walked in.
Daniel did a casual glance up—and promptly choked on his coffee.
Because there was Max. Wearing tailored jeans. A clean, fitted jacket. A proper, ironed t-shirt. Looking... put together in a way that was frankly illegal.
Daniel slammed his cup down, pointed at him dramatically across the hospitality lounge. "You. Stop."
Max paused mid-stride, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "What?"
Daniel stood up, hands on his hips. "You can't just waltz in here looking like a Zara model on casual Friday and act like nothing happened."
Max gave a tiny, infuriating smirk. "I can and I did."
"No, no, no." Daniel waved a hand wildly. "You look suspiciously… functional. Coordinated. You match, Max."
Max just shrugged like it was no big deal. "Maybe I learned."
Daniel squinted at him. "No," he said. "Someone taught you."
Max gave him a pointedly neutral look.
And that’s when Daniel grinned.
Like the world's most annoying lightbulb had gone off over his head.
He practically cackled as he leaned in.
"YOUR GIRLFRIEND."
Max said nothing. Not a word.
Which was exactly how Daniel knew he was right.
"You absolute simp," Daniel whispered, giddy. "You let her overhaul your entire wardrobe."
Max rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the tiny flicker of a smile.
Daniel clasped a hand over his heart. "God, I love love."
"Shut up," Max muttered, but there was no heat in it.
Daniel leaned back, arms crossed, studying him. "So what’s next, mate? Weekly skincare routines? Matching Christmas jumpers?"
Max gave him a long-suffering look. "If you tell anyone—"
Daniel grinned wider. "Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me." He paused, then added gleefully, "Mostly because everyone else already suspects something."
Max groaned.
Daniel beamed. "Can’t wait for you to show up next race weekend in proper loafers and a linen shirt. Monaco chic."
Max muttered something in Dutch under his breath that was probably deeply unflattering.
Daniel just slung an arm around his shoulder anyway, still laughing.
"You," Daniel said fondly, "are so whipped, and it’s beautiful."
Max shoved him off, but he was smiling—real, relaxed, the way he only was when he let his guard down completely.
***
The room was too quiet when she entered the meeting in the evening.
Isabelle felt it the moment she stepped in—like walking into a room where someone had just been talking about you. That sticky tension. The abrupt silence. The way no one met her eye.
She sat down, opened her laptop, and waited.
The project lead began reviewing the concept pitch. It was hers. Her layout. Her color palette. Her vendor list. But her name? Nowhere on the slides.
No credit. No mention.
Léa was presenting it like it had fallen from the sky.
And no one blinked.
Isabelle closed her laptop.
Slowly. Deliberately.
“Interesting,” she said, her voice smooth. “I must’ve blacked out while watching someone else design my project.”
Léa blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The room stilled.
For a moment, Isabelle said nothing else. Just looked at them. Really looked—at the two junior designers who’d whispered and sabotaged, at the project manager who let it happen, at the senior designer who'd praised her ideas only to present them as someone else's.
“You’ve all been treating me like I don’t belong here since the day I started,” she said, calm and clear. “At first I thought it was because I was new. Then I thought maybe it was because of my last name. But now I understand—it’s because you’re afraid of me.”
Léa scoffed. “Afraid? Please.”
Isabelle turned to her. “Yes. Afraid. Because you’ve seen what I can do. You’ve seen how good I am. And instead of rising to meet me, you’ve spent months trying to cut me down.”
She stood. Quiet. Unshakable.
“You tried to twist my success into nepotism. You told people I only got clients because of who my brother is.” She paused. “You do realize I designed Max Verstappen’s penthouse, right? I didn’t just walk through it and fluff pillows. I created it. Every material. Every layout. Every detail. Because he trusted me. Not the Leclerc name. Me.”
No one moved.
“And the irony?” Isabelle continued, voice like silk on steel. “You thought I wouldn’t fight back. Because I’m quiet. Because I’m kind. Because I don’t yell or gossip or throw people under the bus.”
She tilted her head, smile sharp.
“You mistook my silence for weakness. That was your first mistake.”
A long pause.
Then she picked up her laptop, her bag, and her portfolio binder.
“I’m resigning effective immediately,” she said. “I refuse to spend another second giving my talent to people who try to tear me down instead of rising up themselves.”
She walked toward the door, paused, and turned back.
“One more thing,” she added, eyes narrowing. “The next time you decide to steal someone’s work, you might want to make sure they’re not ten times the designer you are.”
Then she left.
No one stopped her.
***
Team Redline Stream – Transcript
(Stream already in progress. Max is mid-race, casually chatting with the guys and chat.)
Max: "Yeah, I’m alone tonight. Again. My girlfriend’s still at work."
Luke Crane: "Is she ever not at work?"
Max: (Sighs.) "Rarely. I keep telling her it’s too much, but she says she’s fine."
Chris Lulham: "Classic."
Chat:
The way Max sounds so fed up"She says she’s fine" <- she is absolutely not fineBro is one bad day away from staging a full interventionTell her we said QUITHe’s about to unionize her workplace himself
(Max continues driving, glancing off-screen every so often. His focus flickers.)
(A door opens in the background. Max immediately looks up.)
Max: "Oh, you’re home." (Pauses.) "It’s almost midnight."
(A short silence. Max’s expression shifts.)
Max: "You haven’t eaten yet?" (His eyes narrow.) "Why? What do you mean you forgot?"
Chris: "Uh-oh."
Luke: "It’s happening."
Chat:
MOTHER HEN VERSTAPPEN HAS LOGGED INRIP to her but Max is about to lecture her for 20 minutesSomewhere, Jos is crying because Max turned into his momRed Bull gives you wings, but Max gives you forced meals
Max: (Grumbling in Dutch.) "You work all day and don’t eat? That’s not okay." (Pauses, then scoffs.) "No, I don’t care if you’re ‘not hungry.’ You’re eating something."
Chris: "Do you even know how to cook?"
Max: (Flatly.) "I know how to order food, Chris."
Gianni Vecchio: "Yeah, she’s doomed."
(Max is still focused on the conversation off-screen, visibly exasperated. Then, suddenly, he freezes mid-turn, his entire body going still.)
Max: "...Wait. What?"
(Silence. His mouth opens slightly, then closes. He blinks.)
Max: "You quit your job?"
Chris: "OH?"
Gianni: "HELLO?"
Chat:
SHE DID WHAT NOWMAX IS BUFFERINGDID WE MANIFEST THIS????Homie forgot how to drive for a second
Max: (Still staring off-screen, jaw slightly slack.) "Wait, like—actually? You actually quit?"
(A few beats of silence. Then, suddenly, Max exhales and leans back in his chair, shaking his head with a smirk.)
Max: "Finally."
Gianni: "Finally?"
Max: (Grinning now.) "Yes, finally! I’ve been telling her for months to leave. They treated her like shit."
Chris: "You sound happier about this than she probably is."
Max: "Because she deserves better. I told her that place wasn’t good enough for her." (Pauses, then softer.) "They should’ve known better than to treat her like that."
Chat:
MAX VERSTAPPEN, NUMBER ONE SUPPORTER
"Finally" LMFAO bro has been WAITING
He’s so relieved omg
Someone check on her ex-boss, they just felt a chill
Bro went from shocked to proud so fast
Red Bull Racing HR is shaking rn
I need a Max Verstappen in my life
Max: (Still grinning, shaking his head.) "So what now?" (Pauses, listening.) "Yeah? Taking time off? Good. You need it."
(His tone softens slightly, his expression fond. Chat goes feral.)
Chris: "So no more insane work hours?"
Max: (Smirks.) "Nope. Now it’s just insane hours listening to me talk about my simulator settings."
Chat:
She quit her job and he’s acting like he won his fourth titleMax really went "welcome to unemployment, babe"Bro is GLOWINGSupportive boyfriend era is PEAKING
Meanwhile on Twitter:
📌 @/F1TeaSpill: MAX VERSTAPPEN ON STREAM JUST CASUALLY DROPPED THAT HIS GIRLFRIEND QUIT HER JOB AND WENT "FINALLY." BRO HAS BEEN WAITING FOR THIS MOMENT 😭😭
↳ @/RacingGirlie: THE WAY HE WAS SO READY WITH THAT RESPONSE LMFAO 💀 ↳ @/TireDegradationStan: He forgot how to drive for a second. The shock was REAL.
@/GridGossip: Max Verstappen finding out his girlfriend quit her job and IMMEDIATELY going: ✅ "Finally." ✅ "They treated you like shit." ✅ "You deserve better."
Boyfriend of the YEAR.
↳ @/MonacoMafia: Bro is celebrating her resignation more than his championships 😭 ↳ @/DR3nation: She quit her job and he’s THRIVING ↳ @/RedBullSimps: The way he went from SHOCKED to RELIEVED in under five seconds
@/F1GirlfriendsAnonymous: Not Max Verstappen exposing himself as the softest, most supportive boyfriend alive. He really said: 🔹 "You deserve better." 🔹 "If they don’t respect you, don’t waste your time there." 🔹 "Take time off, you deserve it."
And y’all still think he’s cold???
↳ @/DutchLion44: THE WAY HE WAS SO SINCERE ABOUT IT 🥺 ↳ @/OversteerOverlord: This man went from "I have no emotions" to "I will support my girlfriend unconditionally" real fast
@/FormulaLover: "NO MORE LATE NIGHTS AT WORK?" "NO, JUST LATE NIGHTS LISTENING TO ME COMPLAIN ABOUT SIMULATOR SETTINGS."
MAX PLS 😭
↳ @/PitStopPrincess: Her old boss just felt a chill down their spine ↳ @/DannyRicFave: Soft!Max is the best Max. I don’t make the rules.
@/PaddockChaos: How much do you bet that Max has been trying to convince his girlfriend to be his full-time trophy wife for MONTHS and she just wasn’t having it 💀
↳ @/RedBullRacingWife: "Finally." <- That was a man who has been campaigning for this moment ↳ @/GridTeaSpill: You KNOW he’s been like "you don’t need to work, just stay home, I’ll buy you whatever you want" and she’s been like "absolutely not" 💀💀 ↳ @/OvertakeAddict: Mans was celebrating her quitting before SHE even processed it 💀
@/MonacoMafia: MAX WAS SO READY FOR THIS MOMENT 😭 "Finally" <- that’s not just relief, that’s VICTORY.
↳ @/DutchLion44: He’s been battling corporate capitalism on her behalf for MONTHS ↳ @/PaddockGossip: He really wanted her to be living that soft life and she was like "Nah, I have a job" 😂 ↳ @/RaceStrategyFails: Man had a 10-step plan for her retirement and she foiled it by having ambition
@/F1TinfoilHat: Max Verstappen trying to turn his girlfriend into a trophy wife and failing is so funny to me. Like you just KNOW he was pulling out all the stops. 🚗 "You can have any car you want." 🏠 "Live anywhere you want." 💍 "You don’t need to work, just be with me." And she really went, "No, I have emails to answer."
↳ @/RB20Fan: She quit her job and he was the happiest person in the room 😭 ↳ @/F1MemesDaily: Plot twist: She’s about to find another job and he’s gonna LOSE IT 💀
@/LightsOutMax: Max Verstappen has won three world championships, dominated the grid, and still lost to his girlfriend’s corporate job.
↳ @/SoftMaxFan: The way he’s been fighting for MONTHS and she was just like "No ❤️" ↳ @/PaddockPrincess: Bro was ready to pay her a salary just to stay home and she STILL refused 💀💀 ↳ @/F1Spill: "Finally." <- that was not just relief, that was a mission accomplished moment
@/RedBullGirlie: I need someone to ask Max in an interview if he ever tried to get his girlfriend to be a full-time trophy wife because I know he did
↳ @/PaddockClown: He absolutely pitched it like a Red Bull contract ↳ @/RB20Fanatic: "I can provide you with a top-tier environment, all the resources you need, and a long-term vision for the future." ↳ @/DR3Memes: Drive to Survive voice "And in that moment, Max Verstappen realized… he was not winning this one."
@/FrontRowF1: I don’t even think Max was mad that she worked. He was mad that they treated her badly. Boyfriend of the Year tbh.
↳ @/RB19Stans: Yeah, his first reaction after shock was pure rage at her old job 😭 ↳ @/F1Himbos: He was 100% ready to go to war with that company ↳ @/Lap1Drama: He’s been FUMING about how they treated her and now he won
@/F1Takes: Max Verstappen was sitting there on stream like:
👀 "Wait, you quit?" 😳 "You actually quit?" 😌 "Finally." 😤 "They treated you like shit anyway."
Sir, have you been campaigning for this???
↳ @/PitLaneGossip: Bro had an entire strategy in place. He’s been pushing this agenda for MONTHS. ↳ @/RB19Forever: His immediate relief tells me he lost sleep over this job more than SHE did 💀 ↳ @/MonacoMadness: Man heard "I quit" and didn’t even process it before celebrating
@/SoftVerstappen: Max really thought his biggest opponent was Lewis Hamilton when in reality it was his girlfriend’s work ethic
↳ @/PaddockTea: Man has three world titles and 0 influence over her career choices 😂 ↳ @/DR3Fanatic: She’s out there being an independent woman and he’s just like please let me fund your life↳ @/GridGossip: I fully believe he has pitched the trophy wife life at least once and got rejected immediately
@/MaxForPresident: Max celebrating his girlfriend quitting like it’s his own career milestone is so FUNNY to me
↳ @/PodiumPredictions: She said "I quit" and he unlocked a new level of happiness↳ @/SoftTyresOnly: The way he’s genuinely delighted while she’s probably still processing it 💀 ↳ @/MonacoMafia: If she gets a new job he might actually riot
@/LandoStan33: Max Verstappen is a billionaire and his girlfriend still refused to quit her job for OVER A YEAR. Queen behavior.
↳ @/OvertakeObsessed: She refused to be a WAG full-time and he just had to deal with it
@/MonacoMadness: Max: "They don’t respect you. Just quit." Her: "I like working." Couldn’t have been me. You think I’d rather be working than living the dream as a rich man’s problem?
↳ @/Lap1Drama: Imagine saying NO to Max Verstappen telling you to never work again ↳ @/PodiumPredictions: The way I would’ve handed in my resignation the second he hinted at it↳ @/F1TeaSpill: Why suffer at a 9-5 when you could be a full-time F1 WAG???
@/MidfieldMess: I respect Max’s girlfriend for standing her ground but personally? I would have been at home in silk pajamas with a cat by now.
↳ @/RB20Memes: If my man said, "Quit your job, I’ll take care of you," I’d be gone in 0.2 seconds.↳ ↳ @/DR3Laughs: Max’s girlfriend WORKED while he was literally BEGGING her to relax. I COULD NEVER.
↳ @/RB19Tactics: I’d be in Pilates class at 10 AM on a Tuesday living my best life ↳ @/SoftMaxFan: She really CHOSE to work when she could’ve been a full-time rich girlfriend.↳ @/OvertakeGuru: RESPECT TO HER but I would’ve folded immediately.
@/GridGossip: Max Verstappen’s girlfriend really QUIT HER JOB on her own terms, months after he told her to, and not because he’s a billionaire but because she finally decided she was done.
SHE REALLY DOES NOT CARE ABOUT HIS MONEY.
↳ @/SoftVerstappen: This is actually insane. ↳ @RB19Defense: Girl had a multi-millionaire boyfriend BEGGING her to quit and she STILL waited. ↳ @/LightsOutRB: She worked herself into the ground because she didn’t want to rely on him??? Couldn’t be me.
***
At first, Isabelle seemed fine.
She took a shower, scarfed down a sandwich…and then she just sat on the couch, staring at nothing.
“So… how does it feel to be unemployed?”
Isabelle turned to face him with a breezy smile. “Great. Amazing, actually. I should’ve done it sooner.”
Max folded his arms across his chest, not buying it for a second. "Uh-huh."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "What?"
"You’re saying that like someone who is definitely not fine," Max said.
She rolled her eyes. "I just don’t see the point in dwelling on it."
"Okay. But not dwelling isn’t the same as being fine."
She laughed, short and sharp. "Max, I quit a job that was making me miserable. I did the right thing."
"Yeah," Max agreed easily. "But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel weird."
He could see the argument forming on her face—the automatic instinct to insist she was fine, she was strong, she could handle anything.
But then she hesitated.
Her mouth opened like she was about to say something else—something defensive, probably—but instead, her face crumpled.
And just like that, she was crying.
“Oh, Schatje.” Max pulled her into his arms without hesitation.
"I don’t know why I’m crying," Isabelle mumbled against his shirt, voice thick with tears.
"Because it’s a big change," Max said quietly, rubbing slow circles over her back. "Because you worked hard for that job, even if it sucked. Because you’re human, and this stuff is hard."
She sniffled against him. "I feel stupid."
"You’re not stupid," he said firmly, dropping a kiss into her hair. "You’re figuring it out. That’s brave."
She exhaled shakily, the tension in her shoulders finally starting to unravel. "I don’t even know where to start."
Max grinned. “Well, in the meantime, you can always be my trophy wife.”
That earned a wet, incredulous laugh. “Excuse me?”
“You know, live a life of luxury. Lounge around, spend my money—”
“I’m not going to be your trophy wife.”
“Why not? You’d be great at it.”
“I like working,” she shot back, slipping out of his embrace just enough to glare at him.
