#cuntissimo

You don’t even glance at the cameras, the engineers, the pit wall chaos you used to swim through like a queen among mortals. You float. Just a little off the ground. Like you’re humming with something no one else can afford to feel.

And then — of course — he’s there.

Toto Wolff. Six-foot-plus of composed Austrian agony, standing stiff as marble by the Mercedes garage. The same IWC watch. The same stupidly crisp white shirt. The same haunted look that crosses his face whenever he sees something he can’t control.

Like you.

Max notices him first. He’s watching. Max nudges you with a knuckle. “Should I be worried about him?”

You don’t even turn your head. Just a tiny lift of your chin, a flick of smoke into the glittering air. “He’s just someone I used to know.”

You say it like a lyric. Like you wrote the song. Like he never existed at all.

Toto doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. You can feel the way his gaze tries to crawl across the distance between you, drag you back in time.

Max hums under his breath. “That was cold.”

You finally look at him. “Baby, you should know by now, I don’t do warm.”

A few mechanics stare. Someone from Red Bull actually trips over a cable. You reach for the champagne flute a hospitality girl offers, raising a single brow like she’s late delivering it.

Max watches you sip, just a little too amused. “You are trouble.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a compliment if I say it. If Toto says it, it’s therapy fodder.”

That gets a laugh out of you. Soft, sharp. The kind that makes heads turn.

You tilt your face to the sun, letting the light hit your cheekbones. The diamonds dipping into your bra — gifted, naturally, from your ex-husband — catch and scatter the light like little vengeful stars. And you are shining. You are shining wherever he is.

Toto finally moves. Not toward you. Just a small shift of his body like maybe, just maybe, he can escape the gravitational pull of you.

Too late.

Max murmurs, “He hasn’t looked away once.”

“He’ll get used to it.”

“He looks … wrecked.”

“He always did.”

Max grins. “And yet I bet he still sleeps in your old Hermès robe.”

“That was cashmere. No man’s stupid enough to give that up.”

“He is,” Max says. “Stupid. For letting you go.”

You sip again. “He didn’t let me go. He just assumed I’d stay.”

And the truth, of course, is that you might have. For a while. For the version of him that existed before the power made him paranoid, before the boardroom talks swallowed every part of your marriage. But you don’t say that. You never speak ill of the dead. And that man? That marriage? Long buried.

You lean closer to Max. Your kaftan brushes his arm. He stills.

“I like this game,” you whisper. “Let’s make him sweat.”

“You know I live for chaos.”

You’re laughing when Toto approaches. Quiet. Controlled. Still in love with the idea of control, poor man.

“Max,” he says, with the stiffness of someone trying not to flinch.

“Toto,” Max replies, breezy. Innocent, which is worse.

Toto looks at you last. Like it’s an accident. Like you’re not the reason he can’t breathe.

You don’t move. You don’t blink. You let him look. Let him remember.

He finally says, low and rough, “You’re here.”

You flick a bit of ash from your cigarette. “So are you.”

Max, to his eternal credit, doesn’t interrupt. Just steps half a pace closer like he’s daring Toto to comment.

Toto’s eyes don’t leave you. “Didn’t think you’d come back.”

“Didn’t think you cared.”

Silence. Cracking, electric silence. The kind you used to have in your penthouse after the fights. The kind where no one said sorry. The kind where love got eaten alive.

“I cared,” Toto says.

“That’s sweet,” you murmur. “Tragic. But sweet.”

Max breaks the tension, almost merciful. “We were just talking about you, actually.”

Toto looks at him like he’s a fly he’d love to swat. “I’m sure you were.”

“She said you were just someone she used to know.”

That does it.

Toto flinches.

Your sunglasses stay on. Your expression doesn’t change. Inside, a flicker of something ancient rises — maybe it’s grief, maybe it’s pride. You kill it before it can surface.

“You didn’t deserve that,” Toto says, voice low. “What happened.”

“Oh, darling.” You tilt your head. “You always say that when I’m standing in heels and diamonds and not crying in a hallway.”

He closes his mouth.

Max rests his hand at the small of your back. Steady. Possessive. “Should we go?”

You exhale slow. One last look at the man you left. The man who still hasn’t left you.

You touch Max’s wrist, featherlight. “Let’s.”

Toto watches you go. And you let him.

Because now you live the Italian dream. Champagne at noon. Kaftans like armor. The ghosts of ex-husbands where they belong — behind you.

And baby, it’s a way of life.

***

It begins two years ago in Baku.

Not the first time he forgets your birthday, not the first time you catch the sideways glances between his assistant and the hotel concierge and realize they all know something you don’t. But it is the first time you feel invisible. Truly. Like a ghost in your own marriage. Like a note passed over at a meeting — glanced at, skimmed, discarded.

And when the door slams behind him that night, leaving you alone in the penthouse suite with the scent of his cologne and not much else, you slide down the wall and cry into a satin pillow with a room service club sandwich going limp beside you.

You don’t call anyone.

You don’t text back your girlfriends who would say leave him, babe, he’s not that special. You know they’re right. You just don’t want to hear it yet.

Instead, you whisper to the empty room, “Is this it?”

The air answers you back in silence.

***

By the time the lawyers are done and your last name is yours again, it’s winter in Austria and you’ve stopped wearing mascara.

Your brows go unbrushed. Your nails chip. Your heart feels like it’s been smoked and hung out to dry, a pretty carcass in Dior. You move into a rented villa near Lake Como because the real estate agent promised the view would “revive the soul.” It doesn’t. But it does have a sunken bathtub and very good lighting for dramatic crying.

You spend the first week horizontal. Silk robe. Champagne. Old Italian films playing on a loop. The kind where everyone is either cheating or dying.

By week three, you wake up one morning, stare at your reflection, and say aloud, “You’re not a widow. You’re just bored.”

And it clicks.

You are not ruined.

You are reborn.

***

The rebrand is soft at first. Organic. A new stylist — young, queer, radical with color theory. The kaftans start arriving. Then the chainmail slips. The vintage Alaïa from Paris you wear barefoot on the terrace while drinking espresso and reading Colette. You don’t post photos of the outfits. You are the photo.

