Natalia

Charles Leclerc

Breathless

My Boyfriend’s Not in the Mafia

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Daniel Ricciardo

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Lando Norris

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Max Verstappen

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Mick Schumacher

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Pierre Gasly

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Sebastian Vettel

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Toto Wolff

Today he pulled you away from a conversation with some young engineers to hand you a cappuccino and some biscotti from Ferrari hospitality, “the usual for mon amour.”

“Thank you, my darling.” You lean up to press a gentle kiss to his lips and pull away laughing as your stomach growls, “perfect timing.”

You take a bite of a biscotto, “this tastes different. Did they change the flavor?”

“They had it noted as the same lemon biscotti I always get you so I don’t think so.”

But as you continued to chew, you knew something was wrong. Your throat felt tight and tongue felt swollen. Blood rushed in your ears as the garage around you turned blurry.

Charles knew the signs, “love? What’s wrong?”

You tried to say something but your airway had quickly become too constricted to speak so you desperately gestured at your throat as you continued taking small, wheezing breaths.

He rushed to sit you in the closest chair he could find and begged whatever staff was nearby to keep an eye on you, “I have epinephrine in my driver’s room. I’ll be right back, I promise. Just stay calm. And someone please call the medic.”

He must have ran there and back because he returned not even two minutes later with the familiar auto-injector and knelt in front of you before lifting your dress and jabbing the needle into your thigh with practiced motions.

The effect was almost instant as you finally gulped in much needed air.

Charles took both of your hands in his and squeezed. It felt like a lifeline — for both you and him — as you were reminded just how rapid and dangerous allergic reactions could be.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve checked to make sure they didn’t change the recipe. It’s all my fault. If I wasn’t so complacent-”

You stopped him, your voice hoarse. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. These things happen especially when food isn’t prepackaged. What matters is that you had epinephrine and knew what to do. You saved me, Charles.”

“I’ve kept some in my driver’s room since you first started coming to races. Just in case. I wish I didn’t have to use it because of something I gave you,” he looked up at you, eyes earnest.

In that moment, you sent a little prayer of thanks to the universe at large for giving you this incredible man.

A knock on the door to his driver’s room started Max. It was race day and it was rare for him to be bothered when he was preparing on his own. A home race meant that everything was heightened. The adrenaline thrummed deeper. The cheers were louder. The Orange Army was nearly blinding in the stands.

“Max,” the familiar voice of his team principal filtered through the door after another knock, “I have someone who would like to meet you.”

“Can’t we do this later, Christian? I know you know my routine by now.”

“Just open the door. I think you’ll be happy to change up your routine this once.”

Max heaved himself off of the small couch and went to send the Brit and whatever guest he brought along away so he could continue to focus on the race in peace.

He opened the door, prepared to shut it in a second, but stopped short when he saw who was standing next to Christian. The guest in question was wearing an elegant summer dress in a bright shade of orange sure to be similarly reflected upon thousands of Dutch fans around the track.

She was also the subject of his long running teenage crush. A crush he thought he had gotten over until he was staring open-mouthed at her right in front of him.

“Hallo,” she takes the initiative to greet Max considering he was still making somewhat of a fool of himself in front of her, “it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Max bends into a hasty bow, unsure of the protocols for meeting someone he had only ever seen on the news and the pages of magazines, “Your Royal Highness, I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m the one intruding on your preparations,” she waves his apology off. “I just wanted to stop by and wish you luck before the race. It is my first time attending a Grand Prix in-person but my family and I have been fans for a long time and started following your career when news of an incredibly promising young driver racing under the Dutch flag first made its rounds.”

“I-thank you, Your Highness. I am honored.”

“Well, I will leave you to continue getting ready. Mr. Horner promised me a tour of the garage. Good luck again, you do your country proud.”

Max remained frozen in the doorway, watching the heir apparent walk away with the Red Bull team principal, bodyguards seemingly materializing from the walls to surround her as they made their way into a public area of the F1 Holzhaus.

Max managed to get you out of his head once the race began. The second he got into the car, nothing else mattered. Everything beyond the track ceased to exist as he pushed the car to its limit and passed the chequered flag for yet another home win.

But when it came time for the podium ceremony, there you were front and center, ready to present trophies to the three drivers. Max swore he could feel a spark travel up his arm as your fingers brushed his while handing him the trophy. “Well done! Tonight we celebrate.”

Turns out the celebration was a far cry from the ones he was used to. Instead of a club, Red Bull team members were invited to join you at a nearby royal residence for dinner and drinks. Max listened to you explain why from his seat next to you at the long dining table as you waited for the first course to be served, pleasantly warm from champagne already, “I used to love going out. Tried to have a typical university experience, you know? But I was almost kidnapped last year and despite security stepping in on time I have been forbidden from doing so again. Too much risk.”

And there it was. The reminder of just how different your lives wore despite both being Dutch public figures. One day Max will retire and can live a relatively normal life if he so chooses while you will ascend to the throne and lead a kingdom.

He didn’t exactly pity you — royalty was royalty at the end of the day — but he did sympathize with the constraints that it placed on you and how you lived your life.

Max clears his throat, “I’m not exactly sure how this whole thing works but I would love to take you out.”

He waits for a response and nervously cards his fingers through his hair when he doesn’t get one, “only if you want, of course, Your Highness. I have a sailing boat on the coast not too far from here. It’s not a yacht, though you are welcome to join me on that too if you are ever in Monaco, but I promise that it is peaceful and private. I just thought you would like to get away from all this,” he gestures around the room of mingling Red Bull staff and dignitaries, “for a little.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hhmm?”

You ask again, “are you sure?”

“Sure about what? That I would like to take you on a date? Quite sure.”

“Any privacy we have won’t last long.”

“I know.”

“The press can be brutal.”

“So I’ve learned. I don’t particularly care.”

“There are rules …”

“I will learn them.”

“Okay,” you finally allow a shy smile.

“Okay?”

“Yes, Max. I would love to go on a date with you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But if we are to date you have to call me Y/N.”

“Gladly … Y/N,” he tests out how your name feels on his lips for the first time.

“Oh and you will have to meet my parents.”

That gives him pause. “Your parents?”

“Yes.”

“As in the King and Queen.”

“Yes.”

“I have to meet the King and Queen?”

“It’s all still a bit old fashioned, I’m afraid. We will need their approval.”

You’re quick to reassure him when you see how quickly the color drains from his face, “my father is a big Ferrari fan but he has a soft spot for you. You need not worry.”

“Your father is the King.”

“Yes.”

“My King.”

“Yes. And he’s my father. You’ll have to get used to it if you see us going anywhere.”

“Right. Of course …” A few seconds pass. “But he’s the King.”

But up until now you managed to avoid spending the night when you were on your period. Charles was either racing abroad or work kept you away. You had no such excuses now. It was the off-season, you had a week off from work, and the only thing you had with you was a pad that has probably been at the bottom of your purse since you first moved to Monaco.

