You and Lando slip into a tiny restaurant tucked off a quiet London street, the kind of place he likes because no one bothers him and the tables are close enough that he can keep a hand on you the whole time. Which, of course, he does — fingers laced with yours on top of the table, thumb brushing your knuckles like he’s absent‑mindedly reminding himself you’re real.

The waiter comes over with a smile.

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

You glance at the menu, then at Lando… and that’s when you do it.

You tilt your head sweetly, blink up at him, and say in the softest voice you can manage:

“Um… baby? Can I order the carbonara?”

You might as well have slapped him with a wet towel.

Lando freezes. Actually freezes. His eyebrows jump, his mouth parts, and he looks at the waiter like he’s just been handed a bomb.

Then he turns back to you, eyes wide, confused, and a little offended.

“Can you… what?” he whispers.

You keep the act going, nodding innocently. “Can I order it?”

The waiter is trying so hard not to laugh.

Lando sits up straighter, shoulders squaring like he’s suddenly the CEO of Pasta Permissions Ltd.

“Why are you asking me?” he murmurs, leaning closer. “You don’t need my permission to eat food. What are you talking about?”

You shrug, still playing dumb. “I just wanted to check.”

He blinks. Hard.

Then he turns to the waiter, voice firm and protective.

“She can order whatever she wants. Literally anything. She doesn’t need to ask me. Ever.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Lando narrows his eyes. “Wait. Wait.”

He leans back, studying you like you’re a puzzle he suddenly recognises.

“Oh my god,” he mutters. “Is this one of those stupid TikTok things again?”

You break. You burst out laughing, head falling forward onto your folded arms.

Lando groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“I knew it. I knew it. Why do you do this to me?”

You’re still laughing when he hooks a hand under your chin and lifts your face to his.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably. “I thought you’d suddenly turned into a 1950s housewife.”

You wipe your eyes. “You should’ve seen your face.”

He scoffs. “You should’ve seen your face when I said you can order anything. You melted.”

You did. You absolutely did.

The waiter returns, still amused. “So… carbonara?”

Lando answers before you can.

“She’ll have the carbonara. And she doesn’t need to ask me. Ever. Just so we’re all clear.”

You nudge him under the table. “Okay, boss.”

He shoots you a warning look — the playful kind that promises payback later.

“Oh, you’re in trouble,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Massive trouble.”

And judging by the way his hand slides onto your thigh under the table, you know he means it.

ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ: ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ, ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: ʀᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ - ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇϙᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

CIELA

After Barcelona 2015, something shifted.

It wasn't that I suddenly became a different driver. The car was the same, the tracks were the same, and the competition was the same, but I was different. The panic that had been my constant companion since Melbourne had loosened its grip. I felt like I could breathe again.

Monaco came next, and I qualified P9. Not as good as Barcelona, but solid. I hadn’t dropped out of Q1, which was the main thing. In the race, I fought my way up to P6, claiming eight valuable points for the team.

The season continued. Some races were better than others. I was scoring points consistently now, finishing in the top ten every race. Silverstone brought another podium P3 this time, the British fans cheering beneath the podium was incredible.  

Brazil was the final podium of the season. P3 once more, the São Paulo crowd is electric with energy. Four podiums total, and a consistent points finish. Not a championship-winning season by any stretch, but a solid rookie year. A year that proved I could compete at this level.

When the final race in Abu Dhabi concluded, Williams had finished third in the constructors' championship. I'd finished fifth in the drivers' standings. Fifth. Out of twenty drivers, I'd finished fifth in my rookie year. From the massive wobble I’d had at the beginning of the year, I was more than happy with how it ended.

The 2016 season started with the confidence I hadn't possessed the year before. I knew the tracks now, I knew the car, and most importantly, I knew what I was capable of. The pressure was still there because it always would be, but it felt manageable now. Like something I could carry rather than something that would crush me.

Testing went well. The car felt good, responsive, and predictable.

"This is going to be a good year," Claire said during one of our pre-season meetings. "I can feel it."

The season started strong. Points in every race, and I was consistent and reliable, the kind of driver teams could count on to bring the car home in a good position.

Once again, it was Spain where everything came together.