Soon your friends start coming back, orbiting like bees to spilled prosecco. Giulia from Milan with the snakeskin Birkin. Layla from New York who insists on quoting bell hooks over gelato. And then — because the universe has a sense of humor — Lewis.

You run into him at a gallery in London. He’s wearing a beanie and quoting James Baldwin to a curator who does not deserve that level of intellect.

You roll your eyes. “Still a preacher, I see.”

He turns. Blinks. Smiles.

“You look …” He trails off, eyes doing that thing again where they hold back a compliment like it’s going to leak out anyway.

You raise an eyebrow. “Dangerous? Expensive?”

“Different,” he says instead. “And yeah. All of the above.”

***

You don’t sleep with him that night. Of course you don’t. You get drinks instead. At a rooftop bar where the martinis are smoky and no one asks questions. You talk about the sport — because it’s in both your bloodstreams whether you like it or not — but mostly you talk about everything else.

“I’m writing a book,” he says.

You laugh into your glass. “Of course you are.”

“Why is that funny?”

“Because you’re too beautiful to be that serious.”

He leans closer. His voice drops. “And you’re too beautiful to pretend not to care.”

You drain your drink. “Touché.”

***

It’s not love.

It’s yachts in Sardinia and villas in Capri. It’s you, in a crocheted Dior bikini, dancing barefoot to disco as the sun sinks into the sea. Lewis watching from the lounge chair, wearing Loewe and holding a spritz, his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to fall for a joke only you know.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says.

“And you’re late to the fun,” you shoot back.

He never tries to contain you. Not once. He doesn’t interrupt when you monologue about the gender politics of pop music. He doesn’t flinch when you leave a party early because the energy was “too heterosexual.” And when you cry — really cry — after accidentally hearing Toto’s voice on a podcast while folding lingerie, Lewis simply wraps you in a cashmere throw and reads you Rilke until you fall asleep.

“You don’t have to save me,” you murmur once, half-asleep.

“I’m not,” he whispers. “I just want to see you again tomorrow.”

***

The summer drips with honey and salt and soft betrayals. You dance. You flirt. You read Sontag topless on a yacht.

One night, in Corsica, lying tangled on white linen sheets with the air smelling like sea and sex, you say it plainly: “This isn’t love.”

Lewis doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you with that maddening calm of his and replies, “No. But it’s poetry.”

***

He introduces you to meditation. You introduce him to nightclub bathrooms at 3 am. He takes you to a summit on climate justice in Stockholm. You take him to an orgy-themed masquerade in Venice. You both wear masks. You both leave by midnight.

At an afterparty in Ibiza, a model tries to kiss him. You watch with mild interest. When he comes over, breathless and a little guilty, you lick salt from your wrist and ask, “Was she any good?”

“You’re insane,” he mutters.

You kiss him just to shut him up.

***

Your villa becomes a scene. Famous people flow in and out — editors, artists, a Russian ballerina who only speaks in riddles. The staff call you la strega luminosa — the shining witch. You don’t correct them. You like it.

And through it all, Lewis stays.

Sometimes just as a shadow. Sometimes as a hand at the small of your back. Always with that quiet reverence, like he knows he’s been given something no man really deserves.

But he never asks you to stay. Never suggests you belong to him. And for that, you almost fall.

Almost.

***

Late one night, in Tuscany, you lie on a balcony together, stars scattered above like spilled sequins.

Lewis rests his head on your stomach. “Do you ever think about going back?”

“To Toto?” You ask, more amused than offended.

“To … the version of your life where you weren’t constantly running.”

You sip from the wine bottle. “No. Running’s the best part.”

He hums. “You and I, then. Louise and Thelma on the run.”

You smile at the stars. “Only sexier.”

***

But every summer ends.

And as the sea cools and the villa empties, you feel it — that slow crawl of restlessness, the itch of being known too well. It isn’t love. And it isn’t poetry anymore, either. It’s comfort. And you’ve never trusted comfort.

So you leave.

A note on the pillow. Lipstick on the rim of a coffee cup. No drama. Just silence and sea breeze and the ghost of your perfume in the hallway.

He texts, once.

I knew you’d leave. But I loved the version of you who stayed.

You don’t reply. You stare at the screen for a long time, then close it. You cry once in the back of a car somewhere on the coast of France. Then you put on lip gloss and order oysters alone.

Because your energy is precious.

Because you don’t let anyone dull your shine.

Because you’ve been Salma Hayek in the sun.

Because you’re not his muse.

You’re the masterpiece.

And darling, the next act is just beginning.

***

Lake Como in September is a dream with sharp teeth. The kind of place where beauty starts to ache if you look at it too long.

You tell yourself you’re just there to swim. To rest. To wear something sheer and expensive and forget how Lewis made you feel like the version of yourself you’d buried with the wedding band. But you know why you really came.

Because Charles Leclerc called. And you didn’t have it in you to say no.

***

“I have a house,” he says, voice lazy over the phone. “Well, technically it’s a château. My mother says I’m too young to own a château. I told her youth is a construct.”

You sigh, twisting a strand of hair between your fingers. “Are you trying to flirt with me or audition for a Wes Anderson film?”

“I don’t flirt,” he says. “I suffer beautifully in women’s presence.”

“And yet, here I am, still not naked.”

“Yet,” he replies.

***

The château is absurd. Like something pulled from a dream you forgot you had — arched windows, marble floors, antique mirrors that reflect versions of yourself that don’t exist yet. It rains the morning you arrive, which feels correct. Nothing you’ve ever done with Charles has made sense in the sun.

He greets you in linen trousers and a white tank, barefoot, a glass of orange wine in hand like a Riviera prince playing house. You kiss him on the cheek. He smells like bergamot and impulse decisions.

“You’re overdressed,” he says.

You look down at your kaftan — Gucci, vintage, gold-threaded, semi-sheer. “You invited me to a château, not a hostel.”

