Hurricane - Part 5

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 2

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy, seizures and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

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

By the time Lizzie heard the knock on her door, she was almost regretting inviting Lando over.

Not because she didn’t want to see him—she did. But because she was still exhausted, her limbs felt like lead, and she hadn’t had the energy to change into anything more presentable than this.

Which was how she found herself standing in front of her door, dressed in sweatpants and a vintage Ferrari hoodie that was older than both of them, trying to summon the will to care.

She pulled the door open, and there he was—Lando Norris, grinning at her like she hadn’t texted him less than 6 hours ago to say, Hey, I had a seizure, so can we not do the fancy restaurant thing?

“Hey,” he said, then his eyes dropped to her hoodie. His expression morphed into pure betrayal. “You—Lizzie.” He pointed. “Is that—is that a Ferrari hoodie?”

She crossed her arms, ignoring the amusement bubbling in her chest. “It was my dad’s.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Lando said, still staring at it like it personally offended him. “It makes it worse. It’s, like, vintage blasphemy.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes and stepped aside to let him in. “You’re in my apartment. You don’t get to insult my clothes.”

“I absolutely do.”

“You really don’t.”

"You literally live in Woking," Lando said darkly as he stepped into her apartment. "A stone throw away from the MTC!"

Lizzie rolled her eyes once more, closing the door behind him. "And I'm still a Ferrari girl at heart."

Lando groaned, shaking his head. "You're breaking my heart here, you know that?"

"Is now the time to mention that Mara is also named after Ferrari?" she asked with a grin, as he followed her into the kitchen and sat down a grocery bag on the counter.

Lando blinked. "How is Mara named after Ferrari?" he asked her.

"Well, Mara is short for Maranello," Lizzie said brightly.

Lando's mouth fell open. "You have got to be kidding me," he said, staring at her. "Your dog is named after Ferrari headquarters?"

Lizzie just smiled, not even trying to hold back her amusement. "Yep," she said, popping the p on the word.

"First the hoodie, then the dog... what's next, a Vettel tattoo?" Lando asked her with a sigh.

"I mean, I was considering it," Lizzie said, completely deadpan.

For a moment, Lando actually looked worried. "You're joking, right? Please tell me you're joking."

Lizzie cackled, a deep, full-belly laugh. "Relax, Lando. I'm kidding."

His shoulders sagged. "You're an evil woman. An actual evil woman."

"What is even in there?" she asked with a nod to the grocery bags.

Lando smirked. “Backup nuggets.”

Lizzie frowned. “Backup nuggets?”

“In case yours suck.”

Lizzie snorted. “Wow. True trust issues.”

Lando grinned, but there was something softer behind it. She felt it when he looked at her for just a second too long.

She shoved the nuggets into the oven before he could say anything annoying about it.

"I also brought ice cream. I didn't know what you like..."

"Vanilla," she said immediately.

"Vanilla it is," he agreed. "Where's Mara by the way?"

Lizzie's eyes darted down the hallway. "She's probably passed out in the living room, honestly," she said. "Dad said she barely left my side last night, poor thing. Probably wore herself out."

Lando winced. "I can imagine. Must've been pretty freaked out, huh?"

Lizzie nodded. "She kept licking my face. Apparently they do that to wake you up when you have a seizure."

For a moment, his gaze softened, and he looked at her thoughtfully. "You don't get hurt, right? When you have a seizure, I mean."

"Generally, no," Lizzie said, "I might accidentally bite my tongue, and I'm usually sore and tired after, but I don't get hurt."

Lando nodded, but she could see the concern still lingering on his face. "But you're okay now?" he asked quietly.

Lizzie managed to bite back her smile. "I'm fine, Lando. I promise. This really is normal for me."

His head dipped. "You're sure?"

She softened, touched by the worry in his voice. "I'm sure," she said gently. "No need to look so serious, pretty boy."

“Excuse me, I’m not pretty.” He objected with a disgusted expression.

Lizzie snorted. “Yeah, you aren’t if you pull a face like that.” She shot back immediately.

“Excuse me, that’s not very nice!”

“Mate, make up your mind,” Lizzie said with a snort. “I say you are pretty, you disagree. I say you aren’t, you also disagree. What are you then?”

“I am ruggedly handsome,” he told her seriously.

She could only stare at him.

“If you somehow manage to grow a beard, then, maybe. But with that clean-shaven look you have going on right now? Not in a million years. You’re pretty, and that’s that.”

Lando's eyes widened, taken aback. "Did you just—" he spluttered. "Did you just insult my ability to grow facial hair and then go and call me pretty in the same breath?"

"I absolutely did," Lizzie said, barely able to hold back her grin. "What are you gonna do about it, pretty boy?"

What she hadn't expected was for him to advance and corner her against her kitchen counter.

She froze, eyes wide, her heart suddenly thumping in her chest. Lando planted one hand on either side of the counter, caging her in.

He leaned in, his face inches from hers, expression still tinged with faux offense.

And his eyes...she could spent a whole book describing their colour and Lizzie was quite sure that it was going to fall short. Even in the dim light of her kitchen, they shifted from blue to green and back.

The intensity of his gaze was almost unbearable. Lizzie's mind went completely blank, and she found herself staring at him, a flutter of nervous energy coursing through her like electricity.

Lando was so close now that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. She was suddenly hyper-aware of every nerve in her body, like this new, intimate proximity had set her senses on fire.

Lizzie wasn't even sure who moved first.

All she knew was that suddenly, his lips were on hers. The kiss started gently, almost tentatively. But something shifted in an instant.

It became hungrier, more desperate, like a dam had burst. Lizzie couldn't help herself; her arms wrapped around Lando's shoulders and pulled him closer, every part of her body pressed against his.

One of his hands threaded into her hair, angling her head to get better access, and she made a small, needy sound in the back of her throat. Her fingers curled into the soft cotton of his shirt, clutching at it as she kissed him back, dizzy with the feel of him.

Oh. 

Oh. 

Lando groaned, the sound reverberating through her. His free hand slid beneath her hoodie, seeking out the bare skin of her waist.

Her own hands moved over his back, desperate and urgent. The kiss turned hotter, less controlled as her world narrowed to this, to him, to the intoxicating feeling of his body against hers.

And then the sound of the oven timer beeped. Loudly. She jerked in his grasp, managing to make one of her cookbooks clatter down onto the floor.

A second later, Mara was barelling into the room, clearly thinking that she had had a seizure and destroyed her house.

Lizzie and Lando sprung apart, both of them flushed and more than a little breathless.

Lizzie couldn’t help it; she burst into a fit of giggles, watching Mara skid across the linoleum.

"I'm fine, Mara," she said through her laughter. Her dog whined, clearly not convinced.

Lando was looking like a deer in headlights, his cheeks flushed and his hair messed up from her fingers. He stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, and she bit her lip to keep herself from grinning like an idiot.

"We should rescue the dino nuggets," Lizzie suggested.

Lando still looked stunned. "Right - yeah - nuggets-" he said, blinking.

Lizzie chuckled and knelt down to pat Mara to reassure her. The dog was practically whining with worry, licking her face and nudging her. Lizzie gently pushed her back in an attempt to give herself some space.

"I think you traumatized my dog," she said, looking up at him with a smirk.

He scratched the back of his head, still endearingly awkward. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I wasn't exactly...thinking when..."

She just shook her head, grinning. "Maybe we should focus on rescuing those dino nuggets, don't you think, pretty boy?"

He swallowed, glancing at her briefly before nodding. "Yeah. Nuggets."

Lizzie pushed herself off the floor, giving Mara's head a final pat before she headed over to the oven. Lando joined her in the kitchen, his gaze flickering to her every other second. Lizzie took the plate from the oven, setting it down on the stove top.

"They look fine," she said, inspecting the slightly-singed edges of the nuggets. "All things considered."

Lando leaned against the counter beside her. "Great," he said, but his voice was still a little unsteady.

She shot him a sideways glance, amused by the way his gaze kept dropping to her mouth.

"Was that..." he trailed off and she watched to see a slight blush cover his cheeks.

"What?" she asked, hiding a smile. He was even more adorable when he was embarrassed.

He cleared his throat, looking vaguely flustered. "That was okay, right?"

And just like that, her own cheeks grew warm. They'd just made out in her kitchen, and now he was asking her if... if it was okay?

She studied him, taking in the pink hue on his face. There was something so vulnerable about the way he was looking at her. It was like he couldn't believe it had happened, and now he was scared he had overstepped.

"It was..." she began, only stopping to consider her words."...pretty incredible."

Relief flickered across Lando's face. "Yeah?" he said, a hint of the cocky demeanor returning. "You liked it, then?"

In response, Lizzie just rolled her eyes, pushing the plate of dino nuggets towards him to end the conversation before he could say anything else.

"Try a damn nugget."

Lando raised an eyebrow, but his smile grew even wider as he picked up a nugget from the plate. "Bossy."

She just rolled her eyes again, biting back a laugh. "Eat your nugget before I regret telling you that I liked it."

He chuckled and popped the nugget into his mouth. "Not bad," he said, still grinning.

Lizzie found herself returning the smile. He was impossible.

But then again, she thought as she looked at him, she supposed she wouldn't want him any other way.

"Let's take this to the living room," she suggested.

"So is there even more Ferrari merch there?" Lando asked her. She just rolled her eyes.

"Not Ferrari merch, no," she said drily. “I keep that in the bedroom.” Lando gave a squawk in response. She just laughed. 

Did her living room kinda look like the set of a fantasy movie had thrown up all over it? Yes. 

She had a near life size portrait of Astrid and Ciaran, the main characters of her book series hung over her fireplace, which an amazingly talented fan artist had painted and she had purchased.

Lando was staring at the portrait with something close to amusement. He turned to her, eyebrow raised. "Okay, so who is that guy, and why does he have bat wings?"

Lizzie sighed, taking a seat on the large couch that dominated the room. "That would be Ciaran. Bat wings and all."

Lando took a seat beside her, still eyeing the portrait suspiciously. "And who exactly is Ciaran supposed to be?"

"He is the Dark Prince...The Heir to the throne of the land of Kasharia," she said with a wave of her hand. "He's the love interest in the Seasons of Fate Series."

Lando's eyebrows shot up, turning back to the portrait, studying it with more interest this time. "And the Wings are his thing, I'm guessing? Makes him the 'Dark Prince'?"

Lizzie bit her lip to keep a laugh from escaping. "Basically."

"Right, right." He was nodding now. "What about the woman, then? Blondie with the dagger?"

Lizzie found herself smiling, remembering the story behind that particular piece of art. "That would be Astrid," she said.

Lando looked like he was starting to put pieces together. He leaned back on the couch, eyes on the portrait once more. "And Astrid is, what? The princess or something?"

"She's a handmaiden of the Princess of another kingdom he's supposed to marry," she explained with a wave of her hand. "She ends up married to Ciaran instead."

Lando was nodding along as Lizzie described it, a look of fascination on his face. "Oh, so it's like one of those forbidden romance deals, huh?" he asked, sounding surprisingly invested.

"In a sense, yeah," she agreed, finding herself amused by his interest. "You seem surprisingly interested in this, considering you thought the wings were over the top a minute ago."

Lando shot her a look, his eyes twinkling. "Hey, I can appreciate a good love story, can't I? Besides, million of people adore your books. There must be something pretty special about them."

Lizzie felt a surge of warmth in her chest at his words. It still surprised her, at times, how much her books meant to people.

Lizzie felt a surge of warmth in her chest at his words. It still surprised her, at times, how much her books meant to people.

"I don't know about that, but people seem to enjoy them," she said lightly. "Still thinking you are going to pick one up?" she teased him with a grin.

"It’s probably gonna take me two months to get through the first book, between my schedule and my dyslexia, but the bat wings have totally sold it," Lando told her seriously.

She couldn't help but laugh at that, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably. The idea of Lando, who was about as far from a fantasy fan as you could get, actually trying to read one of her books was too absurd. "You are absolutely not going to read one of my books," she said, grinning.

"Hey, I could!" he objected with mock offense. "Don't underestimate me."

Lizzie shook her head, still laughing. "I'm not underestimating you. But let's be honest, you've got better things to do with your time than read about bat winged princes and handmaiden."

"Don't you have better things to do than too watch 20 men in their cars drive around in wobbly circles?" he shot right back. "You created these books. You poured your time and energy into them. I don't think there are many things that are more important than that." 

Lizzie fell silent, taken off guard by his words. He had a point, she thought.

"I suppose you have a point there," she admitted quietly.

Lando seemed pleased with himself, his cocky demeanor falling back into place. "See? I do have some smarts in there."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't keep the smile off her face. "You are insufferable, you know that? Besides, what's with your job," she teased him. "Isn't Miami coming up?"

Lando just snorted. "Yeah, we are all looking forward to hear the Dutch national anthem. Again."

Lizzie chuckled, picturing the familiar sight of the podium at a Grand Prix - the winning driver and the Dutch and Austrian anthems playing. "You are so dramatic. Maybe you'll win in Miami."

He gave her a look, his expression clearly communicating that he thought her words were ridiculous. "Uh-huh. You obviously don't know my luck. Second place is basically my second name."

Lizzie laughed, finding his complaining endearing despite herself. "You sound like Mara when I have a treat, but don't give it to her. Stop whining. Second place is still impressive as all hell, you know that right?"

Mara perked up at the mention of her name and took that moment to jump up on the couch, and once again, not caring at all about personal space, just drape herself all over Lando.

Lando looked startled, his gaze flying down to where Mara was settling onto his lap. "Uh..." he said, his voice full of confusion.

Lizzie tried not to crack a smile at the way he looked like he'd never encountered a dog before. Mara, meanwhile, looked incredibly pleased with herself.

Lando looked up at Lizzie, his expression a comical mix of disbelief and alarm. "What...what is she doing?" he asked, clearly bewildered.

Lizzie couldn't help herself; she burst out laughing. "She likes you," she managed to say through her mirth. "Clearly a woman of excellent taste."

Lando gave her a dubious look, clearly not sure if he was being insulted or not. Then Mara shifted in his lap and let out a happy sigh, and he looked back down at her. Lizzie could see the exact moment he melted. No man was immune to dogs.

"I'll go against my core beliefs and root for the ugly orange car with your number on it if you promise me that you'll believe that you have a chance of winning."

Lando shot her a look, a little surprised at her request. Then his familiar cocky smirk spread across his face.

"You'll root for papaya? Over Ferrari?"

Lizzie just nodded. "As long as that big ego of yours lets you believe you can win," she said dryly.

Streamer Lando Masterlist

Just bc I'm extra gonna make an official master list for streamer Lando fics

She's Pretty Cute

Fan Favourite

Sore Loser

Kill It

Please Never Change

No More Sad Songs for Mr Norris

Never Going Out In Public Again

A Sweetheart Pt 2

Back from Dinner (Date)

Interruptions

Caught In It

It's Autumn Sunset

Yeah That's My Girl

He Knows He's Won

the parent trap (remake) | CS 55

cast: carlos sainz x fem!reader

warn: 100% fiction & remake

next chap

PART 13 FIRST MEET

Y/N stormed into her bedroom, yanking open the closet door with a dramatic motion. “I’m such a moron!” she exclaimed, her voice teetering between frustration and panic. “I can't handle all this damn thing.” She began pulling clothes off hangers, tossing them carelessly onto the bed as if the act of packing could somehow ease her nerves.

Martin, standing awkwardly by the door, opened his mouth to say something but quickly decided against it. There wasn’t much he could say—he’d never seen Y/N in such a state before. It was a mix of chaotic energy and raw vulnerability that left him unsure whether to step in or stay out of the way.

“I can’t believe it,” Y/N continued, more to herself than anyone else. “Carlos and I haven’t seen each other in nine years, and now I have to go back to Spain to get my other baby!” She turned to Martin, her expression a mixture of exasperation and despair. “I’m not mature enough for this.”

Martin suppressed a grimace and stayed silent.

Y/N grabbed a coat from the closet and draped it over her arm, her motions quick and restless. “I wouldn’t be so nervous if I was still married to him! God, we both made this stupid agreement to never see each other again and start a life...” Her words trailed off as she reached for a glass of wine on the nearby table and downed it in one gulp. “Look at me, Martin,” she said, turning back to her butler. “Have you ever seen me like this?”

Martin opened his mouth to answer, but Y/N cut him off with a raised hand. “Don’t answer me,” she said sharply, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for something—anything—to focus on.

At that moment, Matheo appeared in the doorway, barely able to hide the amused grin spreading across his face. He’d been listening to his mother’s frantic rambling from the hallway and found it equal parts hilarious and endearing.

“What if he doesn’t recognize me?” Y/N muttered, more to herself than anyone else. She ran a hand through her hair, her voice softening as she added, “It’s not like I’ve changed that much...” She paused, catching sight of Martin’s skeptical expression. “Forget what I said, Martin. Don’t answer that question either.”

“Ma’am Matheo said to me that his father still handsome.” Martid said while trying to clean the mess.

She paused for a moment, lost in her memories. “Matheo was right. And as I remember his gaze was always so warm. And every time he looked at me, my stomach felt like it was hosting a butterfly rave.”

Martin trying stop his face into a wide smile. That was definitely more information than he needed.

Matheo, biting his lip to keep from wide smile outright, decided it was time to step in and rescue Martin from his mother’s whirlwind of emotions.

“Mom, I’m ready!” the boy announced brightly, stepping fully into the room.

Y/N barely glanced at him, too busy adjusting her coat and muttering under her breath. “Me too... well, almost.” she gestured vaguely toward the mess of clothes and an almost-empty suitcase lying forgotten on the bed.

Matheo raised a brow and folded his arms. “Your suitcase is literally empty.”

Y/N looked at the chaos around her, then at her son. “Ah, yes… Well, I’ll sort that out later. Don’t worry about it.” She waved dismissively before changing the subject with practiced ease. “Sweetheart, have you called your father yet?”

“Oh, yeah,” Matheo replied, his tone impossibly casual. “We talked. He said he’s really nervous to seeing you again.”

Martin shot him a sharp look, eyebrows arching in disbelief at the obvious lie.

Matheo pressed on, undeterred. “Anyway, he said he’s waiting for us at the Mandarin Oriental Ritz Hotel in Madrid. Noon today.”

Y/N froze for a moment, her expression caught between surprise and mild panic. “Wow. That’s… really early,” she muttered. Then, with a burst of nervous energy, she turned to Matheo. “Baby, can you do me a favor? Go with Grandpa and buy the plane tickets while I clean up this—” she gestured wildly at the room. “—absolute disaster?”

Matheo nodded, already halfway out the door. “Okay, Mom.”

As soon as the boy left, Martin stepped closer, leaning in to whisper, “Liar…. Liar….. May your nose is going to grow like Pinocchio’s.”

Matheo, still in earshot, turned back to glare at him. “Shhh!” he hissed, silencing him with a quick gesture before disappearing down the hall.

Martin rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he turned to help Y/N. This reunion was shaping up to be even messier than the room.

*****

“Martin,” Y/N began, her voice shaky, “can you do me a favor? It’s… a bit out there. Strange, even. But I know you’ve always been more than a butler. You’re practically family.” 

Martin raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. 

“What I mean is…” Y/N hesitated, running a hand through her hair, “…can you—” 

“Help you with all this madness?” Martin cut her off, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “You don’t even have to ask twice.” 

Y/N didn’t even give him a moment to breathe before launching forward, wrapping her arms tightly around Martin. Tears threatened to spill as he choked out, “You’d do that? For me?! Oh my god, Martin, thank you. I don’t even know how to repay you. And you don’t have to go as my butler, you can come as—” 

“A friend?” Martin finished for her, smiling warmly as he patted Y/N on the head. 