Spain, again. The circuit that had saved my career the year before. This time, I arrived with confidence instead of panic. My family came again, and Alexia's family, all of them wearing Williams colours and cheering from the back of the garage.

Qualifying was perfect. Every lap felt effortless, the car dancing through the corners exactly where I wanted it. When the session ended, and I saw my name at the top of the timing screen, I couldn't quite process it.

"P3, Ciela," Lucas said over the radio.

In parc fermé, the other drivers congratulated me. Some seemed genuine, others less so. I didn't care. I'd earned this.

Alexia found me after the media obligations, and she was crying happy tears again, the kind that made her eyes shine.

"I’m so proud of you," she said, pulling me into a hug.

"I can't believe it," I said, and I was crying too.

"I can," she said fiercely. "I always knew you could do this."

Race day was perfect. Clear skies, warm temperatures.

I felt in control in a way I never had before. This was my race. My track. My day.

Lap after lap, I maintained my position and was gaining on the others ahead. The pit stops went smoothly, and the strategy played out perfectly. My time came when Nico and Lewis were at each other's throats again. I didn’t play the hero, I just capitalised on their mistake. They took each other out, which left me the space and the opportunity to take first.

With ten laps to go, I had managed to fight to create a comfortable gap to second place.

"You're going to win this," Lucas said through the radio. "Ten laps to your first Formula One victory."

My first win. I was going to win a Formula One race, and I was going to do it at home.

The final laps were agonising. Every corner felt like an opportunity for something to go wrong. A mechanical failure, a mistake, a safety car that would bunch up the field, but nothing went wrong. The car held together, I didn't make mistakes, instead I had Alexia’s voice ringing through my head ‘One turn at a time. One lap at a time. When I crossed the line and saw the checkered flag, the emotion hit me like a physical force.

"You did it!" Lucas shouted. "You won! Ciela, you won the Spanish Grand Prix!"

I couldn't speak. I was crying too hard, the tears streaming down my face inside my helmet. I'd won. I'd actually won a Formula One race.

The celebration in the parc fermé was chaotic. The team was there, cheering and hugging me. The other drivers congratulated me, and this time I could tell most of them meant it. Winning your first race was special, something every driver understood.

As nice as it was, it was Alexia I wanted. Alexia, I needed to share this with you.

She was at the barrier, and when I reached her, she was sobbing. I pulled off my helmet and gloves and reached through to hold her hands as she kissed my knuckles.

"We did it," I said. "We won."

"You did it," she corrected. "This is all you, Ciela."

"No," I said firmly. "This is us. All of it. Every lap, every race, every moment. It's us."

The podium was magical. Standing on the top step, the Spanish anthem playing out across the track, and then the rain of champagne. I looked down at Alexia in the crowd and saw her watching me with such love and pride that it made my chest ache.

This was what I'd dreamed of. This was what all the sacrifice and struggle and fear had all been for.

The rest of the 2016 season was strong. Another win in Malaysia and consistent points finishes throughout the whole year. With the fight with Mercedes, Ferrari, and now Red Bull, the season wasn’t as good as my rookie year, but we pulled through. I finished the year seventh in the drivers' championship and put Williams fifth in the constructors ' championship.

Not a championship-winning season, but a successful one. A season that proved I wasn't just a one-hit wonder and that Barcelona 2015 hadn't been a fluke. It was the year when the old Ciela came back. The Ciela that Alexia kept telling me to find again. The girl and the driver who didn’t give a shit about what anyone thought of me, and the year I finally learnt to back myself again, like I did when I was working my way up.

I was a legitimate Formula One driver, and I belonged here.

Then Nico Rosberg won the championship and retired, and that changed everything all over again.

The call came in December, just after the season ended. I was lying on the beach in Fiji, with my eyes closed, just taking in the quiet and the warmth. Alexia lay with me, using my thigh as her pillow while she read her book.  

"Ciela," Toto's voice was warm through the phone. "How would you feel about driving for Mercedes next year?"

I sat up straight as the words left his mouth. Alexia moved from where she lay, looking up from her book, concern written all over her face.

"Mercedes?" I managed.