He shrugs. “I like it. You look like money that’s forgotten how to apologize.”

You smile, just a little. “That’s the goal.”

***

You spend the first few days pretending nothing is happening.

Breakfasts on the veranda. Dinners on the terrace. Long hours by the lake with your ankles in the water and a cigarette in one hand, a philosophy book in the other. Charles talks too much. About racing, yes, but also about mythology, and memory, and that time he saw God during a 2 am qualifying session in Singapore.

“I was dehydrated,” he admits, “but still. His voice was very French.”

You snort. “Let me guess. He told you you’re His favorite?”

“He said I need to win more.”

“Sounds like your therapist.”

He grins. “I don’t have one of those.”

“No shit.”

***

The first time you kiss is accidental. Or at least you both pretend it is.

It’s late. You’ve had too much Pinot Noir and the rain has started again — soft and indulgent, the kind of rain that makes silk cling to skin. You’re on the balcony, barefoot, smoking a Vogue and talking about nothing. Charles is sitting on the railing, too close, too golden in the low light.

“You’re staring,” you say, flicking ash into a ceramic bowl shaped like a swan.

“You’re smoking,” he replies, like it’s a crime.

You turn your face toward him, exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl. “It’s a mood.”

He leans in. “You always this dramatic?”

“Only when I’m bored.”

And then he kisses you. Open-mouthed and greedy, like he thinks kissing you is a performance and he’s determined to win best actor.

You pull back first. Always. “That was a mistake.”

Charles licks his lips. “Is it going to happen again?”

“Definitely.”

***

It becomes a rhythm. A slow, secret sin you don’t name out loud.

In the mornings, he reads Proust out loud like a schoolboy who needs praise. In the afternoons, you swim in the nude and dare him to look. In the evenings, he plays piano and you sit beside him with a hand on his thigh.

No one talks about what this is. It isn’t love. It isn’t poetry.

It’s a mirror you both use to avoid looking at yourselves.

“You’re dangerous,” Charles murmurs one night, lips grazing your shoulder as you sit at the piano bench.

“You’re easy,” you reply.

He laughs, too bright and too boyish, and you want to bite him just to ruin it.

***

He worships you.

It’s obvious. In the way he watches you light cigarettes like you’re setting the world on fire. In the way he follows you from room to room like a bored cat in heat. You start wearing less around him just to see how long it takes for him to crack.

“You like being watched,” he says one afternoon as you pose on the divan, legs long, kaftan slipping down one shoulder like a whisper.

“Everyone does,” you reply, flipping a page in your book.

“Not like this.”

“No,” you admit, “not like this.”

He kneels beside you, mouth grazing your thigh. “You drive men insane.”

You glance down, unbothered. “That’s their problem.”

***

But it shifts.

Slow. Subtle. The way perfume lingers on bedsheets. The way silence starts to feel weighted.

He starts asking questions.

Personal ones.

“What was your wedding like?”

“Do you ever think about going back?”

“Did you love him?”

You deflect. Joke. Laugh. Pretend he’s being ridiculous. But he’s not.

And one night — too cold for September — you find yourself lying on the floor of the grand drawing room, staring at the frescoed ceiling, a bottle of red between you.

Charles, head resting on your stomach, whispers, “Do you miss him?”

You don’t answer immediately.

Your fingers twist in his hair. Soft. Almost kind.

“God, no,” you say aloud, light and careless.

But your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, and the truth you don’t speak pulses behind your ribs.

God, yes.

***

The thing about Charles is that he needs to be adored. It’s not arrogance, it’s hunger. The kind of ache that starts in childhood and never leaves. You recognize it because you used to love a man who starved on praise. Who needed it more than air.

You used to be that woman.

But you’re not anymore.

So when Charles rolls over one morning, lashes thick, lips parted, skin still flushed with last night’s sin, and says, “Tell me you’re not going to leave,”

You stretch like a cat, light a cigarette, and smile.

“I never tell lies in the morning.”

He frowns. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

***

You start packing on a Tuesday.

He doesn’t ask why. He watches in silence, shirtless in the doorway, arms crossed like he’s trying not to fold.

“I thought you liked it here,” he says eventually.

“I do.”

“Then stay.”

“I never stay.”

He steps forward. “You’re running.”

You zip your suitcase. “Always.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softly, “Was I just a distraction?”

You walk over, kiss him once — soft and slow, like an apology.

“You were a beautiful one.”

***

The drive away from the château is silent. The rain starts again halfway to Milan.

You crack the window, light a Vogue, and let the smoke mix with the mist.

You don’t cry.

You don’t look back.

You don’t let yourself feel the shape of his name curling inside you.

Because this is the life you chose.

Because your kaftans are armor.

Because you don’t go back.

Not to men.

Not to mistakes.

Not even to the places where you left pieces of yourself.

And the road ahead?

It’s long.

It’s winding.

It’s yours.

***

It starts with a message.

Are you happy?

No preamble. No signature. Just those four words. Toto’s name at the top of the screen. His number, still memorized even though you deleted it 18 months ago.

You stare at it for five full minutes.

Then you put your phone face down on the marble table and order another Bellini.

***

You don’t reply. Of course you don’t.

The moment you acknowledge him, he wins. And you didn’t spend the last year resurrecting yourself just to crumble under the weight of one nostalgic text.

You’re not the girl who cried in hotel bathrooms anymore.

You’re not the woman who waited up at night for him to come home.

Now? You’re the woman who wears sunglasses indoors and kisses Red Bull drivers just because it’s fun.

***

At first, it’s subtle.

A glimpse of his profile at a press gala in Monaco. The flash of his watch at a media dinner in Austin. The sound of his voice — too measured, too calm — floating from the Mercedes motorhome in Silverstone.

You chalk it up to coincidence.

The paddock is small, after all. You know this. You helped build it.

But then he’s everywhere.

Everywhere.

Even places he has no reason to be. Like the Armani afterparty in Milan where you’re draped in sequins and Max has a hand on your thigh, whispering something obscene in Dutch.