Max smirked. “Yeah, but you also like expensive pastries, and being my trophy wife means you can have as many as you want.”
She groaned, wiping at her face. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are, still crying all over me,” Max teased, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Isabelle huffed. “Fine. I’ll be your trophy wife for a week. Just to try it.”
“Deal,” Max said easily. “I’ll even buy you a designer handbag.”
She laughed again, finally looking a little more like herself. “You are ridiculous.”
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/F1Spotted: Y’all, Max Verstappen just walked into Chanel Monaco, and I’ve never seen a man more determined in my life.
@/SoftCompound: What’s the vibe? Casual browsing or “I know exactly what I want” levels of confidence?
@/F1Spotted: He walked in, went straight to the handbags, and told the SA, “I need something classic. Not too flashy. She prefers gold hardware.”
@/F1Tea: NOT “she prefers gold hardware” ??? Who is SHE???
@/GridGossip: That is a man DEEPLY in love.
@/F1Spotted: The SA showed him a couple of options, and he just went, “That one. I’ll take it.” No hesitation. No second thoughts.
@/RBR_obsessed: Not even checking the price tag 💀💀💀
@/EngineModeYES: The way he’s spending like a man who never wants her to work again.
@/McLarenMemeLord: “She likes gold hardware” AND “I’ll take it” in the same shopping trip… pray for this man, he’s down catastrophically.
@/OversteerFanatic: Do we think this is a “Congrats on quitting your terrible job” gift or a “Please let me keep funding your lifestyle” gift?
@/TyreDegSzn: He’s doubling down on the trophy wife agenda.
@/PadelAndPitStops: Next thing we know, she’ll be posting one of those soft-focus Insta stories of the bag with the caption: “spoiled 💚”
@/F1Spotted: He left with the biggest grin, holding the Chanel bag like it was a trophy.
@/Multi21Pls: He has 3 WDCs but THIS is his greatest achievement.
***
Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie
Isabelle: I did a thing.
Emilie: Oh god.
Emilie: What kind of “thing”?
Emilie: Like... a normal person thing? Or a you thing?
Isabelle: I quit my job.
Emilie: ...you WHAT
Isabelle: I gave notice yesterday.
Isabelle: Well, technically I handed in my resignation with zero notice.
Isabelle: So... I guess I just quit.
Emilie: ISABELLE
Isabelle: I know.
Emilie: YOU QUIT Emilie: LIKE Emilie: YOU’RE FREE?
Isabelle: Apparently.
Emilie: Belle. Emilie: BELLE.Emilie: THIS IS A MOMENT.
Isabelle: I’m half proud, half panicking.
Emilie: That’s valid. Emilie: But mostly: GOOD FOR YOU. Emilie: You’ve been miserable for months. This is overdue.
Isabelle: I just kept thinking I could fix it.
Emilie: You are not a human Band-Aid. Emilie: You do not have to patch up dysfunctional men in button-down shirts.
Isabelle: That’s a very specific burn.
Emilie: It’s targeted and deserved. Emilie: Also: I’m proud of you. Emilie: And I’m taking you out for champagne and carbs.
Isabelle: I don’t know if I want to celebrate or cry in a corner.
Emilie: We’ll do both.
Isabelle: ...Okay. Isabelle: I could be convinced.
Emilie: I’m ordering us dessert too. You’re unemployed and hot, it’s a new era.
Isabelle: Thank you. I think?
Emilie: You’re welcome. I love you. I’m proud of you. And I swear to god if you try to go back I will physically block the door.
Isabelle: Noted 😅
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie
Emilie: What have you DONE to my friend.
Emilie: Miss “I’m fine,” Miss “It’s not that bad,” Miss “Maybe if I just do a little more…”
Emilie: She QUIT.
Emilie: HER. JOB.
Emilie: No backup plan. No exit strategy. Just mic drop and walk out.
Max: Yeah. Fantastic, right? Good for her.
Emilie: GOOD???
Emilie: MAX.
Emilie: SHE ACTUALLY STOOD UP FOR HERSELF AND WALKED OUT.
Emilie: Don’t “good for her” me!!
Emilie: I mean yes—good for her, but also
Emilie: who are you
Emilie: and what have you done to the girl who used to apologize to printers when they jammed
Max: I didn’t do anything 🤷♂️
Max: She decided on her own.
Max: She deserved better.
Max: She knows that now.
Emilie: You’ve been boyfriend-ing too well
Emilie: She’s out here setting boundaries and reclaiming her peace like a whole queen
Emilie: And I’m just watching it happen like ????
Max: So you’re saying I’m a good influence?
Emilie: I’m saying you’re terrifying
Emilie: She’s turning down nonsense and choosing herself
Emilie: Do you even understand the level of personal growth we’re dealing with?
Max: She deserves it.
Emilie: Yeah. She really does.
Emilie: Also if you hurt her I will throw a stiletto at you. Custom Louboutins. It’ll be personal.
Max: Fair.
***
Isabelle wasn’t even sure why she had let Emilie drag her out shopping today. She didn’t need anything. She barely ever bought anything for herself—at least, nothing extravagant.
She liked nice things…but she had never been hung up on brands, and she much preferred pieces that didn’t make her look like a walking billboard advertisement for a luxury brand.
(Though she did quite like the absolutely gorgeous Chanel Flap Bag that Max had presented her with a few days ago. He had kept that ridiculous promise of buying her a handbag and she had been too amused to call him out on it.)
“You know, now that you’ve officially quit your job, we need to celebrate,” Emilie said as they strolled into Hermès.
Oh, right, now she remembered. Namely that she had quit her job literally days ago and was now officially unemployed.
Isabelle sighed. “This is the celebration,” she said drily. This and the boozy brunch they had had before going shopping.
“No, no, you buying something is the actual act of celebration.”
“I am not buying another handbag.”
Emilie gave her a flat look. “That’s what you said last time.”
“Yes, and I meant it,” Isabelle shot back. “Max literally bought me a Chanel bag the other day.”
Emilie stopped in her tracks. “He bought you a Chanel bag?”
Isabelle shifted awkwardly. “…Yes.”
“Like, you mentioned it in passing, and he surprised you later? Or was this a ‘we walked into the store, and he casually dropped his credit card’ kind of situation?”
Isabelle sighed, rubbing her temples. “It was a joke.”
“A Chanel bag was a joke?”
“I told him I’d be his trophy wife for a week.”
Emilie looked at her like she’d grown three heads. “And his response was to buy you a Chanel bag?”
“…Yes?” Isabelle said weakly.
Emilie grabbed her by the shoulders. “Isabelle. Your boyfriend is so far gone for you, I don’t think he even remembers what normal human relationships look like.”
Isabelle grimaced, thinking back to that black credit card that was tucked into the back of her wallet. “Can we move on?”
“No. Because you just quit your job, you’re technically unemployed, and your extremely rich, extremely besotted boyfriend is throwing designer bags at you. You are living the trophy wife dream.”
“I am not his trophy wife.”
“I mean, technically, no. But spiritually? You are this close.” Emilie held her fingers an inch apart, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Before Isabelle could protest, a well-dressed sales associate approached with a warm smile. “Miss Leclerc, lovely to see you again.”
Emilie, distracted by a nearby display of silk scarves, barely noticed. “We’d love to see that Kelly bag in black—oh, and maybe the taupe as well.”
The sales associate nodded. “Of course. Mr. Verstappen has his account on file for your purchases.”
Silence.
Emilie’s head snapped up so fast Isabelle was surprised she didn’t give herself whiplash.
“I’m sorry. What did you just say?” Emilie asked, her voice an octave higher than usual.
The associate remained composed. “Mr. Verstappen has set up a standing account for Miss Leclerc. She’s free to make any purchases at her convenience.”
Emilie turned to Isabelle so slowly and so dramatically that Isabelle knew she was never going to hear the end of this.
“Isabelle.” Emilie’s voice was deadly serious. “Are you telling me that Max—your Max—has a shopping account set up for you at Hermès? And you weren’t even going to mention it?”
Isabelle’s face burned. “I— I didn’t think it was important?”
Emilie clutched her own chest like she was on the verge of fainting. “Not important? Isabelle. Your boyfriend is Max Verstappen. He has a personal account at Hermès for you. That means you can walk in here at any time, pick whatever you want, and they just charge it to him?”
The sales associate, clearly trained to deal with these types of reactions, simply nodded. “That is correct.”
Emilie turned back to Isabelle, looking utterly scandalized. “And you don’t use it?”
“I— well, no,” Isabelle admitted, feeling like she was digging herself into a deeper hole. “I don’t need anything.”
Emilie dramatically staggered backward. “I’m sorry. You’re telling me that you could have been out here living your best trophy wife life, and you haven’t been?”
Isabelle groaned. “I knew I shouldn’t have come today.”
Emilie turned back to the associate with a blinding smile. “Yes, please. Bring out everything.” Then, lowering her voice, she added, “And maybe a glass of champagne for me because I need to process the fact that my best friend is living in an actual fairy tale.”
The associate merely nodded, disappearing into the back.
Isabelle folded her arms, glaring at Emilie. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being reasonable,” Emilie countered. “Because, let me get this straight—Max put his credit card on file at one of the most expensive boutiques in Monaco for you to use whenever you want, and you never told me?”
Isabelle groaned, covering her face. “I don’t even use it! I’ve never—”
Emilie held up a hand. “No, no, this is incredible. You could walk in here and buy, like, five bags, and they’d just say, ‘Of course, Miss Leclerc, Mr. Verstappen has already taken care of it.’”
“I’m not doing that!” Isabelle hissed, mortified.
Emilie smirked. “But you could.”
“Em—”
“No, no, let me have this moment.” Emilie leaned against the counter, shaking her head. “I knew he was obsessed with you, but this? This is next-level. Like, top-tier boyfriend behavior. Do you know how many women would kill for this?”
Isabelle sighed. “I don’t want to take advantage of him.”
Emilie threw up her hands. “You wouldn’t be! You’re his girlfriend! He’s obsessed with you! Have you met Max? If anything, he’s probably annoyed you don’t use it more.”
Emilie turned thoughtful for a moment. “Does he do this at other places too? Like, do you walk into Dior and they just start pulling things for you?”
“I don’t know!” Isabelle whisper-yelled. “I don’t go around testing it!”
“Well, you should,” Emilie said firmly. “Because if my boyfriend was this obscenely rich and obsessed with me, you’d best believe I’d be letting him spoil me on principle.”
Before Isabelle could argue, Emilie’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then cackled. “Oh my God. I’m texting him.”
Isabelle’s eyes widened in horror. “No, do not—”
Too late. Emilie had already typed:
Emilie: Why didn’t you tell me you have a shopping account for Isabelle at Hermès? I just found out and I think I need medical attention.
Seconds later, Max responded.
Max: And?
Emilie turned her phone toward Isabelle with a smug grin. “Look at that. He’s not even fazed.”
Isabelle groaned.
A moment later, another message from Max came through.
Max: She never uses it. Tell her to buy something.
Emilie let out an actual shriek of delight. “I knew it.”
Isabelle covered her face with her hands. “I hate both of you.”
Emilie just smirked, turning back to the sales associate, who had just returned with an armful of options. “Alright, let’s start with the classics.” She turned to Isabelle with a wicked grin. “Because if you don’t pick something, I will.”
Isabelle knew, with absolute certainty, that she had lost this battle, but that didn’t mean she had to go down without a fight.
“I don’t need another bag,” she tried again, crossing her arms as Emilie eagerly surveyed the selection now laid out in front of them. The sales associate had clearly taken Emilie’s enthusiasm as permission to bring out the best pieces—the kind that weren’t just sitting out on the shelves.
Emilie rolled her eyes. “Need? Isabelle, we’re past ‘need.’ This is about principle. Your ridiculously rich boyfriend, who would literally hand you the world if he could, wants you to use his account. And here you are, acting like you don’t deserve it.”
Isabelle shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate Max’s generosity—it was just that… no one had ever really spoiled her before. She had spent so long being overlooked, so long having to sacrifice things for the sake of her family, that being on the receiving end of such thoughtful indulgence felt foreign.
Emilie must have sensed it because her teasing softened into something more gentle. “Hey,” she nudged Isabelle’s arm. “You know Max, right? He’s not the kind of guy who does things halfway. If he put his card on file here, it’s because he wants you to have nice things. Not because he expects anything, not because he’s showing off. Just because he loves you.”
Isabelle exhaled slowly. She did know that. She saw it in the way Max always made sure she ate before he did, in how he paid attention to the little things—how he remembered things about her that even her own family forgot.
Her fingers traced over the soft leather of a cream Verrou bag. It was beautiful. And maybe—just maybe—she could allow herself to accept this part of their relationship.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she looked up at the sales associate. “I’d like this one, please.”
Emilie let out a triumphant squeal. “Finally!”
The associate smiled. “A wonderful choice, Miss Leclerc. We’ll have it wrapped for you shortly.”
Isabelle bit her lip, suddenly feeling a little giddy. It was just a bag. But at the same time… it wasn’t. It was a reminder that, for the first time in her life, she was with someone who didn’t just see her—he cherished her.
As they waited, Emilie picked up her phone and quickly typed something. Isabelle frowned. “What are you doing?”
Emilie smirked. “Updating Max.”
A moment later, his response came through.
Max: Finally.
Isabelle groaned. “You two are a nightmare.”
Emilie grinned. “We’re your nightmare.”
And maybe, just maybe… Isabelle didn’t mind that so much.
***
The sun was warm on her skin as Isabelle let herself be pulled along Avenue de Monte-Carlo, Emilie dragging her from Valentino to Gucci to Miu Miu in a blur of bright storefronts and designer bags.
She should have been tired.
Instead, she felt a little giddy — her new purchase swinging lightly from her hand, perfect indulgence.
It was a perfect afternoon.
Until it wasn’t.
Isabelle had always known where she stood in her family. She had learned not to expect invitations, had conditioned herself to not mind when she was left out of things that should have been obvious.
But still—walking into Goyard with Emilie and coming face-to-face with her mother and her brothers’ girlfriends, all out shopping together like some picture-perfect family outing, stung.
They were all standing together, arms full of shopping bags, laughing about something before her mother’s eyes landed on her.
“Oh,” her mother blinked, clearly surprised to see her. “Isabelle.”
Isabelle forced a polite smile. “Maman.” She nodded at the other women. “I didn’t realize you were all going out today.”
The immediate flicker of guilt across her mother’s face told Isabelle everything she needed to know. They hadn’t forgotten to invite her. They just hadn’t thought to include her at all.
“Oh, it was just a last-minute thing,” her mother said quickly, like that made it better. “We thought we’d do a little shopping before lunch.”
A lunch Isabelle wasn’t invited to either, apparently.
Her brothers’ girlfriends, who had always slotted so seamlessly into the family, exchanged glances, clearly uncomfortable. One of them, Charlotte —Lorenzo’s girlfriend—offered a hesitant, “We didn’t think you’d be interested.”
As if Isabelle never had interests. As if she hadn’t spent years watching from the outside, always an afterthought.
Emilie, standing beside her, said nothing. But Isabelle could feel the rage radiating off of her, the way her best friend’s hands had curled into fists.
Isabelle inhaled slowly, pushing back the familiar wave of hurt. She had learned long ago that showing how much this bothered her never got her anywhere. So instead, she kept her voice light, pleasant—graceful in a way they didn’t deserve.
“Well, I hope you’re all having a lovely time,” she said smoothly. “It’s a beautiful day for shopping.”
Her mother smiled, relieved that Isabelle wasn’t making a scene. “Yes, it is. And what about you, ma chérie? Out with a friend?”
“Yes,” Isabelle said simply. “Just enjoying the afternoon.”
She felt Emilie shift beside her, felt the sudden tension in the way her best friend’s grip tightened around her shopping bag.
“Oh, we picked up something special, actually,” Emilie said, voice perfectly even—but Isabelle knew that tone. She was angry.
She held up the unmistakable Hermès bag. Her mother’s gaze flickered to the bag.
“That’s lovely,” she said, her tone still light.
Isabelle just hummed in response. “Well, we won’t keep you.”
And with that, she turned—head held high, posture poised—pulling Emilie along with her.
They were barely out of earshot before Emilie exploded.
“Are you kidding me?”
Isabelle exhaled slowly. “Emilie—”
“No, Belle, no,” Emilie fumed. “They just—what, decided you didn’t even exist today? Like, ‘oh, we’ll just go shopping without Isabelle, she won’t care’?” She scoffed. “And the fact that your mother didn’t even apologize—”
“Em,” Isabelle sighed. “It’s not—”
“Don’t you dare say it’s not a big deal,” Emilie cut in. “Because it is. And I know you. I know it hurts.”
Isabelle swallowed. “I don’t want to think about it.”
Emilie scoffed. “Fine. But you know who would be furious about this?”
Isabelle shot her a look.
Emilie smirked. “Your boyfriend.”
“Em—” she warned.
“Oh, don’t Em me,” Emilie huffed. “You know he’d lose his mind if he found out they just left you out like that.” She paused, then muttered, “Actually, I kind of want to tell him. Just to watch him get all—” She gestured vaguely. “Dutch and possessive and mad.”
Isabelle bit her lip. Because, yeah. Max would be furious.
Emilie turned, eyes blazing. “How are you not furious right now?”