"Nico's retiring. We need another driver, and I've always said the seat would be yours when one of them left.  The question is, do you want it?"

Was I ready? I'd spent two years at Williams, learning and growing and proving myself, but Mercedes was different. Mercedes was the top team; it was the championship-winning team. The pressure would be immense.

"Yes," I heard myself say. "I want it."

"Good," Toto said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "I’ll get the team to make it official."

When I hung up, Alexia was staring at me. "What just happened?"

"I'm going to Mercedes," I said, the words not quite feeling real. "I'm going to be Lewis Hamilton's new teammate."

She launched herself at me, wrapping me in a hug so tight I could barely breathe. "Ciela! That's incredible!"

It was incredible. It was also terrifying all over again.

Lewis Hamilton. Three-time world champion. One of the greatest drivers on the grid currently, and I was going to be his teammate. I was expected to match his pace, to challenge him, to prove I deserved to be in that car.

The announcement came a week later, and the media went wild. Ciela Lloris to Replace Nico Rosberg at Mercedes. The headlines were everywhere, my face was everywhere, and the commentary was endless.

The fans I’d gathered in the last two years were excited. Others were more sceptical. "She's not ready," they said. "She'll be destroyed by Hamilton. Mercedes is making a huge mistake."

I tried not to read the comments, but it was impossible to avoid them entirely, but this time I didn’t care. I'd signed the contract, and there was no going back now.

--- ---

The Mercedes was a different beast entirely.

I'd known it would be. You didn't go from a Williams to a Mercedes and expect it to feel the same, but knowing it and experiencing it physically were two very different things.

The car was faster, obviously, but it was also more complex, more sensitive, and so much more demanding. It required a different driving style and a completely different approach. Everything I'd learned at Williams had to be adapted, adjusted, and some things just had to be completely relearned.

Testing was humbling. I was fast, but not as fast as Lewis, and I wasn’t even close. He'd been in this car for years and knew every nuance and every trick. I was starting from scratch.

"Don't worry," Toto said after one particularly frustrating test session. "It takes time. You'll get there. I was not expecting you to be perfect the very first time you drove the car. Learn the car."

Except that felt like a luxury of time, time that I didn’t have. The season was starting, and I needed to be ready.

So many hours in the factory with the team, trawling through sim data to better prepare myself, so I could better understand the car and the team, but still, Australia came too quickly.

I qualified P4, which was respectable but not spectacular. Lewis was on pole, of course. In the race, I managed to finish P3, claiming a podium in my Mercedes debut.

"Good start," Toto said. "Now let's build on it."

China was harder. The car felt unpredictable, snapping away from me in corners where I expected grip. I qualified P8 and finished P6; the whole weekend was just a struggle to find the rhythm I needed.

In the debrief, the engineers went through the data, showing me where I was losing time. "You're not trusting the car," they said. "You're lifting too early, braking too much. The Mercedes has more downforce than the Williams. You need to trust it."

Trust. That word again. I needed to trust the car, and I needed to trust that I knew what the fuck I was doing. I’d spent days over the break with the team, at the factory, running data, helping to build the car. I’d spent hours hunched over a computer with Lucas, understanding everything there was to know about the car.

I knew what I was doing, and I had the knowledge behind me.

After that, Bahrain was better. I'd learned a lot from China, and I pushed harder, but most importantly, trusted the car more. P3 in qualifying, P3 in the race. Another podium, and this time I felt like I'd earned it.

"You're getting there," Lewis said after the race, and I couldn't tell if he was being genuine or just patronising, but whatever it was, it was dismissive.

Through those first three races, I played the team game. When the strategy called for me to hold position and let Lewis through, I did it. When they asked me to defend against other cars to give Lewis clean air, I did it. I was the second driver, the support act, and I had accepted that role.

Lewis was the established driver and an established champion. He'd earned the right to be the team's priority. I was still learning, still proving myself. It made sense. At least, that's what I told myself.

--- ---

The Russian Grand Prix was in Sochi, a circuit that brought a  windy track with mountains visible in the distance. I'd always liked Sochi even in junior races; it was technical but flowing. It rewarded precision and bravery in equal measure.