You see Toto across the room. Standing next to someone forgettable. His jaw tight. His tie too neat. Eyes on you like you’re a threat.

Max notices. Of course he does.

“Should I be worried?” He murmurs, eyes still locked on your mouth.

You smirk. “Only if you fall in love.”

***

Toto never says anything.

He just … appears. Like a ghost who refuses to be exorcised.

In Singapore, he shows up at a dinner. You’re in red satin and diamonds the size of sin. You don’t look at him, but you feel him — tense, watching, waiting for you to crack.

You don’t.

In Suzuka, he lingers outside the Red Bull motorhome while you laugh too loud at Max’s jokes. You light a cigarette just to spite him. Blow the smoke in his direction like a curse.

In Qatar, he tries to intercept you in the paddock tunnel.

“Can we talk?”

You pause. Look him up and down like he’s a knockoff handbag.

“No.”

His jaw twitches. “Just five minutes.”

You smile sweetly. “That’s four minutes and fifty-eight seconds more than you deserve.”

And you walk away, hips swinging like a metronome.

***

Max is not your boyfriend. Not really.

He’s chaos and cocktails and unapologetic ego. He calls you lieverd and pulls your sunglasses off just to see if you’ll bite. You never do. Not in public.

But you let him press you against walls.

You let him unzip your dress in the backseat of Ubers.

You let him kiss you in full view of every camera when you’re in the mood to cause a scene.

And one night, outside the Red Bull garage — humid, electric, the whole world humming with adrenaline — you let him kiss you so hard it hurts.

His hands on your waist. Your mouth open against his. And somewhere behind the barriers, Toto watching like a man being bled slowly.

Max pulls back, cocky, breathless. “Was that for the cameras, or for him?”

You adjust your kaftan. Smooth your hair. “What’s the difference?”

***

The next morning, your phone buzzes again.

Why are you doing this?

You read it. Laugh. Leave it on read.

He texts again, two hours later.

Do you miss me?

You turn your phone off.

Because this is the difference.

He had you, once. Had all of you. The real you. Soft and loyal and terrifyingly hopeful. And he crushed you with silence. Now he wants to break himself on your laughter.

And you’re going to let him.

***

At the next race, you wear white.

A floor-length silk kaftan. Slit up to the thigh. Gold chainmail collar. No bra.

Everyone stares.

Max whistles. “You look like revenge.”

You smile, slow and sharp. “No, darling. I am revenge.”

And when you walk past Toto’s garage, you don’t look at him. But you can feel his gaze like a hand on your throat.

Good. Let him choke.

***

That night, there’s a party. Of course there is.

Champagne. Smoke. Bass so loud it drowns out every doubt.

You’re standing with Franco and Pierre, both of whom are trying to flirt with you and failing spectacularly, when you see him.

Toto. At the bar. Alone.

He doesn’t approach. Just watches. Like always.

You excuse yourself mid-laugh. Float across the room like a siren. He straightens when he sees you, eyes wide, hopeful.

You stop two feet away.

He opens his mouth.

You hold up a finger.

“No,” you say, voice silk and steel. “Don’t ruin it. Let me keep the upper hand, just this once.”

Toto swallows. “You’ve always had the upper hand.”

You blink, surprised. But only for a moment.

“I know.”

And then you turn, leaving him standing there like a statue in a gallery no one visits anymore.

***

Later, Max finds you on the rooftop. You’re barefoot, wrapped in someone else’s blazer, smoking a Vogue in the rain.

“You’re bleeding power,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face.

You exhale smoke. “Am I?”

He sits beside you. “You let him see you cry yet?”

You flick ash off the edge of the building. “Not in years.”

Max hums. “He’ll never stop. You know that.”

You lean your head back. Let the rain hit your face. “Let him try.”

***

And when your phone buzzes again-

I still love you.

-you don’t even read it.

You just delete the thread.

Because your energy’s precious.

Because you’re done being haunted.

Because you never let him back in your bed.

And he will never, ever touch you again.

***

You leave in the middle of the night.

No notes. No headlines. No goodbye.

Just a private flight from Nice to Marrakesh, and a kaftan that smells like Max’s cologne balled in the corner of your suitcase.

You check into a riad with whitewashed walls and emerald tiles, tucked deep in the Medina. The air smells like spice and rain. The staff speak softly. The Wi-Fi is terrible.

Perfect.

You don’t tell anyone where you’re going. You don’t answer your phone. You don’t post. You don't perform.

For the first time in years, you vanish.

And it feels like drowning.

And it feels like peace.

***

The first few days are a blur.

You sleep too much. You smoke too much. You cry only once — into the tiled floor of the shower, mascara running in ghostly streaks, the sound of call to prayer humming through the open window like a lullaby for the unholy.

You eat nothing but oranges and olives.

You drink mint tea until your hands shake.

You read the same sentence of Anaïs Nin over and over again: I must be a mermaid. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.

You tell yourself this is a sabbatical. A self-imposed exile. A luxury. You have money. Time. Freedom. This is what you always said you wanted.

So why does it feel like punishment?

***

He shows up on a Tuesday.

You’re barefoot, pacing the rooftop in a silk slip and a glass of cold rosé sweating in your hand. The city is gold in the afternoon sun. The riad is silent.

You hear the front gate. Footsteps on the stairs.

And then-

“Hola.”

You turn.

Fernando Alonso is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, sunglasses still on. He looks infuriatingly calm, like he’s just walked off a yacht in Ibiza, not crossed continents to track down a woman who ghosted the entire Formula 1 paddock.

You stare at him.

He shrugs. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to rescue you.”

You exhale slowly. “Good. I’m not a fucking damsel.”

“No,” he agrees, stepping onto the rooftop. “You’re the dragon.”

***

He doesn't ask how you are. Doesn't touch you. Doesn’t try to break the silence you’ve woven around yourself like a spell.

Instead, he sits beside you on the floor, back against a crumbling wall, and lights a cigarette. Offers you one without a word.

You take it.