You’re a big girl. You hype yourself up. Just say it. There shouldn’t be a stigma around periods anyway.

“Love?”

“Mmh.” You’re halfway through watching the newest season of Survivor and Charles is lightly dozing under you.

“Can you go to the pharmacy for me quickly?”

He startles awake, almost bumping his forehead against yours, “what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. But I just started my period and I realized that I didn’t bring anything with me for it.”

“You scared me, amore. And that won’t be necessary. Check under the bathroom sink, in the cabinet. I stocked up on the products I saw in your apartment when you first started coming over.”

You swear your heart melts a little right there and then.

“Thank you, love. Seriously. It means a lot that you thought of me like that.”

“Anything for you, amore.”

Later that night, spooning with Charles who is acting as your own personal anti-cramp heater, you feel a trickle of wetness escape your underwear.

Oh no. Oh no.

You slide out from under Charles’ arm and force yourself out from under the warm duvet. You feel for your cell phone on the nightstand and turn on the flashlight, angling it so as not to disturb your boyfriend. Sure enough, you see a bright red splotch on the white cotton sheet.

You rush to the en suite, digging through the medicine cabinet for some hydrogen peroxide and pouring it on a wet towel. You tip toe back into the bedroom, trying your best to dab at the blood without waking Charles up. It doesn’t work.

“Amore? Why are you up?”

You look up at Charles’ sleepy face, barely making out his features, and realize that your hands are shaking so bad that the flashlight is no longer directed at the bed. You anxiously start to ramble, “I’m sorry. I bled through. I’m just trying to clean it. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Stop it, amore. Take a breath. It’s just a sheet. Why don’t you go clean yourself up and I’ll put on a new one? It’s really no big deal.”

“Really?” You sniffle.

“I promise. Your comfort matters a hundred times more than a sheet which will take me less than a minute to replace.”

“Thank you, my love.” You cross the room to press your lips to his, “how did I get so lucky?”

You kept the account going long after restrictions eased and hopped on many of the trends that made their rounds on the app. This year, you were feeling slightly evil. You have been putting together a compilation of hilarious (if you did say so yourself) pranks that you pulled on your boyfriend since the season began and were just about to hit upload as the countdown began.

You put down your phone and turn to give Daniel your full attention.

Ten

Nine

Eight

Seven

Six

Five

Four

Three

Two

One

His lips taste like champagne.

Happy New Year!

“Hey Dan?”

“Mmh.”

“Maybe stay off TikTok for a bit.”

“What did you do?”

One

You loved the Australian Grand Prix. Your boyfriend’s home race was a spectacle on the track and a great opportunity to spend time with his family off the track.

As usual, you flew out to Perth a bit early before switching coasts for the race. You were busy in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner as you prepared to host everyone that evening. When everything was mostly done, you started recording on your phone and leaned it against the wall inconspicuously before calling for your boyfriend.

“Hey, babe?” You pour a heaping pile of salt on a spoon.

“Yeah?” You can hear Daniel from across the house.

“Can you come taste my sauce?” You dunk the spoon in a pot of your tomato sauce and pick up just enough to hide the salt.

He basically runs to the kitchen, “test taster reporting for duty.”

You bring the spoon to his mouth, “I used your nonna’s recipe.”

His eyes screw shut and his mouth puckers, “my-my nonna’s recipe?”

“Your mom shared it with me. Isn’t it delicious?”

“Yeah,” his voice cracks. “Delicious.”

You look at his face again and fight a losing battle not to laugh as he desperately tries not to offend you and his grandma.

You reach towards your phone as giggles escape you.

Daniel finally realizes he’s been tricked, “are you serious?”

You point the camera towards your boyfriend, “you should’ve seen your face.”

“You’re so mean to me,” he pouts.

Two

“Babe?” You questioned coming through the front door. You had spent the day loading up on groceries and stopping by a few boutiques that caught your eye. This was the perfect opportunity to finally pull one over on your boyfriend.

“I’m in here,” you drop your bags in the foyer and follow Daniel’s voice to where he’s lying on the living room sectional.

Your phone is stuck in your bra, the camera just peaking over your shirt. “My car told me I needed windshield wiper fluid while I was out.”

He lowers his phone but keeps his focus on it.

“So I pulled into a gas station and the guy working there gave me a really good deal. He told me I got it for 50 percent off and it was only $150 for me because of how sweet I was.”

Daniel’s head snaps up as he drops his phone.

“$150?”

“Yeah.”

“You paid $150?”

“Yeah …”

“For windshield wiper fluid?”

“Yeah? He told me it was a good deal!”

“Love,” you can’t tell if he wants to laugh or cry, “I could’ve done that for free. He ripped you off.”

“But it was 50 percent off?”

“It costs less than $5 to buy and then you just pour it in!” He gestures wildly, “this is my fault. How do I race for a living and literally collect cars without teaching my girlfriend how to change her own windshield wiper fluid?”

By this point you’re silently laughing which Daniel finally notices.

“Really? Really?” He turns around to face the back of the couch, “don’t talk to me.”

“Awww, baby. Don’t be mad at me,” you coo. “I think it’s cute how protective you got.”

“Still mad at you.” It’s hard to take him seriously with his face shoved into the leather couch, muffling his voice.

Three

You walk into the gym, your phone hidden in the pocket of your leggings, and take in the view of you shirtless boyfriend.

The fans will appreciate this one.

“Dan?”

He pauses his juggling on the stationary bike.

“My back’s really been bothering since I came back from my run. Do you think you can help me stretch it or something?”

He gets off the bike and walks toward you, “do you want me to call Michael? He won’t mind coming over to help with your back.”

“Don’t bother him. It’s nothing major,” you turn away from your boyfriend and quickly stick two pieces of pasta between your molars while he can’t see, “just need to loosen it up a bit.”

“Okay …” he spreads his palms across your back and applies some careful pressure. You bite down on the pasta, timing the crack with his movements.

“Oh my god.” You let your body go limp.

“Love? Are you okay?” He tries to hold you up but you collapse on the padded floor of the gym.

“Is it your back? What did I do? I knew we should’ve just called Michael. Oh my god.”

You take pity on your boyfriend, not wanting him to think that he actually broke your back for longer than a few seconds, “it was just pasta.”

“What?”

“The sound. It was just me biting pasta. It’s a prank trend.”

He lets go of your body and you fully drop to the floor.

“Are.” He pelts you with one of the balls he was juggling.

“You.” And another.

“Kidding.” And another.

“Me?” And another.

You run out of the gym laughing as he continues to chase you through the house, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Who are you and what did you do with Pierre?”

“I’m still me, Charles.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Up until a few months ago you would’ve never turned down someone as ehm well endowed as her.”

Pierre rolls his eyes, “up until a few months ago I wasn’t in a loving relationship.”

“A loving relationship in which your girlfriend stays in your hotel room while you party all night long?”