Because she was furious. Because she was hurt. But she had learned—long, long ago—that showing it didn’t make a difference.
So instead, she just smiled faintly. “I have better things to focus on.”
***
Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie
Emilie: Just so you know, your girlfriend is too classy for her own good.
Max: ?
Emilie: We just ran into her mother and her brothers’ girlfriends while we were shopping.
Emilie: Guess who wasn’t invited on their little girls’ outing?
Max: Tell me you are kidding.
Emilie: I wish I was.
Emilie: They didn’t even try to hide it. Just said it was “last minute”. Charlotte said they didn’t think she’d “be interested”.
Max: Tell her to use the card.
Emilie: What card?
Max: The one in her wallet. Black Card. Behind the receipts she never throws away. My name on the back. Hers on the front
Emilie: YOU GAVE HER A BLACK CARD???
Max: She never uses it. So tell her to.
Emilie: i— oh my god
Max: Anything she wants. Anything that makes her feel the way they don’t.
Emilie: You’re insane
Emilie: I love it
Max: Belle deserves better than scraps.
Max: and tell her I said if she doesn’t buy herself something outrageous, I will.
Emilie: You’re dangerous when you’re emotional.
Max: No. I’m dangerous when people hurt her
Emilie: Honestly? Same.
Emilie: Consider it done.
***
By the time Emilie got back to their café table, her hands were still shaking from how hard she was gripping her phone.
Isabelle barely glanced up from stirring her tea. Too calm. Way too calm for what had just happened.
Emilie stared at her for a moment — at the careful, practiced ease in Isabelle’s movements, at the way she tucked every ounce of hurt so deep inside you might almost miss it.
But Emilie knew her too well.
She could see the small tells. The stiffness in Isabelle’s shoulders. The slight tremor at the corner of her mouth. The way she stirred her tea even though it had long gone cold.
She hated it. Hated how often Isabelle had been forced to wear that mask around the people who should have loved her most. Hated that Isabelle had spent so much of her life being overlooked, sidelined, treated like an afterthought in her own family.
Emilie set her jaw and dropped into the chair across from her.
"We’re using the card," she announced without preamble.
Isabelle blinked up at her, perfectly innocent. "What card?"
Emilie narrowed her eyes. "Don’t play dumb. The card."
Isabelle sighed, setting her spoon down neatly. "I’m not using it, Em."
"You are," Emilie said, practically vibrating with frustration. "Max said you should."
"He always says that," Isabelle muttered, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "He was half-joking when he gave it to me."
Emilie stared at her — this girl she loved like a sister — and felt the white-hot burn of protectiveness flood her chest.
"Belle," she said flatly. "He put your name on a black Amex. That’s not a joke. That’s basically marriage proposal."
Isabelle flushed lightly but lifted her chin, stubborn even in her embarrassment. "It’s for emergencies."
Emilie made a strangled noise. "And what exactly do you call today? Getting iced out of your own family in public counts as an emergency in my book!"
Isabelle shook her head, the corner of her mouth tugging in a small, resigned smile. "Retail therapy doesn’t fix anything."
Emilie leaned in, fire still burning under her ribs. "It fixes your mood," she said fiercely. "And it reminds everyone watching that you’re not some forgotten little sister. You’re the woman whose boyfriend gave her a credit limit bigger than their combined mortgage."
Isabelle gave her a sharp look. "Emilie," she said warningly. “I literally just bought a Hermès bag.”
"And?" Emilie demanded. "You earned it."
Because Isabelle never asked for anything.
Because Isabelle spent her whole life making herself smaller, quieter, easier — trying not to take up space that no one seemed willing to offer her.
And now?
Now she had someone who saw her, who chose her, and Emilie would be damned if she let Isabelle keep hiding from that.
"I’m just saying," Emilie pressed, voice gentler now, "Max didn’t give you that card because he wanted you to buy him groceries. He gave it to you because he wanted you to know you’re taken care of. No conditions. No strings."
Isabelle’s hands curled slightly around her teacup.
She looked so small in that moment, so heartbreakingly unsure of her own worth, and Emilie’s chest ached.
"Belle..." she said softly. "You deserve to be someone’s priority. And he’s trying to show you that you already are."
Outside, Monte Carlo carried on — laughter, footsteps, the clatter of shop doors swinging open and shut — oblivious to the way Isabelle was holding herself together with sheer force of will.
Finally, Isabelle let out a shaky breath and gave Emilie a small, reluctant smile.
"Maybe just... one thing," she said quietly.
Emilie grinned like she’d just won the Monaco Grand Prix. "One thing now," she said smugly. "Ten things later."
Isabelle laughed — properly, this time — and the sound bubbled up between them, fragile and bright and so achingly beautiful that Emilie almost teared up.
She would burn the whole damn world down to protect that laugh.
"And for the record," Emilie added, gathering her bag with a wink, "if you don’t use it, I will."
"I think that would technically be fraud," Isabelle said, smiling into her tea.
"Semantics," Emilie said breezily. "Let’s go make Max proud."
And for once — just once — Isabelle let herself be pulled to her feet without arguing, letting herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to be loved exactly as she was.
***
The garage buzzed around Max — the usual sounds of a race weekend: drills, chatter, tires being rolled out, pit crew moving like clockwork. He should have been in the zone. Usually, he was.
But not today.
Today, he was angry.
Not the hot, reckless kind of anger that made his hands shake on a steering wheel —
No, this was quieter. Sharper.
The kind that sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and cold.
He thought about Isabelle standing there, smiling politely while her own family overlooked her like she was invisible.
He thought about the way she brushed it off, like she didn’t even expect to be seen anymore.
It made him want to punch something.
Or someone.
Preferably a Leclerc.
He was mid-checking the tire pressures on the sheet when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Max glanced around, making sure no one was watching too closely, then slipped it out quickly.
Notification: American Express: €9.50 spent at Seaside Juicery.
Max stared at it. For a beat too long.
Then, despite himself — despite everything — he smiled.
The smallest, stupidest purchase imaginable.
Nine euros.
Smoothie, maybe. A Tea. A little something.
But she had used it.
She had listened.
He tucked the phone back into his pocket, feeling stupidly giddy, the anger in his chest cracking just a little.
"Something good?" GP asked, wandering over with a tablet tucked under his arm.
Max shrugged, too casual. "She bought something."
GP blinked. "Who?"
"Isabelle. With the card I gave her. Nine euros," Max said, smirking.
GP laughed under his breath. "Well, congratulations. That's basically free compared to the psychological warfare you went through to get her to accept it."
Max just smiled — that rare, real one that didn’t make it to the cameras.
There was a short pause as the engineers passed by with fresh tire sets, shouting numbers back and forth.
Then Max added, way too casually, "She also bought a Hermes Bag. And she quit her job."
GP turned, full attention on him now. "What?"
"Yeah." Max reached for a bottle of water, twisting the cap off. "Told them to go fuck themselves. Finally."
GP whistled low. "Good for her."
Max shrugged like it was nothing. "She agreed to be my trophy wife for the week while she figures out what she wants to do."
GP choked on his laugh.
"Trophy wife?" he repeated, like he needed clarification.
Max deadpanned, "She makes coffee. Looks pretty. Yells at me to sleep more. Very demanding job."
GP shook his head, grinning. "You’re unbelievable."
Max’s expression softened slightly, the edge still there under it.
"I just want her to have something that’s hers," he said quietly. "Not whatever scraps her family bothers to throw her."
GP studied him for a long beat, then clapped him on the shoulder.
"You’re a pain in the ass, Verstappen," he said, voice light but warm. "But you’re a good one."
Max only shrugged again and grabbed his helmet, fitting it under his arm.
"She deserves better," he said simply. "Always has."
And then he headed toward the car, a little lighter than he'd been an hour ago — a little less furious, and a lot more in love.
***
Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen
Max: I got another card notification
Max: felt very proud
Max: thought maybe you finally bought something for yourself
Isabelle: …it was necessary
Max: €160 on cat toys is necessary??
Isabelle: YES
Isabelle: They’re enrichment tools.
Max: They’re getting a better life than I did growing up
Isabelle: They’re very intelligent
Isabelle: They need stimulation
Max: You bought them a mini velvet couch.
Isabelle: It’s chic and it matches the living room
Max: You’re matching the decor for the cats now??
Isabelle: …a little
Isabelle: You said anything I wanted
Isabelle: I want the cats to live in luxury
Max: I respect the commitment
Max: Does this mean i’m getting upgraded toys too?
Isabelle: Do you need stimulation enrichment?!
Max: If it comes with you feeding me treats and scratching my head too, yes.
Isabelle: MAX
Max: 😂
Max: “enrichment tools” she says
Max: You bought them a miniature sofa!
Isabelle: It matches the living room aesthetic.
Max: We are officially insane.
Max: We have matching furniture with the cats
Isabelle: You say that like it’s a bad thing
Max: It’s not. I’m obsessed with you and apparently with our spoilt cats too.
Isabelle: You started this.
Max: True
Max: I am so proud of my little trophy wife spoiling the cats instead of herself.
Isabelle: Sassy and Jimmy deserve nice things.
Max: So do you.
Isabelle: I’m working on it
Max: You’re perfect and the cats are about to live better than 90% of Monaco.
Isabelle: As they should
Max: Send me pictures when it arrives
Max: I want to see Sassy sitting on her tiny couch like she owns the penthouse.
White Horse - Chapter 5: July 2023
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 the death of a parent, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen
Max: Just a heads-up. I have a girlfriend.
Jos: …And you’re only telling me now?
Max: Yes.
Jos: How long?
Max: Four months.
Jos: Jesus, Max. Who is she?
Max: Isabelle.
Jos: Isabelle who?
Max: Isabelle Leclerc.
Jos:
Jos: LECLERC??
Max: Yes.
Jos: You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s sister?!
Max: Yes.
Jos: And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?
Max: Why would I?
Jos: Because she’s a Leclerc.
Max: And?
Jos: And that’s complicated.
Max: No, it’s really not.
Jos: Do her brothers know?
Max: No.
Jos: They’re going to lose their minds.
Max: Probably.
Jos: And you don’t care?
Max: Not really.
Jos: …You’re serious about her.
Max: I am.
Jos: Huh.
Max: That’s all you have to say?
Jos: What do you want me to say?
Max: I don’t know. I expected more yelling.
Jos: Would it change anything?
Max: No.
Jos: Exactly.
Jos: Don’t let her distract you.
Max: She’s not a distraction.
***
There was something to say about Isabelle Leclerc in her element.
High Heels clicking against the dark wood that now covered the floor of his penthouse (Walnut, as she had explained to him once, laid in a herringbone pattern), the cream dress she wore swishing around her calves, nearly the exact same colour as was on most of the walls (Max had realised that he was colour blind by the time she had shown him five different shades of cream, told him to pick one, and he had been certain that she was playing a practical joke on him because they all looked the exact same. Who knew that there was a different between Snow White, Skimmed Milk White, Shaded White, Strong White and New White?) and telling him all about the light fixtures that were now hung in the space.
She walked ahead of him, soft voiced, giving a quiet tour of the apartment she’s spent the last few months designing.
Max trailed behind her, hands in his pockets, watching her more than the rooms.
She was different here.
Not in a big, obvious way—Isabelle was always composed, always graceful—but here, in the space she had built from the ground up, she walked with ease. She fit into the light like she belonged to it. And the truth was, she did.
Isabelle stopped in the living room, where the late sunlight stretched across the wooden floors, and looked around.
“All that’s left is the furniture install,” she said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “It’ll be livable in a week or two.”
Max nodded, but didn’t answer right away.
Isabelle turned to him, mistaking his silence for something technical. “Unless there’s anything you want to change?”
He shook his head slowly. “No. It’s perfect.”
She gave him a small, pleased smile, and turned back to the windows. That’s when he said it.
“You should move in.”
She stilled.
“Belle.”
She looked back at him. Her smile didn’t vanish, but it wavered at the edges. “Max.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” she said softly. “That’s the problem.”
He stepped closer, gentle, careful—because he knew that look on her face. It was the look she wore whenever he offered her something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to accept.
“You made this place feel like home,” he said. “Everything in it has your fingerprints on it. You already live in it, in every way except physically.”
She didn’t answer. Just looked around again—at the walls she’d chosen, the soft gold hardware, the faint echo in the emptiness.
“I don’t want to take up too much space,” she said finally, so quiet it hurt.
Max frowned. “I want you to take up space.”
She hesitated. He knew she would. She always thought twice before stepping forward, especially when it came to being wanted. He also knew that hesitation wasn’t about him—not really. It was about every time she’d been treated like an afterthought.
So he took a step back, and pulled out his phone.
She blinked. “What are you—”
“Exhibit A,” he said, tapping open a photo and turning it toward her. “Jimmy. Sitting by the front door. Waiting for you after you left last week.”
Isabelle’s lips twitched. “That’s just because I give him treats.”
“Exhibit B,” Max continued, swiping again. “Sassy. Nesting on the blanket you left on the couch. Will not accept substitutes.”
“Max…”
“And Exhibit C,” he said, putting the phone back into his pocket and walking over to her, eyes soft but unwavering. “Me. Also useless without you.”
She bit her lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Are you emotionally blackmailing me with your cats?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “And if this doesn’t work, I will start sending photos of Sassy looking depressed. I will weaponize her pout.”
She laughed, head dropping slightly as she shook it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right,” he said. “And I’m not asking for something huge or scary. I just want you here. Where you already belong.”
She looked up at him, eyes glassy but smiling now.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“I know,” he said. “But I’ll be here. So will Jimmy. And Sassy. And we’ll all be very supportive and dramatic about it.”
She laughed, but the sound was splintering around the edges.
“Are you sure?” Isabelle asked him, her voice shaky.
Max reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “I’m sure,” he said firmly. “But if you’re not ready, that’s okay. I just—” He exhaled, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I just want you to know I want this. I want you.”
She stepped into his arms then, wrapping hers around his waist, burying her face in his chest. And when she whispered, “I think I want to say yes,” he smiled so wide it made his cheeks ache.
And if Jimmy and Sassy got extra treats that night when she came over?
Well. They’d earned it.
***
Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie
Isabelle: Max asked me to move in.
Isabelle: Like. Officially. Into the penthouse. With him.
Isabelle: I said yes.
Emilie: YOU SAID YES??? YES TO WHAT??
Isabelle: Max. The penthouse. The cats. All of it.
Emilie: AAAAAAAAAAAA
Emilie: I knew it. I KNEW he was going to ask. He’s been treating you like a man who wants joint bills and matching key hooks.
Isabelle: He was so calm about it. Like he’d already pictured me there. Like it was obvious.
Emilie: Because it is obvious. You designed that penthouse and made it a love letter to your own taste. You’ve already moved in emotionally. Time to do it physically.
Emilie: So when do we pack?
Isabelle: That’s… actually why I texted. Can you come help? I need moral support.
Emilie: Say less. I’ll be there with wine.
Isabelle: …perfect. Also, if I start backpedaling emotionally, please just throw a throw pillow at me.
Emilie: I’m bringing the heaviest one. You’re doing this, Belle. I am SO proud of you.
Isabelle: I’m scared. Like… what if I mess it up?
Emilie: You won’t. You don’t know how to be anything but steady and brilliant and thoughtful.
Emilie: And Max is completely in love with you.
Emilie: You’re building a life with someone who sees you.
Emilie: Not someone who just remembers you when they need a reservation booked.
Isabelle: That’s a little mean.
Emilie: I am your best friend. I am required to be mean on your behalf.
Emilie: Max loves you. He sees you. You get to have a gorgeous man AND a rooftop pool. This is the dream.
Emilie: Let’s pack your life, Belle. You’re going home.
***
Emilie Abadie had always believed that homes told stories.
Not just the curated kind you shared in design portfolios, or the kind Instagram filtered into perfection. The real ones. The stories that lived in cluttered drawers, forgotten shelves, and the boxes you avoided packing because they were full of things you didn’t want to explain.
Isabelle’s apartment told a quiet, thoughtful story—soft linens, deep greens and warm woods, books arranged by mood, not color. A ceramic cup collection that made no cohesive sense except to her. It was lived-in, and loved, but also… careful.
Emilie knew what careful looked like.
She’d watched Isabelle perfect the art of it for years.
Which was why it didn’t surprise her when, halfway through packing up the hallway cupboards, she found it. The collection of objects that could only be described as “well-meaning psychological warfare,” wrapped in tissue paper and reluctant affection.
Highlights included:
A desk plaque that said Think Like a Leader.
A collection of self help books.
A coffee mug that read Worlds Okayest Sister.
A heavy coffee table book about golf.
A Bluetooth speaker shaped like a race car that lit up in flashing LED colors.
A number of scented candles, all of them unburnt. All of them with the kind of sickly sweet scents that Emilie knew Isabelle would get headaches from.
A bright red umbrella. Ferrari merchandise.
A black pantsuit Isabelle had never worn and would never wear—tags still attached.
A Diet cookbook. Which pretty much exclusively featured recipes that involved red meat, which Isabelle never ate anyway.
A pair of trainers in a garish neon yellow. Two full size too big.
It was Isabelle Leclerc’s version of a family scrapbook.
Emilie didn’t say anything at first. Just sat cross-legged on the floor and started lining them up like museum artifacts. Like evidence. And it made her blood boil.