Qualifying had gone well. P3, just behind Lewis and Sebastian Vettel. A good starting position for moving forward into the race.

On Sunday morning, before the race, I was running late to the pre-race press conference. A problem of my own making, as I'd spent too long with Lucas reviewing telemetry data from qualifying, trying to understand where I'd lost those crucial tenths to Lewis.

The air of the paddock smelt like hot asphalt and expensive cologne, a scent that seemed to permeate every F1 paddock. As I turned the corner near the Red Bull hospitality unit, I heard my name and, unfortunately, everything else that came after it.

"Ciela's completely out of her depth."

Lewis's voice. I stopped walking immediately, my heartbeat sounding loud in my ears.

"I mean, honestly, what was Toto thinking?" Lewis continued, and I could hear the disdain dripping from every word. "She's been absolutely fucking useless. Third in Australia, sure, but that was just lucky. Then sixth in China, in a Mercedes, that's not just bad, Christian, that's embarrassing. That's humiliating for the whole team."

I pressed myself against the wall, hiding myself in the corner of the building. I should have walked away, but I didn't, and a part of me couldn't.

"Women in Formula One," Christian Horner's voice cut in, smooth and amused. "Never understood it, honestly. She was useless at Williams, too, and somehow that qualified her for a Mercedes seat?"

They both laughed. The sound made my stomach turn.

"She's a fucking embarrassment," Lewis said, and I could hear him moving, pacing maybe. "An embarrassing little girl playing at being a racing driver. You should see her in the debriefs, Christian. She sits there with this confused look on her face, like she doesn't understand half of what the engineers are saying, because she doesn't. She's clueless."

"Pretty, though," Christian said, and something in his tone made my skin crawl. "I'll give her that. Very pretty. Great for the sponsors, I suppose. Put her in a tight dress, parade her around, let her smile for the cameras. That's probably worth more to Mercedes than what you're actually paying her."

"That's all she's good for," Lewis agreed. "Looking pretty and doing what she's told. Well, mostly doing what she's told. Even that's questionable after China. Did you see that race? She couldn't control the car. Couldn't find the limit. Couldn't do anything right. I was watching her onboards afterward ... she drives like someone who's never been in a Formula One car before."

"How did she even get the seat?" Christian asked, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. "Really, Lewis. Between us. How does a woman with no talent, no real results, nothing really going for her except a pretty face and a tight body, how does she end up in a Mercedes?"

There was a pause. Then Lewis laughed, low and cruel.

"Come on, Christian. You know exactly how. Despite being married and all that wholesome bullshit they try to sell to the media, you really think Toto made a purely sporting decision? A girl like that, ambitious, desperate, willing to do whatever it takes to get ahead?"

"You think she fucked him for it?" Christian's voice was delighted, like they were discussing a particularly good joke.

"I think she did whatever she had to do to get it," Lewis said. "Pretty young driver, comes to him desperate for a seat, willing to do anything ... I mean, what else explains it? It certainly wasn't her driving ability."

I felt like I was going to be sick. My back was pressed against the wall so hard it hurt as my fingernails dug into my palms.

I didn't know what was going on. Every word that came out of every engineer's or the mechanic's mouth, I knew what it all meant. I wasn't dumb or stupid like they clearly believed I was. I knew trying to make it as an F1 was a long shot, making it as a racing driver in general was a shot in the dark, that's why I'd given myself a backup. I'd done the university course, I'd studied for four years, I'd taken the exam and submitted the assignment, all while chasing this dream. I had the first-class piece of paper to prove I knew what I was doing.

If I hadn't made it on the track, then I'd have made it into the garage another way. I had a backup, but it just turned out I didn't need to use it in the way I thought I would have to.

"Maybe she's just really good in bed," Christian said, laughing. "Maybe that's her real talent, because it's certainly not racing. Losing three-tenths in sector two every single lap. In a Mercedes! Do you know how bad you have to be to lose that much time in the best car on the grid?"

"She's got no race craft, no instinct, no fucking clue what she's doing," Lewis said, and his voice was getting more animated now, like he was warming to the subject. "She's slow, she's stupid, and she's taking up a seat that should have gone to someone with actual talent. Wehrlein could have had that seat. Ocon could have had it. Hell, even Giovinazzi would have been better, and he's never even raced in F1."