He lights yours with the tip of his. The gesture is intimate. Effortless. Old world.

The sun dips lower.

You smoke in silence.

“I knew you'd come,” you say eventually, blowing smoke toward the call to prayer rising again across the city.

Fernando glances at you. “You always run to beautiful places when you’re in pain.”

You snort. “At least I’m consistent.”

He smiles, but it’s soft. “You’re not.”

You stare down at the courtyard below, at the shadow of the date palm shifting like a ghost across the tiles.

“I think I broke something,” you say.

“In you?”

“In me. In everything.”

Fernando takes a drag. “You don’t break. You just … shift.”

You laugh, sharp and bitter. “I’m sweet and I’m icy and strange. That’s what Max said. Right before I told him to go fuck himself.”

Fernando looks over, amused. “He deserved it?”

“He blinked first.”

“Ah.”

You exhale. Watch the smoke rise. “I don’t know who I am when no one’s watching.”

He nods. “Then stop watching yourself.”

***

That night, he sleeps in the room across the hall. He doesn't try to touch you. Doesn’t ask for anything. Just … stays.

You think that should terrify you. But it doesn’t.

***

The next day, you go to the souk together.

He wears a linen shirt half-unbuttoned. You wear vintage Chanel and a scarf wrapped around your hair. People stare. Of course they do.

He buys you dates and pomegranate juice. You pick out spices you don’t know how to use.

At one stall, a woman with hennaed hands takes your palm and murmurs something in Arabic. Fernando watches carefully as she traces your lifeline.

“What did she say?” You ask when she lets go.

“She said you’ll live a long life, but only if you stop confusing being admired with being loved.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He grins. “Touché.”

***

That evening, you lie on your backs on the rooftop, watching the stars.

You pass a cigarette back and forth. You’re wearing his shirt. He’s wearing your silence.

“You think being adored makes you immortal,” he says quietly, lighting the fresh cigarette.

You take it from him. Inhale. “Doesn’t it?”

Fernando watches you. “Not if you don’t believe any of it.”

You don’t respond.

The air smells like jasmine and ash.

You talk more that night than you have in months.

About childhood. About divorce. About the way fame erodes you until you don’t know what’s real anymore.

“I used to think being chosen meant I was safe,” you admit.

Fernando watches the smoke rise from his cigarette. “You’re not something to be chosen. You’re something to survive.”

You smile. “Are you calling me a disaster?”

He looks over, eyes tired but bright. “I’m saying you’re a storm. Beautiful. Violent. Necessary.”

You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, the call to prayer echoing like a lullaby.

***

In the morning, you find a note on your pillow.

You don’t have to be good. You just have to be real. Call me when you want to come home.

There’s no signature. Just a room key and a clove cigarette tucked beside it.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you put on your sunglasses, order a mint tea, and let yourself breathe.

Just for a moment.

Just for you.

***

It starts in Monte Carlo.

Of course it does.

The sky is ink. The sea is velvet. Your phone is on airplane mode, and you’re three glasses of Dom into a night that already tastes like bad decisions.

You’re wearing a black silk slip, no bra, sheer everything. The kind of outfit you only wear when you want to be caught.

You’re tired of running. Of Marrakesh rooftops and cryptic notes and the endless theatre of self-reinvention. You want something easier. Lighter.

Or maybe you just want to feel wanted without having to pay for it with pieces of your soul.

And Lando?

Lando is there.

Smirking in the doorway of the rooftop lounge, curls messy, shirt unbuttoned, eyes a little too knowing for someone that young.

“Thought you’d disappeared,” he says, sliding into the seat beside you.

“I did.”

He grins. “Didn’t stick.”

You shrug, fingers wrapped around the stem of your coupe glass. “Nothing ever does.”

He watches you in that way he does — curious, flirtatious, just slightly out of reach. He always looks like he’s getting away with something.

“You look like a villain tonight,” he murmurs.

You glance over. “And you look like someone who likes dangerous women.”

He leans in, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Guilty.”

***

You end up in his apartment.

Of course you do.

The room is too bright, so you turn off all the lights. Monaco glitters through the windows like a thousand judgmental eyes. You pull the curtains.

He kisses you like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Careful. Almost reverent.

It makes you angrier than it should.

“Don’t be sweet,” you mutter, teeth grazing his jaw. “I’m not here for sweet.”

He stiffens. Nods once. “Okay.”

And then he’s different.

Hands rougher. Mouth hungrier. The air crackles with something dangerous. Like fire licking at velvet.

You push him down onto the bed and climb over him.

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t even blink.

***

It’s not love.

It’s not even romance.

It’s noise and heat and skin.

You scratch your nails down his chest because you want to leave a mark on someone, anyone. You kiss him hard enough to bruise because you don’t want to feel delicate. You close your eyes and picture other faces. Other hands. Other regrets.

He lets you.

He lets you use him like a cigarette you don’t intend to finish.

***

Afterward, the silence is unbearable.

You sit at the edge of the bed, naked, spine straight, cigarette between your fingers like armor. Your kaftan is puddled on the floor like a crime scene.

Lando lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. Breathing carefully.

Neither of you speak.

Until you do.

“I’m sorry.”

He turns his head. “Don’t be.”

You inhale. Ashes tremble. Your hands are shaking.

And then — without warning — you start to cry.

Not pretty tears. Not cinematic ones. Just the messy, gasping, humiliating kind.

You press the heels of your palms to your eyes, but it doesn’t stop. It pours out of you like floodwater. Like grief. Like truth.

“I didn’t mean to-” you start.

He sits up. Moves slowly. Gently. Places a hand on your knee. Doesn’t speak.

You look at him, mascara streaking, chest heaving.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” he says quietly. “I knew what this was.”

You shake your head. “It’s not fair.”

“None of this is.”

He reaches up. Brushes hair from your face. And then — so softly it breaks something in you — he pulls you into his arms.

You curl against his chest, crying like a confession. And he just holds you.

No questions. No shame.

Just stillness.

Just silence.

Just the mercy of being held when you no longer know how to ask for it.