“What does it matter? Y/N gets anxious and this isn’t really her scene. She knows I would never do anything to hurt her or our relationship and she trusts me.”

“She should be here supporting you.”

“She does support me. Tirelessly. And I do the same in return by making sure she’s not forced into situations that make her uncomfortable.”

When they return to their hotel in the early hours of the morning, fairing none too well after a night of endless partying, Charles can’t help but peak into the suite that Pierre and you were sharing after Pierre was too drunk to properly shut the door.

You were still up despite the ridiculously late hour and reading a lengthy book using the warm light of a lamp on your nightstand.

Charles watches through the crack as you carefully mark your place in the novel and get out of bed to greet your inebriated boyfriend.

“Hi, Pear.”

Pierre leans in to give you a messy kiss, missing your lips almost entirely, “hello, mon coeur. I missed you.”

“I missed you too, love. There’s some painkillers and water by your toothbrush. And I put your boxers by the clean towels for after you shower quickly.”

“I need help.”

“Help with what?”

“Help me shower,” Pierre whines softly, “pleeeeeaaaasssseee.”

“Okay, you big baby. Let’s get you washed.”

Charles hurriedly shut the door when Pierre went to drop his pants.

Two

You paced up and down the gallery, hands linked in front of you to stop their shaking … mostly. It was your first public art exhibition and the tremendous milestone meant stepping far outside your comfort zone and into a social setting to show off your hard work.

Your eyes ran over the paintings carefully hanging on the walls for the hundredth time. They were perfect. The result of pouring your entire soul into the images that flowed from your hands and onto the canvas. Everything would be perfect. Almost everything, that is.

“How sucky that your boyfriend couldn’t be here for you.”

You turn around to face a classmate and friend from art school, “it’s not his fault. He has a job to do.”

Your boyfriend of nearly a year was going to have to miss the exhibition not matter how much you knew he wished he could be here to support you. But Formula 1 waits for no one and he was stuck on the other side of the world among the chaos that came with a race weekend.

“I’m just saying,” she throws her hands up defensively, “what about his job as your boyfriend?”

“Pierre does that daily, thank you for your concern. His attention to me whenever he isn’t actively working more than makes up for the time he dedicates to racing.”

You move to turn back around but stop and about-face, “and his dedication and passion to that part of his life are part of the reason I love him.” Then you finally spin on your heel and go back to surveying your work for any imperfections.

You were broken out of your thoughts as the curator lightly tapped your shoulder, having been ignored when she quietly called your name while you were lost in your own head.

“Miss Y/N, there’s a delivery for you. Shall I tell them to bring it in?”

A delivery? You were fairly certain you didn’t order anything though with how anxious you were as the exhibition approached, maybe you did and just forgot about it.

“Of course! So sorry. They can put it down wherever there’s space.”

You watch in shock as courier after courier after courier after courier filed their way into the gallery and places overflowing vases of every flower under the sun on the floor before going back outside and returning with even more bouquets.

When you can barely see the tile floors and the gallery looks more like a botanical garden than a low-key space to showcase art, one of the couriers approaches you and hands you a card.

I wish I could be there celebrating your achievements with you. I am so incredibly proud of you and all that you’ve managed to do. I will be carrying a little bit of you with me when I race tonight.

Love you always,

PG

You can’t stop the tears that threaten to overflow when you spot the small photo of a print of your favorite painting tucked carefully into his helmet that was taped to the card.

Your classmate makes her way into the atrium again, “Five minutes till showtime! Oh my god? Who robbed a florist.”

“No robbing,” you laugh, “just Pierre being Pierre.”

Three

Pierre excitedly opens the door to welcome his friends from around the grid into his Milan apartment for their annual visit after the Italian Grand Prix.

“Hey, guys! Come in. Y/N just went to the market to quickly get some fresh fruit.”

The group of drivers files into the foyer and stop just short of smacking into each other as they stop and take in the apartment around them.

When Pierre bought the apartment a few years ago, he immediately hired a top interior designer to take care of all the decorating. Since then, the place he called home was sleek and modern and even whiter than his AlphaTauri race suit. Nothing like the apartment his friends were currently staring at with open mouths.

This apartment was a controlled chaos of colors that should not have gone together but somehow did. The walls were lined with paintings and photographs and little hanging plants that the interior designer would have fainted at. The ceiling of the entry way had a rather impressive recreation of the Sistine Chapel ceiling … with cats instead of humans.

“This is … wow.”

“I know! Isn’t it amazing? Y/N did it all herself after she finally moved in,” Pierre gushed.

“It’s definitely unique.”

“It just feels so much more like home, you know? It took a while for her to finally believe me when I told her I wanted her to redecorate but now we both love spending time here whenever we can.”

The boys exchange wide-eyed glances as Pierre rambles on and on about all of the changes that you made. What happened to the luxurious party boy who barely remembered the names of the women that graced his bed? Since when did Pierre Gasly spend five minutes describing how you painstakingly crocheted a throw blanket to perfectly match your new couch? The mark you made on him was becoming just as clear as the mark you made on his your home.

Four

It was cruel, really. With Pierre’s home Grand Prix being left off the schedule, you had promised to join him in Austin instead. Art school was relatively flexible and you didn’t anticipate any issues taking a week off to fly to Texas.

Until a teacher suddenly announced a project that had to be completed in class during the week you were meant to be at the United States Grand Prix.

You tried to hide a sniffle as you explain that you won’t be able to support him in person to Pierre over the phone during your lunch break. You stare at your salad, pushing the greens around as any appetite escaped you.

“It’s not worth your tears, mon coeur,” Pierre’s soothing accent cracks through your speaker. “Do not even worry about it. I promise that I will take care of everything.”

You see your classmate drop into the seat next to you and wave as you finish your conversation with Pierre.

“Hi! What’s-”

“Were you seriously planning to miss a week of school to go on vacation with your boyfriend?”

“It’s not exactly a vacation.”

Your friend rolls his eyes, “Semantics. You were going to fly halfway across the world and miss a week’s worth of classes for him. He’s been a bad influence on you. You would have never dreamed about skipping even a day of class before you got together with him.”

“Being in a relationship has made me reevaluate my priorities,” you explain. “Don’t get me wrong — I love art and school is important but nothing beats being there for the people you love.”

“Whatever,” he sighs, “no use talking about it now. There’s no way you’re getting out of doing the project to go on your trip. Might as well cancel your tickets now.”

“Pierre said he’ll take care of the class so I’m not giving up hope yet.”

“Right … the second you get excused from the project is the second that pigs fly.”

You didn’t know which of you was more shocked when your boyfriend walked into the room like he owned it halfway through class the next day. He beelined towards your teacher with a purpose and you tore your attention away from the unfinished painting in front of you to watch as they talked. You can’t make out what they’re saying but see Pierre gesturing towards you and then slipping an envelope into your teacher’s hands when he gets a nod. They shake hands and Pierre makes his way to you.