“Exactly!” Y/N sniffled, pulling back and wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. 

Martin’s tone turned teasing, “No problem, Y/N. But… not to be annoying, if you want my opinion, you might want to reconsider your outfit. If you’re meeting your ex, maybe wear something a little more… you know… provocative?” 

“Provocative?” Y/N repeated, squinting in confusion. 

Martin sighed dramatically and walked over to the closet, rummaging through its contents like a man on a mission. He emerged a moment later, “Here. Wear this. Trust me,” Martin said confidently, pointing at the pile, which consisted of a  beige-colored Jacquemus backless silk dress. “This? It’ll turn heads.” 

Y/N glanced skeptically at the clothes, then back at Martin. She let out a resigned sigh and muttered, “Fine. I’ll take your advice.” 

An hour later, Martin stepped out of the house dressed in a sharp, unfamiliar outfit. Gone were the usual casual vibes—he looked polished, modern, and effortlessly cool. 

When Y/N dad emerged a moment later, his jaw practically dropped. 

“Wow,” was all he managed, though his eyes said everything. 

Even Grandpa, who was usually unfazed by such things, looked stunned. “My daughter,” he whispered under his breath as he saw Y/N. 

Y/N straightened her coat nervously, then turned to her dad. “Wish me luck?” 

His dad pressed his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. “I think I’ll just pray,” he said finally, shaking him head. 

“Yeah, that’s probably better,” Y/N quipped, shooting her a quick grin before heading toward the car. 

Matheo lingered in the doorway, looking a little lost as he watched Y/N leave. He quickly turned and hugged his Grandpa. 

“Promise you’ll visit me?” he asked softly, his big eyes filled with hope. 

His grandpa face softened as he cupped his cheek. “Of course, little gentleman. I’ll always visit you. Now go to your mom before she has a nervous breakdown.” 

Matheo nodded, flashing him a quick smile before hopping into the car. The ride was quiet at first, a mix of nerves and anticipation hanging in the air. Y/N drummed her fingers on her knee, staring out the window, while Martin leaned back, arms crossed like he owned the moment. 

“Ready for this?” Martin asked casually, breaking the silence. 

“No,” Y/N admitted, her voice small. “But let’s do it anyway.” 

The car rolled down the driveway, leaving behind Grandpa, who stood waving with a knowing smile on his face.

****

The Mandarin Oriental Ritz Hotel was buzzing with life that afternoon, a vibrant energy filling the luxurious lobby. Meredith stood near the grand entrance with her parents, her gaze darting towards the towering clock that loomed above. She clutched her phone, refreshing it anxiously, before turning to her father with an air of confidence she clearly didn’t feel.

“It's almost noon. He’ll be here any minute,” Meredith announced with a bright smile, although her fingers tapped nervously against the marble counter. “Dad, please… be nice to him. Carlos is everything you’ve ever wanted for me—and, well, he’s that rich.”

Her father smirked, an amused glint in his eye. “If he’s that rich, I’ll be the nicest man in the world.”

Meredith rolled his eyes but grinned anyway, her attention snapping back to the revolving doors just as a tall figure stepped through, flanked by an entourage that could rival royalty. There was Carlos, his sharp jawline highlighted by the sunlight streaming through the windows, leading his family with a confident stride. Even Sammy, their family’s enormous dog, trotted in like he owned the place.

“Oh great, the whole family is here,” Meredith muttered under her breath, though her lips curved into a practiced smile. Straightening her dress, she strode towards her fiancé, who greeted her with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Carlos, you finally coming,” Meredith said, her voice laced with faux enthusiasm. “And you brought… everyone. How… nice.” Her eyes landed on Sammy, whose wagging tail and massive stature immediately drew concern. “Oh, Sammy… at a hotel? Really?”

Carlos smirked. “Matheo didn’t want to leave him home alone.”

Meredith crouched down, forcing a grin as she tentatively reached out to the dog. “Hey there, boy…” she cooed, her tone sugary sweet.

Sammy, unimpressed, growled menacingly, his teeth bared. Meredith flinched and stumbled back as the dog barked. From the sidelines, Mattia snickered, while Chessy whispered a gleeful, “Good boy,” under her breath.

Chessy, turned her attention to Meredith’s parents with a disarming smile. “So… these are your parents?” she asked smoothly, her tone polite but carrying just a hint of amusement. 

“Yes!” Meredith beamed, gesturing eagerly toward her parents. “Mom, Dad, meet Carlos Sainz—the love of my life.” She lingered on the last words, as if daring anyone to argue.

Her parents stepped forward, the mother radiating warmth as she extended her hand. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you, Carlos,” she said, her voice honeyed with hospitality. “We’ve heard so much about you.” 

Carlos responded with charm, his Spanish accent softening his words. “The pleasure is mine, Señora.” 

“And this,” she added, turning toward the younger boy, Mattia standing beside Carlos, “is their adorable son, Matheo.” 

“Adorable,” Meredith’s father echoed with an awkward chuckle, though his tone suggested he was still trying to figure out the dynamic. 

Mattia, wearing a small, satisfied smile, gave a polite nod but said nothing. 

Carlos chimed in, as if sensing the awkwardness. “Actually, it was Matheo’s idea to meet here. Very clever of him.” 

Mattia, standing off to the side, looked ready to combust from the sheer effort of keeping his expression polite. He managed a tight smile at the group, though the sharpness in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed. 

Meredith’s mother, dressed in an effortlessly chic silk blouse and wide-leg trousers, leaned down slightly to address Matheo. “Hi, baby. You can call me Aunty.” 

Mattia’s lips twitched into a sardonic smile, his eyes narrowing slightly as if to say, ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ 

*****

Before the awkward tension could deepen, a sleek black limousine pulled up to the entrance. Out stepped Martin, adjusting his sunglasses with his usual flair before opening the door for his boss. A bare foot promptly kicked him in the chest.

“The hand, ma’am…” Martin grumbled, catching his balance with an uneasy smile.

Out stumbled Y/N, looking devastatingly elegant in a beige-colored silk dress that clung to her figure like it was custom-made (because it was). Her golden earrings caught the sunlight as she took a swig from a vodka bottle, finishing it off and casually tossing it over Martin. Martin scrambled to catch it just in time.

“Wow, what a ride! Don’t you think?” Y/N slurred, grinning as Martin knelt to help her with her strappy designer heels.

“First time I’ve seen you drink like this, Ma’am,” Martin muttered.

Y/N chuckled, the sound light and airy. “First time I’ve had vodka. It’s… not bad!”

Matheo, who had been watching the entire debacle, buried his face in his hands. “I’m doomed.”

While the other family was busy with their own plans, Meredith stood in the center of the beautifully decorated venue, eyes scanning the room with approval. “I think the room is perfect for the wedding. It’s not too big, not too small. It really is perfect," she declared, her voice full of pride. "The guests will be amazed. Carlos, how about they wait for us by the pool while we go upstairs to relax?" She turned to her parents, who nodded in agreement, seemingly unfazed by the chaos that Chessy and Mattia were dealing with over their dog, Sammy.

Mattia, meanwhile, struggled to keep Sammy under control. The dog had other plans, tugging hard on the leash and dragging Mattia along. “Where do you want to go?” he asked quietly, his voice strained as he tried to regain control. Sammy, however, was on a mission, and Mattia had no choice but to follow. Chessy, clearly unnerved by the situation, trailed behind them with a nervous glance.

Carlos, noticing the commotion, he trying to help his son, but Meredith with her sly smile she leaned closer. “How about we check out what our honeymoon suite looks like?” she suggested, her tone dripping with flirtation. Before Carlos could reply, she linked her arm through him, ready to explore.

****

Meanwhile, in another corner of the venue, the other family was making their way toward the elevator. Y/N, however, had just stepped out of it, looking a bit disheveled. “Oops, I forgot my bag,” she announced, turning on her heel and heading toward the reception desk. Matheo and Martin exchanged exasperated looks, clearly concern with Y/N’ absentmindedness.

Back by the lobby, Mattia and Chessy were still wrestling with Sammy, who seemed determined to cause as much trouble as possible. Suddenly, Matheo’s eyes widened with delight as he spotted the dog. “Sammy!” he called out, his voice full of excitement. The dog, equally thrilled, broke free from Mattia’s grip and bounded toward Matheo. Martin yelped in surprise as the massive dog leaped up, but Matheo was unfazed, embracing Sammy like a long-lost friend.

As Mattia tried to catch his dog, the elevator doors slid shut, leaving him and Chessy stranded. Before he could process what had just happened, Y/N appeared out of nowhere, sauntering toward them in a dangerously elegant outfit that screamed old money.

Mattia’s jaw dropped. “Mom?!” he blurted, his voice a mix of shock and disbelief. Chessy, sensing the awkwardness of the moment, turned away, pretending not to see.

Y/N, seemingly unfazed, offered a breezy smile. “Matheo, my love, you didn’t have to wait for me. I can get to the room by myself.” her voice was soft, but Mattia couldn’t ignore the faint whiff of alcohol that accompanied her words.

“Matheo, wait upstairs while I relax, okay?” Y/N added, ruffling Mattia’s hair in a way that felt both affectionate and dismissive. Mattia grimaced slightly but said nothing as Y/N strolled away, her stride as confident as ever.

“Hey, Matheo,” Y/N called over his shoulder. “Were you already wearing those clothes on the plane? I don’t remember...” her voice trailed off as he nearly collided with a boy carrying a vase full of roses. “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled, sidestepping awkwardly before disappearing down the hall.

Mattia turned to Chessy, his face pale. “She’s drunk. My mom, never had more than two glasses of wine in her life, she is drunk. And today of all days.”

Chessy stifled a laugh, placing a reassuring hand on Mattia’s shoulder. “Relax. Let’s just stick to the plan.”

On the other side, Carlos and Meredith were oblivious to the chaos below, completely absorbed in each other. Meredith leaned against the elevator wall, his tone teasing. “Whoever invented the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign deserves a medal.” Carlos chuckled, pulling her closer, but his playful expression faltered as his eyes caught something beyond the closing elevator doors. There, standing in the lobby, was Y/N. Her golden earrings shimmered, her silk dress flowing with an effortless grace. Y/N offered a small wave and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The elevator doors shut, cutting off the view, but Carlos’s mind raced. His stomach dropped, and his heart pounded in his chest.

What the hell just happened?

prev chap

onlyangel4 lewis hamilton masterlist.

main masterlist

unexpected. smau. completed. (f. a.)

lewis hamilton x tattoo artist! reader

in which reader is the last person someone you expect to find in the paddock and that is what makes him drawn to you. or lando's tattoo artist friend visits the paddock to tattoo zak brown after the miami gp win and the internet goes mad.

part one. // part two. // part three.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

test drive. smau. (f. m.)

lewis hamilton x singer!reader

in which reader can not help but be inspired by her driver boyfriend and the internet goes wild.

here

⟡ ᴹᴬˢᵀᴱᴿᴸᴵˢᵀˢ ⟡

NONE OF THESE ARE WRITTEN BY ME

ᵐʸ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ʳᵉᶜˢ

MASTERLIST- @lecsainz

MASTERLIST - @landograndprix

MASTERLIST - @lorarri

MASTERLIST - @chrisevansonly

MASTERLIST - @love-belle

MASTERLIST - @81folklore

MASTERLIST - @h4m1lt0ns

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MASTERLIST - @pucksandpower

MASTERLIST - @boiohboii

MASTERLIST - @lenoraah

MASTERLIST SERIES MASTERLIST - @monzabee

MASTERLIST - @cieloclercs

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MASTERLIST - @planetpiastri

MASTERLIST - @thebearchives

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MASTERLIST - @povlnfour

MASTERLIST - @racinggirl

MASTERLIST - @sofs16

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MASTERLIST - @norris-lando

MASTERLIST - @gasstationlady

MASTERLIST - @sunnyflowervol18

MASTERLIST - @ferrstappen

MASTERLIST - @ln444

MASTERLIST - @itaipava

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MASTERLIST - @f1version

MASTERLIST - @lxclerc

MASTERLIST - @redclercs

MASTERLIST - @verstarppen

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MASTERLIST - @emotionaldamages

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MASTERLIST - @charlesslut16

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MASTERLIST - @arieslost

MASTERLIST - @5sospenguinqueen

MASTERLIST - @violetszone

MASTERLIST - @solaireverie

MASTERLIST - @slutforln4

MASTERLIST - @charles-eclair16

MASTERLIST - @illicitlimerence-writes

MASTERLIST - @alonetimelover

MASTERLIST - @norris55s

MASTERLIST - @wintfleur

MASTERLIST - @archiverstappen

MASTERLIST - @formulafics

MASTERLIST - @russellsppttemplates

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MASTERLIST - @formulaforza

MASTERLIST - @non-stop-imagines

MASTERLIST - @cutielando

MASTERLIST - @starkwlkr

MASTERLIST - @norrisleclercf1

MASTERLIST - @formulaa-1

MASTERLIST TWO - @multiversesweets

MASTERLIST - @mickyschumacher

MASTERLIST - @sunny44

MASTERLIST - @weeknd-ogoc

MASTERLIST - @thepersonnamedsam

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MASTERLIST - @disneyprincemuke

MASTERLIST - @vivwritesfics

MASTERLIST - @dolene

MASTERLIST - @scudevils

MASTERLIST - @onlyangel4

Car Trouble

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: in which it starts with Max insisting that you borrow one of his many cars while yours is in the shop and somehow turns into you being dragged away in handcuffs because (according to your jealous housemates) the only way you could ever afford a car like that is by having stolen it … suffice to say, your protective boyfriend is less than amused

Warnings: law enforcement abuse of power

The thing is, you know it’s a gamble the moment you put the key in the ignition. Your little car, a 2004 Fiat Panda with a chipped paint job and a suspiciously rattling exhaust, has been teetering on the edge for months. But it’s all you have, and it’s gotten you this far.

Except now, as you sit in Max’s driveway, the dashboard flickers ominously, a banner of orange warning lights. You groan, lean your head against the steering wheel, and curse under your breath. Maybe it’s the alternator. Or the battery. Or the car’s just finally decided it’s had enough.

Max is at his kitchen window, a mug of coffee in hand, his eyes narrowing as he watches you. He steps out, still in his Red Bull Racing hoodie, hair a mess, and jogs over. You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth before he’s leaning down, peering through your open window.

“Car trouble?” He asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question.

“Take a wild guess,” you mutter, throwing your hands up.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Let me have a look.”

He gestures for you to pop the hood, and you do, reluctantly. Max circles around, lifting it with a practiced ease, his brow furrowing as he inspects the engine. You know he’s not a mechanic, but he knows enough to recognize that it’s bad news.

“I think it’s, um, all of it,” he says, voice laced with amusement. He looks up at you. “You really drove all the way here like this?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say defensively. “It was fine when I left. Mostly.”

Max gives you a pointed look but lets it slide. He straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and nods toward the house. “Come on. I’ll call someone to get it towed.”

You hesitate. “Max, I can-”

“I know you can,” he interrupts gently, eyes locking with yours. “But why should you?”

He has this way of cutting through your defenses with a single look, and it’s infuriating. You sigh, climbing out of the car and slamming the door shut. Max winces, raising an eyebrow.

“Easy. I think she’s suffered enough,” he teases.

You glare at him, but he’s already dialing a number, one hand braced on his hip, the other holding the phone to his ear. He’s so calm, so unbothered, like this is just another Friday, and your car isn’t smoking in his driveway. It makes you feel small, somehow, and a little embarrassed.

“Hey, mate. Got a Fiat here that needs towing. Yeah, looks pretty bad. Can you get someone here today?” Max pauses, glancing at you, then back to the ground. “Nah, it’s not mine. It’s my girlfriend’s.”

The word hangs in the air, filling the space between you. It’s not the first time he’s called you that, but every time he does, it sends a little thrill through you. You shove your hands into your pockets, kicking at the gravel with the toe of your shoe as he finishes up the call.

“Right,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “They’ll be here in an hour or so. Want to come inside?”

You nod, following him up the steps and into the house. It’s quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. Max leads you to the kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. He pours you a cup without asking, handing it to you as you sink into a chair.

“So,” he begins, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “What’s your plan?”

You shrug. “Get it fixed, I guess. If it’s even worth fixing.”

“It’s not,” he says bluntly. “That thing’s a death trap.”

You know he’s right, but hearing it out loud stings. “I can’t just buy a new car, Max.”

“I’m not saying you should,” he replies, voice softening. “But you can’t keep driving that. It’s not safe.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that makes you feel like you should say something, but you don’t know what. Max watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on in your head. He always does that — wants to fix everything, make it all better. And it’s sweet, but sometimes, it’s exhausting.

“Look, I have an idea,” he says finally, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. “You can use one of my cars until yours is sorted.”

You blink up at him. “Max, I can’t-”

“You can,” he insists, a determined edge to his voice. “And you will. You need a car, and I have plenty. It makes sense.”

“It’s too much,” you protest, shaking your head. “I can’t just borrow one of your cars like it’s no big deal.”

“It is no big deal,” he counters, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It’s a car. I have, like, a dozen of them. And I want you to be safe.”

The logic is sound, but it still feels wrong. You open your mouth to argue, but Max holds up a hand.

“Let me finish,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re here for the weekend, right? We’ll get your car towed to a shop, see what they say. In the meantime, you use one of mine. If they can’t fix it, we’ll figure something else out.”

“Max-”

“No arguments,” he interrupts again, smiling faintly. “Please. For me.”

You huff, staring down at your coffee like it might provide some kind of answer. When you look up, Max is still watching you, his expression soft and earnest. He’s not going to let this go, you realize. And maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

“Which one?” You ask, finally relenting.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “The DBS.”

Your eyes widen. “The Aston Martin?”

He nods, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yep.”

“You’re insane,” you say flatly. “I can’t drive that.”

“Sure, you can. I’ll teach you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?” He steps closer, dropping to a crouch in front of you so you’re eye to eye. “That you don’t want to accept help from your boyfriend? Because, if that’s it, we’re going to have a problem.”

His words catch you off guard, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want you to have it. Just until you’re sorted.”

You let out a long breath, your shoulders sagging as the fight leaves you. “Fine. But I’m not keeping it.”

“Deal,” he says instantly, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

There’s a beat of quiet as he stands, pulling out his phone again. He’s about to dial when you speak up.

“Wait.”

He pauses, glancing at you. “Yeah?”

You chew on your bottom lip, considering your next words carefully. “Are you sure? I don’t want to scratch it or-”

“Hey,” he cuts you off, voice gentle. “It’s a car not a piece of priceless china. It’ll be fine.”

His nonchalance is almost infuriating, but you can’t help the way your heart swells at his unwavering confidence in you. He believes in you, even when you don’t.

“Okay,” you whisper, and it’s like something shifts in the air between you. Max’s gaze softens, and he reaches out, squeezing your hand.

“Good. Now, let’s go get the keys.”

***

It’s raining, and the house smells like damp clothes and stale toast. Chloe stands by the living room window, holding her cup of tea, her gaze idly drifting over the dreary street. The drizzling rain matches her mood, which is sour on a good day and worse now that she’s been stuck inside with a mountain of uni work she has no interest in.

A sigh escapes her lips, louder than she means it to, but no one’s around to hear. Her housemates — well, most of them — are scattered across campus, probably doing something useful with their lives. And then there’s you. Always flitting in and out with your head held high, like you’re too good for this dump of a house.