***

Later, when you finally fall asleep, he stays awake beside you.

Watches the way your lips twitch in your dreams. The way your fingers twitch like you’re holding something invisible.

He doesn’t know what to call this.

Not love. Not even affection.

Just … being Thelma on the side.

And maybe that’s enough. For one night.

***

You arrive in Austin like it’s a movie premiere.

A cherry red convertible. Cowboy boots that cost more than some mechanics’ salaries. A white mini skirt, barely legal. Your hair in hot-rollered waves. Lip gloss sharp enough to be a weapon.

You walk the paddock like you own it, because in some ways, you do.

It’s not just the stares. It’s the silence that follows them. The held breath. The whispered theories. Toto’s ex-wife. Max’s maybe-girlfriend. Lewis’ ghost. Lando’s ruin.

You’re all of them.

You’re none of them.

And it’s delicious.

***

“Jesus,” someone mutters as you pass.

You don’t turn around.

You just smile to yourself and adjust your sunglasses.

You’ve perfected the art of becoming legend before breakfast.

***

Everyone wants you to choose.

A side. A man. A fate.

“You should talk to Toto,” Carmen says over drinks, all sincerity and subtle Spanish judgment. “At some point, you have to decide what this all means.”

You sip your Mezcal Paloma and raise a brow. “What if it doesn’t mean anything?”

“You don’t believe that.”

You laugh, low and musical. “I’m starting to.”

***

Christian Horner flirts shamelessly at the Red Bull Energy Station.

“You could be our good luck charm, you know,” he says, eyes twinkling, tongue permanently in cheek. “Bring Max all the way to another championship.”

“I’m not a rabbit’s foot,” you reply, dry as vermouth.

He leans in, conspiratorial. “You’re something. That much is obvious.”

You glance at his wedding ring. “Careful, Christian. You’re married.”

“Never stopped anyone in this paddock.”

You smile sweetly. “I’m not a mistress either.”

Then you take a sip of your champagne and walk away.

***

Toto avoids you.

Not well.

You see him everywhere. Talking to engineers. Laughing too loudly with Kimi. Pretending not to look when you pass.

At one point, during free practice, you feel his eyes on your back like heat. You don’t turn around. You just lean against the Red Bull pit wall, legs crossed, smirking.

It’s all a game now. And you’re winning.

****

Max finds you behind the hospitality tent after FP2.

The sun is brutal. The air thick with dust and adrenaline. Your boots click against the asphalt as you step into the shade, fanning yourself with a Red Bull visor someone left behind.

“You’re hiding,” he says, approaching with a bottle of water.

You accept it. “I’m lounging.”

He watches you drink. His expression is unreadable, which means it’s serious.

“You’re making people crazy.”

You smile, teeth gleaming. “Only the weak ones.”

He exhales, wipes sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. You watch his abs flex without shame.

He notices.

“You like being dangerous, don’t you?” He says.

“Only when I’m bored.”

“Are you bored now?”

You pause. “A little.”

He steps closer.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says.

It lands like a punch wrapped in silk.

You blink. Lower the water bottle. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

You tilt your head. “You’re twenty-seven.”

He shrugs. “So?”

“You’ll get over it.”

“I don’t want to.”

You sigh and lean back against the wall. “Max …”

He doesn’t touch you. Just watches. Waiting.

“I like you,” you say.

He smiles.

“But not like that.”

The smile fades.

“I don’t want to be someone’s endgame,” you continue. “I don’t want to be kept.”

“That’s not what I’m offering.”

“It’s what it becomes.”

He leans in, voice low. “You don’t have to marry me. Just let me mean something.”

You hesitate. “I’ve let too many men mean too much already.”

***

Later, you stand alone by the pit exit, watching the sun drip gold across the track.

A photographer lifts his camera, and you pose automatically — one leg out, chin tilted, cigarette balanced at your lips like a signature.

You’re not a woman anymore. You’re myth. You’re metaphor. You’re the girl who wore heartbreak like high fashion.

Someone behind you says, “They say that you should settle down.”

You don’t even turn. “But I don’t wanna.”

***

You eat dinner with Lando that night.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t ask questions. Just brings tacos to your hotel room and sits on the floor like you’re normal people with unremarkable pain.

“Do you miss it?” He asks at one point.

“What?”

“Belonging to someone.”

You swallow. “I don’t think I ever did.”

He nods like he understands. Maybe he does.

You eat in silence for a while.

Then he says, “You’re not a villain, you know.”

You glance at him. “Then what am I?”

“A warning.”

You laugh. It tastes like tequila and tragedy.

***

In your hotel bathroom, you stare at your reflection.

Smoky eyes. Perfect liner. Lipstick that still hasn’t faded.

You look expensive. Untouchable.

You look like someone who made the right choice.

Then why do you feel so haunted?

***

Back at the paddock the next day, Toto finally corners you.

It’s a small hallway between motorhomes. No cameras. No witnesses.

Just the two of you. And years of silence coiled between your bodies like a stormcloud.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you like you’re a language he used to be fluent in.

“Are you okay?” He asks eventually.

You cock your head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You look … happy.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Don’t I always?”

There’s a pause.

“You don’t have to keep performing,” he says quietly.

You look at him for a long time. “Neither do you.”

And you walk away.

***

Max wins the race.

You don’t stay for the podium.

Instead, you drive through the Texas night with the windows down, wind in your hair, and nothing on the radio but silence.

Everyone wants you to choose.

But the truth is — you already have.

You chose yourself.

And you’re not sorry.

***

Toto texts you at 1:07 AM.

Just talk to me. Please.

You stare at it from the balcony of your suite, a silk robe sliding off your shoulder like a whispered dare. Below, Austin sparkles in scattered, restless lights.

Somewhere, Max is probably still celebrating.

Somewhere, Lando is probably asleep.

Somewhere, Lewis is definitely not texting you.

But Toto is.

You light a cigarette. Let the ember flare red and mean.

At 1:10 AM, another buzz.

Come up. Room 2314.

You flick ash into the wind.