He pecks your lips as your classmates’ eyes all turn to you, “Done. You’ll have an extra week to finish the project under supervision when you get back from America.”

“No way! How?”

“All it took was two paddock passes to Imola next season.”

“You’re actually the best, Pear. I love you so much.”

“Not more than I love you.” He turned to leave, “I’ll pick you up for dinner later?”

“Can’t wait, love.”

As the class dispersed an hour later, you couldn’t help bumping into your friend, “guess pigs learned to fly, huh?”

+ One

It wasn’t until the following season that his friends finally realized that you and Pierre were meant to be. You flew out to Belgium with him, knowing that Spa was especially hard for him emotionally and wanting to be there for your boyfriend. The morning of race day, you joined Pierre and the rest of the grid as they went to pay respects to Anthoine Hubert. You watched as various drivers left flowers and cards and stepped forward after they were done.

“I hope you don’t mind. I know that I never met Anthoine but I feel like I know him through all the stories Pierre tells and wanted to leave something to honor him too,” you pull a canvas out of your tote and kneel down to place it against the fence.

There’s silence as the men around you take in the portrait of a smiling Anthoine that you left among the flowers and wreaths.

Pierre pulls you in for a hug and you hold him tight as you feel your shoulder grow wet from his tears, “thank you, mon coeur. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Lando paused while describing the club you would be going to later tonight, “hear what?”

Another squeak.

“That,” you stopped in the middle of the pathway and listened. It was coming from a grassy area covered with little bushes just beyond the fence.

You grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and dragged him with you as you found the nearest gate and waited for the security guard to let you past. You followed the squeaks to an era of low shrubs and knelt down to look between them.

“Oh my god!”

“What is it?” Lando squatted down and tried to peak over your shoulder.

You stared at the little balls of fluff still too young to properly open their eyes, “they’re newborn kittens!”

“Y/N … you know we can’t.”

You moved to get a better view and teared up at the sight of the cat laying behind the kittens, limp and stained with blood. She clearly didn’t make it through the birth. “But their mother’s dead,” your voice wavered as you tried to hold back tears.

“Love, there’s nowhere we can-“

You finally burst into tears, overcome with the thought of the innocent babies in front of you not making it, “they’ll die if someone doesn’t take them. They’re so small.”

“Okay-okay. Don’t cry,” Lando soothed you. “Just give me a minute.” He ran back towards the paddock as you took off your cardigan and carefully wrapped the kittens in it to keep them warm.

Soon enough, Lando returned and joined you on the slightly damp grass. He placed the cardboard box stuffed with a few papaya t-shirts to line it that he brought back in front of you and you slowly moved the kitten-filled cardigan into it.

“There’s three of them.”

You wiped your eyes, “I’m not giving them up. They need us.”

“I know, love. You’re so caring. It’s why I fell for you in the first place.”

“Thank you, Lan. I need milk and a dropper for now until I can run out and get them proper formula after the race.”

He helped you up and led you toward the motorhome again, “there’s milk in my driver’s room and we can stop by the medical center to see if they have a dropper we can use.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Even when you decide to randomly adopt three kittens during a Grand Prix.”

You were so lucky.

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landonorris can’t believe i’m a dad

carlossainz55 does this mean i’m a godfather?

Growing up as the eldest child of Jos Verstappen and half-sister to Max Verstappen was anything but sunshine and rainbows. Constantly in the shadow of your younger brother. Always ignored in favor of your father’s golden son. Never receiving approval or the affection you desired after the loss of your mother. Always an afterthought to racing.

When you moved to an entirely different country, merely a teenager yourself, the only communication you received from your family was a text message from Jos reminding you “not to embarrass the family name” a few months after you started university. So you powered forward, completely alone in a foreign country and forced to work two jobs on top of school, but finding solace in your studies.

Now, as you hit send on your response to Toto Wolff, all of your struggles were going to pay off.

Not long after, you were invited to formally meet the team and sign all the necessary paperwork in the beginning of the offseason. You made the drive to Brackley and smoothed your power suit before entering the team’s technology center. A composed receptionist took your name before guiding you down the halls lined with moments and memorabilia from team history and leaving you in front of a door with a steel “Toto Wolff” nameplate on it.

You took a moment to collect yourself and rapped your knuckles against the solid wooden door, turning the handle when a deep accented voice from within the office told you to enter. The Austrian, who painted an imposing picture behind his desk, rose to greet you with a firm handshake. You quickly realized that he was tall and fit and, despite how hard you tried to keep your mind professional, extremely handsome.

“Dr. Verstappen, it’s great to finally meet you,” Toto motioned for you to sit down across the desk from him.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Wolff. I am so grateful for this opportunity.”

“The pleasure is ours. We are very excited to have you onboard this coming season. And, please, call me Toto.”

“Then you must call me Y/N. And while we’re on the topic of names, I’m sure you’ve noticed mine.”

Toto leaned back in his leather chair, “a funny coincidence to be sure. I hope that doesn’t mean you cheer for Red Bull.”

You hid a wince at his joking tone, “about that … it’s not exactly a coincidence. Max Verstappen is my brother. Half-brother if you want to get technical.”

You continue as you see him about to speak, “let me assure you that this will have no negative impact on my work with you. If anything, it will make me work harder towards the team’s success. I don’t exactly go around making this public knowledge, but my childhood was not the best and I haven’t spoken to my brother or my father since I first moved out at 18. They never supported me or showed that they cared about me. I’m doing this for myself. I’m going to help Mercedes win to prove them wrong.”

Your heart pounded out of your chest as Toto impassively stared into your soul. “I believe you.” A breath you didn’t even realize you were holding rushed out in relief. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Jos Verstappen and what you’ve told me does not exactly come as a surprise.”

“Thank you, Toto. I promise you won’t regret it. We’ll get Mercedes back on top.”

“I am counting on it. Welcome to the team.”

You spent the rest of the off-season working more often than not, applying the research your Doctorate was built on to the car and optimizing it as much as possible. You spent your days working closely with the engineering team and both Lewis Hamilton and George Russell, gathering as much data as possible before you flew out to pre-season testing. Your evenings were usually taken up by Toto, the both of you workaholics who stayed far past the time that everyone else had left, typically discussing strategy and your mutual loathing of Red Bull over dinner that was ordered into the office.

The attraction that you felt upon first meeting your boss grew more and more as you got to know him better. While his handsomeness certainly didn’t hurt, his intelligence and passion truly did it for you. His age didn’t bother you — boys your age certainly left something to be desired — but you refused to be known as the woman who slept her way to the top (despite how unfair and inaccurate that would be) in a heavily male dominated field. So you used all your willpower to stay professional and prayed that Toto didn’t notice when you would gaze at his lips or his forearms or his chest in that famous button up shirt for a bit longer than strictly appropriate.