Chloe rolls her eyes at the thought of you. She’s been harboring this quiet disdain ever since you moved in. It’s irrational, she knows that. You haven’t done anything to her, not really. But there’s something about the way you carry yourself, always so composed, so put together, that grates on her nerves. And lately, you’ve been acting … different. Happier, even. Chloe’s seen you, the way you disappear for the weekends, only to return with that smug smile. It’s not hard to guess why.

Chloe knows you have a boyfriend, though you’ve been annoyingly tight-lipped about it. She’s overheard snippets of conversation, seen the texts you try to hide when someone else walks into the room. But still, she can’t figure out why you’re with someone who clearly has money. A lot of money. The kind of money girls like you — girls like them — don’t get near unless there’s some major luck involved.

As she stares out the window, she suddenly sees something that makes her pause. Her tea sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the mug as her hand freezes. There, pulling into the lot, is an Aston Martin. Glossy, sleek, and roaring like a mechanical beast as it glides through the rain. The headlights cut through the fog, and the car comes to a slow, calculated stop directly in front of their house.

Chloe’s brow furrows, her pulse quickening. What in the world …

She watches, transfixed, as the driver’s door opens, and you step out, closing the door behind you like it’s no big deal. You glance around the street, pulling the collar of your jacket higher against the rain, completely oblivious to the fact that Chloe is practically burning a hole through the window with her gaze.

“What the hell?” Chloe breathes, her voice sharp in the stillness of the room.

Her eyes narrow as you cross the street, keys jingling in your hand, moving with an air of confidence that has no right to belong to someone pulling up in a car like that. Chloe watches every step, every casual flick of your wrist as you lock the car and walk toward the front door.

She should turn away, pretend she didn’t see anything, but her brain is spinning, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. That’s a three-hundred-thousand-pound car. You can barely afford rent, let alone something like that. Her mind races with the only plausible explanation — there’s no way in hell that car belongs to you.

Chloe slams her cup down on the coffee table, not caring that it splashes tea everywhere, and darts toward the stairs. She takes them two at a time, bursting into her flatmate Amelia’s room without knocking.

“Amelia! You won’t believe this.”

Amelia looks up from her laptop, startled. “Chloe, what the-”

“Come here. Now.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, spinning on her heel and rushing back down the stairs, Amelia reluctantly trailing after her. Chloe pulls her toward the window, jabbing a finger in the direction of the car still parked outside.

“Look,” she says breathlessly, her words tumbling out too fast. “Look at that.”

Amelia leans closer to the window, blinking at the car through the rain-streaked glass. “Is that an Aston Martin?”

“Exactly.” Chloe’s voice is a mix of disbelief and something darker. “And guess who just stepped out of it?”

Amelia frowns, her brow creasing. “No way. You’re joking.”

“I’m dead serious. She just parked it like she owns the place. What the hell is going on?”

Amelia lets out a low whistle, leaning back against the couch. “I mean, that’s … that’s not normal.”

Chloe folds her arms, pacing the length of the room now. “She’s probably stolen it. I mean, there’s no way she could afford something like that. Do you know how much that car’s worth?”

Amelia shakes her head slowly, eyes still glued to the car outside. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s her boyfriend’s?”

“That’s what I thought,” Chloe snaps, “but come on, who does she know that has that kind of money? I don’t care who her boyfriend is, something’s off.”

They both fall silent for a moment, the only sound the rain tapping against the window. Chloe’s mind races, jumping to conclusions faster than she can keep up. Everything about this feels wrong. She’s always suspected there was something up with you, but this? This is something else entirely.

Amelia breaks the silence, her voice hesitant. “Maybe she’s just lucky? I mean, maybe he’s, like, rich-rich. You know?”

Chloe scoffs. “No one gets that lucky. And she’s been acting so secretive lately. What if she’s involved in something shady? I mean, who just pulls up in a car like that?”

Amelia shrugs, clearly unsure how to respond. But Chloe’s not done. There’s a fire in her now, a burning need to know what’s going on. You’ve always been too quiet, too private, and now it’s all starting to make sense. There’s no way you’re as innocent as you pretend to be.

She whirls back around to Amelia, eyes blazing. “You know what? I’m going to call the police.”

“What?” Amelia’s eyes widen in shock. “Chloe, are you serious? You can’t just-”

“Yes, I can,” Chloe cuts her off, already reaching for her phone. “She’s clearly up to something, and I’m not going to sit here and let her get away with it.”

Amelia tries to protest, but Chloe’s mind is already made up. Her fingers fly across her phone screen, dialing the non-emergency number. Her heart pounds in her chest as the call connects, and she presses the phone to her ear, pacing as she waits for someone to pick up.

“Chloe, this is crazy,” Amelia says again, her voice laced with anxiety. “You don’t even know-”

“Shh!” Chloe hisses, waving a hand to silence her.

Finally, the line clicks, and a calm voice greets her. “Thames Valley Police, how can I help you?”

Chloe takes a deep breath, her voice steady as she launches into her story. “Hi, I’m calling to report a suspicious vehicle. It’s parked outside my house, and I’m pretty sure it’s been stolen.”

The operator asks for details, and Chloe rattles off the make and model of the car, her eyes never leaving the Aston Martin still parked outside. She glances at Amelia, who’s biting her lip, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, but Chloe’s too far gone to care.

“I just … I know the girl who’s driving it, and there’s no way she could afford a car like that,” Chloe explains, her tone sharp. “I think she might have stolen it.”

The operator asks a few more questions, and Chloe answers each one with growing confidence. She can feel it in her bones — something’s off, and she’s not about to let it slide.

When the call ends, Chloe lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, her hands shaking slightly as she lowers her phone.

“Chloe, you didn’t have to do that,” Amelia says quietly, her voice full of worry. “What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong,” Chloe insists, her jaw clenched. “You’ll see. The police will sort it out.”

She turns back to the window, her eyes narrowing as she watches the car, half-expecting something to happen. But nothing does. The car sits there, pristine and out of place, mocking her with its sheer audacity.

And you? You have no idea what’s coming.

***

It’s supposed to be a quiet afternoon — one of those rare breaks between classes when you can actually catch your breath. The rain’s let up, and a misty sun filters through the clouds, casting a soft glow over the pavement outside. You’re halfway up the stairs to your room, your backpack slung over one shoulder, when there’s a loud knock on the door.

The sound is sharp, authoritative, and it echoes through the house, stopping you in your tracks. You glance down, frowning slightly. It’s not like you’re expecting anyone, and the others aren’t home yet. Maybe it’s just a delivery.

But then the knocking comes again — louder, more insistent. Your unease deepens as you drop your bag and head back down the stairs. By the time you reach the door, a faint prickle of anxiety is buzzing under your skin.

You pull the door open, and there they are — two uniformed officers standing on the doorstep. They look serious, their expressions neutral but firm, and you feel your heart sink. This isn’t a casual visit.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is steady, though confusion laces each word.

One of the officers, a tall woman with cropped brown hair and a no-nonsense gaze, steps forward. “Are you the owner of the Aston Martin parked outside?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Um, no,” you say, blinking at them. “It’s not mine, but-”

“We’re going to have to ask you to step outside, please,” the other officer, a man with a stern jawline and dark eyes, interrupts. He glances over your shoulder, as if assessing whether you’re alone.

“What’s this about?” You can hear the uncertainty in your voice now, a sharp edge creeping in. “The car belongs to my boyfriend. I’m just borrowing it-”

“Step outside, miss,” the woman repeats, her tone brooking no argument.

Swallowing hard, you do as you’re told, stepping out onto the front stoop. The chill of the autumn air hits you, and you wrap your arms around yourself instinctively. This isn’t making any sense.

“I don’t understand,” you say again, a little louder this time. “What’s going on?”

The officers exchange a look, and then the man speaks. “We received a report that the vehicle may have been stolen. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Stolen?” The word feels foreign on your tongue. “No, it’s not stolen! I told you, it belongs to my boyfriend-”

“Do you have any proof of ownership?” the woman asks sharply, cutting you off. “Registration documents, anything like that?”

You open your mouth, then close it, frustration building. “The registration is in the glove compartment. If you just let me get it-”

“Stay where you are,” the man says firmly, holding up a hand to stop you. “We’ll check it ourselves.”

“Can’t you just let me show you?” You take a step forward, but both officers tense, their hands hovering near their belts. Your heart stutters in your chest, a cold trickle of fear sliding down your spine. “I’m telling the truth! I can unlock the car and show you. Please, just let me-”

“Miss, please calm down,” the woman says, her tone laced with a warning. “We’re following protocol here. If you cooperate, this will go much smoother.”

“But I am cooperating!” The words burst out, your voice rising despite yourself. “I’m not lying. It’s my boyfriend’s car, he let me borrow it while mine is in the shop-”

“Miss, we need you to step away from the vehicle,” the man says again, more forcefully this time. He pulls out a small notepad, flipping it open. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

You hesitate, caught off guard. “Max,” you say finally, your voice faltering slightly. “Max Verstappen.”

There’s a pause — one that stretches uncomfortably long. The officers exchange another look, something almost skeptical passing between them.

“Right,” the woman says slowly, like she’s testing the words in her mouth. “And you expect us to believe that Max Verstappen, the Formula 1 driver, lent you his Aston Martin?”

“Yes!” Your hands are shaking now, anger and disbelief mixing with fear in a volatile cocktail. “Why would I lie about that? Just let me-”

“Miss,” the man interrupts, his tone hardening. “We need you to turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

The words hit you like a slap, knocking the breath from your lungs. “What? No, you can’t-”

“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he repeats, each word clipped and precise.

You look from him to the woman, desperation clawing at your throat. “Please, just let me open the car. I can prove it’s not stolen. Please-”

But they’re not listening. Before you can say another word, the woman steps forward, reaching for your arm. You flinch back instinctively, panic flaring in your chest.

“Don’t-”

“Miss, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” the woman says sharply, grabbing your wrist with practiced ease. She spins you around, her grip firm but not painful, and then you feel the cold, unforgiving bite of metal as she snaps a pair of handcuffs around your wrists.

“No, wait-” You twist, struggling against her hold, but it’s useless. The cuffs dig into your skin, and you can’t breathe, can’t think.

“Please, I didn’t do anything! You’re making a mistake!”

The man steps closer, his face impassive. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence …”

His voice blurs, the words running together in a nauseating hum. You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes. “No, no, please, I didn’t steal anything! Just call Max, he’ll explain-”

“Miss, we’re taking you down to the station,” the woman says, steering you away from the house and toward their patrol car parked at the curb. “We’ll sort this out there.”

“Wait!” You stumble, the cuffs biting into your wrists as they push you forward. “You’re not listening! The car isn’t stolen! If you just let me get the registration-”

But they ignore you, their grips unyielding. The street seems to tilt and blur as they guide you toward the back of the car, your shoes scuffing against the wet pavement. Everything feels surreal, like you’ve been dropped into a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

The woman opens the back door, and the man gives you a gentle but firm shove. You fall into the seat, the leather cold against your legs. They close the door with a solid thunk, the sound reverberating through your bones.

“Please,” you whisper, leaning forward as much as the cuffs allow. “You’re making a mistake. I’m telling the truth …”

But they’re already walking away, their voices low as they talk to each other. You catch fragments of their conversation — words like “protocol” and “standard procedure” — but it all feels distant, unreal.

You slump back in the seat, staring blankly out the window as the patrol car starts up, the engine a low, steady hum. The world outside blurs into a swirl of gray and green as they pull away from the curb, and your mind races, panic and disbelief tangling together in a messy knot.

How did this happen? One minute you were heading to your room, and now you’re being carted off to a police station like some sort of criminal. It doesn’t make any sense.

You try to replay the last few minutes in your head, searching for something — anything — you could have said or done differently. But there’s nothing. They weren’t listening to you. They didn’t care about your explanation. They just saw a girl with an expensive car and decided you must be guilty of something.

Tears prick your eyes again, and you blink them back furiously. You can’t fall apart now. You have to think, to figure out what to do next.

Max. You need to call Max. He’ll sort this out. He’ll tell them the truth, and they’ll have to let you go. But how are you supposed to do that when they’ve got you locked up in the back of a patrol car?

The drive to the station feels like it takes forever, each second dragging out in painful clarity. You try to keep calm, to breathe through the panic tightening in your chest, but it’s hard when every bump in the road makes the cuffs dig deeper into your skin.

Finally, they pull up in front of the station, and the officers get out, coming around to your side. The door opens, and the woman leans down, her expression unreadable.

“Come on, miss. Let’s get this sorted out.”

You nod numbly, letting them help you out of the car. Your legs feel shaky, your whole body trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. They lead you up the steps, through the front doors, and into a small, sterile room that smells faintly of disinfectant.

“Please,” you say one last time, your voice breaking. “Please, just call him. He’ll explain everything.”

But they only exchange another glance, and the woman shakes her head slightly. “Let’s get your statement first, miss.”

And then they’re sitting you down, the lights glaring down from above, the cuffs still biting into your wrists. And all you can do is sit there, your heart pounding in your chest, as the nightmare continues to unfold around you.

***

The fluorescent lights above hum softly, the cold, sterile environment of the police station pressing down on you from every angle. It feels like you’ve been here for hours, your wrists still red from the handcuffs, a dull ache in your joints from sitting on the hard chair. Every second stretches, torturing you with the weight of waiting.

You're trying to stay calm, but your thoughts keep spiraling — back to the car, back to the police showing up at your doorstep, back to the way they refused to listen. Your voice shakes every time you try to explain, but it’s like they can’t hear you. It’s suffocating.

Across the room, the officer — her name’s Thompson, you think — sits at her desk, flipping through some paperwork. The sound of pages turning feels louder than it should. Every time you shift in your seat, she gives you this look, like she’s annoyed by your very presence. Like she’s waiting for you to break.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore.

“I want to make a phone call,” you say, your voice cutting through the stillness. You sit up straighter, your hands balled into fists on your lap.

Thompson doesn’t even look up. “You’ll get your chance,” she says dismissively, still flipping through the file.

“No,” you say, firmer this time. “I want to make it now. I have the right to make a phone call.”

This time, she looks up, her expression flat. “You’ll have to wait.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” you snap, surprising yourself with the force in your voice. Your patience is gone, the fear of being trapped in this nightmare pushing you into desperation. “I know my rights. I’m allowed one phone call, and I want to make it.”

Thompson raises an eyebrow, like she’s weighing whether or not you’re serious. After a beat, she sighs, pushing the stack of papers aside and standing. “Fine,” she says curtly. “One phone call.”

She leads you to a small side room — bare, with only a table, a chair, and a landline phone sitting in the middle. You sit down, and Thompson places the phone in front of you like it’s some kind of offering.

“One call,” she says again, her eyes narrowing. “Make it count.”

You don’t hesitate. You dial Max’s number, your fingers trembling slightly as you press the buttons. The ring tone fills the room, each ring stretching out the time between your breaths. You press the phone closer to your ear, your heart pounding.

It rings once. Twice. And then-

“Hello?”

Max’s voice comes through the line, smooth and steady, as if he’s just woken up from a nap and isn’t even remotely phased by the sudden call. But you know him better than that — there’s a sharp edge beneath the surface, a protective tension that’s always there when it comes to you.

You swallow hard, fighting back the lump in your throat. “Max …”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts — serious, focused. “What’s wrong?”

“They arrested me,” you say, the words rushing out before you can stop them. “The police — they think I stole your car.”

There’s silence on the other end, just for a second. Then his voice drops, low and dangerous. “What?”

You feel the weight of his anger through the phone, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you feel a flicker of relief. He’s going to fix this. He’s not going to let them treat you like this.

“They showed up at the house,” you explain, your voice trembling slightly. “They wouldn’t let me get the registration. They didn’t believe me when I said the car was yours. They just-”

“Where are you?” His voice cuts through your explanation, sharp and commanding. “Which station?”

You glance around the room. “Bedfordshire Police Station. They won’t let me-”

“Stay where you are,” he says, his voice brooking no argument. “Don’t talk to anyone else. I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, the dial tone ringing in your ears. You stare at the phone for a moment, your heart racing. You know Max is angry — no, furious — but that anger isn’t directed at you. It’s for them, the people who put you in this position.

Thompson steps back into the room, her expression unreadable. “Finished?”

You nod, handing the phone back. She doesn’t say anything as she leads you back to the main room, but you can feel her eyes on you, judging, assessing.

You sit down again, your legs shaky, but now there’s a quiet fire burning in your chest. Max is coming. He’s going to make this right.

The minutes tick by, painfully slow. Thompson goes back to her paperwork, the other officers moving around the station like it’s just another day. But for you, every second is excruciating, the tension building in your chest like a storm.

Then, finally, the door to the station swings open with a heavy thud, and you hear the low murmur of voices — followed by a voice you’d recognize anywhere.

Max.

You can’t see him from where you’re sitting, but you can feel the shift in the room. There’s a sudden stillness, the officers glancing up from their desks, their postures stiffening. Even Thompson’s face changes, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before she composes herself.

You strain to hear the conversation at the front desk, but it’s muffled. Still, you catch bits and pieces — his name, the car, your name. And then there’s the sharp, unmistakable edge of authority in Max’s voice as he says something that makes the desk officer sit up a little straighter.

Moments later, the door to the holding area swings open, and there he is. Max strides in, every movement purposeful, his eyes locking onto you immediately. There’s a fire in his gaze — controlled, but fierce — and the tension in his jaw tells you everything you need to know.

He’s not just angry. He’s livid.

“Max …” Your voice is small, a mixture of relief and shame. You hadn’t wanted to drag him into this mess, but you also know that no one else could’ve handled it the way he can.

He crosses the room in a few quick strides, his hand reaching for yours. “Are you okay?” His voice is low, steady, but you can hear the tightness underneath it.

You nod, but tears prick at your eyes. “I-I didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t listen to me …”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve got it from here.” His tone is resolute, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then, without another word to you, Max turns to face the officers. His entire demeanor shifts, his posture straightening, his presence filling the room with an air of control that demands respect.

“Who’s in charge here?” He asks, his voice calm but unmistakably authoritative.

Thompson steps forward, though there’s a flicker of hesitation in her movements. “I am,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Officer Thompson.”

Max doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “You arrested my girlfriend under suspicion of theft. I’d like to see the evidence you have for that.”

Thompson falters, her eyes flicking over to the other officers. “We … we received a report of a stolen vehicle, and-”

“And instead of verifying the ownership, you decided to arrest her?” Max’s voice is cold, each word measured. “Did you even check the registration in the glove compartment?”

Thompson’s jaw tightens. “We were following standard procedure. She became agitated and-”

“She was agitated because you were treating her like a criminal,” Max cuts in, his tone sharp. “You had no reason to arrest her. If you had checked the registration, you would’ve seen my name on it.”

He takes a step closer, his presence towering over Thompson, making her shift uneasily on her feet. “Do you know who I am?”

There’s a beat of silence. The room feels like it’s holding its breath.

Thompson nods slowly. “Yes. Mr. Verstappen, we-”

“Then you know how much trouble you’re in,” Max says, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. “You’re going to release her. Now. And then you’re going to issue a formal apology.”

Thompson blinks, clearly taken aback by his bluntness. “Mr. Verstappen, I understand your frustration, but we were simply-”

“Don’t patronize me,” Max interrupts, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. “You’ve already made a mess of this situation. Don’t make it worse by pretending this was some kind of mistake. You arrested her because you assumed she didn’t belong in that car. Because you didn’t bother to listen.”