At 1:16, you’re knocking.

Not because you owe him anything. Not because you want to. But because you need to know.

Why now?

***

The door swings open too fast. He’s been waiting.

His shirt is half-buttoned, sleeves rolled. There’s a drink in his hand — something dark and expensive. His hair’s a mess. He looks tired. Raw. Human.

“Toto.”

“Come in,” he says, voice hoarse.

You step past him like it’s just another hotel room. But it’s not. This is the kind of suite they give men who sign billion-dollar contracts.

“You couldn’t just text like a normal man with regrets?” You ask, eyeing the heavy furniture, the untouched fruit plate, the open balcony doors.

“I needed to see you.”

You glance at him. “You’ve been seeing me for weeks.”

He closes the door. Turns. “Not like this.”

It’s quiet. The air is heavy with unsaid things.

He doesn’t offer you a drink. You don’t sit down.

“What do you want, Toto?”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

“That much is clear.”

“I keep thinking I’ll see you and it’ll pass. The jealousy. The … everything.”

You light another cigarette and pace toward the window. “That’s not my problem.”

“I know.”

You inhale. Blow smoke toward the glass. “So what is?”

He swallows. “You made me feel small.”

That stops you.

You turn, brows raised. “I made you feel small?”

He nods. “You never needed me.”

You laugh. It’s not cruel, it’s surprised. “And that was my crime?”

“No. Your crime was pretending you ever did.”

You sit down then, slowly, crossing your legs on the velvet couch. The robe parts just enough. He notices, of course.

“Do you want me to apologize?” You ask.

“No.”

“Do you want me to say I regret leaving?”

He moves to the minibar. Pours another drink. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

“I did need you,” you say softly. “Back then.”

He stills.

“I needed you to see me. To understand me. But you didn’t. Not really.”

“I was trying to build something for us.”

You shake your head. “You were trying to build something for yourself and assume I’d decorate it.”

He sits across from you. His hands are trembling. You’ve never seen that before. Not even in court.

“I didn’t know how to love you the right way,” he admits.

“Then why now?”

He blinks.

You repeat it, colder this time. “Why now, Toto?”

“I-”

But he doesn’t have an answer.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because it’s not about now. It’s about the fact that everyone else has seen you. Held you. Kissed you. It’s about power, not love. It’s about watching you slip out of his grasp and become something untouchable.

It’s about the myth of you.

And men always fall in love with myths.

***

“I kissed Max outside your garage,” you say, crossing your arms.

He flinches.

“I let you watch.”

“I know.”

“You deserved that.”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still want you.”

You stand. Walk to the window again. “No. You want who you remember. The ornament. The perfect wife. The woman who didn’t wear see-through dresses in the paddock and laugh too loudly at press dinners.”

He walks to you slowly. Stops a breath away. “I want the woman who destroyed me.”

You blink.

“I want the version of you that made me afraid.”

You whisper, “Then you don’t want me. You want penance.”

There’s a long silence.

Then — just once — you kiss him.

It’s soft. Cold. Almost nothing. The kind of kiss that means I once loved you but not anymore.

He grips your wrist, gently. “Don’t go.”

You don’t answer.

Just step back.

And leave.

Without looking back.

***

Your phone buzzes on the elevator ride down. A text from Max.

Where are you?

You don’t answer.

You’re high off your own myth again.

It’s not your fault he fell in love.

***

The end-of-season party is yours.

Not officially, of course. On paper, it’s sponsored by some luxury tequila brand and loosely tied to a Monaco yacht club’s winter branch. But everyone knows. The grid wouldn’t be here without you. It’s your finale. Your coronation. Your final, golden act.

And the dress — God, the dress.

Gold, metallic, liquid. Cut low enough to be scandalous, draped enough to be iconic. Your hair’s swept up like a 1950s starlet on the run, skin glowing with the kind of sheen that only comes from winning every emotional war of the year. Diamonds on your ears, champagne in your hand. You don’t so much enter the party as materialize in it — light bending, heads turning, whispers rising like smoke.

It’s not subtle. It’s not supposed to be.

***

Pierre whistles as you pass. “You’re gonna break the entire grid.”

“I already have,” you say, smiling sweetly.

“Are you looking for a plus-one or just witnesses tonight?” He asks, tugging at his collar.

You shrug. “Maybe just disciples.”

Carlos sidles in with a cocktail and raises it. “We’re all just living in your highlight reel, aren’t we?”

“You’re all just lucky I let you.”

***

The ballroom is pure velvet and gold, with lights like stars and a band that switches from jazz to disco without apology. Charles dances with an Italian actress you don’t recognize. George is drunker than he’ll admit. Lewis is in the corner in full avant-garde, sunglasses on indoors, sipping something green and mysterious.

Lando arrives late with lipstick on his neck and guilt in his eyes. You nod at him once. He doesn’t approach. Doesn’t need to. Some ghosts are polite like that.

***

“You’re dancing tonight, right?” Max says, appearing beside you with a glass of bourbon and a dangerous smile.

You sip your drink. “I’m hosting.”

“And?”

You give him a look. “What would you do if I said no?”

He shrugs. “Watch you anyway.”

***

The drivers orbit you like planets. Drunk on champagne and something more intangible — your gravity. Your glow. Your legend.

“You’re better than all of us,” Esteban says, wide-eyed and sweet. “I think you’re actually immortal.”

“I’m just well lit,” you reply.

***

Later, Oscar tries to flirt and fails adorably.

“Do you always wear gold when you plan to ruin lives?” He asks.

“Only when I’m making art out of it.”

***

You dance.

At first with Charles, who’s sweaty and smiling and too tactile by half. Then with Carlos, who spins you like a prize. Then with Pierre, who keeps laughing into your shoulder like he can’t believe any of this is real.

You let them have their moments. You kiss cheeks, press close, throw your head back in laughter so loud and rich it echoes.

The shoes come off around midnight. You’re barefoot. Free. Glorious.

You are the sun.

And they orbit.

***

At 1:34 AM, Toto leaves.