"But they're not pretty girls who photograph well," Christian pointed out. The way he kept making a point that I was pretty was making me more nausea then the general topic of conversation.

"Exactly. That's all this is. Marketing. Toto wanted a woman in the car for the headlines, for the diversity points, for the sponsors who want to pretend they care about equality. So, he found the prettiest one he could, the one who'd look best in the team gear, and he gave her a seat she has no business being in."

"And she probably gave him a very enthusiastic thank you," Christian added, and they both laughed again.

I couldn't move. I couldn't walk away. I had to hear it all.

"The worst part," Lewis continued, "is that she actually seems to think she deserves to be here. Like she's earned it. She walks around the paddock with this quiet confidence, as if she belongs in that garage. It's delusional. She's delusional."

If only he knew what ran through my head every day. If only he had been there to witness it all break down. If only he knew half of the stuff I thought.

"Does she even understand the technical side?" Christian asked. "Like, when the engineers are talking about differential settings or brake balance or aero balance, does she actually comprehend what they're saying?"

"Fuck no," Lewis said immediately. "She nods and smiles and pretends, but you can see it in her eyes. She's lost. Completely lost. She's like a child sitting in on an adult conversation, just waiting for it to be over so she can go play with her toys."

"And Toto's okay with this?"

"Toto's invested now. He can't admit he made a mistake. He struck this big deal with Williams, made all these promises about a developing young talent, about giving opportunities. If he admits she's useless, he looks like an idiot. So instead, he's doubling down and telling everyone she just needs time to adapt, that she's learning, that she's got potential." Lewis's voice dripped with contempt. "Potential. She's been racing for years, and she's still shit. That's not potential, that's just being shit."

"Maybe she's just not very bright," Christian suggested. "Pretty girls often aren't. They don't have to be. They get by on their looks, on batting their eyelashes, on letting men do the thinking for them."

"That's exactly what she is," Lewis agreed. "A pretty face with nothing going on behind those eyes. No intelligence, no talent, no business being in Formula One. She's a marketing gimmick that Toto's trying to pass off as a racing driver."

"And the media eats it up," Christian said, sounding disgusted. "All these articles about how inspiring she is, how she's breaking barriers, how she's a role model for young girls. It's nauseating. She's not inspiring, she's embarrassing. She's proof that women can't compete at this level."

"Exactly!" Lewis sounded energized now. "That's what kills me. If you really wanted to help women in motorsport, you'd set the bar high. You'd only promote the ones who are genuinely good enough, but instead, they've lowered the standards, and they've given a seat to girls like Ciela, who isn't ready, and then when she fails, it just confirms what everyone already knows. Women can't handle Formula One."

"She's doing more damage to the cause than good," Christian agreed. "Every time she finishes sixth in a Mercedes, every time she can't keep up with you, every time she looks confused in a press conference, it's just more evidence that this is a man's sport. How long do you think Toto will keep her?"

"End of the season, hopefully," Lewis said. "Once it's clear she can't deliver and the points gap is too embarrassing to ignore, he'll have to let her go. He'll spin it somehow, saying she's pursuing other opportunities, or that they're going in a different direction, or some other PR bullshit, but everyone will know the truth. She wasn't good enough, and she never was."

"And then she'll disappear," Christian said. "Back to whatever she was doing before. Maybe she'll marry some rich guy, pop out a few kids, and live off her husband's money for the rest of her life. That's probably what she wanted all along anyway. The F1 thing was just a fun adventure, a story to tell at dinner parties."

"She's already married, isn't she?" Lewis asked. "To that footballer?"

"Oh, right, the Spanish one. Alexia, something." Christian's voice was mocking. "That's convenient. When the F1 dream falls apart, she's got a backup plan. She can just be a footballer WAG, go to matches, post the silly little Instagrams, and live that ultimate WAG life."

"Perfect for her," Lewis agreed. "That seems more her speed. She's not smart enough or talented enough for Formula One, but she's pretty enough to be arm candy. That's her real calling."

"Does she even enjoy racing?" Christian asked. "Like, genuinely? Or is it all just for show?"