There was no way that Toto Wolff could possibly reciprocate your feelings so your resolved to keep them tightly bottled up.

He had a different idea.

You were in Toto’s office to mark your last dinner before flying to Bahrain for pre-season testing, lightly talking over a bottle of wine, when he abruptly set down his glass and looked resolutely down at you. “Tell me if I’ve misread the situation,” he pushed your plates to the side, uncaring, as he reached out to pull you across the desk and towards him.

You seized up in shock but melted as he crashed his lips to yours.

You gathered what little common sense you had remaining to detach yourself from him, “Toto, we can’t.”

His eyes went guarded, “Do you not feel the same way?”

“No but-“

“Then why?”

“Because you’re my boss! Because even the thought of this is unprofessional! Because it can ruin both of us!”

“But you want this.” He said it as a statement.

“Of course I do,” you deflate. “But we can’t-“

“And I want this too. I want you. You are strikingly intelligent and incredibly beautiful. We are both consenting adults and the team does not have a fraternization policy. There is no reason we must suffer in restraint.”

He takes both of your hands, engulfing then with his large ones before continuing, “you have been taking care of yourself for so long. Now, let me take care of you.”

You were extremely thankful the next morning that you accepted Toto’s offer to join him on his private jet instead of flying commercial charter with the rest of the team. At least this way he had time to drop you off at your apartment so you could pick up your luggage on the way to the airport without having to rush.

The other perks were pretty nice too. If you had told your younger self that you would be joining the Mile High Club with Toto Wolff on a private jet heading to Bahrain for the start of the Formula 1 season, you would have laughed in your own face (and then tried to work out the physics of how you time traveled to see your younger self in the first place).

Once in Bahrain, you jumped into the beautiful chaos that is the F1 season head first. Mercedes started off on a much higher note than last year and the mood around the garage remained light as the team kept the momentum going. It quickly became common to see 1-2 Mercedes finishes or at the very least both Mercedes drivers on the podium as the optimized car and your unorthodox strategies gave them the extra edge.

You and Toto tried to steal as many moments together as you could away from the hurricane of work that sometimes swallowed you up. Soon, neither of you particularly trying to keep your progressing relationship a secret, the rest of the team became aware that you were together. Despite your initial fears of backlash, you were met with support and the worst you got from the team was gentle teasing about managing to tame the infamous Toto Wolff.

As the season unfurled, neither your father nor brother had noticed you working for their rival. While photos of you with Toto, your drivers, and generally around the team did circulate, neither of them made the connection between the woman in Mercedes gear and the daughter and sister they cut off years ago. You ignored the traitorous pang in your heart every time Max or Jos’ eyes glossed over you, not realizing who they were looking at.

Or at least they didn’t until the FIA Prize Giving ceremony.

Toto was attending to receive the Constructors’ Championship trophy while your drivers collected their respective Drivers’ Championship and second-place trophies and you had come along as his date. While making the rounds on Toto’s arm at the gala after the ceremony, Max happened to overhear Toto introducing you to an acquaintance and your brother’s head snapped up at the sound of your name.

Max stared at the woman with Toto. It couldn’t be … but she had the same face shape and nose shape and hair color he remembered. His feet moved towards you before he could help himself, “Y/N?”

You heard the familiar voice interject from behind you and steeled yourself before turning around, “Max.”

“Is it really you?”

“Last time I checked.”

Toto had managed to excuse himself from his conversation and joined the awkward reunion between the estranged Verstappen siblings.

“Verstappen,” he nodded a curt greeting.

Your brother paused, looking between you and Toto, “wait-wait. You and him? You’re together?”

“For a while now,” you gained some satisfaction from the mix of emotions, none of them pleasant, that crossed Max’s face. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice earlier. I mean, Toto and I did only meet because I work for Mercedes. I’ve been around the paddock every race.”

You didn’t notice the approach of your father until you looked at Max’s wide eyes frozen on someone behind you.

“How dare you! To go against your own family? To actively work against your brother?”

“Hello, father. How are you? I’ve been great! It’s only been a little under a decade since I’ve heard from you.”

“Why you little who-”

Toto stepped in front of you before your father could finish what was sure to be a very complementary sentence, “Verstappen, I would stop it right there if I was you.”

“I always knew Y/N was an embarrassment but even I didn’t expect for her to become a gold digger going after men her father’s age.”

Toto came to your rescue once again, “she’s far from a gold digger. Y/N is Mercedes’ Executive Engineer and Strategist. She’s a large reason why we beat your son all season long.”

“What she is,” Jos spit out, “is a shame to the Verstappen name.”

Toto resolutely held you close, “then it’s a good thing she won’t be a Verstappen for much longer.”

Taking the opportunity, you raised your entwined hands to show off the diamond ring that graced your ring finger since Toto took you on vacation to the Seychelles and surprised you with a beautiful proposal a week ago.

That all came to a head today when an easily avoidable collision between your cars caused both of you to DNF. You were each convinced the other was to blame.

The altercation between you was rapidly escalating to such a point that Sebastian Vettel had to rush over and physically pull you apart, directing you to your separate garages.

You hadn’t calmed down a bit by the time you undressed, just more and more tightly wound through all of the media questions.

Your phone chimed and you hesitated to look at it but gave in after seeing it was a message from Seb. It was a dinner invitation which you promptly accepted — he always knew the best local spots around the tracks and you were frankly famished.

You had time for a nice long shower before doing your hair and makeup and getting dressed. Seb has been a mentor to you for years and you didn’t feel the need to impress him but that didn’t mean that fans and paparazzi alike wouldn’t have their cameras trained on you and you had an image to maintain.

You pulled up to the restaurant in your team provided Ferrari and checked in with the hostess for a reservation under “Vettel.”

“Right this way, miss. Your partner is already seated,” the hostess led you towards a table in the back of the dining room.

Classic Seb, always early.

Except it wasn’t Sebastian Vettel waiting for you. Unless all Germans had the magical ability to switch bodies, you were pretty certain that you were staring straight at the face of Mick Schumacher.

“What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

The hostess awkwardly placed your menu on the table while you and Mick were trying to burn a hole through each other’s heads.

He gave in and sighed, “we’ve been set up.”

“That no good, meddling …”

“You might as well sit down. We might have been tricked into getting dinner together but that doesn’t mean we can’t rack up a bill and make Seb take care of it as retribution.”

The night continued rather oddly. Maybe it was just the expensive champagne you were going to make Seb pay for or the fact that this is the first time you and Mick had an actual conversation without being at each other’s throats but it was almost … nice.

When you both ended up at Mick’s hotel room after dinner, you swore each other to secrecy. You weren’t going to let Seb win this one.

But the next morning, when you shoved the crumpled bill into Seb’s hands, he just laughed and had the audacity to wink at you.

“Name your first kid after me, won’t you?”

You exchanged a wide eyed glance with Mick and broke into laughter — like that would ever happen!