Thompson opens her mouth to argue, but Max doesn’t give her the chance. “I’ll be contacting my legal team,” he says, his tone firm. “And if you don’t release her immediately, I’ll make sure this becomes a very public issue.”

The threat hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Thompson hesitates for a moment longer, and then — finally — she nods.

“Release her,” she says quietly, signaling to one of the other officers.

The relief that washes over you is immediate, your heart pounding in your chest as the handcuffs are removed. Max’s hand is on your shoulder in an instant, grounding you, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he looks down at you. “We’re getting out of here.”

You nod, letting him guide you out of the station. But before you step through the door, you glance back at Thompson, who’s still standing there, her expression strained.

Max pauses, following your gaze. He meets Thompson’s eyes, his expression unreadable. “Don’t ever treat her like that again,” he says quietly, the words carrying more weight than any threat could.

And with that, he leads you out into the cool night air, his arm wrapped protectively around you as you step outside.

***

Max’s fingers are wrapped tightly around your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, as he guides you toward his car in the station’s dimly lit parking lot. It’s quieter out here, the cool air thick with the scent of autumn leaves and something sharper — the lingering smell of petrol. The night is still, almost peaceful, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of chaos you’ve just been dragged through.

But Max’s silence is unnerving. He’s holding onto your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

He stops in front of a sleek, black Porsche 911 GT3 RS, the kind of car that turns heads and raises eyebrows. It’s an aggressive machine, all sharp edges and raw power — just like Max right now.

“Get in,” he says, his voice low and controlled, as if he’s holding back a storm. He opens the passenger side door for you, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

You hesitate for a second, looking up at him, trying to gauge his mood. “Max-”

“Get. In,” he repeats, enunciating each word with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

You slip into the passenger seat without another word, the leather cool against your skin. The car’s interior is immaculate, everything in its place, the faint smell of new leather lingering in the air. Max rounds the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, his movements tight and controlled. He doesn’t say anything as he starts the engine, the car roaring to life with a low, throaty growl.

He peels out of the parking lot with a precision that feels almost surgical, his eyes locked on the road ahead, his jaw clenched. The silence between you is heavy, charged with an emotion you can’t quite name.

“Max-”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and accusing. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

You blink, taken aback by the question. “Tell you what?”

“That they arrested you,” he says, each word bitten off like it’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “That they-” He breaks off, shaking his head like he can’t even bring himself to say it. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”

You swallow hard, your gaze dropping to your lap. “I-I didn’t want to worry you. You were probably busy, and-”

“Busy?” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, his eyes flashing as he glances at you. “You think I care about being busy when something like this happens? When you’re involved?”

“Max, I didn’t want you to-”

“To what? Be pissed off? Too late for that,” he snaps, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. He takes a deep breath, his grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly. “What happened, exactly?”

You tell him, your voice halting at first but gaining strength as you recount every detail — the officers showing up, the handcuffs, the questions, the disbelief when you tried to explain the car belonged to him. Max’s expression darkens with each word, his jaw set in a hard line.

“They just … wouldn’t listen,” you finish softly, staring down at your hands. “I told them it was yours. I even tried to show them the registration, but they didn’t care.”

“They didn’t care because they had already made up their minds,” Max growls, his voice a dangerous rumble. “They saw you and assumed you didn’t belong in that car.”

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to keep his temper in check.

“Why would they think the car was stolen in the first place?” He mutters, more to himself than to you. His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel, his mind clearly racing.

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Someone must have reported it,” you say slowly, the realization dawning on you as you speak. “Someone must have seen me with it and assumed …”

Max’s gaze snaps to you, sharp and focused. “Who would do that?”

“I-I don’t know.” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “It could’ve been anyone. The car … it stands out. Maybe someone thought it looked out of place at the house.”

Max’s frown deepens. “No,” he says firmly, his eyes narrowing. “No, it wasn’t just anyone. It was someone who knows you. Someone who knew that wasn’t your car.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and damning. Someone who knew you. Someone who saw you with the Aston Martin. Someone who-

“One of your housemates,” Max says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur.

You open your mouth to protest, but then you stop, the pieces falling into place in your mind. One of your housemates. One of the people who knows you can’t afford a car like that, who might have thought — wrongly, jealously — that you had gotten your hands on it through some shady means.

Max’s eyes are hard, unyielding. “It has to be,” he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Someone saw you with the car and called the police. There’s no other explanation.”

You take a deep breath, the realization settling in your chest like a lead weight. “But … why would they do that? Why would they assume I stole it?”

“Because people are idiots,” Max mutters, his gaze flicking back to the road. “Because people are jealous. And because they didn’t like seeing you with something they thought you shouldn’t have.”

There’s a bitter edge to his words, and it makes your heart ache. Max has dealt with his share of jealousy, of people looking at him like he doesn’t deserve what he’s earned. He knows what it’s like to be judged, to have assumptions made about him based on nothing but surface impressions.

But this is different. This is personal.

“Whoever did this,” Max says, his voice low and controlled, “is going to regret it.”

Your eyes widen, a pang of fear and something else — something almost like excitement — flaring in your chest. “Max, wait-”

“We’re going to your house,” he continues, his tone brooking no argument. “We’re going to find out who made that call, and I’m going to make sure they understand exactly what kind of trouble they’ve caused.”

“Max, no,” you protest, your voice rising. “You don’t have to do that. I-I can handle it. I’ll talk to them, I’ll-”

“No, you won’t.” He glances at you, his eyes blazing. “You’ve been through enough tonight. I’m handling this.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stops you cold. There’s a steely determination in his eyes, an unshakeable resolve that tells you there’s no point in fighting him on this.

He’s already made up his mind.

“Max, please-”

“Enough,” he says softly, but there’s no gentleness in his tone. “I’m not letting them get away with this.”

You fall silent, your heart racing as the car speeds down the quiet, empty streets. The tension in the car is suffocating, but there’s also a strange sense of relief. Relief that he’s here, that he’s taking control, that he’s going to make this right.

You know you should feel bad, should feel guilty for dragging him into this mess. But right now, all you feel is a fierce, overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Max’s hand finds yours again, his fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, his voice softening just a fraction. “I’m going to take care of it.”

You nod, swallowing back the words you want to say — the apologies, the pleas for him not to do anything reckless. Because you know it won’t make a difference. Max is stubborn, determined, protective to a fault. And when it comes to you, he’s willing to do whatever it takes.

The drive to your house feels both too long and too short, every second charged with anticipation. When Max finally pulls up outside your shared house, he cuts the engine and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“Stay in the car,” he says firmly.

You blink, surprised. “What?”

“Stay. In. The. Car.” He enunciates each word with that same controlled intensity, his eyes boring into yours. “I’m going inside.”

“Max, you can’t-”

“I can and I will,” he interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m not letting you go in there and face them after everything that’s happened tonight.”

He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your skin in a soft, soothing gesture. “Just stay here, okay? Let me handle it.”

You want to argue, to tell him it’s not necessary, but the look in his eyes stops you. There’s a fierce protectiveness there, a determination that makes your chest tighten.

“Max …”

“Please,” he murmurs, his voice softening. “Just this once. Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “Okay.”

He leans forward, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your forehead before pulling back. “Good.”

And with that, he steps out of the car, the door closing with a soft thud behind him. You watch as he strides toward the front door of your house, his shoulders squared, his posture radiating confidence and control.

But the second he disappears from view, you find yourself reaching for the door handle. You know he told you to stay in the car. You know he wants to protect you.

But you can’t just sit here and let him fight your battles for you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the door open and step out into the cool night air, following him up the path toward the house.

***

The door swings open with a resounding bang, ricocheting with enough force to make the picture frames on the adjacent wall rattle. Every head in the common room snaps up, eyes wide and startled as they turn toward the unexpected intrusion.

Max stands in the doorway, the very picture of barely restrained fury, his presence so commanding it seems to suck the air out of the room. His gaze sweeps over the small group of people lounging on the mismatched sofas, taking in their shocked expressions and slack-jawed stares with a level of disdain that’s almost palpable.

“What the hell is going on?” He demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl that reverberates through the room.

No one answers immediately. They’re all too stunned, too caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the tall, broad-shouldered stranger radiating aggression. It’s Chloe who finally finds her voice, pushing herself up from her seat on the sofa and taking a hesitant step forward.

“Um, excuse me, but who are you?” Her voice wavers slightly, but she lifts her chin defiantly, trying to project an air of authority. “You can’t just barge in here like this.”

Max’s eyes lock onto her, and something in his gaze makes her flinch back, the confidence in her stance faltering. He doesn’t bother answering her question. Instead, he turns his head slightly, calling out over his shoulder.

“Come in here,” he says, his tone softer but no less commanding.

You step into the doorway behind him, hesitant and unsure, your gaze flicking nervously between Max and your housemates. You don’t miss the way their expressions shift when they see you — surprise, confusion, and something darker, more judgmental, flickering across their faces.

“Y/N?” It’s Amelia who speaks this time, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on? Who is this guy?”

Max’s jaw tightens, his gaze still fixed on Chloe. “I’m Max,” he says curtly, as if the name alone should explain everything.

It clearly doesn’t. The blank stares from around the room make that abundantly clear.

“Max Verstappen,” he adds, impatience lacing his tone. Still no recognition. “Formula 1 driver? Y/N’s boyfriend?” He tries again, a hint of disbelief in his voice now.

A flicker of something like realization crosses a few faces, but Chloe just scoffs, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, sure,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “And I’m Lewis Hamilton.”

Max’s lips curl into a cold, humorless smile. “Trust me, I would never want to be him.”

The comment flies over Chloe’s head, but it’s enough to send a ripple of laughter through the room. Max’s smile fades as quickly as it came, his expression hardening once more.

“I’m her boyfriend,” he says again flatly, jerking his head in your direction. “And I’m here to find out which one of you decided it was a good idea to call the police and have her arrested.”

The laughter dies instantly. The air in the room thickens with tension, eyes darting from Max to you and back again.

“Arrested?” Amelia repeats, her voice rising in pitch. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Max snaps, his gaze still boring into Chloe, like he can see straight through her. “One of you called the cops and reported her for driving a stolen car. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

A murmur of confusion ripples through the group, genuine bewilderment on most faces. But Chloe’s eyes dart away, a flicker of guilt crossing her expression before she schools it back into one of indifference.

“What — no, that’s ridiculous!” She says, her voice a touch too high-pitched. “Why would any of us do that?”

Max’s gaze narrows, his eyes zeroing in on her like a hawk spotting prey. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously quiet. “You tell me.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick and heavy. Chloe shifts uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the others as if searching for support. But no one says anything. No one moves.

“Look,” Chloe finally says, trying for a breezy tone that falls flat. “If she got arrested, that’s … that’s not our fault, okay? Maybe there was a misunderstanding or something.”

Max’s eyes flash, and you feel a shiver run down your spine at the barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface.

“A misunderstanding?” He repeats, his voice deceptively calm. “Yeah, I’d say there was a huge misunderstanding. Like the fact that you assumed she couldn’t possibly be driving that car legitimately. Like the fact that you assumed she’d have to steal it to have something that nice.”

He takes a step closer to Chloe, and she instinctively steps back, her expression faltering. “Whoever made that call didn’t just cause a ‘misunderstanding.’ They caused a whole lot of trouble for no reason other than pettiness and jealousy.”

“Hey, wait a minute-” One of the other housemates tries to interject, but Max doesn’t even spare her a glance.

“Do you know what it’s like to get a phone call telling you the person you love is sitting in a cell?” He asks, his gaze never leaving Chloe’s face. “Do you know what it’s like to hear that they were treated like a criminal just because someone here,” — he practically spits the word — “decided to be a self-righteous, vindictive bitch?”

The room goes deathly silent. Chloe’s face has gone pale, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, no words forthcoming.

“Max, maybe we should-” you start, reaching out to touch his arm.

He cuts you off with a quick shake of his head, his eyes still locked on Chloe. “No. She needs to hear this.”

You shrink back slightly, your stomach twisting with a mix of anxiety and something else — something like relief. Because as harsh as Max is being, there’s a part of you that’s grateful. Grateful that he’s standing up for you, that he’s putting words to all the anger and frustration you’ve been bottling up since this whole nightmare began.

“You don’t get to treat people like that,” Max continues, his voice low and cold. “You don’t get to make snap judgments about someone based on what you think they deserve. And you sure as hell don’t get to sic the cops on them just because you’re too insecure to handle seeing someone else with something you want.”

Chloe’s lips tremble, her eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route. “I … I didn’t …”

“Didn’t what?” Max demands, his voice rising. “Didn’t think it would matter? Didn’t think about the consequences? Or didn’t think you’d get caught?”

The accusation hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. No one moves. No one breathes.

“I didn’t think-” Chloe starts, but the words catch in her throat. She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I just — I thought …”

Max lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Yeah, you thought. That’s the problem.”

He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as if trying to calm himself. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, steadier, but no less cutting.

“You know what? I don’t even care what your excuse is,” he says quietly. “Because there is no excuse. Nothing you say is going to change what you did. Nothing is going to make up for the fact that you had her dragged off in handcuffs for no reason other than your own messed-up assumptions.”

Chloe flinches at the words, her shoulders hunching as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. You almost feel a pang of sympathy for her — almost. But then you remember the cold metal of the handcuffs around your wrists, the humiliating feeling of being treated like a criminal, and the sympathy evaporates.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Max says, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re going to apologize. Right now. To her.”

He steps back slightly, giving Chloe a clear line of sight to you. She hesitates, her gaze flicking up to yours, and for a moment, she just stares at you, her eyes wide and fearful.

“I … I’m sorry,” she finally mutters, the words barely audible.

Max’s gaze hardens. “Louder.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe repeats, her voice trembling. “I-I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. I just … I thought the car was … that it wasn’t …”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish. But she trails off, her face crumpling with guilt and shame. It’s not much of an apology, but it’s more than you expected.

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Max nods once, satisfied. “Good. Now, if I ever hear about you pulling something like this again,” he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “you’ll regret it. Understand?”

Chloe nods frantically, her face ashen. “Y-Yes, I understand.”

“Great.” Max turns away from her, his gaze softening as it lands on you. “Come on,” he murmurs, reaching out to take your hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

***

The Porsche purrs along the quiet stretch of motorway, the engine’s deep growl a steady undercurrent to the conversation hanging in the air. It’s late — well past midnight — but neither of you seem in any hurry to get home. There’s a lingering tension, a heaviness that neither of you know quite how to disperse.

Max’s hand grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles stark against the leather. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the faint glow of the dashboard casting shadows across his face. His jaw is set, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that betrays the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

He hasn’t said much since leaving your house. Just a few clipped sentences, terse reassurances that he’s not mad at you, that you didn’t do anything wrong. But the words feel hollow, inadequate against the weight of what happened tonight.

After a few more minutes of silence, Max finally speaks, his voice low and controlled. “I talked to the mechanics earlier today.”

You blink, taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversation. “The mechanics?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “About your car.”

Oh. You feel a pang of anxiety, your stomach twisting unpleasantly. You’d almost forgotten about your poor, beat-up little car, abandoned at some garage in Milton Keynes. “What did they say?”

Max hesitates, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “It’s … not good.”

You swallow hard, your heart sinking. “What do you mean?”

“They think it’s beyond saving.” His voice is careful, as if he’s trying to break the news gently. “There’s too much damage. The engine’s shot, the transmission’s on its last legs … basically, it’d cost more to repair it than it’s worth.”

You stare at him, uncomprehending. “But … but I just had it serviced a few months ago,” you protest weakly. “It shouldn’t be that bad-”

“It’s not your fault,” Max interrupts gently. “That car’s been through hell. It’s a miracle it’s lasted as long as it has.”

“But I can’t just … give up on it,” you say, a note of desperation creeping into your voice. “It’s my car, Max. I need it.”

“You need a car,” Max corrects softly. “Not that car. There’s a difference.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I can’t afford a new one right now. I still have to pay for-”

“Hey, hey.” Max’s hand leaves the steering wheel to rest on your knee, squeezing gently. “I’m not saying you have to buy a new car.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicion flaring. “What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying,” Max begins, his tone careful, measured, “that I’ll get you a new one.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your mind struggling to process what he’s suggesting.

“No,” you say finally, shaking your head vehemently. “Absolutely not.”

Max’s brow furrows, his gaze flickering to yours. “Why not?”

“Because … because that’s ridiculous!” You sputter. “I’m not letting you buy me a car. That’s way too much.”

“It’s not too much if you need it,” he argues calmly.

“Yes, it is!” You insist, your voice rising. “It’s too much, and it’s not your responsibility. I’ll figure something out-”

“Like what?” Max challenges, his voice sharpening. “What are you going to do, keep borrowing cars you’re hesitant to actually use? Take public transport everywhere? What happens when you need to get somewhere and you don’t have a ride?”

“I’ll manage,” you say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. “I always have.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to anymore,” Max snaps, his frustration breaking through. “Why won’t you just let me help you?”

“Because it’s not your problem to solve!” You shout back, the words bursting out before you can stop them.

Max goes silent, his gaze turning stony. For a few long moments, the only sound in the car is the steady thrum of the engine and your own harsh breathing.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach twist. “You’re my girlfriend. That means if you have a problem, it is my problem to solve.”

The certainty in his tone makes your breath catch in your throat. You look at him, really look at him, and see the determination blazing in his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw.

“Max …” you begin softly, but he cuts you off with a quick shake of his head.

“No, listen to me.” He takes a deep breath, his hand tightening on your knee. “I know you’re independent. I know you’re used to handling things on your own. But this isn’t about money, or pride, or any of that. It’s about making sure you’re safe, that you have what you need to get around. And right now, that means getting you a new car.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he presses on, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“Let me do this for you,” he says quietly, almost pleadingly. “Please.”

His sincerity takes the wind out of your sails, your protests dying on your lips. You stare at him, the weight of his words settling heavily on your shoulders.

“But … it’s just … too much,” you say weakly, your resolve crumbling.

Max’s expression softens, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think so. And even if it is, I don’t care. You’re worth it.”

The simple, earnest declaration sends a rush of warmth flooding through you, your heart swelling in your chest. You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them back furiously, refusing to let them fall.

“Why do you have to be so damn convincing?” You mutter, half exasperated, half amused.

Max’s smile widens slightly, his thumb brushing gently over your knee. “It’s a gift.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he says dryly, his eyes twinkling with a hint of humor. “So … you’ll let me do this?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. It still feels like too much, like accepting would be crossing some invisible line. But there’s a part of you that knows he’s right — that trying to handle this on your own would be stubborn and impractical and would probably end up causing more problems than it’s worth.

And more than that, you can see how much it means to him. How much he wants to do this for you.

“Fine,” you say finally, letting out a long sigh. “But only because you’re so damn insistent.”

Max’s grin is dazzling, the relief and joy in his eyes almost overwhelming. “Good. I’ll start looking for something first thing tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind the gesture. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he counters smoothly, his grin widening at your soft, exasperated laugh.

“Cheesy,” you accuse, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“Maybe,” he concedes with a shrug. “But it’s true.”

You shake your head, your heart feeling lighter than it has in days. “I’m still not letting you get me something ridiculously expensive,” you warn, trying to sound stern.

“We’ll see,” Max says noncommittally, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Max-”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says quickly, holding up his free hand in mock surrender. “We’ll get something practical, okay? Something that’s safe and reliable and not … ridiculous.”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “Promise?”