“You kept all of them,” Emilie finally said, not bothering to mask her disgust.
Isabelle, predictably, didn’t flinch. Just looked over from where she was folding dish towels and sighed. “Please don’t start.”
Emilie snorted. “I’m not starting. I’m documenting.”
Isabelle walked over and perched on the armrest of the couch, staring at the collection like someone facing down a polite ghost.
“They’re not trying to hurt me,” she said, because of course she did.
“They’re not trying to see you either,” Emilie finally replied.
God, they had trained her to make excuses for them so well.
And that was the thing about Isabelle.
Isabelle defended them. Always. Even when they ignored her. Even when they handed her a gift that said, in a thousand unspoken ways, we don’t know who you are, so here’s who we’d rather you be.
Emilie loved Isabelle for her grace. Respected her for her patience.
But sometimes she wanted to scream on her behalf.
Because Isabelle Leclerc was brilliant. Quietly, devastatingly brilliant.
She could sketch out a space and see a life inside it before anyone else could.
She knew how to listen, how to hold space, how to fill a room without taking it over.
And yet, her family treated her like the placeholder sibling.
The support system.
The “how lucky we are to have you manage our chaos” afterthought.
Emilie wanted to shake her sometimes.
“You’re allowed to admit it hurts,” she said, softer than she meant to.
Isabelle just hummed noncomittingly.
Emilie had watched this play out for years: birthdays where Isabelle got gifts that felt like HR perks, dinners where she was interrupted or talked over, family holidays where she played event planner and emotional buffer and never, not once, was asked what she wanted for herself.
And then Max Verstappen had shown up.
At first, Emilie had been skeptical. Who wouldn’t be? He was Max—F1 World Champion, known for being blunt to the point of rudeness.
But then… she saw the way Isabelle softened around him.
Or no—that wasn’t it.
Isabelle didn’t soften with Max. She just… relaxed.
Like for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to justify her existence. Max didn’t question her decisions, didn’t treat her like she was delicate or invisible. He watched her. Not with confusion, but with certainty. Like he already knew she was extraordinary.
And when he asked her to move in, Emilie saw the panic. But underneath it? The wonder.
The possibility of being seen. Fully. Without apology.
So as Emilie watched her best friend now—holding that terrible mug with a rueful smile, defending the people who had handed her metaphorical shrink-wrap year after year—she didn’t say the things she wanted to.
She didn’t say, They don’t deserve you.
She didn’t say, They never tried hard enough.
She didn’t even say, You don’t have to keep forgiving them just because it’s easier than facing the truth.
Instead, she handed Isabelle a roll of bubble wrap and said, “I’m glad you’re moving.”
Isabelle didn’t answer, just smiled faintly and kept folding.
But Emilie meant it. Not just because the apartment was too small for her, or too carefully arranged around other people’s expectations—but because Max had asked her to move in.
And Max—despite being the chaos of F1 incarnate—saw her.
He wasn’t perfect—God, no—but he made space for her. Real space.
And for someone like Isabelle, who had spent her whole life tucking herself into corners… that mattered.
Max didn’t just love her.
He made her feel unchallenged in her existence. Like it was safe to take up room. To bring her books and her silly teacups and her weird throw pillows and be.
Emilie looked around the apartment one last time. The walls felt like they were exhaling. Letting go.
And when Isabelle asked, softly, “Do you think I’ll miss it?”, Emilie didn’t hesitate.
“No,” she said. “You’ll be too busy building something better.”
With someone better.
And that made all the difference.
***
Isabelle didn’t expect it to feel like this.
The shopping trip was meant to be practical.
They had all the essentials, really—Max’s penthouse was fully furnished, a curated blend of sleek lines and soft warmth, every finish and fixture carefully chosen. By her. For him.
And now… for them.
Because Max had asked her to move in. And she’d said yes.
And suddenly, the things she used to walk past in shops—the towels, the sheets, the coffee mugs—meant something entirely different.
They weren’t just purchases.
They were choices.
Isabelle ran her fingers over the display of Egyptian cotton sheets, crisp and cloud-white, then turned to a soft beige set that made her think of sleepy mornings and Max’s warm skin under her fingertips. She held up the tag, inspected the thread count, and caught herself smiling.
It felt a little silly, how giddy she was. How young she felt. Like a teenager dreaming of her first apartment. But this was different. This wasn’t fantasy.
This was real.
She was going to live with him. Not just crash on weekends, not just brush her teeth beside his before tiptoeing out the next morning.
She would be there when he got home.
She would be there when he left.
She would be home.
That thought made her pause.
The nerves came creeping in—quiet but insistent.
Would she take up too much space? Would she somehow get in the way? What if she over-decorated, what if she made it feel less like his place?
What if she loved it more than she was allowed to?
She picked up towels next—thick ones, luxurious ones. One set in cream, one in a dusky grey-blue. Neutral. Calming. Shared.
Would Max care?
Probably not. He’d happily dry off with whatever was closest.
But Isabelle cared.
Because this wasn’t just shopping.
This was settling.
Belonging.
She carried the towels and duvet set to the counter and added a couple of throw pillows she hadn’t planned to buy, and still did, before she went to her favourite antique store.
The store smelled like old books, wood polish, and dried lavender. Isabelle had always loved it—the quiet hush of it, the way everything creaked slightly underfoot, how time seemed to fold in around the edges. Nothing here rushed. Nothing here demanded.
Which was why she came.
When she needed to think.
When she needed to feel like she was choosing something entirely her own.
The console table caught her eye almost immediately. Oak, mid-century, solid but delicate somehow—slim legs, warm finish, brass drawer pulls that looked like little leaves. It wasn’t flashy, but it was hers. In the way certain pieces just are.
She stood in front of it for a while, her hand brushing over the edge.
They had space for it. Max had said she could pick what she wanted. He meant it. He’d said things like it’s your home too and whatever makes it feel like us, but Isabelle still felt the pull of hesitation in her chest. A quiet anxiety that came not from Max—but from all the years of not quite being allowed to take up space.
But she wanted this one.
This table. This little symbol of her taste, her joy, her voice.
She turned to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take it.”
The words were quiet, but steady.
A few minutes later, she stood at the counter, scribbling her name on the delivery slip. The butterflies were still there—flapping somewhere between her ribs—but so was something else. Something lighter.
***
Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen
Isabelle: So hypothetically… if someone were to have bought a few things for the apartment while you were gone… would that be a problem?
Max: Define “a few things.”
Isabelle: …Towels. Throw pillows. A vintage console table I may have emotionally imprinted on.
Max: Was it whispering to you in the store?
Isabelle: It was practically begging to live in our hallway.
Max: Then obviously you had no choice.
Isabelle: Exactly. Also, I got a really pretty ceramic tray for the kitchen island. You know, for keys. Or snacks.
Isabelle: You’ll love it. It’s very “Max doesn’t know what it’s for but agrees it looks nice.”
Max: My favorite kind of décor. You’re making this apartment ours. I love it.
Isabelle: You can thank me by letting me put the throw pillows I just found on the couch.
Max: Are the throw pillows neutral or secretly pink?
Isabelle: Neutral… ish. There’s texture. You’ll survive. I debated between “soft beige” and “almond stone.” I chose “soft beige”.
Max: That’s not even a real difference.
Isabelle: Says the man who can feel the difference between tire compounds while going 300 km/h.
Max: Touché.
Max: Buy anything you want. Cover the couch in throw pillows. I miss you and imagining you decorating makes it feel closer to coming home.
Isabelle: That was dangerously sweet.
Max: I’m in a hotel room with bad lighting and no you. I’m weak.
Isabelle: I’ll save you a spot on the couch. And possibly hide the pillows until you’ve emotionally adjusted.
Max: Deal. Now send me a photo of that tray. I need to know what I’ve agreed to.
***
Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc
Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc
Comments:
@f1fashionista93: where is this shop?? asking for a friend (the friend is me)
↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s called Vintage Collection, at the Carré d’Or!
@emilie_abadie: You’re so lucky I wasn’t with you or that lion would be in my living room.
↳ @isabelleleclerc You would’ve named him and given him a tragic backstory. ↳ @emilie_abadie And he would’ve deserved it.
@paddockprincess: how is this not a painting???
@victoriaverstappen: “Something older than everyone in the room” is my new golden rule—thank you for this! ❤️
↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s such a good trick!
@/F1GossipQueen: You’ve inspired me to go antiquing this weekend. Hoping to find my own weird lion.
***
Max wasn’t sure when it hit him exactly—somewhere between unrolling a rug Isabelle had ordered and setting it gently under the coffee table, or watching her rearrange the spice drawer for the third time like she was memorizing her own existence.
She was here. She had moved in. But somehow… she hadn’t arrived yet.
He watched from the doorway as she unpacked a box labeled “Books + misc. (bedside stuff?)” in her neat handwriting. Her movements were precise. Careful. Like every item she placed might be quietly retracted if it took up too much space.
It wasn’t the way she moved in his life. With him, she was steady. Present. Laughing softly in the kitchen or curled up with Jimmy or Sassy, or leaning into his touch like she belonged there—which, to him, she did.
But this… this looked like someone trying not to leave a mark.
“Hey,” Max said softly, leaning in the doorway.
Isabelle glanced up. “Sorry. I’m taking over the dresser—if you want the top drawer back—”
“I don’t,” he said, crossing the room. “I want you to take all the drawers. And the shelves. And the bathroom counter.”
She looked at him warily, like she didn’t quite believe it.
Max reached for her hand. “You’re not a guest, Belle. You live here. I want to see your things around the place.”
Isabelle hesitated, fingers curling slightly in his. “I just… I’ve never had space before. Not really. And I don’t want to—”
“Take up too much room,” he finished for her. Gently.
She nodded, eyes down.
Max cupped her cheek, making her look up. “Take up all the room. Please. I’ve seen this place without you in it. It’s beautiful and cold.”
She huffed a soft laugh, like it surprised her. “I just didn’t want to… clutter it.”
“You’re not clutter,” he said firmly. “You’re the heart of it.”
He tugged her into his chest, arms wrapping around her tightly, and pressed a kiss to her hair.
“I want to trip over your shoes in the hallway,” he murmured. “I want your throw blankets on every surface. I want the picture of Blanche in the living room and that stuffed bunny from your childhood sitting next to my championship trophies.”
She buried her face in his chest, breathing in deeply. “You’re sure?”
“I’m certain,” Max whispered. “Make it yours. Make it ours.”
There was a long silence—warm, safe.
Then Isabelle pulled back slightly and smiled, small but real.
“Okay,” she said softly.
And just like that, the penthouse began to feel like home.
***
Isabelle hadn’t meant to hide it.
The roll-up keyboard wasn’t a secret. It was just… something small. Something she kept. Tucked away behind art books and a folded throw blanket. She’d placed it there quietly, the way she placed most of her things in this space—carefully. As if she were still trying to make sure she belonged.
So when she heard him call from the living room—“You didn’t tell me you had this”—her stomach fluttered.
Isabelle padded out of the bedroom, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, the sleeves of Max’s hoodie falling over her hands. He was crouched near the bookshelf, curiosity written across his face as he unzipped the worn canvas pouch she hadn’t touched in months.
The roll up keyboard. That sad little silicone thing she’d used in university apartments and rental flats, when the idea of owning a real piano had felt laughable.
“Oh,” she said, voice faintly embarrassed. “Right. That thing.”
Max looked up at her, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “You actually play on this?”
“I did,” she admitted, sinking onto the rug beside him. Her legs folded under her easily, like muscle memory. “When there wasn’t room for anything else.”
There was a time when she’d pulled that keyboard out just to feel normal for five minutes. Between assignments, between shifts, between everyone forgetting she existed.
“You’re full of surprises,” Max murmured, watching her fingers hover above the keys, not quite touching them.
Isabelle shrugged, soft. “Not really. We had a piano growing up. At the country house.”
He glanced at her. “Do you write music too? Like Charles?”
She blinked, surprised that Max knew that…but then she remembered that her brother had actually released some of his compositions. Of course, Max would know. “Do you?” Max asked again, gentler this time. Not pushing—inviting.
She shook her head. “No. I was never interested in writing anything new. I liked learning. Things people said were difficult. Pieces with layers. There’s something comforting about playing something that already exists. Like translating someone else’s thoughts.” Her voice dropped slightly. “It felt less scary than putting mine out there.”
Max watched her like he always did—closely, quietly, like he knew what she wasn’t saying.
“So you were more of a storyteller than a composer.”
She blinked. That was… accurate.
“It felt like less pressure,” she said. “I didn’t have to be brilliant. I just had to be present.”
And that, she thought, was the kind of safety she rarely felt in her family. But somehow, she found it here. In this penthouse she helped design. In this quiet space with the man who saw her entirely.
Max turned to glance at the empty corner by the window, where soft light spilled from the sconces she’d chosen herself. “We should get you a real piano.”
She looked at him quickly. “Max…”
He didn’t flinch. “I’m serious. You shouldn’t have to unroll your music out of a drawer. Not here. Not anymore.”
Her throat tightened. Not just at the gesture, but at what it meant. What he understood without her having to explain it.
“I don’t even know if I’d still be good,” she said quietly.
“I don’t care,” Max replied. “I just want to hear you play.”
She leaned in and kissed him—slow, grateful, still in disbelief that someone wanted this much of her. When she pulled away, her voice was soft and full of warmth.
“What kind?”
“You pick,” he said simply. “I’ll just be the guy who listens.”
***
Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen
Isabelle: Serious question: Am I allowed to touch your trophies?
Max: …What?
Isabelle: Your F1 trophies. The actual ones. Like, are they sacred objects or can I move them?
Max: I’m sorry… what?
Isabelle: I want to move them into the built-in display we had made. The one with the custom lighting and matte black shelves you pretended not to care about but totally loved.
Max: I do love that wall.
Isabelle: It’s ready. And your trophies are going in. But I needed to check if you’re one of those people who’ll panic if I breathe too close to the 2021 Abu Dhabi trophy.
Max: What?? No. They’re trophies, not cursed artefacts.
Isabelle: You say that like it’s obvious.
Max: Why would it not be obvious??
Isabelle: Because Charles once lost his mind when I breathed too close to his karting trophies. Like—actual panic. Told me to “never touch the silver one from 2012,” because apparently my mortal fingerprints could destroy the legacy.
Isabelle: So I’m checking. Do I need gloves? Tongs? An FIA certification? Or can I just move them like a normal person?
Max: ...Your brother is completely insane.
Isabelle: So can I move your trophies? Dust them? Put them in the light-up cabinet I designed with my whole heart?
Max: You could build a pyramid out of them and I’d say thank you. They’re metal, not ancient relics. You don’t need ceremonial gloves.
Isabelle: Okay good. Because the lighting is chef’s kiss. I even have little engraved name plates.
Max: Touch whatever you want. Including me, when I get home.
Isabelle: Noted. Trophies first. You second.
Max: I’ll take it.
Max: Send me a photo when it’s done? I kind of love that you’re doing this. Feels like the trophies finally have a home too.
Isabelle: I’ll send you a whole slideshow. With dramatic lighting.
***
The flight back had been mostly quiet.
Well—quiet-ish. If you didn’t count the eighty-four times Lando had apologized for breaking Max’s trophy, or the part where he genuinely offered to ride in the luggage compartment as penance.
Now they were back in Monaco. The sun was doing that rich golden thing it did right before it sank into the sea, and Lando was trying very hard not to think about how he’d destroyed a priceless piece of Verstappen history.
Max had just unlocked the front door of his brand-new penthouse—the penthouse, the one Lando hadn’t seen yet—and turned back with a smirk.
“Come in,” Max said. “You can personally witness the replacement trophy making it home safely. Might help your guilt complex.”
Lando followed him in, dragging his emotional damage behind him like a suitcase. “Mate, I broke your winning trophy. They handed it to you and I just—smash. Right there on the podium.”
“Honestly, that thing fell apart like IKEA furniture,” Max said over his shoulder, already tossing his keys into a surprisingly stylish bowl. “That’s what they get for making a teapot the trophy.”
Lando barely heard him. His brain had short-circuited the moment he stepped into the apartment.
It was… insane.
Vaulted ceilings. Curved walls. Warm lighting that didn’t feel clinical or rich-guy sterile. It didn’t scream money, it whispered it, in like, six languages. And the view—the view—was like something out of a dream. Monaco glittered below them, golden and lazy, like it had been placed there just for Max.
Lando looked around the massive open space—sleek kitchen, moody wood floors, an actual staircase—and had to bite back a seriously?!
It looked like Max Verstappen lived in a Pinterest board for emotionally stable billionaires.
He flopped dramatically onto Max’s disturbingly soft couch. “Do you know how many people sent me the slow-mo of that moment? Like I wanted to be immortalized as the idiot who destroyed the winner’s trophy.”
Max snorted from the kitchen. “Gods, you’re worse than my girlfriend.”
Lando blinked. “Wait, what?”
Max poured two glasses of water like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Belle used to be terrified of touching my trophies. Wouldn’t even go near them. Her brother’s obsessed with his, told her once that she could ‘smudge the history’ by getting fingerprints on them.”
Lando stared. “Your what?”
Max, with the calm of a man not fully aware of the chaos he was about to cause, strolled past him. “My girlfriend.”