"Who the fuck knows and really who fucking cares," Lewis said. "I don't talk to her more than I have to. What would we even talk about? She doesn't understand the technical side, she doesn't have the experience to discuss race craft, and she doesn't have the intelligence for strategy conversations. We have nothing in common except that we both happen to drive for Mercedes, but I actually deserve to be here."

"Must be frustrating," Christian said, "having to pretend she's your equal. Having to stand next to her in team photos, having to share the garage with her."

"It's fucking insulting," Lewis said, and there was real anger in his voice now. "I've won three world championships. I've proven myself at the highest level, and now I have to share a garage with a girl who's only there because she's pretty and because Toto wanted to make a statement. It's degrading."

"At least she knows her place," Christian offered. "At least she's playing the team game, staying out of your way."

"For now," Lewis said. "But even that's questionable. You saw China. She couldn't even follow basic instructions. She's supposed to be the number two driver, supposed to support my championship, but she can't even do that right. She's useless as a teammate and useless as a driver."

"Maybe that's the plan," Christian said, laughing. "Maybe Toto's playing the game. He signs a useless second driver, so you have no competition within the team. You get to dominate, win the championship easily, and Mercedes gets their diversity headlines. Everyone wins."

"Except the sport," Lewis said. "The sport loses when you put unqualified people in cars just because of what's between their legs. Or what they're willing to do with what's between their legs."

They both laughed at that, loud and crude, and I felt something break inside me.

"Well," Christian said, his voice lighter now, like they were wrapping up, "We'll keep smiling for the cameras, saying the right things about diversity and opportunity, and meanwhile, she'll keep embarrassing herself every weekend."

"She'll be gone by next year," Lewis said confidently. "Mark my words. This time next year, she'll be a footnote. A failed experiment and we'll get a real driver in that seat."

"Can't come soon enough," Christian agreed. "Anyway, I should get back. I've got to get to an interview of my own."

"And I have to go pretend my teammate isn't a complete embarrassment," Lewis said. "See you later."

"Cheers, mate."

I heard the footsteps moving away in different directions as I stayed frozen against that wall, processing everything I'd just heard.

Useless. Embarrassing little girl. Slept her way to the top. No talent. Pretty face. Good in bed. Stupid. Clueless. Doesn't belong. Marketing gimmick. Failed experiment.

Every word was a different knife, cutting deeper and deeper, until I felt like I was bleeding out right there in the paddock. I’d worked hard on myself to get back to the Cece that didn’t care, but those words unlocked the door I’d hidden it all behind. Everything I’d told myself during my first year was what they thought of me. Every point I’d score, every podium I’d had, every win I had to my name meant nothing because I was an embarrassing little girl.

The thing was, the words hurt, but I also wasn’t the same girl who had walked into this paddock two years ago. Underneath the hurt, underneath the humiliation and the shock, something else was growing. Something hot and fierce and unforgiving.

Rage.

Pure rage.

It took a second, but I composed myself and continued my walk into that press conference, which I was now really late for. I plastered a smile on my face and answered all the questions with the same polite, professional responses I always gave.

Yes, I was excited about the race.

Yes, the car felt good.

Yes, I was looking forward to supporting the team's strategy.

The dumb little girl they all thought I was, playing her part perfectly. They thought I was useless? They thought I was just a pretty face? They thought I'd slept my way into this seat?

Fine.

Let them think that.

Let them completely underestimate me.

Let them believe I was just a confused little girl who didn't understand what was happening around her, because when I proved them wrong, and I was going to prove them wrong, it would be so much sweeter.

I was done playing second to anyone. I was about to burn the fucking house to the ground, with Lewis fourth inside. If Lewis wanted to win it, then he could do it on his own.

The race started under bright sunshine, the temperature already climbing. The formation lap felt different somehow, like I was seeing everything with new eyes. The grid, the crowds, the other cars, all of it was sharp and clear.

Lights out.

I got a good start, held second into turn one as Lewis led. Behind me, all I could see was the scarlet red of Seb’s Ferrari, and he was pushing hard, but I had the pace to hold him. For the first stint, I did exactly what was expected: I protected Lewis's lead, controlled the gap, and managed my tires.