Max’s smile softens, and he nods, his gaze holding yours steadily. “Promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a sense of peace settling over you. Maybe it’s not ideal, accepting something so big from him, but … maybe it’s okay to let him take care of you, just this once.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Max’s smile is soft and warm and full of so much affection it makes your chest ache. He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. “No, thank you.”

Little Enzo (2) - Charles Leclerc

Charles Leclerc x reader

Words: 6.3k

Summary: Charles keeps on turning your and Enzo's world upside down.  

Warnings: Nothing really just soft and fluffy Charles

Authors Note: So many of you have asked for it and I loved writing it so here you go, Part 2 to Little Enzo

It's not edited and English isn't my first language so be nice, please :)

Feedback is always very much so appreciated.  

Enjoy! ♥

"Mummy!" There was a soft knock at the door. If you hadn't been trying to read a book, you probably wouldn't have heard the knock and your son's hoarse voice. You were lying in a bed that was much too big for one person. The place next to you was empty.

"Come in, my angel." You put the book on your bedside table and when you look up your little man is already standing in front of you. His eyes still a little puffy but nowhere near as bad as they had been in the afternoon or rather early evening.

"Come here, darling." You open your arms wide for him and pull him onto your bed as he put his arms around your neck. "What's wrong? Why can't you sleep?" Enzo sat down on your lap covered with your blanket and looked at you with sad eyes.

"I- I- Do you think- Is Charles sad?" Your son played with your fingers but tried not to look you in the eye. You took a deep breath, wrapped your arms around your son's back and pulled him to your chest. His head found its perfect place in the crook of your neck.

"Oh my darling, I don't think he's very happy with the results and yes maybe he's a wee bit sad because of it." Enzo stretched his head so that he could look at you from the side. This gave you the perfect opportunity to give him a kiss on the forehead. You could see little tears forming in his eyes again.

Charles had competed in the last race before the summer break in Hungary that afternoon and his team had once again left him completely out in the cold with the strategy.

You and Enzo had watched the race from home. After it had looked so good at the beginning of the race and Enzo was beaming all over his face when Charles took first place in a great overtaking manoeuvre, your little angel couldn't hold back the tears when he noticed that Charles had slipped very far back.

"No my angel, don't cry. Charles is not alone. Pierre is with him and so is Carlos and after all he's coming home tomorrow." Your son had a hard time holding back the tears. A few rolled down his face anyway. Your words didn't seem to calm him down much.

"But Mummy, we're not there. Pierre and Carlos are just his friends, they don't like him as much as we love him." Your heart leapt and tears came to your eyes as you let your son's words sink in.

Only 10 months ago you were still worried whether Enzo would get used to living with Charles and living a completely different life than before, and now you were both sitting here in bed, half declaring your love for Charles.

"That's why he's even more excited to see you again tomorrow. But for that, you need to sleep that you're fit and you can hug him so hard that all the sadness of today fades away, ok?" Enzo looked at you with small eyes, his tears had dried again and a small yawn now came across his lips.

He nodded slowly and wanted to get up but you held the little one for a little while longer until you could hear him breathing softly and his eyes were firmly closed.

With your sleeping child in your arms, you tried to get up from your bed as slowly and carefully as possible, but then decided to just let him lie next to you. You turned off the bedside lamp next to you and snuggled up next to your son in the warm blanket you were now sharing.

Confused, you opened your eyes, not knowing why you had woken up. The room was still dark, so you assumed it was still the middle of the night. You turned over, careful not to wake your son, and were about to go back to sleep when you heard the front door open.

Your heart pounding, you picked up your phone and saw that it was two o'clock in the morning. With slow steps you opened the door and walked towards the living room and the entrance hall.

Looking around the corner you could see a person dressed in all black. Hoodie pulled over their head and looking at their hands, but standing with the back facing you, when suddenly something fell out of their hands, from the sound of it probably a phone.

"Putain." Damn. With a beat your heart calmed and you slowly walked towards him.

"Charles?" When he heard your quiet voice he turned around with his phone in his hand that he had just picked up. You could see the cracks in his screen that hadn't been there before.

His eyes were almost as puffy as Enzo's before he had fallen asleep and you could see in his face that he was just blank and lost.

"Damn. I woke you up. I'm sorry. Apparently I can't even do that." It broke your heart how lost and self-doubting the Monegasque stood before you. You had expected many things, but not this.

Without another word you closed the small distance that was still between you and took the Ferrari driver in your arms and you could feel directly how he sank into your arms and how an infinite amount of tension fell from his shoulders as he lost himself in your disguise.

For a while, the two of you just stood there, without saying a word and without moving. Eventually you slowly broke away from Charles and pulled him by his hand across the dark living room to the sofa, which was perfectly lit by the moon, so you watched him in the moonlight for a few minutes.

"You didn't wake me. Why are you here already? I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow." Charles lowered his head onto your shoulder and wrapped his arms around your torso.

"I just wanted to get home. To you. And Enzo. Just away from the track and away from the team, because otherwise I probably would have said or done something I'd regret later. I just can't see them right now." You could hear the sadness in his words. The sport and the team he actually loved were completely tearing him apart at the moment and it was leaving its mark.

"You have almost four weeks away from everything now. Take a deep breath in and out." You could feel his chest rise, hold the air in for a few seconds and then sink again.

Charles lifted his head from your shoulder and pulled you closer to him. He buried his nose in your hair behind your ear, closed his eyes and repeated the deep breaths a few times before opening his eyes again and looking at you.

"That was all I needed. You. Then tomorrow, if I can cuddle Enzo, the world will be back in balance for now." You couldn't help smiling a little, which Charles noticed immediately. He looked at you questioningly.

"You'll have to fight him for your place in bed right now. I let him sleep in our bed because he was even sadder than you. But not because you didn't win, he had already forgotten that by bedtime. He was worried about you." You put your hand to Charles' cheek, which was slightly flushed.

His eyes began to glisten with tears and for the first time since your boyfriend had walked in the door, the emptiness in his eyes filled. They filled with infinite, unconditional love.

"He didn't want you to be so sad and alone with your thoughts." Charles had to take that in for a moment and then pulled you all the way to him for a long passionate kiss. When he broke away from you again, this time he took you by the hand and walked with you to your bedroom.

Enzo had by now made himself completely comfortable over Charles' side of the bed.

Charles stopped in the doorway and tried to sort out his thoughts. He put his arm around your shoulder and pulled you to his side, your head now resting on his shoulder.

"I love you guys. You're all I need." He gave you a gentle kiss on your hair and then slowly detached himself from you to take off his clothes.

✨ Even though it had been almost a year since you had moved in with Charles and since he had first said those three words, you got butterflies in your stomach every time they passed his lips. Not even necessarily because of yourself, but because Charles had so much love for your son.

He had planned Christmas at your house for the whole family, so that Enzo's grandma and grandpa could come and not feel like strangers at his mother's house.

Shortly after New Year's he took Enzo on a boys' trip with Pierre, Max, Arthur, Lorenzo and a few other friends. While you also had to work, he still arranged for his mother to make sure you got a few quiet hours and booked a wellness hotel for you not too far from Monaco.

A short time later, he surprised you with a holiday to the Maldives. You had always wanted to visit the islands but had never had the opportunity until then. After two weeks in paradise, just the three of you, without any distractions, almost endless days of watching Charles and Enzo play in the pool or on the beach or in the sea, it was hard to get back into the daily routine.

The most beautiful thing for you, however, over the almost three months, was to observe how Charles was more and more not only the Ferrari driver for Enzo, but bit by bit became more, a permanent fixture in his life.

Charles had offered you over and over again to quit your job and find something else where you wouldn't have to spend so much time away from little Enzo. Even though you had toyed with the idea again and again, you didn't want to be dependent on Charles. Of course, you wanted it to be more of a forever thing between you, but that didn't change anything for you.

When the new season started and it looked very good for Charles at the beginning, Enzo was probably the happiest kid on earth. The races he couldn't watch from the track he watched either with you or with his grandparents from home.

At some races, especially in Europe, which unfortunately didn't go so well for Charles, Enzo was the first to hug Charles when he came back to the garage.

The media had noticed that too. While you had always somehow managed to remain largely unrecognised and thus keep your relationship between the two you, more and more questions arose about the little boy. When asked by the press, Charles had always just called him "his little superfan" because he knew you preferred to stay out of the public eye.

It was only after the Monaco Grand Prix at the end of May that pictures of you and Charles together picking Enzo up from pre-school surfaced for the first time.

At the Baku press conference, after consulting with you, he proudly announced what most of the drivers and staff in the paddock already knew.

"I've found someone very special and she came as a double with her son, who I've grown very fond of and who you've seen many times. But his mum wants to be kept out of the limelight as much as possible and I understand that, so I ask that you respect that."

You had been following the press conference on Instagram because you had to work that Thursday. After the press conference, the news surrounding Charles' and your relationship spilled over but thankfully most complied with Charles' request.

So it started that Enzo went to the paddock with Charles in the morning and you joined him a little later when you were able to sneak into the hospitality without being recognised.

You had asked Enzo again and again if it was ok for him because so many cameras were pointed at him but his beaming all over his face in the pictures sent to you by Charles, Arthur, Pascale or his grandparents were answer enough. ✨

You were already lying on your side in bed again when Charles turned off the bathroom light behind him and walked to his side of the bed.

He gently stroked Enzo through his hair and leaned down to press a kiss to the little boy's temple. You lay on your side, watching the situation with heavy eyelids.

"Hé, mon petit gars. Can I squeeze in there next to you?" Hey, my little man. Neither you nor Charles had expected an answer from Enzo as Charles tried to lie down on the bed next to him as carefully as he could.

"Daddy?" Charles stopped in his tracks and looked over at you, but you were already in tears, so that you could only see the two of them in a blur. You had to hold your hand over your mouth to keep from letting out a sob.

That was the first time Enzo had called Charles Daddy and you didn't know how much your heart had wanted to hear that until you heard the word from Enzo's mouth, even though he was half asleep.

"Can I lie down with you and Mummy?" Enzo immediately made room for Charles and waited until he was comfortably under his blanket only to make himself comfortable on his chest, one small arm around Charles' torso, the other on his arm. His eyes fell right back shut and his breathing steadied again.

"Don't be sad, Maman et moi, on t'aime quand même." Mummy and I love you anyway. The little boy's sleepy words warmed Charles' heart. He couldn't help a little tear himself, gave him another kiss, this time on his hair, and sought yours with one hand while he put his other arm around Enzo.

When he found your hand you gently pulled it to your lips and gave him a kiss on the back of his hand. That was pretty much how you had imagined heaven to be.

✨✨

After two weeks on Charles' yacht with his brothers and mother, Charles felt as good as new. Back home, he and Enzo set to work getting Arthur's old kart running again. 

While you were at work for the day, the two of them would drive, sometimes accompanied by Max or Arthur, or sometimes with both of them, to a track not far from Monaco.

Enzo found pleasure in Charles, Max and Arthur watching him and occasionally borrowing a kart and then all driving together.

"Maman, regarde, je ressemble à papa." Mummy look, I look like Daddy. Enzo stood proudly in front of you in his Red racing suit, his little helmet and gloves. You got down on your knees in front of him and stroked his shoulder. Charles stepped behind Enzo and put a hand on his helmet.

"Please be careful my angel." He nodded and hugged you before running to his kart which was already on the grid. Arthur was waiting for him there, helping him to get fully prepared for the race.

"Take it easy, ma chérie. They are all still small and just doing it for fun just like Enzo. Trust me, he will have the fun of his life today without taking it too seriously." Charles stood behind you and wrapped his arms around your torso and then intertwined his fingers in front of your belly. His head found its usual place on your shoulder.

"I guess you don't know him as well as we both think, then." Charles pursed his lips and looked at you from the side. "If he doesn't walk out of here a winner today, then the next few days are going to be hell for me. Then we can only hope that things go well for you in Belgium and that he gets out of his slump as a result." Charles had to laugh.

"That almost sounds like me when the races don't go well. But don't worry, two minutes with Pierre and the little man is laughing again."

Arthur patted Enzo on the shoulder once more and then came over to you before the race started. Enzo had started quite far in front and the race wasn't particularly long either but right in the first few laps he managed to pass two competitors. You were surprised how good your son was at driving.

Charles, still relaxed at the beginning, was on the edge of the barrier and cheered Enzo on all the time. Together with Arthur, who was standing next to you, you made a few little jokes about his brother, your boyfriend, who had said to you a few minutes ago "it's all just for fun".

15 minutes later the last round started and Enzo started it in second. Through some mistakes by others and many good manoeuvres by himself, he had made it from tenth place very far to the front.

It was the last corner that the first two entered almost at the same time. The boy in front of Enzo took it a little too far, which gave Enzo the chance to pass him and your little racer obviously took advantage of the mistake.

The chequered flag was waved and barely two minutes later Enzo came back to you and already through his helmet you could see his little eyes shining like two stars.

He jumped out of the kart towards you and Charles. You had both crouched down in front of him and he was in your arms. Charles helped him take off his helmet and before you could really look at him, he had thrown both his hands around your neck.

"Mummy, I won." His beaming warmed your heart but also made you realise at that very moment that this would not be the last time you would cross your fingers next to a kart track.

"I'm so proud of you, mon chérie!" You slowly read him off and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Enzo beamed at you again and pulled you closer to him once more to give you a kiss as well.

Arthur, who had been looking after the kart until now, put his arms around Enzo from behind and then lifted him onto his shoulders.

"Little warrior, you have to go to the award ceremony." Ever since Arthur had first met Enzo and they had played a game of knights together, he had given your son that nickname and never had you found the name more appropriate than it was at that moment.

The two of them waved to you and then made their way towards the podium where the others were already waiting for everyone to arrive.

Suddenly Charles grabbed your hand, turned you to him and his eyes were wide, nervousness in his voice as he found the right words, while the award ceremony was already starting and the third place winner was walking to the podium.

"Ok, wow, I didn't think it would come to this." You were still confused. The runner-up stepped up to the podium. "Please don't be mad at me." You looked at him questioningly and were about to follow up when the announcer made his announcement for Enzo.

"And a big applause for our winner, in his first race, Enzo Leclerc." You were beaming all over your face and cheering for your son who was overjoyed to step onto the top step of the podium. It wasn't until the second moment, just as Enzo was being presented with his trophy, that you noticed.

"Wait, Leclerc?" You turned to your boyfriend, stress written all over his face at that moment.

"I didn't think about it, just put the name in and it was only when I was handing in the form that I noticed it, then I thought, never mind, it's only important for those who get on the podium. I couldn't have guessed that our son would be so above average in comparison." Tears came to your eyes.  

"Our son." Charles looked at you in confusion. "You just called him our son, not just mine." Panic was now spreading in Charles along with the stress, you could see the colour leave his face and he suddenly stood white as a corpse before you. He had thought it had made you angry or somehow sad in connection with the mistake that had happened to him with the surname.

Before Charles could imagine any more scenarios in his head about how he had driven your relationship into the wall in one day and had to save it somehow, you grabbed his hands and pulled him towards you.

"Non, idiot." No, you idiot. You put his hands on your hips so yours could find their place on his cheeks. "You called him our son for the first time. Until now, he was always just ‘my son’ and sometimes I wondered if that would last forever, if you could never really see him as 100% yours."

Your tears had dried up again and some colour was slowly returning to Charles' face.

"Enzo doesn't have my surname either because you have to fulfil a few different things to go through with adoption, which I haven't managed to fulfil so far. I would be happy if we both, not just me, could have your last name someday for real."

These words went to Charles' heart more than he would like to admit, because he had also thought about it several times before. A wedding and an adoption.

He had looked into the subject of adoption on a lonely race weekend when you and Enzo couldn't travel with him, and he was aware that you probably hadn't been able to adopt Enzo until now. Since then he couldn't stop thinking how much he would like to marry you to make you a family, even on paper.

"Marry me!" Your eyes grew wide and you weren't so sure at first if you had heard Charles correctly, as he almost whispered the words between the two of you.

"Excuse me?"

"Marry me!" This time he said it louder and with more confidence.

"I love you Y/N and I know I want to stay by your and Enzo's side forever. I want to be Enzo's father and not just between us but on paper so I have rights and I'm not helpless when it comes to making decisions and I want to take care of you till the end of my days. So marry me, please. All I need is you. Enzo and you, you are my everything."

"Yes." You pulled him close and placed your lips on his. The kiss set off fireworks between the two of you. And the butterflies in your stomach danced like crazy with joy.

"I love you." Charles rested his forehead on yours and lightly touched your nose with his. His eyes probably shone almost as much as Enzo's. Thinking of the little one, you read off Charles. You turned to the podium but he was no longer standing there.

"Yay, Mummy and Daddy." You turned abruptly. There they both were. Arthur with Enzo once again sitting on his shoulders. Arthur gave you a round of applause while Enzo waved his trophy and your heart beat a little faster every time he got too close to Arthur's face with it.

Your cheeks flushed and Charles pulled you close again so that you could easily hide your face in the crook of his neck. Arthur lifted Enzo off his shoulders and handed him to Charles who placed him on his hip.

"We need to capture this moment." He took out his phone while Charles took Enzo to his other side that the little one was between you. "Besides, Enzo's grandpa owes me a hundred bucks."

You had just brushed aside some hair from Enzo's face when Arthur's words reached you. You looked at him confusedly smiling briefly as he took the photo.

"I'm sorry, what?" Arthur grinned at you.

"Well, last year when you couldn't come to Monza we made a bet. Don't ask me how we got on the subject but in the end it came down to me saying I know my brother and it wouldn't be much more than a year before you were engaged and Enzo's grandpa said he knows you and it would be at least two years or more before you took that step." He looked proudly back and forth between you and Charles, then grinned at you both and gave Enzo a high five.

"Easiest hundred euros in my life." You started laughing and couldn't help but shake your head. At least Arthur got on well with Enzo's grandpa.

Only when Arthur mentioned it did you realise that it had been almost a year to the day since you had met Charles in his mother's hairdressing salon. But you felt as if you had known the Monegasque for much longer.

Your heart felt at home with him, which is why it didn't surprise you why your 'yes' to his question came so easily.

✨✨

"Girls' night." Kelly came running into the flat with Luisa and Lily in tow as you opened the door. You got on by far best with the girls as their boys also lived here in Monaco and you had met up often.

It was Charles' idea that you meet up with them and just relax for an evening while he was still at home, because the next day his plane was leaving for the USA for the next race.

Charles sat on the sofa with Enzo, Max and Penelope. Max and Penelope had already come half an hour ago because it had taken Kelly too long until she was finally ready. While Charles and Max were playing FIFA, Enzo and Penelope were engrossed in some game together that involved both Enzo's cars and Penelope's mermaids.

"I can't remember the last time I went on a girls' night out." Luisa and Lily looked at each other.

"Well then, we definitely need to make this night memorable." Luisa took you by the hand and waved goodbye to the four on the sofa before pulling you out. Kelly gave Penelope a kiss before following Lily, who walked out of the flat after you and Luisa.

The bar wasn't that crowded as it was a weeknight and you were quite early. You were able to move around the dance floor without being constantly disturbed by others. Every now and then you took a break in your seating area, which Kelly had reserved.

You were glad that you had put on your sneakers. With high heels, this evening would definitely not have been so relaxed.

By ten o'clock the bar was getting a lot more crowded and you had decided that it was enough partying for now. Laughing together, you walked out of the club. Without paying attention to where you were going, because you were so engrossed in your conversation with Lily, you almost didn't notice that Luisa and Kelly were steering you towards the harbour.

It was only when they stopped in front of a yacht and you were forced to stop that you noticed where you were.