Two years later, as you welcomed Seb into your hospital room to meet his newborn godson, Sebastian Jules Michael Schumacher, you knew that he would hold that fateful dinner over your heads for the rest of your lives.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly when you arrived at the track with Max by your side on a beautiful Sunday morning. You both went through your typical race day routines and, with the exception of some intermittent back pain (which you were rarely without at this point in your pregnancy), you felt great.

“Stay safe for us. We love you so much,” you hugged your husband as he was about to head to his the car.

“I will, schatje. I love you both,” he promised as he kissed you and then bent down to press his lips against your bump.

He made one last detour, making his team principal promise to keep an eye on you, before finally getting into his car and fully immersing himself in the race.

And that’s how you ended up watching the Monaco Grand Prix from right next to Christian Horner of all people on a surprisingly comfortable chair the team magically acquired for you.

Everything was going smoothly and Max managed to maintain the lead as the laps went by until your back pain got too extreme to ignore and you quietly gasped, trying to play it off with a nod as Christian looked at you concerned.

But the pains continued to come and go, growing more and more intense, until you felt the tell-tale wetness against the front of your maternity dress.

No. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not here.

There were five laps left and you refused to be the reason that Max missed out on topping the podium. As discretely as possible, trying not to draw attention to something being wrong, you started the breathing exercises your doctor taught you.

The laps seemed to go by in slow motion.

In. Contraction. Out. Four laps. In. Contraction. Out. Three laps. In. Contraction. Out. Two laps. In. Contraction. Out. One lap. In. Contraction. Out. The checkered flag! He did it.

You dimly heard Christian congratulating Max on P1 over the radio before the contraction died down enough for you to get understandable words out.

“Christian,” you groaned, “tell Max that he needs to go straight here. Right now. I’m in labor.”

You’ve never seen the infamous Red Bull team principal as shell shocked as in that moment. He went pale before stammering your message to your husband and turning to call for someone to bring down his wife and track down the medical car.

Unusually gentle, he then asked you how you are doing.

“I don’t think -“

Breath.

“I’m going to-“

Breath.

“Make it to-“

Breath.

“The hospital.”

You almost laughed at how ridiculous the situation was as he tried to keep you calm, “Max, Geri, and a doctor are on the way.”

You almost cried tears of relief when your husband came rushing towards you, haphazardly handing off his helmet to the first person he saw.

He kneeled by your side, “I’m here, schatje. Tell me what you need.”

“It’s happening really fast-“

Breath.

“Won’t make it to the hospital-“

Breath.

“Driver’s room.”

Breath.

He quickly rose and helped you up from the chair as carefully as possible, “okay. Let’s go. Whatever you want.”

You make slow work, eventually realizing that even with Max helping you, between your contractions and pained waddle you won’t make it to the motorhome in time.

You reached the back of the garage when you give in and slide down the wall, setting off Max’s alarm bells.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“We won’t make it,” you explain. “It’s happening here.”

Max freaks out even more, “What do you need? Do you want a chair? Do you want to lay down? Do you want to go to the nearest office?”

“I’m not walking anywhere else,” you emphasize between pained breathes.

Between your groans and Max’s random mutterings, you could hear Christian swearing somewhere down the hall and the sound of multiple shoes running towards you.

The sight of Geri Halliwell and a race physician approaching calmed you down slightly.

Max delicately adjusted you to position himself on the ground behind your body, his chest supporting your back.

The new arrivals froze at the sight of you two before another screech left your mouth and they both jumped into action. Geri knelt down, letting you grab onto her hand while petting your hair with her free one.

The doctor rapidly checked you over before confirming that your labor was progressing rapidly and you would have to deliver the baby as you were.

You hated yourself for not noticing the signs sooner. You hated yourself for not just listening to Max when he begged you to stay home. And you hated that you’d have to bring your child into the world on the floor of the Red Bull garage without any pain relief.

Max realized your next contraction was particularly bad as you tensed and leaned into him before arching away as you screamed. You drew comfort from his solid form supporting you and the tender woman at your side. The cycle of pain continued, Max’s attempts at praise and encouragement largely ignored as you were lost in the pain.

“Great job,” the doctor reassured, “I can see them crowning. The head’s almost out. Just keep pushing.”

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

“One more push, Y/N. You’re almost there.”

And then a brief second of silence before the most beautiful cries you’ve ever heard reached your ears.

“Congrats mom and dad, you have a little girl.”

You collapsed against Max, exhausted. When you looked up, the awe and tears on his face mirrored your own.

“Max, you should take off your race suit and top. Y/N, you should lower your dress. Some skin-to-skin contact is important,” the doctor advised and you both quickly did so.

The doctor handed you a tiny little bundle wrapped in a team branded towel and you stared at the perfect mix between you and your husband, completely in love with the baby resting against your chest.

You shifted, letting Max take your daughter against his own bare chest as you watched, engraining the moment in your memory.

“Emilia.”

“Hmmm?” Max sounds.

You clarify, “I want to name her Emilia.”

Max’s head snaps up, “After me?”

“You’re already the best husband and father.”

Both of your tears started up again, the intense love you felt for your daughter and each other overwhelming you.

“Emilia Y/N Verstappen,” Max decides, “A little bit of you and little bit of me.”

You almost forget about Geri until you hear the familiar click of a phone camera and look to your side to see her taking photos of your young family.

“Thank you, Geri. For being here for us and for capturing this memory.”

She’s also teary eyed, caught up in the sheer emotion of the moment, “She’s absolutely beautiful, you guys.”

Soon enough, paramedics come rushing down the hall to load you and Emilia onto a stretcher and take you to the hospital for proper checks.

As they rolled you out, Max’s hand never leaving your own, you passed by the front of the garage full of anxious team members and drivers from around the grid.

You motioned for the paramedics to pause for just a moment and turned to face the room of people who you considered family, “May I introduce you all to Emilia Y/N Verstappen. Like her papa, she raced into the world.”

The muted congratulations, so as not to scare the baby, reminded you that Emilia will have dozens of aunts and uncles to dote on her.

You tried to remain calm. Your youngest nephew was sitting on your lap and your two other nephews sat to your side next to your sister-in-law. You didn’t want to set a bad example for them. But when the French fans in the suite bordering yours started heckling your brother, all rational thoughts went out the window. Goal for goal, save for save, penalty for penalty — you traded barbs and insults with a man your age who was enthusiastically supporting France. Your heart was racing wildly in your chest as Argentina gained the lead and then gave it up and then regained it and then gave it up and then finally, gloriously won. By the time your tears and cheers subsided, the French man you had enjoyed going toe-to-toe with was nowhere to be found and it was time for family members to join the Argentine players on the field for a celebration.

Later that night, an impromptu party was thrown for players, family, and celebrities who hadn’t flown home yet. National divides were forgotten as everyone let loose and enjoyed getting to witness history together. You joined the crowd of sweaty bodies dancing to the music when you felt two large hands grip your hips and turned around, ready to slap the stranger for getting too handsy.