Then, on lap twenty-three, Luca's voice came through my headset.

"Ciela, we need you to let Lewis build a gap. Back off one second to manage your own tires. We're going long on this stint."

I looked at the gap in front of me, and it couldn't have been more than 0.8 seconds. I could see every detail on his rear wing, but I could feel the pace in my car more.

"No," I said plainly, devoid of any emotion.

There was silence on the radio, then "Sorry, can you repeat?"

"No," I said again, and pushed the throttle down harder coming out of turn four. "I'm racing my own race."

"Ciela, this is the strategy. We need you to … "

I turned the radio volume down. Not off because that would have been too obvious, but down enough that it was just background noise. Then I started pushing the car to the limits I could find.

The Mercedes came alive under me. Every input I gave it, the car responded perfectly. Turn seven, the turn I'd been losing time in China, I took it flat, the rear end sliding just slightly before finding the grip and firing me down the straight. Turn thirteen, the long left-hander, I braked later than I ever had, and as I did, I felt the car dance on the edge of control before settling into the apex.

I was hunting Lewis. Every little action was pushing him and his car to a breaking point.

Lap twenty-five, the gap was 0.6 seconds. Lap twenty-seven, 0.4 seconds. Lap twenty-nine, I was in the overtaking zone, and I could see him adjusting his line, having to opt for the defensive one.

Good. Let him defend as if his life depended on it.

Turn thirteen again, I went for a move around the outside. Lewis covered it. Turn two of the next lap, I fainted inside, then went outside. He covered that too, but he was having to work now, having to think about me instead of just managing the race.

He’d learnt how to have a teammate fight him; he and Nico had been at each other's throats for the past two years … but I wasn’t Nico. He’d slagged me off to Christian Horner, and I’d heard him. I was about to show him just how useless someone could be.

Lap thirty-four, the pit window opened. Lewis came in first. I stayed out one more lap and pushed it to the absolute limit before I took my turn to come in. The pit crew was perfect just as I needed them to be, 2.3 seconds. I came out of the pits and saw Lewis ahead, but the gap was smaller now. Much smaller.

Fresh tires. Clear track. Team orders that I was ignoring. Time to have some fun.

I caught him on lap forty. Turn two, I went inside, he defended. Turn four, I went outside, he covered it, but I had momentum, had the grip, had the anger of every word I'd overheard fuelling every input.

Turn thirteen. I braked impossibly late, and I felt the car start to lock up. I managed to release it and reapply it, and somehow, at the end of the actions, I was alongside him. We went through the corner side by side, neither of us backing off, and when we exited onto the straight, I went ahead.

I was ahead of Lewis Hamilton in a Mercedes.

"Ciela, Lewis is on a different strategy, you need to let him … " Lucas's voice was urgent now, but I wasn't listening. I felt for him, I really did. He was just trying to do his job, and he had people pressing him, but this … this was bigger than us working together right now. We worked really well together, that was the reason I’d fought so hard to get in at Mercedes with me. I’d explain everything later, but right now I had the first point to prove.

I built the gap. Lap after lap, I pulled away from the pack. One second. Two seconds. Three. The car was perfect, I was perfect, everything was clicking in a way it never had before. This was what the Mercedes could do, and this is what I could do in one.

When I came across the line, the chequered flag greeted my arrival; I’d won the Russian Grand Prix by 4.7 seconds.

The cool-down room was arctic. Lewis sat on one side as I sat on the other, showing no emotion, looking completely unsuspecting, and Seb, who'd finished third, looked between us like he was watching a bomb countdown.

"Good race," Sebastian said to me, genuine warmth in his voice.

"Thank you," I said, smiling. That would still never get old. Thy Sebastian Vettel telling me I’d had a good race.

Lewis said nothing. His jaw was clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack.

The podium was surreal. The crowds below are cheering, the champagne, the crowd cheering. I looked down and saw Toto in the crowd below, his expression unreadable. Lewis sprayed his champagne away from me, a small, petty gesture that made me smile wider.

The real explosion came after, in the debrief.