"Why are we in the harbour?" You looked more closely at the boat in front of you. "And why are we in front of Charles' yacht?" Kelly grinned at you and took you in her arms. Luisa and Lily joined in the hug and made it a little group cuddle.

When they let go of you, Charles magically stood in front of you.

"Bonsoir, mon amour." Good evening, my love. He nodded to the girls and took you by the hand before pulling you with him onto the yacht. Passing the middle section on the side, you accompanied Charles forward to the front of the boat where you couldn't believe your eyes.

On the small area that was normally made for lying down, there were a few candles that made just enough light for it to be perfectly romantic. Flowers were laid out all around it.

Charles stopped in the middle of the circle of candles and turned to you. He took both your hands in his and stood like that for a few minutes. His eyes probably reflected exactly what Charles could see in yours at that moment. Infinite, unconditional love. You knew what would pass his lips next.

"I know I've already asked you. But I'm of the opinion that you deserve better than just a proposal at the kart track out of the blue and especially without a ring." Charles knew perfectly well that even that had been good enough for you, you just wanted him and it didn't take much. But by now you knew him well enough to know that he wanted to lay the world at your feet and showed that in every possible way.

The Monegasque gave you a kiss on the back of your hand, then got on his knees in front of you. He let go of your right and took the left into both of his hands and gave it another kiss. This time on your ring finger, where in the next few minutes there would probably be a ring.

"You are my everything, my world, the most important and best thing that has ever happened to me in my life. You and Enzo have turned my life upside down and I love every moment of it. When I think of my future, I see you and me and Enzo and a few more siblings for the little one and it just makes me happy. And I hope you feel the same way and take me to be your husband?"

Charles knew your answer, but he still wanted to give you the chance to say it again. On the one hand for you but on the other hand for him as confirmation that you really meant your answer last time.

"I love you Charles and I want nothing more than to spend forever with you." A grin spread across Charles' face, then out of nowhere someone else stepped into the small circle of candles behind him.

Enzo came up to the two of you and stood next to Charles. He gave him a high five and then presented him with the most beautiful ring you didn't even dare to imagine in your dreams.

Charles put the ring on your finger and slowly stood up. He kissed you while you could already hear your friends cheering in the background.

Charles broke away from you a little, bent down to Enzo so he could hold the little one in his arms, and then wrapped you both in a loving hug.

"Our family." came over your lips as you gave Charles another little kiss on the corner of your mouth and then pressed one to Enzo's cheek as well.

As you turned to your friends you could see Lando and Luisa to your left, on your right stood Lily and Alex and from the top deck, a little above you all, cheering you on were Max, Kelly and Penelope.

✨✨

The pictures were just perfect.

Charles was still fast asleep on your chest as you scrolled through the pictures from the night before that Lily, Luisa and Kelly had sent you.

You stroked Charles gently through his hair and looked at the clock. It was time for him to get up. With a careful kiss on his forehead and a few loving, almost whispered words, you tried to wake your fiancé.

He then snuggled further against you.

"No, I don't want to." Charles slowly opened his eyes and looked at you beaming all over his face, only unfortunately the beaming didn't reach his eyes.

"I know it's not an easy season for you but only four more races and you'll finally be done with it." Charles sat himself up on his elbow next to you and gave you a kiss. He was so gentle and slow, you weren't used to that after last night.

Lando and Luisa had taken Enzo and Penelope to a small sleepover party. Actually, it had been planned that the two of them would sleep with Max and Kelly, but when they had seen Lando shortly after you had left the house with the girls, the two of them had begged Charles and Max to be allowed to at Landos place. Since the young Brit didn't mind and was on the same plane to America with Max and Charles today anyway, he had taken them both with him.

Charles now had your phone in his hand and was looking at the pictures the girls had sent you.

"I would so love to share it with the whole world." He looked at you warily from the side as he sent a few of the pictures to his phone.

Of course, over time fans had found your Instagram account, which was Private, and every now and then had taken and posted pictures of you at the track. Mostly they were very poor quality pictures. This would be the first real good quality picture people would get to see of you.

"I don't know." You stroked his cheek. "What if they rip me apart in mid-air like Kelly and just spread lies?" Charles dropped your phone on the bed between you and now sat up, against the headboard of the bed and pulled you to his chest.

"I don't think so. No matter who I've talked to so far, they've only ever had good words for the woman who must have raised such a great son. And no matter what anyone says, I love you and that won't change because I know you and I know the truth." You nodded slowly and nuzzled your head against his chest.

"Okay." Charles lifted your chin slightly with two fingers and looked at you questioningly. You broke away from him slightly to reach over to his bedside table where his phone had been charging during the night.

You handed him the phone and nodded at him.

Charles didn't need to be told twice. He chose the picture where he was holding Enzo in his arms. The little one had put his hand on your cheek and was beaming at you, just like Charles. Charles was still holding your left hand, where the ring was clearly visible.

"Call it magic, call it true. I call it magic when I'm with you."

Obviously it had to be a Coldplay quote he used to caption the picture.

✨✨

"Hey, Y/N! You look great, enjoy the race." You walked behind Charles into the paddock. Enzo as always on Charles' hand, by now too tall to sit on Charles' shoulders as he had always done when he was almost three years younger. 

You thanked the girls for their kind words and followed your husband towards the Ferrari Hospitality.

"Hey, world champion." Just before the entrance, Max met you. He gave your son a high five. "So if you ask me, you're clearly the better Leclerc World Champion." He winked at Enzo, but he went straight to defending his dad.

"Dad beat you though and you're already a two time world champion so he's better than you and therefore I'm better than both of you." Max acted as if the words hit him like a bullet in the heart.

As you had already guessed after his first race Enzo became even crazier than his father about karting. He practised every free minute he had and whenever Arthur, Charles, Max or Pierre were around, the first trip was to the kart track. This actually paid off and Enzo was able to win his first major title shortly after Charles had also won his first world championship title.

"Honestly, I don't even doubt it. If you were to race with us, we'd all look old. I mean, we trained you. It won't be long before we see you in Formula 1."

Max now turned to you. He put a hand carefully on your belly and beamed as he felt the baby kick.

"I see little Leclerc is doing well." He gave you a kiss on the cheek and then turned to Charles as you nodded to him.

"I do have hopes that your child will be born in the next week or two, robbing you of all sleep and allowing me to become world champion again." Charles and you both had to laugh at that.

"Honestly, man. I've got everything I could ever want. My wife, my son another kid on the way and I'm the current world champion." Charles looked at you and Enzo in love like the first day. "But still, nothing is going to change the fact that I'm going to make your life hell and try to get another title." He slapped Max lightly on the shoulder and twitched his eyebrows.

You couldn't help laughing again at the look on Max's face, who for a moment genuinely thought that Charles had less will than last season to become world champion.

But you could only agree with him about one thing. You put your arm around your sons shoulders and your other hand on your already rather large baby belly, while you beamed at Charles, who was taunting his friend and colleague.

Like him, you had everything you could have ever wished for. Your perfect little family.

✨✨

I hope you enjoyed it ♥

Taglist: @enjoymyloves @amsofftrack @ricsaigaslec

64.media.tumblr.com

White Horse - Chapter 12: January 2024

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, Me trying to write therapy sessions, Oscar being a lost little duckling.

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

It was still early when Isabelle woke, the pale winter light just beginning to slip through the windows. The apartment was hushed and still, the kind of quiet that usually came after a heavy snowfall — though Monaco was too warm for that kind of magic.

She padded out of the bedroom, still half-asleep, wearing one of Max’s sweatshirts that hung past her fingertips. Jimmy and Sassy trailed after her lazily, Lilly darting ahead like a tiny, excited shadow.

It wasn’t until she rounded the corner into the living room that she froze.

There, sitting in the corner, overlooking the harbour…was a piano. 

But not just any piano. A baby grand. 

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t ornate.

It was warm, polished wood — beautiful and simple and steady, like everything Max touched.

The keys gleamed in the soft morning light, waiting.

Isabelle blinked hard, as if she might be dreaming.

There was no giant bow. No sign, no dramatic announcement. Just the piano, standing quietly, like it had always been meant to be there.

Like Max had known she would find it this way — in the quiet, when she was still soft and unguarded and half-wrapped in sleep.

She took a hesitant step forward, breath catching in her throat.

There was a small note propped against the music stand.

For you, Belle. Always for you. Love, Max.

Isabelle pressed a hand over her mouth, the tears coming hot and fast.

She crossed the room slowly, reverently, sinking down onto the bench. Her fingers hovered over the keys, shaking slightly.

It had been so long.

So long since she had allowed herself to want something without permission.

So long since something had been given to her without conditions, without expectation.

Just love.

Quiet, steady, unshakable love.

She pressed a key — soft, uncertain — and the note rang out, warm and clear, filling the apartment.

Behind her, she heard Max’s quiet footsteps.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a scene. He just wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder.

"You deserve to have something that’s just yours," he murmured against her hair. "You always have."

Isabelle closed her eyes, the tears slipping down her cheeks freely now.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice cracking.

Max tightened his hold around her, steady and safe.

"I know," he said softly. "I love you too."

And Isabelle, sitting there with Max’s arms around her, her hands resting on her very own piano, finally believed it:

This life — this home, this love — was hers.

Not because she earned it. Not because she proved anything.

But simply because she was her.

Max’s arms remained around her, his warmth seeping into her skin as he rested his chin lightly on her shoulder. The soft echo of the single note she had played still hung in the air, but now, Isabelle felt a pull inside her, a quiet yearning to play something more.

Something just for herself.

She didn’t know where the courage came from, but it settled in her chest, gentle and slow.

With a shaky breath, Isabelle’s fingers moved to the keys again, more assured this time. She played a few more notes, her fingers awkward but familiar, like the rhythm was coming back to her slowly, like a memory she’d forgotten she had.

The melody was simple — a soft, gentle tune she used to play when she was younger, when she could escape into music without thinking of anything else. It was the first song she had learned, back when she’d felt light, before everything had gotten complicated.

Max’s arms tightened slightly around her as she played, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t interrupt. He just watched her, his eyes soft, as though she was doing something precious — as though she was gifting him something sacred.

Isabelle’s fingers danced slowly over the keys, a little uneven but full of heart, a fragile kind of beauty to the imperfect notes. The song wasn’t perfect. It was quiet, tentative, but that was okay.

She didn’t need to be perfect. Not right now. Not with him.

***

The building wasn’t intimidating.

It wasn’t cold or sterile or echoing like she half-expected.

It was just a quiet house with a blue door and a neat little garden out front, where someone had hung tiny bells from the trees. They tinkled in the breeze — soft, low, like a heartbeat.

Still, Isabelle’s hands were sweating.

She almost didn’t go inside.

She could so easily just turn around, pretend she’d gotten the date wrong, pretend—

No.

She wrapped her arms around herself, closed her eyes for a second, then pushed the door open.

The waiting room smelled like lavender. There were cozy chairs. A stack of puzzles on a low table. A woman behind the desk smiled at her — not a fake, forced smile, but a real one, warm and inviting.

"Hi, Isabelle," she said gently. "You can head right in. Second door on the left."

Isabelle nodded, throat too tight to say anything, and walked down the hall on shaky legs.

The therapist — Simone — was sitting in a wide armchair, a notebook balanced on her knee, wearing jeans and a knitted sweater. She looked more like someone’s favorite aunt than a stranger you were supposed to spill your soul to.

Still, Isabelle’s pulse thudded painfully against her ribs as she sank into the couch across from her.

"Take your time," Simone said, smiling. "We’re not in a rush."

Isabelle twisted her fingers together in her lap.

"I don’t really know how to do this," she blurted out.

Simone chuckled softly, not unkindly. "Most people don’t at first. That’s okay. You’re already doing it, just by showing up."

Isabelle blinked rapidly, her throat burning.

 She hadn’t even done anything yet and she already felt like she might cry.

"Why are you here today?" Simone asked, her voice like a soft blanket.

Isabelle swallowed hard.

"Because..." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Because I keep giving and giving, and it’s never enough. Because I bend myself into pieces trying to be what everyone else needs, and it’s still not enough."

Simone nodded, patient.

"And how does that make you feel?"

Isabelle let out a brittle, broken laugh.

"Small," she whispered. "Invisible."

The words tasted like blood and freedom all at once.

Simone didn’t flinch. She didn’t rush to fix it. She just sat with it, with her.

For the first time in a long time, Isabelle didn’t feel like she was crazy or dramatic or ungrateful.

 She just felt... seen.

Over the next hour, she talked more than she thought she would. About Christmas. About her brothers. About the way she always tried to be good enough, even when she knew it would never matter.

She cried — ugly, gasping tears that embarrassed her — but Simone just handed her tissues and nodded, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And when it was over, when Simone said "We’ll figure this out together, at your pace," Isabelle didn’t feel magically fixed or healed.

But she did feel a little lighter.

Like maybe she had put down one tiny piece of the weight she’d been carrying alone for too long.

When she walked out into the late afternoon sunlight, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Max: Proud of you, schatje. Come home. I’m making tea.

Isabelle smiled, the first real, unforced smile she’d felt in days. Her chest still hurt. Her eyes were raw.

By the time she made it up the stairs to the apartment, her body felt heavy.

Not in the bad way, like it sometimes did after her family — no sharp shame slicing through her, no desperate scrambling to be more.

Just… tired.

 Like she had finally let herself breathe and her bones didn’t quite know what to do with it.

The door swung open before she could even fish her keys out.

Max stood there, barefoot in sweatpants and an old hoodie, his hair a mess, like he’d been pacing or half-listening for her steps all afternoon.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t ask how was it, didn’t push for answers she didn’t know how to give yet.

He just opened his arms.

Isabelle didn’t think. She went straight into them, dropping her bag by the door, burying herself in the safe, solid line of his chest.

Max hugged her like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.

He kissed the top of her head, slow and lingering, and murmured, "Tea’s ready."

She let him guide her gently inside, his hand warm and steady at the small of her back.

The living room was already set up — a big blanket draped across the couch, two steaming mugs on the coffee table, her favorite candle flickering in the corner. It was simple. Ordinary.

But somehow, it felt like the most extraordinary thing in the world.

Max handed her a mug and pulled her down onto the couch without letting go, tugging the blanket over both of them.

 He didn’t say anything else — didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t try to "fix" her.

He just sat there with her, thigh pressed to thigh, his fingers slowly tracing mindless patterns over the back of her hand.

Isabelle took a shaky sip of tea. Chamomile, of course.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to do anything to be loved.

She could just be.

Tired. Quiet. Raw.

Still loved.

Max pressed another kiss to her hair, then rested his cheek against the top of her head, like they had all the time in the world.

"You’re doing good, Belle," he murmured. "Really good."

A tear slipped free before she could catch it, landing hot against her cheek.

Not from sadness.

 Not from exhaustion.

From hope.

She curled closer into him, letting herself be small, letting herself be held — no strings, no expectations.

***

Date nights at home had become Max’s favorite thing.

There was something about the quiet — no cameras, no pressure, just Isabelle curled up in one of his hoodies, bare feet tucked under her on the couch, the cats sprawled everywhere — that made Max feel more at peace than anywhere else in the world.

Tonight, after dinner and a movie, they were sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by empty plates and a half-finished bottle of wine. Sassy was asleep on the back of the couch. Jimmy was passed out belly-up by the coffee table. Little Lilly was chasing a stray sock like it was her mortal enemy.

It was perfect.

Until Isabelle turned to him, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"I want to try your sim," she said, like it was the most reasonable idea in the world.

Max blinked at her. "You... what?"

"You learned to ride a horse for me," she pointed out, nudging his knee with her foot. "The least I can do is try racing."

He stared at her, torn between immediate amusement and something warmer — because God, he loved her mind, the way she thought everything should be balanced, even when it absolutely didn’t have to be.

"You really don’t have to," he said, laughing.

"I want to," Isabelle insisted, already getting to her feet. "I’ll probably be terrible. But it’s only fair."

Max pushed himself up, grinning. "Okay, schatje. But don’t say I didn’t warn you."

Setting her up in the sim was half the fun.

She was too small for the seat, so he adjusted everything — pedals, steering wheel height — while she sat there pretending to be very serious, like this was a championship-deciding race and not just a bit of fun at home.

When she finally settled in, gripping the wheel with comically stiff hands, Max had to bite his lip to stop from laughing.

"Relax," he said, reaching over to gently adjust her hands. "You’re not trying to strangle it."

"I’m focused," she said with faux dignity.

"Sure you are," Max chuckled, stepping back.

He queued up a simple track — Monza. Long straights, easy corners. Should be safe.

Famous last words.

The lights went green, and—

Isabelle immediately floored the throttle, spun the car in a perfect 360, and smashed straight into the pit wall.

Max burst out laughing so hard he had to lean against the sim rig.

Isabelle sat there, blinking at the crumpled virtual front wing, utterly unimpressed. "That was... fast."

"You crashed before you even crossed the start line," Max wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Technical victory," she deadpanned. "I established dominance early."

He laughed even harder, stepping in to restart the session.

The second attempt wasn’t much better. She fishtailed through the first corner, cut across the gravel, and sent a string of bright orange cones flying into the air like fireworks.

Max could barely breathe from laughing.

"You’re worse than a rookie in a rental kart!" he managed to choke out, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.

Isabelle rolled her eyes, adjusting her seat with far too much concentration. "I have zero control sensitivity. I’m delicate. I’m used to steering horses, not turbocharged lawnmowers."

"You’re not delicate," Max laughed. "You’re a menace."

She turned to look at him, arching a brow. "You learned to canter. I can figure this out."

"Eventually," Max said, still grinning like a complete idiot.

He watched her with endless fondness as she barreled down a straight and completely missed her braking point, flying into a gravel trap again.

And the crazy part was — he loved this. Loved her. Loved that she didn’t care about being bad. Loved that she laughed just as much when she failed as when she succeeded.

She wasn’t trying to impress him. She was just... being with him. Sharing something. Meeting him where he lived, the way he had met her on horseback.

He crossed the room and crouched beside the rig, grinning up at her.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "given your last name, I really thought you’d be better at this."

Isabelle stuck her tongue out at him and spun the car in another glorious, out-of-control loop.

"I contain multitudes," she declared, laughing.

Max laughed too, reaching up to pull her down into a kiss, his hand curling around the back of her neck.

"You’re perfect," he murmured against her mouth. "Even if you drive like an absolute disaster."

She kissed him back, smiling against his lips.

And honestly?

He wouldn’t have changed a thing.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/iracingwatchdog: uhhhh i just spotted max verstappen on a random iracing lobby and guys… GUYS. he’s driving like he’s never raced a car before 😭

@/iracingwatchdog:  he just spun out entering the pit lane. THE PIT LANE.

@/iracingwatchdog:  bro he’s oversteering like a maniac and braking about 10 years too late at every corner… i am concerned.

@/iracingwatchdog:  MAX JUST FULLY MISSED TURN 1 AT MONZA AND BARELY EVEN TRIED TO RECOVER

 what is happeninggggggg

@/iracingwatchdog: i swear to god this is either max trolling or he’s drunk there’s NO WAY this is real

@/raceweekpanic:  are we SURE it’s max?? because the way this person is cornering looks like they’ve literally never played before

@/simteaworld alternative theory: one of the cats is driving 🐾

@/wheel2wheeltrash:  nah imagine it’s his girlfriend or something trying it out for fun and none of us know 😭😭😭

@/SimRacingWorld: Can someone explain why Max Verstappen is driving in iRacing like he’s had 5 Red Bulls and no sleep??