You dropped your hand when you noticed that it was the French man from the game, “hey, Frenchie!”

“My name’s Pierre,” he has to raise his voice to be heard over the music.

“I’m Y/N,” you yell back.

Trying to keep the conversation going but getting sick of competing with the booming music, you both retreat to a quieter corner. You decide to extend some sportsmanship, “good game today.”

“France fought hard but Argentina fought harder in the end,” Pierre shrugged.

“It was intense to be sure but I am so happy for the boys.”

He scratches at his neck, “your boyfriend must be very proud.”

“My boyfriend?”

“You and your son seem very supportive of him. He’s a lucky man.”

A boyfriend? A son? What …

“Oh no! You must be talking about my nephew, Ciro. His father is on the team.”

His eyes widened, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“Don’t worry about it,” you laugh it off. “Let’s have proper introductions. Hi, my name is Y/N Messi.”

“Messi?”

“Leo is my brother.”

“Well, I definitely had that messed up.” He returned your greeting, “I’m Pierre Gasly.”

“Your name sounds familiar. Where do I know you from?”

“Ah, I drive for Formula 1.”

“Yes! I remember now. I have to admit that I am not much of a fan but I did get to see the French Grand Prix this year.”

“Really? Do you spend much time in France or was this just a vacation?”

“Leo’s not the only footballer in the family. I play for Paris Saint-Germain Féminine.”

You spent the rest of the night getting to know each other better, both of you relating to struggles as professional athletes and public figures — and it was a good opportunity to show off your rapidly improving French.

When it was well into the early hours of the morning, and the partygoers were breaking up to go back to their hotels, neither of you wanted to leave.

You start making your way out slowly, “I’ve had a really great time talking to you.”

“Me too,” Pierre agrees with earnest eyes.

“How about you come out to a PSG game soon and I’ll return the favor when the F1 season starts back up.”

“Yeah, I’d really like that. Let’s trade numbers so we can make some plans.”

You leave him with a light kiss on the cheek, which you see him touching when you sneakily turn back to take another look at him before getting in your car.

When you’re in bed later, the sun set to rise in just a short few hours, you send Pierre a text before you can think twice of it:

That’s how, two years later, you found yourself traveling the world with two dogs and one Sir Lewis Hamilton. The F1 season meant that you spent a good portion of the year away from home and so it was only during summer shutdown that you finally had time to go back to the Monaco condo that you shared with your boyfriend and look through the giant pile of accumulated mail. Hidden in the middle of the mess of letters was an unassuming envelope postmarked from your parents a few months ago. Opening it revealed the envelope you were currently staring at.

The wedding invitation was originally sent to your parents’ house three months ago (which made sense as your ex-boyfriend had no way of knowing where you currently lived). You were willing to bet that he had no idea just how far you’d come since you found him in bed with another woman and unless he was a frequent subscriber to F1 WAG update pages, he likely had no idea who you were dating. Evidently, he invited you to his wedding just to rub it in your face.

Lewis walked into the kitchen to find you sitting at the island trying to burn the invitation with your mind, “What’s wrong, love?”

“Remember when I told you about my douche of an ex?”

“The idiot who cheated on you?”

“Yes,” you raged at his audacity. “Apparently he invited me to his wedding to the same woman he was cheating with.”

“Okay,” Lewis took the invitation from you and read it over, ever the rational one when off the grid. “Here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to RSVP and check off that you’re bringing a plus-one with you.”

“But-“

“No buts. It will be after the end of the season. We’re going to pull up and show him just how much better off you are without him. We’re going to make him regret ever hurting you like that.”

You stood up and kissed him in thanks, “I couldn’t have asked for a better boyfriend.”

His eyes raked over your form, even exhausted after a long plane ride back to Monaco, he still made you feel like the most beautiful woman on earth, “You’ve already upstaged the bride and you’re not even trying.”

Fast-forward to a week before Christmas, one month after Lewis won his eighth world championship title, and you were making the finishing touches to your makeup in a hotel suite near the wedding venue.

“Lew,” you called over your shoulder, “can you please come help me zip up my dress?”

He came up behind you and ran his hands over your back, pulling up your zipper and sending chills throughout your body.

“Gorgeous,” he kissed behind your ear. “Exquisite,” he turned you around and kiss along your jawline.

You met his lips, “I love you. Thank you for everything.”

“And I love you. Every man at the wedding is going to be jealous that I get to have you on my arm tonight.”

The wedding was an experience from the moment you pulled up to the valet and the teenager who ran up to collect your car caught sight of Lewis. He drove to park your Mercedes with shaking hands and a fresh Lewis Hamilton autograph across his company branded cap.

It was a little bizarre when most of the guests were more focused on your boyfriend than the groom at the altar or the bride making her way down the aisle, but the two of you resolved to gracefully sit together, the picture of quiet elegance. Luckily, you sat far enough back at the ceremony to escape your ex-boyfriend’s notice which will make the moment he finally sees you all that much sweeter.

You zoned out while the officiant droned on and on, focusing on Lewis tracing little shapes along your thigh, only snapping back to attention at “you may now kiss the bride.”

The two of you joined the rest of the guests as they filed out of the ceremony space and into the ballroom for the reception, once again the subject of stares as they tried to figure out whether your boyfriend was who they thought he was, and made your way to your assigned table.

You sighed as you realized that you were going to be surrounded by the “friends” who blamed you for the break up and made excuses for why your ex cheated. You whispered as much in Lewis’ ear.

He pulled you closer, “it’ll be fine, love. I’m here with you.”

As the table filled up, it seemed like the rest of the occupants were too preoccupied with your boyfriend to actually realize that he was seated next to you. But you were feeling particularly petty.

“Hello,” you inclined your head with a slight smirk. “It’s nice to you see again.”

They did a double take.

Amy, who you once thought was your best friend, stuttered out a broken, “Y/N?”

“Hi, Amy! How’s it going since you told me that it was understandable that he cheated because I ‘never put out!’”

She didn’t reply, eyes jumping between you and Lewis.

“Oh, this is my boyfriend, Lewis.”

He gave a curt “hello” and raised your entwined hands to his lips.

James, another one of the friends who once betrayed you called out from the other end of the table, “You and LEWIS HAMILTON?”

“Yes, that is my boyfriend’s name last time I checked.”

James continued to run his mouth, “never took you for a gold-digger but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Lewis interjected before you could even say anything, “Y/N is the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. If anyone’s punching above their weight, it’s me. She’s the one who’s out of my league. It’s not her fault the lot of you were too stupid to appreciate her.”

Amy’s boyfriend, who must be new because they weren’t together when you last saw her, tried to ask for an autograph as the table fell into tense silence but Lewis wasn’t having it.

You really loved your boyfriend.

Later that night after the first dance, Lewis went up to the bar to get you some drinks, first making sure that you would be fine alone for a few minutes.