Lando’s entire brain short-circuited. "SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?"
Max shrugged. “About… four months?”
“FOUR MONTHS?” Lando shrieked, sitting up straight. “And I’m just now finding out?”
Max raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you needed to know.”
“I’m your friend, Max!”
And then, as if the universe were determined to finish Lando off, the front door opened.
Lando turned.
In stepped Isabelle Leclerc.
Isabelle Leclerc in all her soft, gently glory. Wearing sunglasses on her head, a bag slung over one shoulder, in high heels and a pink dress… her expression soft and content in that way people were when they walked into a space that felt like home.
“Hey,” she said, smiling at Max. “I missed you. Did the box with the spare trophy arrive?”
Max pointed to the dining table. “It’s right there. Lando helped escort it home personally.”
Lando’s soul evacuated his body.
He turned to Max.
Then to Isabelle.
Then back to Max.
In a hoarse, horrified whisper, he said, “That’s Charles’ sister.”
Max, the absolute psychopath, just nodded. “Yes.”
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
Lando turned to Isabelle. “And you’re okay with this?”
She smirked. “Clearly.”
Lando turned back to Max, voice rising. “And Charles knows?”
Max popped a chip into his mouth. “No.”
Lando nearly fell off the couch. “HE DOESN’T KNOW?”
“We’re keeping it private,” Isabelle said, casually crossing her arms like she wasn’t detonating Lando’s entire worldview.
Lando laughed. Or maybe screamed. Or both. “You’re keeping it private?” He pointed at Max. “Does Victoria know?”
Max nodded. “Yes.”
“Sophie?”
“Yep.”
“Jos?”
“Yes.”
Lando stared, hands flailing. “So just to confirm—everyone in your family knows—”
“Right.”
“—and none of hers knows?”
“Correct.”
Lando dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay, cool. Cool cool cool. So when Charles finds out, do you want your funeral to be in the Netherlands or Monaco?”
Max rolled his eyes. “Charles isn’t going to kill me.”
“YES HE IS!” Lando turned to Isabelle. “He’s going to kill him!”
Isabelle just shrugged. “I’ll deal with him.”
Lando made a strangled noise. “You’ll deal with him? This is the worst idea Max has ever had!”
Max just grinned, maddeningly pleased with himself. “Is it?”
“Yes!” Lando pointed at him. “And I want no part in it! I’m officially removing myself from this entire situation!”
“Noted.”
“I’m serious, Max. When Charles comes at you with, like, a Ferrari spoiler, I was never here.”
Max smirked and held up his hands. “Understood.”
And yet somehow, Lando knew that when it all inevitably exploded… he’d still end up involved.
Because, apparently, this was his life now.
***
Max had survived media scrums, championship-deciding races, and Jos Verstappen's silence-with-a-side-of-glare disapproval—but nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to waiting for Emilie to step foot into the penthouse.
Isabelle’s Emilie.
The best friend. The sister-by-choice. The one person Isabelle never sugarcoated anything for. The one who’d once, according to Isabelle herself, told a former boyfriend, “I hope you fall down an escalator and land on your ego.”
Max was… a little afraid.
He wasn’t nervous often. His job didn’t allow for it. But now, standing in his own kitchen, hands resting on the marble countertop Isabelle had picked out, he was nervous.
Because Emilie was the kind of person who saw things clearly—and said them out loud. And Max wasn’t stupid. He knew that Isabelle’s past was littered with people who hadn’t protected her the way she deserved. Especially her family. Especially the ones who should have known better.
So Emilie was the gatekeeper.
And Max? He was the boy who had fallen in love with the girl she protected.
The intercom buzzed. Isabelle, barefoot and glowing, went to let her in.
Max exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, and silently promised the cats not to make this weird.
When the door opened, Emilie stepped in with a tote bag on one arm and sunglasses perched on her head like she belonged on the cover of “Best Friend With a Sharp Tongue Monthly.”
“Hi,” she said to Max, all easy charm and narrowed eyes.
“Hi,” he replied, with what he hoped was equal ease but probably came off a little like please don’t hate me.
Emilie looked around slowly. Took in the space. The light. The symmetry. The faint scent of lemon and clean wood. Then: “You let her pick the rug?”
Max blinked. “I mean… yes?”
Emilie turned to Isabelle. “He’s either deeply in love with you or very smart.”
Isabelle grinned. “Both.”
Max cleared his throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Emilie studied him for a beat. “Coffee?”
“Coming right up.”
He moved toward the machine, listening as Isabelle showed her around—explaining where things were, which parts of the design had been last-minute additions, what Max had insisted on and what she had picked out.
Max made her coffee exactly the way Isabelle had once told him Emilie liked it—strong, touch of oat milk, pinch of cinnamon—and slid it across the island as Emilie wandered in, Sassy having demanded Isabelle’s attention like she was prone to be doing.
Emilie took it, sipped, and raised her eyebrows. “Alright. You pass step one.”
“There are steps?” Max asked, mouth twitching.
“Oh, so many,” Emilie said. “But relax. You’re already ahead. You didn’t try to impress me with vintage wine or your Rolex.”
“I was going to offer cookies,” he admitted.
“Smart man.”
She took another slow sip, then set the mug down.
“Max,” she said, and her tone shifted—less playful now, more real. “You know she’s never done this before, right? Never let someone be her safe place. Never believed she could build something and live inside it, too.”
“I know,” Max said quietly.
Emilie studied him a moment longer.
“I don’t care that you’re a world champion,” she said. “I care that when she comes home, she gets to rest.”
Max nodded. “She does. That’s all I want. I don’t need her to fit into anything. I just want her to feel like she doesn’t have to be anything more than she is.”
Emilie stared at him.
Then, finally, she smiled. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Better or worse?”
“Infinitely better,” she said. “But if you screw this up, I will make you regret it in very creative ways.”
Max raised a hand. “Understood.”
Isabelle returned to the kitchen then, breezy and radiant, unaware that Emilie had just conducted an emotional background check in under five minutes.
“I like him,” Emilie said, already helping herself to a cookie.
“Thank God,” Isabelle murmured, leaning into Max with a smile.
And Max—well, Max just exhaled for the first time in twenty minutes. Because if he had Emilie’s approval?
That meant he was doing something right.
Which mattered.
Because Isabelle?
She was everything worth getting right.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris
Max: Need vacation recommendations.
Lando: Oh no.
Max: What?
Lando: This is about her, isn’t it?
Max: …So do you have suggestions or not?
Lando: I knew it.
Lando: Max, I know you and Isabelle are a thing.
Lando: But Charles doesn’t.
Lando: And I would like to stay alive.
Max: This has nothing to do with Charles.
Lando: It has everything to do with Charles.
Max: No, it has everything to do with Isabelle.
Lando: SAME THING.
Lando: I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be involved.
Max: I’m literally just asking for vacation recommendations.
Lando: And yet somehow, I will still end up suffering because of this.
Max: Lando.
Lando: FINE. Seychelles.
Max: That was fast.
Lando: Because I don’t want to talk about this any longer than I have to.
Lando: Seychelles is private, expensive, beautiful. Go there.
Max: Thanks.
Lando: Do not tell me anything else. I don’t want to know.
Max: Got it.
Lando: Seriously.
Max: Okay.
Lando: Like, if Charles finds out and demands to know what I knew—
Max: Then you knew nothing.
Lando: Exactly.
Max: Thanks, Lando.
Lando: I hate you.
***
Team Redline Stream Transcript
Stream starts, Max joins the call.
[Background reveals a brand-new sim room: sleek LED lighting, perfectly mounted curved monitors, and a back wall entirely dedicated to trophies, helmets, and framed photos—immaculately designed.]
Chat:
WAIT.
NEW ROOM??
WHERE TF IS HE
TROPHY WALL HELLO???
Bro has a museum behind him
That’s not the old sim room 😭
Chris Lulham: “Hold on, what is that behind you??”
Gianni Vecchio: “Is that a whole new background?? Did you move? Why do you look like you're in an actual Formula 1 museum?”
Luke Crane: “That is not the same white wall with the sad curtain.”
Chris: “Is that a trophy wall?? With lights?? WHY IS IT GLOWING.”
Gianni: “That’s a custom setup. Someone made that. You did not install LED strips yourself, Max.”
Max: glances around “Oh, yeah. I moved. Still in Monaco.”
Chris: “Wait, what?! Since when?”
Max: “Few weeks ago.” shrugs
Chat:
🚨 BREAKING NEWS: MAX VERSTAPPEN MOVED AND DIDN’T TELL US 🚨
Max casually dropping life updates like he’s talking about the weather.
Bro didn’t even hint at it???
NEW SIM ROOM???
OH MY GOD THE MONACO TROPHY IS ON A LITTLE TURNTABLE
Luke Crane: "Hold on, hold on—are we just glossing over this? You moved and didn’t tell us?"
Max: laughs "I don’t tell you guys everything."
Luke Crane: "Clearly."
Chris: "Okay, but like… why?"
Max: shrugs again "Just wanted a change."
Chat:
He’s so unserious about major life events.
“Just wanted a change” bro you’re in a whole new house.
Luke Crane: “Alright, when’s the housewarming party?"
Max: "Never."
Chris: "Figured."
Chat:
That was the fastest rejection ever.
LMAOO Max really said NOPE.
Someone check the Monaco real estate listings 😭😭😭
Chris: "Okay, but real question—do we at least get a tour?"
Max: “Hold on, check this out.”
[Max adjusts his camera slightly, reaching off-screen.]
[Trophy wall lighting shifts smoothly from warm white to deep racing red.]
Enzo Bonito: NO WAY.
Luke Bennett: Did you just change the color?
Max: It’s all programmed. RGB control. Motion sensors too. They dim when I leave the room.
Gianni: That’s actually ridiculous.
Max (grinning): Also acoustic panels. So no echo. And the mic quality’s better now too—right?
Luke Bennett: Sounds dangerously smooth, yeah. Honestly, this is a Bond villain layer disguised as a sim room.
Chat:
max literally lives in a batcave
this is a SIM LAIR
rich people don’t build houses they build race temples
bro’s sim room has mood lighting and better HVAC than my entire apartment
WHY DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A NETFLIX SET
Luke Bennett: Man, I feel like I should be wearing a tuxedo just to race you now.
Max (grinning): Anyway. Let’s race.
Chris: If my wheel breaks mid-race, I’m blaming this emotional damage.
Gianni: If I lose tonight, it’s because your RGB lighting intimidated me.
***
Isabelle always arrived on time for family dinner. With dessert, of course.
She always brought something. Homemade or picked up from her favorite patisserie. No one commented on it, but the plate was always clean by the end of the night.
Dinner was in full swing now, a chaotic medley of pasta, overlapping voices, and half-remembered updates from everyone’s life—except hers.
“So I told the media team we should change the graphic for next week,” Charles was saying, gesturing with his fork. “And they acted like I was speaking a different language.”
“Maybe they were,” Arthur said, grinning. “You barely speak one as it is.”
Charles rolled his eyes. “And you’re in F2, so calm down.”
“I’m in F2, not in last,” Arthur shot back.
“Boys,” Pascale said in a long-suffering tone. “Please. Eat.”
Isabelle had barely spoken since they sat down.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to contribute—she just never quite found the opening. Every time she tried, someone else jumped in louder, faster. She was used to it. It had been this way for most of her life.
Still, she tried.
“Oh,” she said lightly, when the conversation briefly turned toward travel. “I’ll be in Nice next week for a client install. Final stages of a boutique I’ve been working on for a few months.”
Charles barely looked up from his glass. “Interior stuff again?”
Isabelle smiled tightly. “Yes. It’s the final phase.”
“What are you installing, like… pillows?” Arthur asked, half-joking, half-serious.
“Furniture. Lighting. Custom cabinetry. Architectural finishes,” she replied, ticking them off calmly. “You know. The usual.”
“Right, right,” Lorenzo said, tone absent. “Pinterest, but expensive.”
Isabelle bit her tongue.
Hard.
She smiled again—her polite, polished, professional smile—and took a sip of her wine to swallow down everything she wanted to say.
No one asked more about the project. The conversation veered into Charles’ media schedule for the next race. No one circled back to Isabelle.
They never did.
Until, several minutes later, Arthur mentioned Max.
“Did you know he just finished renovating his place in Monaco?” Arthur said, gesturing with his fork. “Fully redone. It’s all over the sim racing forums—some insane setup.”
“Oh, yeah,” Charles added. “I saw it. Trophy wall, hidden screens, mood lighting. So over the top.”
“It’s not over the top,” Isabelle said, casually.
They all turned.
“I designed it.”
Silence. Actual silence.
Isabelle set down her fork and took another sip of wine, just to give them a moment to catch up.
Charles blinked. “You—what?”
“I was the lead interior architect on Max Verstappen’s penthouse,” she said, voice steady. “From layout to lighting to final finishes.”
Arthur’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo frowned. “Like… the Max Verstappen?”
“No, Lorenzo, the other one,” Isabelle deadpanned.
Pascale blinked. “Well. That’s… quite something.”
“It was,” Isabelle said mildly. “A lot of work. High standards. Very involved client.”
…not really, but nobody needed to know that. Mostly Max had just let her do whatever she wanted.
“You never said anything,” Charles muttered, confused.
“You never asked,” she said, sweetly. “You thought I was just picking out pillows.”
No one had an answer for that.
And Isabelle didn’t try to change the topic. instead she just stood up, starting to clean up plates— graceful as ever.
“I’ll help clean,” she said, voice still perfectly polite. And then, with a final smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she added, “Let me know if you ever want help picking out throw pillows, though. I’m very good at that.”
***
The front door opened with a soft click, followed by the unmistakable rustle of paper shopping bags and the sound of someone toeing off their shoes with slightly more force than necessary.
Max looked up from the couch, one arm draped around Jimmy, who had fully claimed the throw blanket. “You’re back late.”
Isabelle stepped inside, arms full of muted-toned bags from an upscale decor shop near the port. She dropped them on the kitchen island with a sigh that sounded far too heavy for a casual stroll home.
“I stopped at—” she started, then waved vaguely at the bags. “—somewhere.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Shopping?”
“Frustration shopping,” she muttered, pulling off her coat and hanging it neatly by the door.
He got up slowly, padding barefoot across the floor to meet her. “What happened?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she unpacked …something that looked like a seashell and a pretzel had a baby, a geometric candleholder she didn’t need, and a cushion cover in a color Max was pretty sure they used in the guest room.
“They laughed at my job,” she said finally, quiet but steady. “Again.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “What did they say?”
Isabelle didn’t look at him. She kept unpacking. “Arthur made a joke about installing pillows. Lorenzo called it Pinterest, but expensive.”
He let the silence hang, waiting.
“And then I told them,” she said, meeting his gaze now. “About the penthouse. The sim room. The trophy wall. All of it.”
Max stepped closer, brushing his fingers lightly against her hand. “Good.”
“I wasn’t going to,” she admitted, her voice dipping. “I didn’t want it to sound like name-dropping. But I just—snapped. I was so tired of biting my tongue.”
“You don’t have to bite your tongue,” Max said, his voice low and firm. “Not with them. Not with anyone.”
She looked up at him, eyes a little glossy but not crying. Not yet.
“I built something for you,” she said. “Something real. And they still treat me like I’m playing house with fabric swatches.”
Max reached behind her and gently tugged her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“They can’t see it because they don’t want to,” he murmured. “But I see you. Every detail, every decision, every part of this place that feels like home—you did that.”
Isabelle closed her eyes and let herself lean into him.
The silence was softer now. Safer.
After a beat, Max pulled back just enough to glance at the bags.
“...Please tell me that weird seashell thing isn’t going in the sim room.”
Isabelle laughed, a real one this time, even as she sniffled. “No promises.”
***
Quadrant Stream Transcript
Lando Norris: Okay, I’m in. Finally.
Max Fewtrell: Took you long enough. What’d you do, build a new rig?
Lando: Nah, I’m not Max Verstappen. I don’t have a personalised sim fortress with like… ambient lighting and a trophy shrine.
Max F: Bro, that room is insane. I saw a clip on TikTok, and I swear it looked like he was about to launch a space shuttle.
Lando : That’s because Isabelle did it.
Max F: …Isabelle who?
Lando: Isabelle Leclerc.
Max F (pauses): …As in… Charles Leclerc’s sister?
Lando: Mhm.
Chat:
LANDO WHAT
BACK UP
ISABELLE LECLERC DESIGNED MAX’S SIM ROOM???
Max F: Wait wait wait hold on. Max Verstappen’s sim room was designed by Isabelle Leclerc?
Lando: Yep.
Max F: Okay but like—can she do my room?
Lando: Have you got Max Verstappen money, mate?
Max F: …Right. So that’s a no.
Lando: That’s a hard no. She’s not out here doing LED lighting schemes for the boys on a Logitech G29.
Max F: Ouch. No, but seriously, that room looks like a race car museum had a baby with an interior design Pinterest board.
Lando: It’s ridiculous. He’s got like… hidden drawers, ambient color modes for quali, race, cooldown—mood lighting for his championship mood swings.
Max F: You’re telling me my man gets P1 and then sets the room to gold sparkle mode?
Lando: Wouldn’t even be surprised.
Max F: And Isabelle did all that?
Lando: Yeah. Interior architect. Like… architectural degree, portfolio, the works.