You watch him from the balcony, framed by gold drapes, sipping Dom Pérignon straight from the bottle. He’s buttoned up and bruised beneath the surface. His driver won the championship. His team didn’t. His heart’s an open question and you won’t be answering.

He doesn’t look back.

Good.

***

“Does it feel like revenge?” Lewis asks, joining you at the railing.

You smile without turning. “It feels like I won.”

He nods, thoughtful. “You did.”

“You were the only one who didn’t try to own me.”

“You were never ownable.”

You glance sideways. “And still you wrote poetry about me in the margins of your books.”

“I write poetry about storms too.”

You laugh. “God, I missed you.”

He clinks his glass against yours. “You missed yourself.”

***

Somewhere behind you, someone starts a conga line. It’s chaos. Beautiful, stupid chaos.

You inhale. You glow. You exist so vividly that it’s almost obscene.

And still — he’s watching.

Max. By the bar. Leaning against marble. Arms crossed. Eyes on you like you’re a riddle he’ll never solve. He doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t speak. Just watches.

Like always.

Like he’s waiting for you to pick him.

But tonight, there are no picks.

There’s only you.

***

When the clock hits 3:12 AM, you kick open the terrace doors and lead a barefoot parade into the street. The city yawns open in front of you, lit in amber and possibility. Someone pulls a speaker from nowhere. Someone else pops another bottle. Carlos climbs a lamp post. Lando howls like a wolf. George loses his jacket and his mind.

You dance in the middle of the road. Spinning, laughing, high off your own myth.

Someone calls your name. You don’t turn.

You’re already in the next chapter.

And the best part?

You’re still not sorry.

Not your fault they fell in love.

***

Morning comes late.

It rolls in quietly, unbothered and gold, slipping through sheer curtains like a lover with good intentions. You don’t open your eyes at first. Not because you’re tired — though you are — but because you’re not quite ready to name what this is.

There’s a stillness to the room, rare and intimate. The kind of stillness that belongs to mornings after the world has ended and remade itself.

Max breathes slowly beside you.

One arm tossed behind his head. The sheet barely clinging to his hips. He looks impossibly young like this, but also impossibly calm — like all the rage that fuels him has softened just for now.

You stare at the ceiling and let the silence stretch.

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

Because neither of you want to ruin the illusion that this could be anything but what it is: borrowed time, honeyed and hungover.

Eventually, you stretch. Slowly. Luxuriously.

Limbs unfurling like silk unraveling. One leg slips out from under the duvet, bare skin catching the light. The diamonds you forgot to take off glint from your wrist, your neck. Your lips are still stained red — last night’s lipstick, last night’s secrets.

You slide out of bed like a shadow.

Max watches you. You don’t need to look to know.

He doesn’t say stay.

You don’t offer to.

***

The suite is a mess. Of course it is. A champagne bottle lays corked sideways on the floor. One heel by the minibar. Your gold dress is draped over a chair like a surrendered flag. There’s a feather boa on the lampshade. You don’t remember where it came from.

You smile.

Walk barefoot to the balcony.

Outside, the air is dry and sweet. The city is waking up in fragments — horns in the distance, the echo of a siren, birds doing their best to sound poetic.

You lean against the railing and stretch again. This time slower. A yawn disguised as a pose.

And then — click.

From somewhere below: a camera flash. Then another.

You smile wider.

Let them get their shot.

You, in nothing but diamonds and lingerie. Skin dewy. Hair an elegant wreck. Mouth red. Eyes unreadable.

Max appears behind you in the glass reflection, shirtless, silent.

Let them wonder.

***

Inside, your phone buzzes.

Then again.

You don't check it.

Because you already know. The texts will be the same: Where are you? Last night was insane. Come to brunch. Are you okay?

Toto, probably.

Lewis, maybe.

Lando, definitely not.

Charles — too soon.

Fernando? Never in writing.

You light a cigarette instead.

Let the world wait.

***

“You’re quiet,” Max says from the doorway.

You glance at him. “So are you.”

He nods. Crosses the room. Takes your cigarette without asking, then hands it back. A shared ritual. Familiar. Thoughtless.

“I don’t want to ask,” he says.

“Good.”

He exhales. “You’re not going to stay, are you?”

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t push.

Instead, he leans against the balcony beside you. Not touching. Just close enough to remember the way your skin felt against his hours ago.

“Last night was something,” he says finally.

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s what you’re going with?”

He shrugs. “I don’t want to say too much.”

You smile. “That’s new for you.”

He grins. “I said too much already. You didn’t believe any of it.”

“Should I have?”

He flicks ash off the edge. “No.”

There’s a weight between you that isn’t tension. Not anymore. It’s not about games or power or promises. It’s just two people in the aftermath of something beautiful and doomed, breathing the same air.

“Do you regret it?” You ask.

He thinks. “No. You?”

“No.”

And that’s enough.

***

You head back inside. Pull the gold dress from the chair. Step into it slowly, unbothered. You wear it like armor now. Like memory. Like you already know the headlines: Y/N Y/L/N Hosts the End-of-Season Party, Ends Max Verstappen in the Process.

He watches you zip it up.

You smirk. “You’re going to tell them?”

“No,” he says. “They already know.”

You walk to the mirror. Fix your lipstick. Smooth your hair. Add another necklace for no reason but excess.

Max stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with something close to reverence. Or fear. Or both.

“Goodbye, Max,” you say.

“Bye,” he murmurs. “For now.”

***

The elevator ride down is silent. One floor clicks by, then another.

You don’t check your phone.

You don’t fix your hem.

You don’t run.

When the doors open, the lobby hushes. Conversations stutter. The concierge blinks.

You walk through it all like you own it.

Because you do.

***

In the car, you finally check your messages.

Twenty-eight unread.

You delete them all.

And then you roll the window down. Let the wind ruin your hair. Light another cigarette. And laugh — sharp, soft, real.

You’ve never felt more like yourself.

No promises.

No titles.

No man beside you trying to shrink the sun.

You’re finally free.