@/f1teaaccount: ok so is max drunk, sick, or secretly letting a 5-year-old play because what am i WATCHING

@/verstappenupdates

HES SPINNING IN THE PIT LANE

I REPEAT

SPINNING

IN

THE

PIT

LANE

@/f1shenanigans:  someone check on max like actually… he's driving like he’s never seen a car before 😭

@/paddockinsider:  lowkey worried about max until i realized he’s probably messing around because he can

@mclarensupremacy

I’m starting a conspiracy theory that Sassy the cat is driving the sim rn and honestly it would explain a lot

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: (mock seriously) Max. We need to talk about yesterday.

Max:  (laughing) Oh no. What now?

Gianni Vecchio:  You know what. iRacing. Monza. Turn one. The pit lane. The gravel. Every single lap.

Chris Lulham:  Bro, you spun in the pit entry and then reversed into the tire wall!

Gianni: We were watching it like, “he’s trolling,” but then it just kept getting worse.

Chat: 

OMG HERE WE GO it was SO BAD max what happened max blink twice if you're ok were you racing blindfolded???

Max: (shaking his head, laughing) Okay, okay, listen… I wasn’t driving.

Chris:  WHAT???

Luke:  Excuse me??

Max:  It was my girlfriend.

Chat:

AHHHH LMFAOOOOOOO she drove like a GTA NPC 💀 MAX WTF who is she 👀👀👀👀👀

Gianni: YOU JUST LET HER ON YOUR SIM?? UNSUPERVISED???

Max: I was right there! I was… supervising.

Luke:  Max you call that supervision?? She took out a traffic cone on the straight.

Max: In her defense, she did say, “I don’t understand how people drive these turbocharged lawnmowers.”

Chris That’s a direct quote???

Max: Dead serious.

Chat:

crying turbocharged lawnmowers 😭 please marry her

Luke:  So what, this was like a date night?

Max:  Yeah. She said I learned to ride a horse for her, so she wanted to try racing. It was very… chaotic. But fun.

Gianni:  How long did she last?

Max: Like an hour. I lost count of how often she crashed. Then we gave up and had dessert. 

Chat:

real love 😭 i want what they have MAX YOU’RE WHIPPED tell her she’s welcome on track any time 😂 WHO IS SHEEEE

Luke:  Okay but seriously… is she available for endurance races?

Max: Only if you want the race to end in flames. And a very dramatic DNF.

Chat:

FIA: investigating 10 second penalty for Max for emotional damage LET HER DRIVE AGAIN

Gianni:  Okay but imagine she gets decent. We’re never hearing the end of it.

Max:  (smiling) She doesn’t have to be good.  She just wanted to try something that matters to me. That’s enough.

Chat:

😭😭😭 soft max is best max he’s IN LOVE i’m crying in sim rig

Gianni: Okay but next time we need a stream of this. For science.

Max: Absolutely not.

Chris:  Chat: you know what to do. We’re starting a petition.

***

Charles liked running in the early morning. It was one of the few times Monaco felt quiet, like the city hadn’t quite opened its eyes yet. The sea breeze was cool, the streets were still, and the only sound was the rhythmic slap of his sneakers against the pavement—and Arthur huffing beside him.

“Don’t start sprinting again,” Arthur muttered between breaths. “It’s not a race.”

“You’re just slow,” Charles shot back with a grin.

They rounded a bend near the marina, heading up toward the promenade, when Charles caught sight of a familiar figure running toward them.

He blinked. Squinted. Then blinked again.

“…Is that Isabelle?”

Arthur straightened, peering ahead, his expression one of surprise. “Huh. Yeah.”

Isabelle was wearing leggings, a pale blue top, hair tied up, earbuds in. She looked… like someone who ran regularly, which was completely confusing. Since when had she been a runner?

Charles slowed his pace, waving her down as she approached.

When she reached them, she pulled out one earbud, her pace naturally easing. “Bonjour.”

Charles frowned. “What are you doing?”

Isabelle looked at him, unimpressed. “Running.”

“No, I mean—since when do you go running?” he pressed, still confused.

She blinked at him like the question was absurd. “Since always? You don’t own the rights to early morning runs, Charles.”

Arthur, who had been quietly observing, now chimed in, still catching his breath. “You run…?”

“Yeah,” Isabelle said with a shrug, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. “I run. It’s good for you.”

Charles narrowed his eyes, skeptical. “You’ve never said anything about this before.”

Isabelle shrugged again, eyes darting between the two of them as if she was trying to decide how much of her life to explain. “You’ve never asked. I do Pilates too.”

Arthur blinked, still processing. “You do Pilates?”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “It’s good for my posture.”

“Since when?” Charles asked, sounding more bewildered with every word.

She gave him an unamused glance. “For a long time. I don’t broadcast everything about myself, Charles. Some things are private.”

Arthur was too stunned to respond, still panting. Charles stared at her as though he’d just discovered a completely different side of her he didn’t know existed.

“Where are you coming from?” Arthur asked, the question escaping before he could stop it.

Isabelle tilted her head, looking at them both like they were ridiculous. “Up near the gardens. Looped around twice.”

“Alone?” Charles asked, though there was a strange note in his voice — part concern, part disbelief.

Isabelle shot him a look that was sharper than he expected. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Before Charles could respond, another figure appeared from around the corner. Jogging steadily, sunglasses on, effortlessly matching Isabelle’s pace — it was Max Verstappen.

Charles’s jaw dropped as Max closed the distance between them, barely acknowledging either of them. Isabelle, as if the meeting of their gazes was the most normal thing in the world, smiled at him, still catching her breath.

“You dropped your pace on the last hill,” Max teased, grinning at her.

Isabelle rolled her eyes, clearly amused but playing it cool. “Only because you were chasing me.”

Max laughed, his tone warm and easy. “You were running like you were being hunted.”

Charles’s mind was racing. He turned to Arthur, then back to Max and Isabelle, his confusion deepening.

“Wait,” Charles said slowly, blinking, his words coming out slower than usual. “You… run together?”

Both Isabelle and Max spoke at the exact same time, their answers almost synchronized.

“No,” Isabelle said, a little too sharply.

“Not really,” Max added, shrugging with the same indifference.

Arthur blinked, staring at the two of them like he was waiting for the punchline to a joke he didn’t understand.

Charles’s frown deepened. He glanced at Arthur again, back to Max, and then to Isabelle. He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly lost for words. “Uh… okay.”

Isabelle had already popped her second earbud back into her ear, casually starting to jog away without waiting for a response. Max fell into step behind her, matching her pace without even looking back at Charles or Arthur.

“Monaco’s small,” Isabelle said casually, almost too casually, over her shoulder. “You’re bound to run into people.”

Max added, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Total coincidence.”

Charles and Arthur watched them jog off, completely baffled. The faint sound of their footsteps fading into the distance left a lingering silence between them.

Arthur blinked. “Did… did you know she runs?”

“No,” Charles replied, shaking his head, still not sure if this was real life. “I didn’t.”

Arthur paused, frowning deeply. “Did she just… blow us off?”

Charles was still staring down the promenade where Isabelle and Max had disappeared. “I think she just did.” ***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Lorenzo, you will NOT believe what happened this morning.

Arthur: seriously

Arthur:  prepare yourself

Lorenzo: what now 😭

Charles: we went for a run this morning

Charles:  like normal

Charles:  and we ran into ISABELLE

Arthur: RUNNING.

Charles: like properly Charles: workout gear Charles: earbuds Charles: focused

Lorenzo: ?? Lorenzo:  What do you mean, running? Lorenzo:  like… going somewhere or actual jogging??

Arthur: actual jogging Arthur:  with proper form and everything Arthur:  she even looped around the gardens twice

Lorenzo: SINCE WHEN DOES ISABELLE RUN???

Charles: EXACTLY we asked her and she just said “i’ve always liked it”

Arthur: she also said she does pilates Arthur:  FOR HER POSTURE

Lorenzo: pilates??????????

Charles: i don’t even know what’s happening anymore

Arthur: why do i feel like she has five other secret hobbies and we’re just going to find out by accident

***

The room was the same — the quiet lavender smell, the cozy armchairs, the soft hum of a heater in the corner.

But Isabelle felt different.

Still nervous. Still shaky sometimes.

But a little less like she was walking into battle without armor.

Simone smiled at her, that same calm, steady smile that made it easier to sit down, to breathe.

"Last time," Simone said, crossing one leg over the other, "we talked about how much of your energy goes into taking care of everyone else. Your family in particular."

Isabelle nodded stiffly, hands twisted in her lap. It still hurt, even just hearing it out loud.

Simone leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but sure.

"I think it’s time to give you a little homework."

Isabelle's stomach twisted. She hated getting things wrong. Hated disappointing anyone.

But Simone must have seen the panic flash across her face because she smiled again, reassuring.

"This isn’t about getting a gold star, Belle," she said. "This is about learning where your responsibility ends and theirs begins."

She slid a small notepad across the coffee table.

Written at the top in neat, careful handwriting was a simple title:

“What am I responsible for? What am I not responsible for?”

Isabelle stared at it.

"I want you to start separating what's yours and what's theirs," Simone explained. "When your brothers expect you to fix Christmas dinner, or smooth over a fight, or carry their happiness—whose job is that, really?"

Isabelle swallowed hard. It sounded so simple when Simone said it. But it felt impossible, tangled up inside her chest.

"I don't know how to say no," she admitted in a whisper. "It feels... selfish."

Simone’s expression softened even further.

"Setting boundaries isn’t selfish," she said. "It’s self-respect. It's saying, I love you, but I also love myself."

The lump rose thick in Isabelle’s throat.

"For next time," Simone continued, her voice like a balm, "I want you to practice two things. First, notice when you feel resentful — that’s usually a sign a boundary is being crossed. And second..." She smiled gently. "Practice saying no. Even if it's just small things."

Isabelle let out a shaky laugh.

"I don't even know how to say no."

"You'll learn," Simone promised. "And when you do, you’ll realize the world doesn’t end. The right people won’t leave. And the wrong ones? Maybe it's okay if they get uncomfortable."

Isabelle stared down at the notepad, the words blurring slightly.

What am I responsible for? What am I not responsible for?

It felt terrifying. It also felt a little bit like hope.

Maybe she didn’t have to spend the rest of her life bending herself into shapes that hurt just to keep everyone else comfortable.

Maybe she could love her family — and still choose herself.

Maybe she could belong to herself first.

When the session ended, Simone walked her to the door with another reassuring smile.

"I know it’s scary," she said. "But you’re doing something incredibly brave."

Isabelle nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs.

And as she stepped out into the crisp winter air, notebook clutched tightly in her hand, she whispered to herself, barely audible:

"I deserve to take up space."

By the time she got home, Isabelle’s head was buzzing.

Not in the good way — not like excitement or energy — but heavy and slow, like she’d been carrying a backpack full of bricks all day.

The notepad from therapy was stuffed into her bag, the words “What am I responsible for?” still flashing in her mind.

She didn’t want to mess this up.

She didn’t want to be a disappointment — not to Simone, not to Max, not to herself.

The apartment smelled like dinner. Something warm, maybe pasta, simmering on the stove. She could hear Max humming under his breath from the kitchen, the low, tuneless kind of hum he only did when he was completely relaxed.

It made her chest ache.

Part of her wanted to collapse into him. To let him pull her into his arms and make everything quiet again.

But another part — a new part, small and shaking but there — whispered:

You’re tired. You need space. It’s okay to need something.

Isabelle hovered by the door for a second, her heart hammering. She could picture it already — Max’s face falling if she said no, the guilt swamping her, the inevitable backpedaling—

Max isn’t them, she reminded herself. Max loves you.

Still, her throat was dry when she said, "Max?"

He appeared around the corner, wiping his hands on a towel, smiling wide.

"Hey, schatje! How was—"

"I’m really tired," Isabelle blurted out before she could lose her nerve. "I don’t... I don’t think I can talk about it tonight."

She twisted her hands together automatically, bracing herself.

For disappointment. For hurt. For the shift in the air that always came when she wasn't exactly what someone wanted her to be.

But it didn’t come.

Max blinked, then immediately softened.

"Okay," he said simply.

No anger. No guilt-tripping. No but I made dinner or but I want to hear about it.

Just okay.

He crossed the room and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, careful like he knew she might break.

"Go get comfy," he said. "I’ll bring you a plate later, if you’re hungry."

And then — impossibly — he just went back into the kitchen, humming again, like it really was that easy.

Isabelle stood frozen in the doorway, something hot and unfamiliar prickling at her eyes.

He didn’t leave. He didn’t get mad. He didn’t make her feel like she was selfish for needing space.

He stayed.

The right people won’t leave.

Simone’s words echoed in her mind.

She didn’t have to earn her place here. She already had it.

Isabelle slipped into the bedroom, pulling on one of Max’s old hoodies, and crawled under the blankets. The exhaustion hit her fast now, uncoiling from the inside out — the good kind, the safe kind.

Just as she was drifting off, she felt the edge of the mattress dip.

Max’s hand slid under the blanket, finding hers.

He didn’t say anything. He just laced their fingers together, warm and steady.

And Isabelle, for the first time in a long, long time, fell asleep without feeling like she owed anyone anything.

Just loved.

Exactly as she was.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Hey 💛 just checking in on you. How’s everything going?

Isabelle: Hi 🥹 I’m okay.  It’s been… a lot.

Emilie: How’s therapy?? are you still going?

Isabelle: Yeah.  I’ve had three sessions so far.  It’s weird but good? I cry basically every time though. 

Emilie: That’s not weird. That’s called “having emotions”,  which you’re allowed to have, by the way 🫶

Isabelle: It’s just strange… to have someone actually ask about me and listen.  Without making me feel like i’m being dramatic or selfish

Emilie: Because you’re NOT being dramatic or selfish.  You’re just finally being heard.  You deserve that, Belle, always have. 

Isabelle: 🥹 Stop,  you’re going to make me cry again…

Emilie: Cying is healing. 

Emilie: You got any homework yet?

Isabelle: Yes.  I have to practice “setting boundaries”... aka saying no without feeling like the earth will swallow me whole

Emilie: That sounds hard. But also?? You’re literally one of the strongest people I know.  You can do this. 

Isabelle: Thank you. Isabelle: Seriously,  I don’t know what i’d do without you

Emilie: Probably still be apologizing for existing 💀

Isabelle: rude but true

Emilie: rude but said with love 💛

Emilie: I’m so proud of you, Belle. Emilie:  like genuinely proud Emilie:  doing the work is hard and you’re doing it anyway… that’s HUGE

Isabelle: Thank you Isabelle:  it still feels messy most days but i don’t feel as stuck as i used to

Emilie: Good Emilie: because you’re meant to move and grow and thrive not stay trapped where they left you

Isabelle: i love you 🥹

Emilie: love you more 🫶 Emilie: also if you want to bail on family events ever again just say the word… I’ll stage a fake emergency for you anytime

Isabelle: emotional support getaway driver

Emilie: anytime. no questions asked 😌

***

He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

He’d gone to the grocery store because he was craving sour candy and he was bored — winter break was weird like that. Quiet. Too much time to think. Too much space to accidentally run into people you didn’t expect.

People like Max Verstappen.

Lando spotted him near the bakery section first.

 And he didn’t clock it immediately because Max was just... standing there.

Looking normal.

 Poking at a loaf of bread.

Holding a shopping list.

And not just any list — a handwritten one. 

 With little loopy letters.

With hearts over the i’s.

Lando froze.

No. No no no.

He hung back behind a display of discount panettone, peering around it like he was in a bloody spy movie.

Max was seriously grocery shopping. Like full-on, responsible adult grocery shopping.

Reusable bags. Price comparing brands of oat milk. Muttering something under his breath about "the blue cap one" being the one she liked.

She.

Lando’s stomach flipped.

He knew exactly who "she" was.

It was one thing to know Max and Isabelle were secretly together — a horrifying truth he and a select few others carried like a ticking time bomb.

It was another thing entirely to witness Max being... domestic.

He watched, slack-jawed, as Max tossed three different kinds of cat treats into the cart. Max. Verstappen. Choosing cat treats based on flavor preferences.

This was like spotting a lion delicately picking wildflowers.

Lando stared in horror as Max doubled back toward the dairy section, checking off items on his list with actual focus.

And — worse — smiling.

SMILING.

In the dairy aisle.

He ducked further behind the panettone display as Max approached, humming to himself under his breath — humming — like someone’s bloody husband.

Lando felt like he was watching a nature documentary. “Here, we observe the once-wild Max Verstappen in his natural habitat... the household aisle.”

He was still staring, frozen in existential terror, when Max looked up — and spotted him.

Their eyes met over a crate of oranges.

Lando gave a weak wave. Max raised an eyebrow like you good?

Slowly — calmly — Max pushed his cart toward him, totally unbothered.

"Forgot the sour candy, didn’t you?" Max said, smirking, like he could read his mind.

Lando nodded mutely, heart pounding.

Max tossed a bag of sour gummies into Lando’s basket — how the hell did he even know which ones Lando liked? — and said casually, "Don’t forget the fizzy ones. Belle likes those."

Belle.

 BELLE.

Lando was spiraling internally, but he managed to squeak out, "Thanks," like a semi-functioning human being.

Max just grinned, patted the side of Lando’s basket like he was proud of him, and went back to selecting oat milk.

Lando stood there for a solid minute after Max disappeared down the aisle, trying to remember how to breathe.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo and Carlos Sainz Jr.)

Lando: guys Lando:  GUYS

Oscar: what did you do

Lando: I just ran into max Lando:  grocery shopping Lando:  in MONACO

Daniel: ok? and?

Lando: NO. YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. Lando:  HE HAD A LISTLando:  AND TWO REUSABLE BAGS

Carlos: ...domesticated verstappen???

Lando: LIKE FULLY. Lando:  he was holding a shopping list with her handwriting Lando:  you know that girly loopy handwriting that screams “i color code my entire life” Lando:  he was comparing products Lando:  like price comparing

Daniel: I’m sorry is he...budgeting?? 😭😭😭

Lando: and he had cat treats Lando:  THREE kinds Lando:  one was fancy and he said “the little one likes the fish flavor” Lando:  I’M PRETTY SURE HE MEANT THE KITTEN

Carlos: I can’t.  I physically can’t.  this is too much

Daniel: so we’re just casually accepting that max verstappen is out here being someone’s wife

Oscar: someone = isabelle… and we’re all going to die when charles finds out

Lando: do you think he’ll find out via grocery store gossip or die of shock first

Carlos: I’m still convinced max will just forget and casually say “I’m going home to belle” in front of charles and then disappear from existence

Oscar: disappear as in “dragged into the sea by Charles”

Daniel: ok but like we’re not going to tell charles right??? we’re just...vibing in terrified silence?

Lando: OBVIOUSLY

Lando:  do I look like I have a death wish

Lando: the point is max was like smiling in the dairy aisle

Daniel: ew

Oscar: actually adorable

Carlos: horrifying

Lando: I swear he said “she likes the oat milk one with the blue cap” like it was a normal sentence Lando:  I swear to god max has memorized her milk preferences

Oscar: this is worse than I thought

Daniel: this is SOFT max.  we are witnessing rare footage. 

Carlos: and when charles finds out we’re all getting hunted for sport

Lando: I’m buying a burner phone and changing my identity

Oscar: do we have a code word for “charles found out and is currently loading a very expensive revenge plan”

Daniel: I vote for “we’re going to karting”

Lando: no he’ll definitely follow us to karting

Carlos: I hate how real this all feels

Oscar: I’m scared

Daniel: as you should be

***

The café was tucked into a quiet street just outside the old town, all warm wood and soft sunlight. Isabelle arrived ten minutes early, notebook in hand, nerves tucked just beneath her ribcage.