Max F: I’m gonna DM her my IKEA shopping list and see what happens.
Lando: All she’ll say is “please never contact me again.”
Max F: Worth it.
Chat:
“do you have max verstappen money” LMAO
lando fully spilling the tea again i love him
ISABELLE IS THE INTERIOR ARCHITECT???
makes so much sense now why it has taste
Max F: This stream just turned into an episode of MTV Cribs: F1 Edition and I’m emotionally unprepared.
Lando: You and me both, mate.
***
The rooftop club was loud—bass pulsing through glass walls, drinks flowing freely, and the scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Monaco glittered below, and the whole world above felt like it had hit pause: one final blowout before the second half, before the summer break.
Charles had been halfway through a conversation with Pierre when he heard it—faint, over the music, slipping in between thudding bass and the occasional shout of laughter.
French.
With a Monegasque accent.
He turned instinctively, blinking through the crowd.
Who the hell—
It was Max.
Max Verstappen.
Speaking fluent French.
Not just French—Monegasque-accented French. Clean. Polished. Lightly clipped consonants in the way Charles had grown up hearing around every market stall and café table. Max’s cadence had shifted too—not quite native, but not clumsy either.
Max was leaning slightly over the bar, talking to a bartender Charles recognized. His posture was relaxed, like it was normal. Like he’d done this a hundred times. His accent wasn’t perfect, but it was close—soft R’s, local cadence, the kind that didn’t come from a Duolingo app.
Charles couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.
He didn’t even know Max spoke French.
Pierre elbowed him, confused. “What?”
Charles shook his head, blinking. “Is he speaking French?”
Pierre followed his gaze, did a double take, then frowned. “Oh. Huh.”
“Where the hell did he learn that?” Charles muttered.
“Don’t look at me,” Pierre said. “Last I checked he couldn’t even pronounce ‘quiche’ properly.”
Lando strolled up then, already laughing at something Oscar had said. “What’s going on?”
“Max is speaking French,” Charles said, still stunned.
Lando blinked. “Oh. Yeah, he does that now.”
“What do you mean now?”
Lando shrugged like it was obvious. “He’s been learning. Says it’s good for Monaco. And, you know with…” He trailed off.
Charles narrowed his eyes. “And?”
Lando opened his mouth to respond and then suddenly blanched. “Nothing! Just…I need another drink!” and off he went. Charles stared after him.
What was that about now?
Charles frowned deeper, watching Max accept his drink with a quiet merci, bonne soirée like it wasn’t the most confusing thing Charles had witnessed all summer.
It wasn’t just the French.
It was the accent. The ease.
Charles couldn’t figure out what bothered him more—that Max was speaking French… or that he was doing it like a local.
And somewhere in the back of his head, a quiet, suspicious thought began to form:
Why would Max Verstappen bother learning Monegasque-accented French?
Max Verstappen x bestfriend!reader Masterlist
She’s still bejewelled - Y/N finds out F1 wag pages are once again speculating she is dating her best friend, Max Verstappen
It’s (not) a cruel summer - Y/N and Max enjoy the summer break
August slipped away - Y/N does a Q&A to catch up with her followers after summer break
Burning red- Lando puts his foot in it
Holy ground - Fans discuss their excitement to see Y/N and Max interact at Zandvoort
I’m the one who understands you - A window into Max and Y/N’s home life
It turned into something bigger - Y/N’s comments about her childhood friend, Mick Schumacher, lead to a social media firestorm
They’d say I’d hustled, put in the work - A look at Y/N’s podcast, Dirty Air(time)
Shake it off - Determined to forget her worries, Y/N goes out parting with Max and Lando
They say home is where the heart is - Fans discuss how Y/N and Max love being roommates
(We’re) in the club doing I don’t know what - Fans look back on Max and Y/N’s Club Rat Renaissance
Pauses, then says, (he’s) my best friend - Y/N spends the day in Amsterdam while Max does press at Zandvoort
How evergreen, our group of friends - Snippets of Y/N and Max’s other friends on the grid and beyond
We’re faster and never scared - It’s a dramatic Friday in the Zandvoort paddock
I watch Superman fly away - The drama continues as Y/N and Mick have a run in in the paddock
Long live all the magic he made - Y/N supports Max as he equals the record for most consecutive wins
Remember the footsteps - A look at Y/N and Mick’s lifelong friendship
He has his father’s eyes…his father’s ambition - A look at Y/N’s relationship with Jos
I love your handshake, meeting my father - Fans discuss Jos’s perspective on Y/N, and her relationship with Max
And maybe it was egos swinging - Everyone speculates about the cause and consequences of Y/N and Mick’s falling out
I fell from the pedestal - Y/N becomes the subject of internet trolling after her fall out with Mick becomes public
Don’t know how long it’s gonna take to feel okay - Unable to deal with the stress and trolling, Y/N goes home to Switzerland, cutting off Max
My reputation’s never been worse so - Y/N’s absence sparks concerns amongst those closest to her
If someone comes at us, this time I’m ready - Y/N’s friends publicly support her as the hate continues
You don’t want to know me, I will just let you down
My words shoot to kill when I’m mad - Mick and Y/N finally talk
Something in your eyes says we can beat this - Max has a tough start to an important weekend, but his luck is about to change
(We) saw something the can’t take away - Y/N is there as Max wins at Monza and breaks another record
This is life before you know who you’re gonna be - Netizens discuss Max and Y/N’s enemy era
20 questions, we tell the truth - Y/N catches up with her followers after a hectic couple of weeks, and meets a man in Monaco
On a Wednesday, in a café - Y/N’s podcast with Daniel leads to some interesting revelations
Do you really want to know where I was? - Y/N and Max spend a day at the factory as rumours begin to swirl
I make it look oh so easy - Y/N and Max choose different confidants as they both attempt to avoid the elephant in the room
You’ll find me on my tallest tiptoes - It gets harder for Y/N to keep her secret
Slow motion, double vision in rose blush - Y/N gets back in the saddle while Max watches from the sidelines in more ways than one
Carnations you had thought were roses - Two of Y/N’s secrets are revealed
Didn’t it all seem new and exciting - Max leaves Y/N behind in Monaco as she reflects on her date
Loose lips sink ships all the damn time - Y/N heads to Switzerland for a special appointment as her relationship with Max is put under a microscope
I don’t wanna miss you like this - Y/N and Max deal with the distance between them differently
Your finger on my hairpin trigger - Tensions run high as Max has a bad day on track and Y/N gets defensive
Takes one to know one - Y/N’s much needed talk with Elliot is interrupted by an explosive qualifying in Singapore
I want to tell you not to get lost in these petty things - Max’s streak comes to an end and he and Y/N look ahead to Suzuka
Forever going with the flow, but you’re friction - Max asking Y/N to fly out early to Japan leads to tension and Y/N turns to Daniel for advice
I drive down different roads - Fans, and Y/N, speculate about her budding relationship
(They) knew what it was, he is in love - Netizens set out to prove that Max is in love with Y/N
(We) counted days, I counted miles, to see you there - Y/N arrives in Japan and is reunited with Max
Balancing on breaking branches - Max receives an unexpected delivery as Y/N answers questions from the media and her mother
It’s you and me, there’s nothing like this - As Max gets back to business as usual in Suzuka, wag social media does it’s thing
My (baby flies) like a jet stream - Max has a good day on track and Y/N’s Vogue article goes live
I can read you like a magazine - The internet reacts to mentions of Max in Y/N’s Vogue article
He’s passing by, rare as a glimmer of a comet in the sky - Red Bull securing the WCC is overshadowed by the revelation that Max hates podcasts
The lingering question(s) kept me up - Y/N does an Instagram Q&A
I just may like some explanations - Y/N answers more questions
How you held me in your arms that September night, the first time you ever saw me cry - Set in 2017, we learn what led to Y/N’s dad being dropped as Max’s sponsor, early in their friendship
People started talking, putting us through our paces - When Y/N is spotted out with Elliot, Instagram, Max, and Lando react
I don’t wanna touch you - Y/N finds herself short of breath on her padel date. Later, she appears on Max’s stream
(I) will never make my parents’ mistakes - Y/N’s dad hears about her dating life, and her mother weighs in
Drinking on a (yacht) with you all over me - Y/N and Max kick of his birthday celebrations with a day on the water, while Elliot changes his tune
I’d pick you up and we’d go back in time - Y/N and Max bring in his birthday somewhere special
We’re gonna be timeless - It’s Max’s birthday, but Y/N isn’t the only one planning surprises
Take the moment and taste it - Max enjoys a birthday boat day with family and friends, and Vic makes an accidental discovery
There’s glitter on the floor after the party - It’s the morning after night before. Max and Vic discuss Y/N’s letter
Movin’ on was always easy for me to do - Y/N and Elliot meet up to talk and Y/N’s friend weighs in. Y/N’s tweets irritate Max
Your eyes look like (being at) home - Y/N goes riding, Lando proposes plans, and Max has plans of his own
No I didn’t hear the news, ‘cause we were somewhere else - Max and Y/N arrive in Doha, but rumours about Max’s Monaco exploits follow them
You heard the rumours from (your friends) - Max attends Media Day while Y/N hangs out with an old friend
‘Cause they don’t know about the night in the hotel - Max’s GQ interview exposes an interesting part of Max and Y/N’s past
I was dancing around, dancing around it - Y/N and Clara celebrate Max’s on track triumphs
(You) stand up, champion tonight - Max becomes a three time world champion
This life is sweeter than fiction - Max wins in Qatar in a physically gruelling race
Life makes love look hard - Back in Monaco, Y/N is seen out with Elliot, and he makes a bold suggestion
Can we always be this close? - Y/N and Max have a chill day at home and while Twitter notice Max made an admission in an interview, Y/N makes an admission to Victoria
Inescapable, I’m not even gonna try - Y/N and Max spend a day at the factory, where both realise they may have something to work on
You go talk to your friends, talk to my friends, talk to me - Y/N’s podcast with Oscar comes out, on the same day she finally films one with Max. Meanwhile, Max uses the sim in an unconventional way
Yes, I remember what you said last night - Y/N’s plans for COTA baffle Christian, and Y/N learns an unexpected fact about the past
Take out, then take me home - Y/N prepares for Austin, and an interview with Max comes out
Love’s a game, wanna play? - Y/N tries her hand at padel after watching Max compete, and Max steams with Redline
Rosé flowing with your chosen family - Clara and Y/N spend the day together, and Clara becomes determined to finish what she started in 2017
(We are) a flight risk, with a fear of falling - Y/N and Max head to the US
Ain’t it funny, rumours fly - Y/N heads to a Ferrari gala as rumours swirl about Max’s next career move amid reports of infighting at Red Bull
As if I don’t already see (it) - The circus settles in to Texas and Y/N’s dad weighs in on Elliot
Can you see right through me? - Y/N and Elliot make a king and awkward paddock debut
I’ve been sleeping so long in a twenty year dark night - Y/N sheds light on her dating history while she and Elliot struggle to adjust to life in the paddock
It’s morning now, it’s brighter now - Y/N reaches out to an old friend for support. Meanwhile, Daniel tries to support Max
The moment I could see it - Max takes another win in Austin while Elliot reaches his breaking point
You’ll find the real thing instead - Y/N and Elliot have an honest conversation
In the name of being honest - Bonus part where Y/N answers Instagram questions after the Austin GP
I’m asking you why - More of Y/N’s post Austin Q&A
You’ve got a girl at home and everybody knows that - Y/N and Max are suspects in the wildest paddock rumour yet as they wrap up their trip to Austin
You learn my secrets and you figure out why I’m guarded - Y/N gets brutally honest with Mick as Max plays goalkeeper twice
You saw the truth in me - Max cuts it close before media day as reports surface of security threats in Mexico
They tell you that you’re lucky, but you’re so confused - Max attends a gruelling media day as Y/N deals with the heat of Mexico
Laughing with (your head in my) lap, like you were my closest friend - Everyone has a tough quali day
This is the golden age - Maxico delivers another win, and Y/N celebrates with tequila
(You would never) me darling, but who could stay? - Y/N and Max arrive in Brazil for a short break before the race
No one has to know what we do - Max and Y/N fall off the map and enjoy some private time
I can’t say anything to your face - Max and Y/N continue to leave each other flustered and Max starts press for the Brazilian GP
The way you move is like a full on rainstorm - Max takes pole in difficult conditions and Y/N gets near her breaking point
We were cards sharks, playing games - Max wins the sprint and Y/N wins games of her own
🚨I’ve had to add a second masterlist for all posts after this point. That can be found here 🚨
keep studying - ln4 (18+)
ꨄ lando norris x fem!reader
summary. not even studying can keep lando norris’ hands off of his girlfriend
warnings: swearing, porn w small plot, oral (fem), fingering, breast play, slight choking, praising. i’ve taken one singular anatomy class in my entire life and i didn’t even learn much so the information is all over the place hahhah
smut
word count: 1.9k
a/n: im sooo excited to go to the race on sundayyyy 😁
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
y/n huffs as her eyes scan over the details in her anatomy textbook, attempting to engrave the medical wording into her brain.
with an anatomy and physiology exam coming up, the woman had been non-stop studying in hopes of acing the test. a fear of failure meant that studying would be clouding her mind until minutes before needing to take the exam. however, it also meant neglecting her boyfriend from the usual attention she gave him and the intimate parts of their relationship.
much to lando’s despair, the way that she was showing him attention was by teaching him the structure and function of the body (how exciting!). y/n claiming that if she could repeat the material she studied, she had officially learned it.
at this point, lando could become an anatomist himself with how many new things his girlfriend had taught him the past few weeks.
now, it’s three days before the test, the studying is nowhere near finishing on y/n’s end. on the other hand, lando had been missing his girlfriend’s presence and wanted, no, needed some sort of attention.
he wasn’t trying to be a jerk, he knew how important this exam was for y/n, but he also knew the sudden stress wasn’t good for her and he was (and is sure that y/n is too), tired of hearing all of the fascinating ways the human body works.
the couple sat at y/n’s desk, open biology books laid out in front of them along with wrappers from all kinds of different snacks, empty water bottles and crumpled up notebook paper.
really, y/n had lando sitting next to her for moral support, genuinely thinking that she’d go crazy if she didn’t have him next to her to keep her sane.
she can’t lie, he did serve a good purpose by writing down important bullet points on sticky notes when she asked him to, and highlighting key sentences in different pages. with a pink highlighter of course, her favorite color.
y/n’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she reads the page going over the hundreds of bones found in the human body, not quite confident that she could remember and name the different parts of each one.
“i’m going to fail this stupid thing.” y/n sighs as she harshly places down a pen and rests her head on the wooden desktop.
“hey, hey, don’t say that, baby.” lando begins rubbing her back soothingly, squeezing her shoulders slightly to relieve the built up tension there. “you’ve been doing so good, you’ve managed to teach me so many things that you stored in that pretty brain of yours.”
she lifts herself from the desk and lays back against the backrest of the chair. “you’re too nice to me, lan.” she smiles, looking at him with heavy eyes. “but the things that i’ve told you is probably only one third of the material that is going to be on the exam.”
“i just want to relax already but i can’t because i have to keep studying!” she throws back her head, a groan escaping her mouth as she begins rubbing her eyes, attempting to make the tiredness in them go away.
she feels lando’s mouth tracing kisses along her jawline, painting her skin with tender lips.
y/n hums softly before snapping back into responsible student mode, “no, lan, we can’t, i have to keep doing this stuff.” she gestures to the open book.
“you keep studying, baby, don’t mind me.” his voice is raspy as his lips begin placing open-mouthed kisses going farther and farther down.
“fuck, i can’t, won’t be able to focus.” she whispers as lando places his right hand on the side of her neck.
lando ignores her words. as he kisses along her exposed cleavage, he fully wraps his hand around her throat. “what arteries are right here, baby?” he gently squeezes.
y/n is quick to catch onto his little game and decides to play along, for pleasure and a good study method. “the c-carotid arteries.” she says breathlessly after feeling the squeeze, she was sure that the ring on his finger left an imprint.
“what’s this here?” he moves up again, placing kisses on the base of her throat.
“trachea.” y/n grips onto the desk, amazed at the effect lando has on her.
“what’s the purpose of the trachea, hm?” he softly bites the skin of her neck before soothing the sting with his tongue.
“allows air in and out of the lungs!” she gasps as lando grips onto her breast, not even feeling when his hand went under her shirt.
the thin tank top is quickly pulled off of her and fortunately for lando, she wasn’t wearing a bra so it wouldn’t be another piece of clothing in the way.
his lips are instantly all over her boobs, licking and sucking, leaving love bites wherever his mouth touched. he had always claimed he was an ass guy, but moments like this made y/n doubt his words.
“i forgot what this was called, remind me?” his tongue circles the area of skin surrounding her nipple.
y/n moans quietly, her grip tight on lando’s head to keep him where he is. “areola.”
“what were the name of the glands and their function?” he begins pecks the underside of her boob.
“montgomery’s glands, they secrete an oil to protect the skin.” she hisses as lando bites down on her nipple.