Someone must have it out for you because that’s also when the newlyweds decided to start making their rounds and when your ex finally noticed you.

“Y/N! You actually showed up. Didn’t think you had it in you to watch us get married,” he sneered. “But it looks like your plus-one bailed on you.”

A glass of champagne was placed by your plate before familiar arms wrapped around you from your back, the smell of Lewis’ cologne instantly comforting you. “Her plus one’s right here.”

You could’ve sworn your ex looked less shocked when you walked in on him that faithful day. “But-but you’re Lewis Hamilton?”

You decided to join in on the fun, “really? I had noooo idea.” You turned to face your boyfriend, “why didn’t you tell me that you’re Lewis Hamilton?”

You turned back towards your ex, “and by the way, the next time you have to send me something, you can mail it to our penthouse in New York or our villa in London or our condo in Monaco or our apartment in Nyon.”

You reached for Lewis’ hand as an upbeat song came on, not letting your ex get in a word edgewise, “come on Lew, let’s dance.”

You couldn’t help but be starstruck during your first meeting. He was Sebastian Vettel and no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t figure out why he was on the show. It certainly wasn’t for money (he had plenty) or exposure (which he never wanted even during his career).

If this was a midlife crisis, it sure was an interesting one. Most people would buy an expensive car and jet set around the world but he gave that up and decided to join a reality television show out of the blue instead.

The starstruck feeling quickly faded as the two of you got to know each other better. He had a way of making you feel at ease. No routine was too complicated or challenging. You guessed that when you spent most of your life driving at over 300 km/h, learning a samba routine was child’s play in comparison.

As the weeks went by, you spent more and more time together outside of the studio and off camera. You would join him in his rented apartment for movie nights or he would pop over to your house for a home-cooked meal (you even tried your hand at German recipes to remind him of home). The chemistry that the audience saw on their screens began to translate to your personal lives.

You quickly became fan favorites, Strictly Come Dancing and F1 fans alike raving about your pairing and routines. Each little glimpse of you two backstage made the Internet go feral. They were certain that you were more than just dance partners.

And they were right.

12 weeks after Sebastian and you started dancing together, you raised the Glitterball Trophy. When reality began to set back in afterwards, you both realized that you weren’t ready for this to end. Sweaty from nerves and an intense dance routine, Sebastian finally asked you to be his girlfriend.

“You can come to Switzerland and Germany with me when you’re free. I’ll come to England when you’re filming. We’ll make this work. I just know that I need to be with you.”

You didn’t even have to think before saying yes.

That night, blissfully cuddled under the sheets, Sebastian bared his soul to you.

“I loved racing,” he traced little swirls on your shoulder. “God, I loved racing. But something was always missing. The contentedness and exhilaration I felt on the track would fade the second I got out of my car. At a point, I just did everything I wanted to do. I won four world championships. I raced for Ferrari. And then I just got burnt out.”

You stayed silent, playing with his hair but allowing him to get it all out.

“I thought something would click after I retired. I felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. But then I just felt bored. Something was still missing. When Britta called me about an offer to come on the show I was about to tell her to turn it down. Me? Dancing? On TV? It was laughable. But I decided to do something out of my comfort zone this once and hoped it would lead me to find that thing I was missing.”

You were getting emotional on his behalf, “Sebastian …”

“And it did. It led me to you.”

Your relationship was incredibly young but you knew then and there that you loved this man.

That’s how you met Charles Leclerc. Who needs a meet cute when you could have a “I’m mortified and can’t ever show my face in the second-smallest sovereign state in the world again” cute?

Of course you didn’t exactly know who he was at first but the gigantic billboard of his face next to the Prancing Horse that you passed on the way to your first date clued you in pretty quickly.

As you became more serious, you never intended to keep your relationship secret. But it was the off-season and that meant that Charles could mostly stay out of the spotlight while the two of you relished in your own little bubble. The honeymoon phase never felt sweeter.

But then your coworkers started asking questions. They saw the Ferrari (and the other Ferrari and the other Ferrari and the other Ferrari) that often dropped you off in the mornings and picked you up at night. They saw how you started to rush out for your lunch break instead of spending it in the office. They saw the new earrings and bracelets and necklaces and shoes and lots and lots of red accents.

“Who is he?”

You turn towards your coworker, Stephanie, as you go to refill your water bottle after lunch. “Who is who?”

She wiggles an eyebrow, “Your new man!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Your other coworker, Jacob, walks over from across the room. “Don’t be coy. We have eyes.”

Stephanie laughs, “And my eyes are telling me that you’ve found yourself a trust fund kid. No judgement here — get that bag!”

“One,” your raise a finger, “he’s not a trust fund kid. And two,” you raise another, “it’s not about money. I really like him.”

Stephanie squeals with as much zeal as she can manage in a corporate office, “I knew it! You have a man.”

Jacob chimes in, “So trust fund kid’s out … I’m betting on an oligarch.”

“Or a torrid affair with a politician.” Stephanie seems way too excited at the prospect.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly, “He does something much more dangerous.”

“He’s in the mafia?”

“Damn, you’ve got yourself a mobster.”

You don’t grace them with a reply, just laughing the teasing away.

You should have just straight up denied it. You knew that. But you were having too much fun and what harm could a little joke possibly have? You just didn’t expect the photos you posted on Instagram from when you joined Charles in Maranello and then explored northern Italy together to have your work friends quite so suspicious.

Stephanie and Jacob corner you as soon as you step out of the elevator on your first day back from vacation.

Stephanie starts, “So Italy …”

“Where the mafia is from. What a coincidence!” Jacob finishes.

“Wait,” Stephanie focuses on your neck, “that’s a new necklace.” She spots the patent red bottoms of your new more fashion than function stilettos, “and those are new shoes!”

“We were in Milan!” You explained. “You can’t not go shopping in Milan.”

“Yeah,” Jacob laughs, “you and your mafioso sugar daddy.”

To be fair, the phone call they overheard between you and Charles the next day didn’t help much.

“Did you manage to get the blood out?”

He sighed through the phone, “Yes, finally! Only took me two hours of scrubbing. Remind me not to scratch my leg on a cliff and not notice while it bleeds on my car’s leather the next time we go to the beach.”

Your back turned to them, you don’t even notice the wide eyed look that Stephanie and Jacob exchange.

When your birthday approached right before the season started up, you finally decided to introduce Charles to your friends. Your family, the Leclercs, and your friends would be joining you for dinner at your favorite local restaurant.

Charles was standing next to you, welcoming your guests and inviting them to sit down for dinner, when Stephanie and Jacob walked in.

You think they would’ve looked less shocked if Charles was actually in the mafia.

Jacob stutters, “You’re … you’re-”

“CHARLES LECLERC!” Stephanie managed to find her voice.

Charles extended a hand and chuckled, “Hope I don’t disappoint. Y/N told me you thought I was in the mafia. I’m not quite at that level.”