She had worn a skirt and a simple, soft blouse — elegant but understated. Not stiff. Not corporate. Something that felt like her.

Daniel was already there when she arrived, seated at a corner table, waving her over the second he spotted her. Beside him sat a man with silver-streaked hair and warm eyes, dressed in a well-worn linen shirt and tortoiseshell glasses.

“Isabelle,” Daniel said, standing to greet her. “So good to see you again.”

He kissed her cheek in the French way, smiling genuinely. “This is my husband, Jules. Jules, this is the one I’ve been raving about.”

Jules smiled as he shook her hand. “So you’re the woman who saved our villa from becoming an Ikea catalogue. I’ve heard stories.”

Isabelle laughed, surprised. “I didn’t do much.”

“Oh, he lies,” Daniel said smoothly, sitting again. “You did everything.”

They chatted for a few minutes — light, easy — over coffee. Then Daniel pulled a slim leather portfolio from his bag and slid it across the table.

“The property,” he said. “We closed two weeks ago. It’s not a huge place, but it’s old, and charming, and in desperate need of someone with taste.”

Jules leaned in. “We want to keep the bones. No gutting. No flattening history just to make it sleek. We want to live in it — with it — not bulldoze it into something else.”

Isabelle flipped through the photos: stone floors worn smooth with time, shuttered windows, exposed beams, a crumbling courtyard begging for sunlight and life.

It was beautiful.

Quietly, undeniably beautiful.

She looked up. “This is lovely.”

“Exactly why we thought of you,” Daniel said, eyes lighting up. “You understood our last place before we even did. You made it feel like it had always been that way. And we’re hoping… you might do the same here.”

Isabelle hesitated, just for a beat.

Not because she didn’t want it.

But because, for the first time, it would be her name on the contract. Not Atelier Renard. Not a faceless firm. Just Isabelle Leclerc.

She drew a slow breath. “I’d love to take it on.”

Jules smiled like they’d just won the lottery. “Fantastic.”

“We’d like to do this properly,” Daniel added. “You send over your contract, your terms, your timeline. Whatever you need. No middlemen.”

No middlemen.

It echoed in her chest like a bell.

They wanted her.

Isabelle smiled, a real smile, warm and sure.

“I’ll have everything to you by Monday,” she said. “Thank you, both, for trusting me.”

Daniel raised his cup of coffee. “To new beginnings.”

Jules clinked his gently against hers.

And Isabelle sat there in the sunlit café, feeling something settle in her chest — not nerves, not dread, but something else.

Belonging.

Not borrowed. Not background. Not earned through endless overwork.

Just hers.

***

The kitchen smelled like coffee and something sweet — Max had left pastries out for them before heading off to the simulator for the afternoon.

 Jimmy was asleep in the sunbeam by the window, Sassy perched on the back of the couch supervising the room like a queen, and Lilly, the kitten, was zooming around chasing a toy.

And for the first time in a long time, Isabelle didn’t feel... trapped.

She felt nervous.

 Excited.

 Hopeful.

Emilie sat at the table across from her, tapping a pen against the notepad between them.

"Okay," Emilie said, dramatic, "your empire needs a name."

Isabelle laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks. "I wouldn’t call it an empire."

"Yet," Emilie corrected, grinning. "But give it a few years."

Isabelle shook her head fondly. "It's just a small thing. One single freelance project."

"One single amazing freelance project," Emilie said pointedly. "You deserve to put your name on it. Make it real. Make it yours."

Isabelle hesitated, tapping her fingers against her coffee cup.

She hadn't really thought that far ahead. It had been enough just to start — just to admit she didn’t want to do what everyone else expected anymore.

Now it was real.

"So," Emilie continued, flipping the notepad to a fresh page. "What do we want it to sound like? Fancy? Minimalist? French? English?"

Isabelle thought for a long moment.

"Simple," she said finally. "Something clean. Not... showy. Just... mine."

Emilie nodded. "Got it. Let's brainstorm."

They went through a dozen terrible ideas first — most of them jokes.

"Isabelle Designs" ("Sounds like a Disney princess is doing your kitchen.") "Leclerc Interiors" ("Too many racing people will show up expecting a trophy room.") "Isabelle’s Spaces" ("Cute, but also sounds like a daycare.")

They laughed through all of them, Isabelle feeling her chest loosen a little more with every bad suggestion.

After a while, Isabelle leaned back in her chair, tapping her pen against the pad.

"I kind of like the idea of using just a letter," she said slowly. "Something small. Private. Like... a little piece of me, but not all of me."

Emilie lit up.

"Okay. Like... 'Studio something'? Studio I?"

Isabelle wrinkled her nose. "Studio I sounds like a bad iPhone prototype."

Emilie snorted into her coffee.

"What about B?" Isabelle said quietly after a second. "For Blanche. For... for the parts of me I don’t want to lose anymore."

She expected Emilie to tease her, to say it was too sentimental.

But Emilie’s face softened instantly.

"Studio B," she said aloud, like she was tasting the words. "Simple. Clean. Yours."

Belle smiled — small, but real. Warmth bloomed in her chest.

Studio B.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud. It was hers.

"Studio B," she repeated, like she was daring herself to believe in it.

Emilie reached across the table, squeezing her hand.

"I love it," she said. "It’s perfect. Just like you."

Belle squeezed back, feeling a tear slip down her cheek before she could stop it — but it wasn’t a sad tear. It was something else. Something brighter.

This was hers. Finally, truly hers.

And she wasn’t going to let anyone take it away.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: Hey. Max:  can you keep a secret?

Emilie: absolutely not. Emilie:  but i’m listening. 👀

Max: I want to get Belle an engagement ring.

Emilie: MAX. EMILIAN. VERSTAPPEN. Emilie: IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME

Max: Is that my full government name?

Emilie: It is when i’m screaming at you with love and excitement

Emilie:  also—finally???

Max: Can you help me?

Emilie: Yes. Obviously. Emilie:  Give me five seconds.

Max: Wait, what do you mean five seconds?

Emilie: [link] Emilie:  this is a google doc i made six months ago: “Operation: Ring for Belle 💍🧁🐎”

Max: six MONTHS???

Emilie: You think i didn’t plan for this??? Emilie:  Max, i’ve been emotionally preparing since June 2023

Max: …there are chapters

Emilie: Yes. Emilie: Chapter 1: styles she likes Chapter 2: what not to do (i.e. no silver, no dainty bands, and for the love of god nothing with hearts) Chapter 3: yellow gold & emeralds — because she literally cried once over a vintage emerald ring on instagram Chapter 4: sizing info — she’s a 50. Tab 5: sentimental inscriptions ideas (don’t look unless you want to sob)

Max: I’m scared and grateful

Emilie: As you should be Emilie: I take best-friend duties very seriously

Max: I want it to be right. Max:  She deserves the right one.

Emilie: You’re already the right one, Max. Emilie: The ring’s just the bow on top.

Max: Thank you. Really.

Emilie: Anytime. Now go look at chapter 6. It’s where i’ve shortlisted ethical jewelers with custom design options. And yes, i’ve already contacted three of them for quotes.

Max: You terrify me. 

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Hey. Quick question. 

GP: usually not what you lead with when it’s actually a quick question

Max: Do you know anything about engagement rings?

GP: … what

Max: like buying one?

GP: Max

Max: yeah?

GP: are you asking me for engagement ring advice

Max: Yes. 

GP: So you’re really doing it?

Max: Yeah. I’m gonna ask her. 

GP: wow

Max: Is that a bad wow or a good wow?

GP: It’s a holy shit the kid grew up wow. 

GP:  and also a little bit of i’m emotionally unprepared for this wow

Max: you and me both

GP: Do you have any idea what kind of ring she’d want?

Max: Belle’s best friend gave me a Google Doc

Max: yellow gold emerald no silver no hearts nothing dainty she has opinions

Max: so like is there anything else I need to know? like when you bought your wife’s ring did you do something special? or is there a secret protocol I don’t know about

GP: Okay first of all GP:  No one gives you a ring briefing before this GP:  You’re just supposed to panic and hope you survive

Max: Fantastic

GP: secondly GP:  Buy something that feels like her,  not something that looks like everyone else’s. 

Max: That’s helpful actually. 

GP: Also make sure the setting won’t catch on her sweater sleeves or a horse’s reins or a cat collar or anything chaotic in her life

GP: You’re gonna be fine, Max. She’ll say yes.  Belle loves you like mad. 

Max: I love her like mad too

GP: I know GP: You’ve got this, champ. 

Max: Thank you. 

GP: Good luck GP:  And send me a picture of the ring… for purely professional telemetry reasons

Max: Thanks, GP. You’re the best. 

***

It started innocently enough.

Max had been the one to mention it, offhand, while they were having coffee one morning. "Oscar’s moved into Monaco properly now. He’s hopeless though. Doesn’t know where anything is."

Belle had laughed, imagining Oscar wandering the winding streets, politely stubborn, somehow getting even more lost.

But then, a few days later, she actually ran into him — standing outside a bakery near La Condamine, looking deeply confused and holding his phone at arm’s length like it had personally betrayed him.

She hesitated.

Watched him look like a lost little duckling. 

 Then sighed.

 And crossed the street.

"Oscar?" she called gently.

He turned, immediate relief washing over his face. "Oh, hi! Uh—yeah. I’m… a bit lost."

Belle smiled, amused. "Where are you trying to go?"

"This coffeshop Lando mentioned. It’s like…orange?" he said sheepishly, questioningly. "Or at least I was. Now I’m not sure."

"You're two neighborhoods off," she said kindly. "Come on. I’ll walk you."

And somehow... that turned into the whole day.

Oscar was, as it turned out, endearingly awkward when he wasn’t behind the wheel of a car.

Polite. Curious.

Asking a thousand questions about bakeries, markets, hidden cafes, and which parts of town weren’t secretly tourist traps.

Isabelle didn’t mind.

 In fact, she kind of… liked it.

She pointed out her favorite patisserie tucked between two apartment buildings — "best croissants in the city, no competition" — and the tiny flower shop where she bought fresh eucalyptus when she needed to clear her head.

 She showed him the quieter marina, the one tourists didn’t know about, where the locals walked their dogs early in the mornings.

 The secret bookstore hidden in an alley, where the owner always kept a stack of English novels in the back.

Oscar listened to all of it, nodding like he was mentally cataloguing every detail.

At some point, without either of them noticing, she started giving him advice.

"You need to learn the local market schedules. The Thursday one near Place d’Armes is the best for produce."

"Don’t bother driving on Grand Prix weekend. Just walk. It's faster and less stressful.”

 "If you get lost, find the cathedral. It’s the easiest landmark to navigate from."

Oscar listened intently, nodding along, asking the occasional polite question.

At one point, standing on a sun-warmed stone stairway overlooking the harbor, he turned to her and said, almost out of nowhere, "I didn’t think I’d feel so out of place here."

Belle softened instantly.

"It’s normal," she said. "Everyone pretends Monaco’s easy. It’s not. It’s beautiful, but it can be... lonely too."

Oscar nodded, like that made more sense than anything he’d heard so far.

By the time they looped back near his building, Belle realized she had somehow collected Oscar like an extra pet — somewhere between Jimmy the cat and the tiny Bengal kitten they’d adopted weeks ago.

She didn’t mind.

 Oscar was quiet, easy company.

And he had the kind of polite stubbornness that reminded her a little too much of herself at his age.

"You have a lot of notes," she teased, glancing at his phone.

"Survival guide," he said seriously. "Belle's Rules for Monaco."

She laughed. "Rule number one: Don't try to drive through the old town during tourist season."

He nodded solemnly. "Rule two: Always bribe the bakery lady with compliments."

"And rule three," Belle said, pretending to be serious, "If you get lost, just call me."

“This was really nice. Thanks, Belle.”

She blinked. “It’s no problem.”

“No, really.” He smiled, shy and genuine. “You didn’t have to do this. You’re, like, busy and important.”

Isabelle laughed softly. “I’m not that important.”

Oscar shrugged. “This helps. It makes it feel a little more like... home.”

Something warm settled in Isabelle’s chest.

“Good,” she said quietly. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

He smiled at her — wide and open and completely unguarded — and Isabelle decided, then and there, that she would keep an eye on him.

Not because he needed it.

 But because everyone deserved someone who noticed when they needed a map, or a croissant, or just a quiet corner of the world to feel like they belonged.

Especially someone like Oscar.

***

Max found Belle curled up on the couch when he got home, one leg tucked underneath her, her laptop balanced precariously on the armrest, a cup of tea cooling beside her.

Jimmy and Lilly were tangled up at her feet, Sassy perched regally on the back of the couch like a disapproving queen. It was, Max thought, his favorite kind of scene: quiet, domestic, theirs.

He toed off his shoes, dropped his bag by the door, and made his way over to her.

"Long day?" he asked, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of her head.

Belle hummed in response, a soft smile tugging at her mouth. "Not bad. Eventful."

Max raised an eyebrow and flopped down beside her, draping his arm lazily across the back of the couch. "Eventful how?"

She closed her laptop with a click, setting it aside, and turned to face him fully.

"I ran into Oscar today," she said. "Outside La Condamine."

Max snorted. "Lost, was he?"

Belle smiled, fond and a little exasperated. "Completely. Poor guy looked like he was one wrong turn away from accidentally ending up in Nice."

Max laughed, low and warm, tugging her a little closer against his side.

"And let me guess," he said, grinning. "You adopted him."

Belle blinked innocently. "I just helped him find his way."

"You gave him the tour, didn’t you?"

"Maybe," she admitted, nudging him playfully with her shoulder. "Showed him where to get good coffee. The decent bakery. The secret bookstore."

Max shook his head, amused. "You gave him the locals only map. Schatje, you realize he’s yours now, right? He’s going to follow you around like a duckling."

Belle rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed. "He needed help."

Max watched her quietly for a moment — the way her hands moved absently, soothing Lilly as the kitten climbed onto her lap, the way she tilted her head like she was already mentally planning the next dozen things she could do to make Oscar's life easier without even thinking about it.

And something in his chest twisted.

Because he saw it then — saw the way Belle stepped into the spaces other people left empty. How she mothered, and guided, and steadied, without expecting anything in return.

She should have been someone’s safe harbor years ago. Should have been celebrated for it. Cherished for it.

Instead, her brothers — the ones who should have known — had treated her like she was invisible. Like she was just there, background noise to their louder, shinier lives.

Max’s fingers tightened slightly around her hand without meaning to.

Belle looked up, sensing the shift immediately. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, kissing her knuckles lightly. "Just thinking."

"That’s dangerous," she teased, eyes sparkling.

Max chuckled, but the weight stayed in his chest.

"You’re good at it," he said after a beat. "Being a big sister."

Belle blinked, startled.

He smiled, soft and real. "Oscar’s lucky you found him."

Her cheeks flushed a little, and she ducked her head like she didn’t know what to do with the compliment.

Max tugged her closer, until she was tucked under his arm properly, her head resting against his shoulder.

"You deserved better, you know," he said quietly, threading his fingers through hers. "From them."

Belle didn’t say anything — didn’t have to.

He could feel it in the way she leaned into him, the way her grip tightened just slightly, like she was holding onto the words she couldn’t quite say out loud.

Max kissed the top of her head again, lingering there.

She wasn’t invisible here. Not with him. Not anymore.

And if she wanted to collect stray drivers and teach them how to survive Monaco, Max would let her.

Across town, Oscar was probably still saving her emergency contacts into his phone, none the wiser that he'd just been unofficially adopted by Monaco's fiercest secret weapon.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo and Carlos Sainz Jr.)

Oscar: Guys. I think I accidentally got adopted by Belle today.

Oscar:  It’s weird though? like she just helped me all day today?? Showed me around,  got me coffee,  told me which parts of monaco not to die in… like it was NOTHING

Carlos: Because that's just Isabelle.

Oscar: She’s SO NICE… like ridiculously nice

Carlos: Yep. Carlos:  she’s the best of them

Oscar: and her brothers just forget she exists half the time????

Lando: it makes me SO MAD

Daniel: it’s so fucked up honestly Daniel:  like how do you have someone like belle in your family and not treat her like a national treasure???

Oscar: They don't deserve her

Lando: They really don’t Lando:  sometimes i think about it and it makes me actually want to fight them***

MASTERLIST

! LN4

[ LANDO NORRIS ] — lando fingering you

[ BRAND AMBASSADOR ] — Sure, it had been a fun little joke, “Pay me in a LaFerrari or I’m not doing this shoot," but you never expected Lando to actually follow through.

series :

LIONHEART

[ 1 ] — He blinked, his aquamarine eyes wide with disbelief, before breaking into a grin so wide it could’ve lit up the whole room. “I’m going to be a dad?”

[ 2 ] — It had to be some kind of cosmic joke, you thought to yourself, the more you watched your son grow up. Nine months of carrying him, swollen feet, back pain, cravings, and sleepless nights, only for him to come out as an exact replica of his father.

[ 3 ] — “Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!” he shouted in his sweetest little voice, his face lighting up with pride as he approached the bed. He climbed up, his movements a bit clumsy as he tried to balance the flowers.

! CS55

[ ARMS ] — you wake up with your boyfriend's arm around your head

[ EAT ] — carlos eats you out

[ TEENAGE DIRTBAG ] — carlos' gf likes his old nose ring a little too much

[ DON'T BE A STRANGER ] — charles' younger sister accidentally stumbles inside the changing room of sainz, ferrari’s masked driver.

[ BUTCHERED TONGUE ] — carlos is going to teach you spanish whether you like it or not

[ WRITTEN IN THE SAND ] — He was too old for this. For you. For the way you looked at him like he wasn’t already years past the reckless abandon that seemed to define everyone else in this house. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your laughter sounded like sunlight, or how your smile seemed to tug at something deep in his chest.

series :

ILLICIT AFFAIRS

[ 1 ] — “Bossy, isn’t he?” The voice is smooth, warm, and laced with amusement. You glance to your left and—of course—it’s Carlos Sainz. You freeze, your brother’s voice echoing in your head like a siren: Run. RUN.

[ 2 ] — You tap on his profile again, almost like you’re double-checking to make sure this isn’t some kind of glitch. But no. Apparently, it’s real. You thought it was just a one-night stand. Maybe it still is. But who the hell follows their one-night stand’s Instagram?

[ 3 ] — You shouldn’t have said anything. You really shouldn’t have. But it’s too late now. “He sent me a dildo shaped like his cock,” you mutter under your breath, so fast you almost hope she didn’t hear you.

[ 4 ] — coming soon…

! MV33

[ honey, you're familiar ] — For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

series :

GRIEF ASIDE

[ 1 ] — You fancied your fiancé, you realized with horror. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

[ 2 ] — coming soon…

m & s | sebastian vettel

like my dirty diana jenson fic, the reader will have a name and last name and faceclaim, but you are more than welcome to use any other faceclaim!! or name if you want <3 this is just for fanfic purposes :) part 2 coming soon <3

fcaeclaim elizabeth olsen

2018

MESSAGES

s

hi, i heard you’re taking a break. just wanted to let you know that our house in monaco is still available if you want to stay there.

m

oh, you never sold it?

s

selling it didn’t feel right. you still have your key?

m

yes. i’ll think about it. i might stay here in LA though

S

oh. sounds fine too. i figured you would want to get out of america, but where ever you feel comfortable :) you deserve to take a break

m

thank you, sebastian. so do you..

s

eventually