“look at you, my smart girl,” lando gets off of his chair, now on his knees in front of her. he begins peppering kisses down her stomach. “your professors are so lucky to have someone so intelligent in their class.” he praises, kissing her hip bone and hooking his fingers on the waistband of her shorts.
y/n lifts herself up slightly, helping lando to remove her shorts. he scatters kisses on her left calf and the side of her knee, taking an excruciatingly long time to reach where y/n needs him most.
he runs his hands along the back of her legs, “what’s here?” he questions as he nips at the flesh of her inner thighs.
“achilles t-tendon.” y/n breathes out, digging her fingernails into her palms in anticipation, craving lando’s mouth on her.
“what is that?” lando licks at her clothed pussy, earning a sharp gasp from y/n.
“fuck,” y/n holds onto lando’s hair as he continues kitten licking.
then he abruptly stops, y/n whines in dismay. “keep going, please lan!” y/n shuffles forward in her seat, trying to give lando the hint.
“answer the question.” he says sternly, resting his chin on y/n’s knee and staring up at her intensely.
“it’s a tissue that connects the calf muscles to the calcaneus.” she says hurriedly.
“atta girl, wasn’t so hard was it?” her panties are pushed to the side as he begins pressing kisses all over her cunt, paying the most attention to her clit.
y/n moans loudly, squeezing the pencil that she was holding in her right hand while the other held onto lando’s curls.
soon, her panties were pulled down and her legs were thrown over lando’s shoulders. he carries on with the soft kisses, not quite giving y/n what she wants yet.
“please, lan, need it so bad.” she whimpers, heels digging into lando’s back.
“one last question, baby,” he informs, causing her to let out a small noise of annoyance. “the hypoglossal nerve is responsible for the movement of what muscular organ?”
“t-the…” her voice gets lost in her throat as lando runs a singular finger through her folds, mouth kissing the flesh of her inner thighs.
“what was that, baby?” lando taunts as his tongue circles her clit ever so slowly.
“the tongue!” y/n panted, desperate to feel the familiar pleasure that lando always gives her.
“good girl.” lando says before plunging his tongue into her soaked hole, fingers quick on her clit.
y/n lurched forward from the sudden action, causing lando’s mouth to press harder into her seeping cunt, the woman nearly choking on her own saliva.
her moans are loud as they exit her mouth, a tight hold onto the sides of the chair.
“poor baby,” lando mumbled as he continued with his assault. “so stressed because of an exam, she just needed something to relieve her worries, is that right?”
y/n nodded quickly, “yes, fuck, you’re incredible.” she exclaimed.
lando replaces his tongue with a finger, inserting the digit inside her hole, mouth sucking on her clit. “more.” y/n pleaded, causing lando to add a second finger, a third right after.
lando ate her out like a starved man, you can’t blame him, nearly two weeks of no sex and no tasting his gorgeous girlfriend damn near had him going insane.
his spit and y/n’s arousal dripped onto the cushion of the chair, but neither seemed to mind at the moment, too lost in pleasure.
“lando, fuck, you’re so good at this!” y/n exclaimed breathlessly which encouraged lando to suck her clit even harder, his fingers curling at the perfect angle to hit her g-spot.
her nails dig into his bicep resting on her knee, emitting a groan from lando and with the vibrations, y/n was sure she was seeing stars.
“c’mon baby, use me to relieve yourself.” lando coaxed as he halts his moving fingers.
y/n grumbled, hating to do the work herself, before she grinds down on lando’s thick fingers, pushing herself closer to his tongue.
it only took a few minutes before louder moans began to pour out of y/n’s mouth, something that lando knew indicated that she was coming.
he takes charge again, pumping his three fingers in and out while his tongue drew figure eights on her clit.
“lan, i’m gonna come!” y/n outcries, eyes shut from the pleasurable sensation.
“that’s it, come for me, gorgeous.” lando entices and with one last suck, y/n is coming on his fingers and his face, moaning loudly as she does.
lando helps the heavy-breathing y/n ride out her orgasm, murmuring sweet praising words whilst kissing her thighs and hips.
“how are you so good at that?” y/n asks breathlessly as she places a hand on lando’s curls, refraining him from knocking his head against the desk once he begins to stand up.
“i haven’t had you in weeks, never do that to me again, woman!” lando cried out. “but also, i’m a god.” he shrugs his shoulders smugly before taking off the shirt he was wearing, handing it to y/n so she could put it on.
y/n rolls her eyes playfully, “okay, calm down now, you’re not all that.” she jokes as she slips the shirt over her head.
“excuse me, ma’am! you were not saying that when i was eating you out-”
“okay! i’m gonna go hop in the shower!” y/n abruptly exclaims, cutting his words off, causing him to laugh loudly.
“can i join you?” lando raises a suggestive eyebrow.
“if you can make me come like that again.” y/n reflects his expression.
“deal.” lando leans down and scoops her up over his shoulder, walking pridefully towards the bathroom, y/n’s loud giggles rumbling against his body.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
fin.
remember this is purely fiction! i don’t know what any of these people are truly like in real life!
©sjkbri
don’t copy or translate my work on any other platform
no finish line
Pairing: Lando Norris x therapist!reader
Summary: When Lando sought to find help, he found you.
Word count: 3k+
Warnings: little angst, insecurities, fluff
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Lando's life seemed like a whirlwind of chaos and adrenaline to those on the outside looking in. A Formula 1 driver with a charismatic charm that had the world at his feet, Lando was the dream of every motorsport fan. The flashing lights, the roaring crowds, the podium celebrations—on the surface, it was everything anyone could ever want. But reality was far from the glitz and glamour people imagined.
Beneath the helmet, behind the cheerful interviews and easygoing smiles, was a young man grappling with a world that never let him slow down. He was just a kid from Bristol who had a passion for racing, who had fought his way into the most elite motorsport on the planet. Yet, with that dream came an invisible weight—one that pressed on his chest so tightly he sometimes struggled to breathe. The pressure, the expectations, the relentless scrutiny—it was suffocating.
Every race was a war, not just against his rivals on the track but against the voices in his own head. Every lap, every corner, every fraction of a second mattered. A single mistake could mean the difference between hero and failure. And when he wasn’t behind the wheel, the judgment never stopped. Every camera shutter captured moments that could be twisted into headlines. Every social media post became a battlefield, flooded with both admiration and brutal criticism. Every whisper of doubt—whether from analysts, fans, or even his own mind—followed him relentlessly, lingering in the silence of his hotel room at night.
The noise never stopped.
Even after the adrenaline of the race had faded, the echoes remained. Sleep became an elusive luxury. He’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying his mistakes, wondering if he was good enough, if he’d ever be good enough. Some nights, the walls felt like they were closing in, trapping him in his own thoughts. So he found ways to escape—pacing the halls, taking midnight drives through dimly lit streets, trying to outrun the anxiety clawing at his chest. But no matter how far he drove, it was always there, lurking in the rearview mirror.
He knew he needed help.
His closest friends saw the cracks beneath the surface, the exhaustion in his eyes no amount of caffeine or forced laughter could hide. His mother, Cisca, saw it too—the way his shoulders slumped under the weight of expectations, how the sport he once loved seemed to drain him rather than ignite him. She saw the way he hesitated before stepping into the car, as if the thing that once set him free had now become his prison.
She refused to stand by and watch her son break.
That’s when she found you.
Lando wasn’t eager about therapy. The idea of sitting in a room and talking about his feelings felt unnatural, even suffocating. He was used to dealing with things on his own—brushing off doubts with humor, locking away the pressure behind a confident grin. Vulnerability wasn’t in his nature. It wasn’t how he had survived in this world.
But he trusted his mum. And if this was what it took to ease the worry in her eyes, to stop her from watching him like he was one sharp breath away from breaking—he’d do it. Not for himself. For her.
The first time he walked into your office, he felt out of place. The air was calm, the walls lined with soft, neutral colors that were meant to be inviting, but to him, they were unfamiliar. His fingers fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket as he sat down, his knee bouncing slightly. He kept his gaze low, scanning the room, already counting down the minutes until he could leave.
He half-expected you to be like everyone else—clinical, detached, another stranger who saw him as a case file rather than a person. But then you spoke.
“Lando, I’m so glad you’re here. My name is Y/N, and as you may have guessed I'm a therapist. This space is yours, no pressure, no expectations. Just you and me, talking.”
There was something in your voice—steady, warm, genuine. No scripted pleasantries, no forced professionalism. Just you.
The tension in his shoulders loosened, only slightly, but enough for him to notice.
“Yeah,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “Talking about my problems. That’s the hard part.”
“Then we won’t start with talking about that,” you said simply. “Tell me about your week. Not the racing part—just you. What made you smile? What pissed you off? What was the highlight of your week?”
That threw him.
Everyone always asked about the races, the performance, the expectations. No one ever asked about him. Not like this. Not with the expectation of an honest answer, not with the patience to actually listen.
For a moment, he just stared at you, processing. Waiting for the catch. But there wasn’t one. You weren’t trying to fix him. You weren’t analyzing him like a machine that needed recalibration.
And for some reason, that made something inside him click.
So he talked.
You watched Lando carefully as he struggled to find the words, his hesitation palpable. He fidgeted in his seat, a nervous energy that filled the room, his fingers tapping against the armrest. The silence stretched between you, and you didn’t rush him. That was his space, and you were there to give him time to process.
“I guess...” he trailed off, the words almost lost in the air. His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been driving at night. Just... getting in the car, going for a drive when everything’s quiet. Just me and the road. No one watching. No cameras. Just... calm.”
The honesty in his words caught you off guard, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you nodded slowly, giving him the space to continue if he wanted to, letting the weight of what he’d said settle. You could see it, though—the way his shoulders dropped slightly as if he was relieved to finally share this part of himself.
“That sounds like a good escape,” you said softly, your voice steady but warm. “A way to just be... Lando, not the driver. What did it feel like, when you were driving alone at night?”
You saw him exhale, his breath slow and deliberate as he processed your question. You hadn’t expected him to answer immediately. Instead, you watched him—the subtle shifts in his expression, the way his gaze flickered as if he was unsure whether or not he should speak this truth aloud. You didn’t push. You let the room stay quiet, giving him the time he needed.
When he spoke again, it was softer than before, almost as if he was letting you in on something very private. “It’s... nice. It’s the only time I can just... breathe. There’s no pressure, no one telling me what to do or what to think. I can just exist.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, and you felt a pang of recognition. You’d heard this before, though not in these exact words. It was a struggle many faced, trying to reconcile who they were with the role they’d been forced into. He was looking at you now, and in his eyes, you saw something he didn’t always show the world: vulnerability.
You nodded, keeping your voice soft but firm. “That’s important, Lando. You deserved to have those moments, even in the chaos. What if we could find more ways for you to feel that... when you weren’t behind the wheel? When you weren’t in the spotlight?”
You let the question settle between you, watching him carefully. His eyes flickered with uncertainty, a slight furrow in his brow as he considered it. You could see the thought swirling in his mind, the struggle to picture a life that wasn’t constantly surrounded by noise and expectation.
You didn’t rush him. You were there for him to explore this, at his own pace. You waited, watching as he processed the weight of what you’d said.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice small, quieter now. “I guess I could try. Maybe.”
You smiled gently, a small, understanding smile that invited him to keep going, if he chose to. You could see the shift in him, the small flicker of hope that had started to appear, even if he wasn’t sure how to hold onto it just yet.
You didn’t press. Instead, you allowed the silence to stay with you both for a moment, not uncomfortable but calm. It was a moment for him to breathe, to think, and to start to picture something different for himself. You gave him that space, allowing the weight of your words to sit there with him.
You didn’t know where this journey would take him, but right then, in that quiet moment, you saw something changing in him. Something that felt almost like relief—a shift in perspective, even if it was only just starting to take root.
You kept your voice steady, not forcing anything, but still offering the support he needed. “You don't have to have all the answers right now. But you could figure it out, step by step. You don't have to be perfect, Lando. You just have to be you.”
You gave him a moment to digest this, watching as the quiet settled in. It was clear that this conversation, this opening, was the beginning of something. It wasn’t the end of his struggle, but perhaps it was the first breath he’d taken in a long time.
Two hours passed like minutes.
He was amazed at how talking could relieve him so much. Especially talking with you.
And then there were your eyes—warm, understanding, holding something he couldn’t quite name. A whole galaxy, maybe. He didn’t understand how, after just two hours, he felt so drawn to you. It made no sense. But if two hours with you felt like this, he couldn’t imagine what a lifetime would feel like.
At the end of the session, you smiled, tilting your head slightly as you met his gaze. “Lando, I’d love to see you again next week. Same time?”
For a second, he hesitated. He wasn’t the kind of person who did this—who willingly came back to talk about things he spent years avoiding.
But then he heard his own voice, softer than he expected. Almost uncertain.
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
And the truth was, he wasn’t uncertain at all.
He wanted to see you again. Needed to. Even if it meant sitting through therapy, even if it meant confronting the things he had spent so long running from—he didn’t care. Because for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t alone in this.
He left your office feeling lighter, like he could breathe without his own mind working against him.
Week after week, session after session, he fell. Hard.
It wasn’t sudden, like the dramatic, earth-shattering crashes he had experienced on the track. No, this was different. It was slow, insidious—like the way dusk faded into night, so gradual that he barely noticed it happening until he was already lost in the dark. Or maybe, in this case, the light.
He learned about you in the quietest of ways.
The fresh lilies in your office, are always the same, their soft fragrance filling the air as if they belonged there just as much as you did. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when listening intently, your brows knitting together as if absorbing every syllable he spoke. The way your dimples only appeared when you laughed—really laughed the kind that made your shoulders shake and your eyes crinkle at the corners. The small tattoo on your wrist that you traced absentmindedly when deep in thought as if grounding yourself at the moment.
And then there was the way you chewed on the tip of your pen, lost in his words, as if every single one of them mattered. The faint freckles dusted across your nose—ones he didn’t notice at first, but then he saw them in the sunlight, and suddenly, they were all he could see. The delicate silver ring on your finger that you twisted absentmindedly when something weighed on your mind.
Every detail about you etched itself into his memory like a permanent marker, an imprint he couldn't erase. Not that he wanted to.
He never mentioned you to his family. Never let your name slip past his lips, not even in passing. Because if he did, his mother would see right through him.
Cisca was perceptive. She always had been. She would notice the way his eyes lit up at the mere mention of therapy, how his shoulders didn’t seem to carry the same invisible burdens they once did. How he had started humming under his breath while making breakfast, fingers tapping idly on the countertop. How he lingered a little too long on his phone after sessions, rereading messages that weren’t even from you—just automated appointment confirmations that made his stomach flip in a way he didn’t understand.
She would know.
And she did.
She saw the shift in her son. The way his laugh came easier now, unforced, not just a practiced performance for cameras and fans. The way he was more present, no longer lost in a perpetual cycle of exhaustion and self-doubt. The way he gazed out of windows, lost in thought, a secret kind of warmth flickering in his expression like a candle in the dark.
Cisca had been a mother long enough to recognize that look. She had seen it before, in fleeting moments of her youth, in the pages of love stories, in the eyes of those who didn’t yet realize they had fallen.
She knew exactly who was responsible.
Then, one day, it happened.
He didn’t plan it. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t weigh the consequences or try to stop himself. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could catch them, reckless and raw, spoken into existence before he could take them back.
"Would you go out with me?"
The words left his lips before he had the chance to second-guess them, before he could let fear hold them hostage in his throat.
The anxiety in his mind—always there, always whispering doubts—was suddenly drowned out by the deafening sound of his heartbeat. His pulse pounded in his ears, his hands clenching at the fabric of his sweater as he waited for your answer. A thousand worst-case scenarios flashed through his mind like a race replay he couldn’t turn off.
That he was embarrassing himself. That you’d say no. That he had just ruined everything.
Your lips parted in surprise, your breath catching for just a moment. His stomach twisted into knots as he watched you search for the right words.
"Lando… I don’t know what to say."
His chest tightened.
"I’m flattered, really. You’re an incredible person with a heart of gold. But I can’t."
The air in the room suddenly felt thinner, like all the oxygen had been sucked out.
"You’re my patient, and I won’t risk my career because of my feelings."
His world should have shattered in that moment. He should have felt devastated, humiliated, ready to run and never look back.
But he didn’t.
Because despite the rejection, despite the ache settling in his ribs, all he could think about was how much more he admired you.
You had principles. You had integrity. You were strong, unwavering, even when it would’ve been easier to bend.
And God, that only made him fall harder.
But he wasn’t about to let you go so easily.
"What if I see another therapist?" Lando blurted out, his voice filled with quiet desperation. "You’ve helped me more than I can ever explain. I’ve never been more confident in myself, and I owe that to you. But I want to be more than just your patient. Please, let me try."
You hesitated, conflict evident in your eyes, and for a split second, he thought he saw something else there, too—something you were trying desperately to suppress.
"Lando, this isn’t just about rules," you said carefully. "This is about what’s best for you. Therapy isn’t just a checkbox to get through so you can be with someone."
"I know that," he said quickly, his voice firm, unwavering. "And I mean it when I say I want to keep going. But with someone else. Not because I don’t need it anymore, but because I know what I want."
He was staring straight at you now, eyes burning with something raw, something real.
And it terrified you.
Because what if this wasn’t just infatuation? What if, despite everything, he was serious?
Silence stretched between you, thick with uncertainty, with unspoken words neither of you dared to voice.
Then, finally, you exhaled, your shoulders dropping ever so slightly as a small, reluctant smile played at your lips.
"If you’re sure, I can recommend my colleague Farah."
Lando’s heart slammed against his ribs.
"So… does that mean—?"
You inhaled deeply, looking up at him, something soft and unreadable in your gaze.
"It means you’re no longer my patient."
His breath hitched.
"And if you’re still sure in a few weeks, maybe we can talk about something else."
For the first time in a long time, Lando felt like he wasn’t just existing—he was alive.
A grin broke across his face, wide and genuine, the kind of smile he hadn’t worn in what felt like forever.
"I’ll wait. However long it takes."
And for the first time, he wasn’t just racing toward another podium, another trophy, another fleeting moment of victory.
This time, he was racing toward something real.
Something worth waiting for.
Something worth fighting for.
A future.
🥰 lando norris masterlist 🥰
personal faves f contains smut(ty parts) s
✨ Series ✨
s KINDA HOT THO ; part one / part two
In which your brother has the most awful new teammate, but you keep finding yourself closer and closer to him. It's only sex - right?
s ROOMMATES (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten
In which you have to live with your brothers best friend who you really don't like, Lando Norris, and his many 'girlfriends' for a while, but there's always a thin line between love and hate.
f & s MORE THAN FRIENDS (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven / part twelve
In which your best friend is going to help you to gain more sexual experience and say goodbye to your insecurities, but he's quick to discover that he never wants to share you and your new experiences with others - the only problem being, him having to confess his feelings.
s HIS TEAMMATE (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven / part twelve / part thirteen
In which you find yourself getting closer to your brothers new teammate who's a total dick.
THE RACE LOSER (finished); part one / part two
In which you see your ex best friend again, after he cut off contact between you to because he needed to focus on racing
f & s MISTAKE(S) (finished); part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine
In which you keep making the same mistake over and over again by fucking the boy you hate the most
INTO IT (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven
In which you really, really dislike your brothers new found best friend - Lando Norris - but you keep finding your way back to him
f&s FWB (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven
In which you decide to become friends with benefits with Lando Norris, that can't be a bad idea right?
THE SISTER (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten
In which your the little sister of Max Verstappen and you meet Lando Norris, who quickly turns in to one of your best friends. But there's a thin line between friends & lovers
f&s BREAKING THE RULES (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven
In which Lando is your brothers rival during the championship, but you can't seem to stay away from him
✨ One shots ✨
s His stripper ; In which Lando his friends take him to a stripclub, where he meets you. He's quick to come back weekly, every Tuesday you're his. But when he comes another day and finds you on the lap of some other guy, something in him snaps.
s Not a chance ; In which Lando thinks he's going to win a race, to which you tell him the chances of you two fucking are as low as him winning a race - so what happens when he wins?
Regret ; In which Lando breaks up with you, but starts to regret it even more when he sees you back on the racetrack. Can he still fix things?
f Fake date ; In which Lando helps you piss of your ex boyfriend by acting like your fake new boyfriend
His masseur ; In which you're Lando his best friend and masseur, but your feelings start to cause a bit of trouble
s Crazy ; in which Lando and you are crazy for each other without knowing it from each other, until Lando loses his temper while seeing you with another
f Date ; in which Lando needs an awful push from his friends to finally ask you out
Afterparty ; in which you and Lando are oblivious idiots & you go to the afterparty with someone else after Lando told you it was no big deal, spoiler: it was a big deal
Little game ; in which you and Lando are fighting, so you decide to test his feelings for you with a little game
Such A Mystery - Part 3
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)
Summary:
Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.
Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.
The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby.
Warnings:
Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry)
Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Currently thinking this will have like 5-7 parts?
She wasn't fine. Colette was so far from fine that it wasn't even funny anymore.
And now her twin brother had decided to chime in with his own opinions, pouring oil into the fire.
The thought of the media dissecting every word, every gesture, every expression was unbearable. And still, she couldn't stop herself from doomscrolling.
Colette was in a state of constant anxiety, unable to stop herself from scrolling through social media and the news articles. She knew it wasn't helping her, that it was only adding to her stress, but she couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the screen.
Every article, every comment, every thread seemed to only add to her worry. The criticism, the speculation, the accusations...it was all too much. But she couldn't look away or stop herself from reading every word, no matter how much it hurt.
She was stuck in a vicious, spiralling cycle, seeking out the information, even though she knew it was bad for her.
The hormones and the pregnancy symptoms didn't make it any better either.
The hormones made her emotions more intense, her anxiety more pronounced, and the pregnancy symptoms only added to the stress and discomfort. She wanted desperately for it to end, but it seemed like it would never stop.
The worst of it all was the constant swirl of thoughts in her head. The worry and fear, the relentless stream of "what-if" scenarios.
And the most terrifying thought of all: what if her stress was hurting the baby? The idea that her anxiety could harm the little life growing inside her was a constant one, always at the front of her mind.
“Eat, Choupinette,” her mother insisted. Colette stared down at her plate. Porridge and fruit and whatever else was supposed to be good for her these days.
But her appetite was nonexistent. The weight of everything that was happening, the thoughts and fears that were running through her mind...it made it difficult to even think about food.
"Eat, Choupinette," her mother insisted again, clearly concerned. "You need to eat something, for the baby's sake. You're too pale."
“I am..”
“You aren’t fine,” her mother cut her off with a disbelieving snort. "You're pale, you haven't been eating properly, and you look like you haven't slept in weeks."
"And don't even try to tell me that the pregnancy is doing that," her mother added, her tone firm. "I had three pregnancies, I know how tiring it is. This isn't just normal exhaustion."
Colette knew that her mother was right. The pregnancy, while exhausting, wasn’t the reason. It was the anxiety, the worry, the stress...it was all taking its toll on her.
But she also knew that there was nothing she could do about it. The situation was out of her control, even if it was affecting her directly.
It was her own fault why she was in this situation to begin with.
“I was so stupid.” Colette's shoulders slumped as she muttered under her breath. Her mother shook her head, disagreeing with the assessment.
"It wasn't the smartest thing," her mother admitted. "But the media is blowing it out of proportion. They're making an elephant out of a fly."
It was a sentiment that Colette wholeheartedly agreed with. But at the same time, she knew that the media was relentless in their pursuit of a story.
And Colette’s and Max's relationship would be the juiciest scandal they had gotten their hands on in a long, long time.
“I don’t want this to fall back on Charles,” Colette whispered, her voice barely above a murmur.
Her brother had worked so hard to be where he was, at the pinnacle of motorsport…to drive for the team he loved so much.
She didn’t want to get Charles into any trouble. It wasn’t his fault. It was all on her. And any scandal, any whiff of controversy, could potentially ruin everything Charles had worked so hard for.
Her mother's words were calm, but they hit hard. "Your brother is an adult," she repeated. "He can make his own decisions. And he was the one who decided he wanted to protect you. You didn’t force him to do anything, Choupinette."
Colette knew that her mother was right. Charles was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions. But that didn't make her worry any less.
Her phone rang, her hand immediately shooting out for it. It was Max. Her hand was almost shaking as she answered the call.
"Maxie," she breathed, relief and worry mixing in her voice.
Max's voice was gentle, a soothing balm in the storm of chaos that was swirling around her. "Hey liefje," he repeated, the affectionate nickname rolling off his tongue.
Colette closed her eyes for a moment, relishing the sound of his voice.
"What are you up to?" Max inquired, his tone soft.
"I'm having breakfast with Maman," she replied, glancing at her mother, who was watching her carefully.
There was a moment of silence on the line, but she could almost picture Max's expression. He was no doubt worrying just as much as she was, if not more. "How are you doing?" he finally asked, his voice laced with concern.
Colette let out a shaky sigh, her emotions warring inside her.
She wanted to lie. Wanted to tell him that she was fine. But Max and her had made themselves a promise ages ago. If there was one thing that Max hated, then it was lying. Even little white lies like this. They didn’t lie. They didn’t sugarcoat. They told the truth. Regardless of how hurtful it could be.
They told each other the truth. Always.
“Tired,” she answered weakly.
"I heard you've been stalking social media again," Max's voice was dry, a hint of disapproval in his tone.
"Charles should really mind his own business," she bit back, her irritation at her twin brother evident. There was just one person that Max could have learnt that from.
There was a pause, and she knew that Max was choosing his words carefully. "He's just worried," he said finally. "We all are."
Colette huffed, her irritation at being coddled smouldering. "I don't need everyone to worry about me," she retorted, her tone snippier than she intended.
"We're not doing it to annoy you," Max replied, his voice gentle but firm. "We're doing it because we care about you. I'm worried about you, liefje."
Those words were like a knife through the heart. She could hear the worry and concern in his voice, and it made her feel guilty for being so snappy with him.
Sassy chose that moment to come to jump up on her lap and she petted the Bengal cat absent-mindedly as she made herself a home on Colette’s lap.
"I know you are," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. I just..." she trailed off, unsure of how to put her mixed feelings into words. Sassy purred softly.
"It's okay," Max reassured her, his voice low and soothing. "I know it's hard. But please, try to take care of yourself. For me. For Bébé."
Colette felt the tears well up in her eyes again. She wanted to tell him that she was trying, that she was doing her best. But the words lodged in her throat, replaced by a thick lump of emotion.
"I'm trying," she managed to say, hating how weak and shaky her voice sounded.
"I know you are," Max murmured, his voice full of understanding. "But you need to rest, to eat. You're not doing yourself or the baby any favors by skipping meals and staying glued to your phone."
Colette knew he was right. The lack of food and sleep was taking its toll on her health and her baby. But the stress, and the worry, it made it hard to find an appetite or to switch off her brain.
"I know," she whispered, feeling helpless and frustrated. Max sighed softly on the other end of the line.
"I wish I could be there," he said, the longing in his voice palpable.
"Me too," she whispered, her heart aching with the weight of their separation.
"I hate being apart during all of this," he mumbled, a rare show of vulnerability from him. "I should be there with you, taking care of you, protecting you from all this damn media noise."
Colette's eyes welled with tears again at his words. "You are taking care of me," she reassured him, her voice thick with emotion. "Just hearing your voice helps more than you know."
"It's not enough," he retorted, his voice firm again. "I should be there, not just talking with you over the phone. I should be able to hold you, to make sure you eat and sleep properly."
Colette could picture the fierce expression on his face, the set of his jaw. She could almost feel the intensity of his gaze, his desire to protect and care for her. But she could also hear the frustration and helplessness in his voice.
"Max," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "It's not your fault. You're doing everything you can."
Max let out another sigh, a sound full of frustration and helplessness. "It doesn't feel like it," he mumbled, his voice betraying his emotions. "I feel so useless here, stuck continents away while you're dealing with all of this alone."
Colette's heart ached at his words. She wanted to assure him that he wasn't useless, that his support through the phone and the occasional visit meant the world to her. But she also understood how powerless he felt, how useless he must feel, miles and miles away from her.
"You're not useless," she said firmly, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall. "You're the only thing keeping me sane right now."
There was a pause on the line, and she could sense Max's turmoil on the other end. "I just wish I could do more," he said quietly. "I wish I could take all this away from you, the stress, the worry, the media. You shouldn't have to deal with all this alone."
Colette felt a fresh burst of tears at his words. She wanted to tell him that he wasn't Superman, that he couldn't fix everything, but she also knew that he would never accept that. Max was a doer, a problem solver. Watching her struggle from afar must be killing him.
"I'm not alone," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I have you. That's more than enough."
"It's not enough," he mumbled again, the stubborn set to his words making her smile despite herself. She could almost see the familiar stubborn pout on his face even from so far away. "I'm serious," he insisted, his voice firmer now. "I should be the one taking care of you and our baby, not just chatting on the phone."Colette let out a quiet sigh, a mix of amusement and frustration at Max's stubbornness. She loved that he cared so much, but at the same time, she didn't want him to feel guilty for something that was out of his control.
"Max," she said gently, trying to make him understand. "You do take care of us, even from miles away. Just knowing that you're there for me, that you love us, it means everything. We're a team, remember? We're in this together."
There was another silence on the line, and she could practically picture Max clenching his jaw. She knew that he wanted to protest, that he wanted to argue, to find a solution to make things right. But he also understood that there was nothing he could do right now but accept the situation.
Finally, he sighed, the sound a mixture of frustration and resignation. "Okay," he said quietly. "But promise me you'll try to eat and sleep properly. Promise me you'll take care of yourself and our baby."
Colette couldn't help the tears that rolled down her cheeks at his concern. She could hear the love and worry in his voice, the desperate plea for her to take care of herself.
"I promise," she whispered, her voice wobbly but firm. "I'll take care of myself. For you, for Bébé. I promise."
She would even let go of the fact that she was pretty sure that her family were babysitting her. When her mother went home after breakfast, it didn't take too long for Arthur to show up, happily ignoring her pointing out that he actually had work to do and instead he joined her on the couch watching re-runs of The Real Housewives.
Colette rolled her eyes at Arthur's unashamed enjoyment of the reality TV show. He had always been a sucker for messy drama, and the housewives provided plenty of that.
"You are ridiculous," she mumbled, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.
"Oh, shut up," Arthur retorted cheerfully, his eyes never leaving the screen. "You love this show and you know it."
"I do not," Colette protested, but it sounded halfhearted, even to her own ears.
Quite frankly, she would rather watch fake drama on TV than think about the one happening in real life to her.
Bébé decided at that moment to kick her in her ribs again and she grimaced.
"Are you alright?" Arthur asked her immediately.
Colette let out a wince as the baby kicked her again. "Yeah, just baby kicking my ribs again. It's getting more and more frequent," she mumbled, rubbing the spot on her stomach where the baby had kicked.
Arthur chuckled. "The baby's probably just feeling cramped. They want more space," he teased.
"Ha ha, you're hilarious," Colette replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes.
“Maybe the baby's just getting impatient and wants to come out already," Arthur said with a shrug, his eyes still glued to the screen.
"Don't even joke about that," Colette said, her tone serious. "I still have another month to go. He better stay in there until then.”
She still had around 4 weeks of pregnancy left.
"Still thinking it's a boy?" Arthur asked her curious.
Colette nodded, her hand still resting on her stomach. "Yeah, I just have a feeling. Call it a mother's intuition," she said with a small smile.
Arthur rolled his eyes in amusement. "Or just wishful thinking," he teased her. "Isn't Max convinced it's a girl?"
Colette chuckled, thinking about Max's adamant belief that the baby was a girl. "Yeah, he is. He has ordered a bunch of dresses online," she said with a laugh. “And hairbows...so many hairbows…If it's a boy, I don't know what I'll do with all of them."
Arthur started laughing.
Colette shot him a playful glare. "Don't laugh at my predicament," she said, but the effect was ruined by the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Arthur couldn't help himself, bursting into another fit of laughter. "I'm sorry, it's just too funny picturing Max buying all those dresses and hairbows," he managed to say between chuckles.
Her phone pinged again. Colette huffed in irritation as Arthur picked up her phone before she could. "Hey, that's mine," she protested.
Arthur just shot her a cheeky grin. "Finders keepers," he teased, waving the phone just out of her reach. "Besides, no more doomscrolling for you," her younger brother told her seriously.
Colette rolled her eyes at his reprimand, but deep down, she knew he was right. "I wasn't doomscrolling," she mumbled petulantly, even though she knew it was a blatant lie.
"I just...People are making up opinions about me and my life and they don't know me," she said weakly. "That's why I don't even have a public Instagram in the first place, Arthur. I just want to live my life without worrying about what people are going to think..."
"What does it matter what they think?" Arthur asked her curiously.
Colette let out a frustrated sigh. "It shouldn't matter, I know it shouldn't," she said firmly. "But it does. Maybe it's human nature to care what other people think, I don't know."
She ran a hand through her hair tiredly. "I just don't want people to judge me, to make assumptions about my life and my decisions."
Arthur nodded in understanding. "I get it," he said softly. "It can be hard to block out the noise. But you have to remember that the only opinion that matters is your own."
Colette let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, tell that to the media," she mumbled, but there was no vitriol in her voice, just resignation.
Arthur huffed, shaking his head. "The media don't know what they're talking about. They just want the next big headline, the next scandal. They don't care about the truth."
Colette sighed, slumping back on the couch. "I just wish they'd leave me alone," she mumbled. "I just want to have my baby in peace."
Arthur patted her leg comfortingly. "Just focus on yourself and the baby," he said firmly. "Everything else is just background noise."
Colette nodded, taking a deep breath. He was right, of course. “They have this picture of me in their head, that’s very different from the actual person,” she said weakly. “And now they judge me for something that they don’t even know what it was, because it’s not public. They just take Russell’s word and run with it…”
Arthur's expression darkened as she vented. "I know," he said softly. "It's unfair and it sucks. But you can't let it get to you."
Colette sighed, rubbing a hand over her eyes. "I know. I know.”
"You don't owe anyone anything," Arthur said firmly. "You don't have to justify yourself to anyone. Max would say the same."
Colette smiled wryly at the mention of Max. She could almost hear his voice in her head, telling her the same thing.
She closed her eyes, picturing Max's face in her mind. He always knew what to say to keep her grounded, to keep her from spiralling into a dark pit of despair. She missed him, more than she thought was possible.
"I just wish Maxie was here," she muttered, her voice thick with emotion.
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