We were in the back room of the Mercedes hospitality unit, the whole team crammed in, engineers, strategists, Toto at the head of the table. I sat in my usual spot, still in my race suit, trophy on the table in front of me.

Lewis walked in last, and I could see the fury radiating off him like heat.

"What … " he said, his voice deadly quiet. He pointed his finger at me as he looked me right in the eyes, "…. the fuck was that?"

Toto got up from his seat and held up a hand. "Lewis … "

"No." Lewis slammed his hand on the table. "No. I'm the number one driver. I have the championships to prove it. I had the race under control, and she … " he pointed at me again, " … she ignored team orders. She compromised my strategy. She … "

"She won the race," Toto said calmly.

"I would have won the race if she'd done what she was told!"

"Would you have?" I asked, my voice sweet and innocent, like I didn’t know exactly what I’d done. "Because from where I was sitting, I had a better pace. Better tire management, your tires were degrading."

Lewis's face went red, a reflection of what he’d seen in his mirror for the rest of the race. "You got lucky. One good race doesn't make you … "

"Doesn't make me what?" I leaned forward, still smiling innocently. "A real driver? Someone who deserves to be here? Someone with actual talent?"

The room went silent. Toto was watching me now, really watching me, and I could see him calculating, trying to figure out what had changed in me.

"I did my job," I said, sitting back. "I won the race. I got us maximum points. Isn't that what we're here for? We’re a team, Lewis. We both drive the same car, and we both drive for Mercedes; we should be working for the benefit of the team." I stood up from my seat and looked around at all the stunned faces of every employee watching everything go down. “These people work so hard, Lewis, day in, day out, to make the car and the race happen. The least we can do is repay them with the win at the end for all their hard work.”

"You're here to support the team strategy," Lewis snapped. "You're here to …"

"To know my place?" I asked, and I watched his eyes widen slightly. "To be a good little second driver? To stay out of your way?"

"Lewis," Toto said, his voice firm now as he tried to de-escalate the situation. "That's enough. Ciela drove brilliantly today. Yes, she deviated from the strategy, but the result speaks for itself. We got the point the team needed. We'll discuss the rest further in private."

Lewis looked like he wanted to flip the table. Instead, he glared at me one more time and walked out of the room, slamming the door as he went.

I just sat back down quietly, not showing the smirk I had on the inside; instead, I just kept playing the part of the confused girl who didn't quite understand what all the fuss was about.

Inside, I was burning with satisfaction.

Game on.

Spain was next up, and like always, my entire family had taken over the garage.

I could see them in my peripheral vision the whole weekend, as they stood at the back of the garage. My mum, my dad, Xavier, and Santiago were there with a very pregnant Laura, Diego, and Felipe dressed in little Mercedes gear. Eli, Alba, and the rest of Alexia’s family and our friends were still looking positively mesmerised by everything, and in the middle of it all was Alexia. A proud smile on her face as she stood there wearing my team's colours.  

The Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya was home in a way no other track could be. I'd grown up three miles around the corner from the track, I’d watched races here from multiple championships, I’d driven this track in junior formulas, and I knew every bump and turn like I knew my own heartbeat. It was also the track where my confidence came back.

By the end of Saturday, I’d qualified on pole with Lewis behind me in second.

"Interesting," Toto said in the pre-race briefing, and there was something in his voice I couldn't quite read. "Very interesting."

The race itself was a statement. I led from lap one to lap sixty-six with perfect control and managed every strategy call that came my way. Lewis pushed hard and tried everything to get at me and by me, but I had an answer for all of it. When he pitted early to try the undercut, I extended my stint and came out ahead. When he tried to pressure me in the final stint, I pulled away.

I won by 3.2 seconds.

On the cool-down lap, I could hear Lucas cheering over the radio. "Brilliant, Ciela! Absolutely brilliant!"

I didn't say anything. I was too busy crying inside my helmet, the emotion of everything finally breaking through. Home race. My family is watching. Alexia was watching, and I'd dominated the whole thing. The race I dreamed of winning from being six years old was the race I’d just won.

The podium felt like vindication. The Spanish national anthem played out across the track. Spanish flags with my face and number were waving in the slight breeze. People with my number on their shirts. It all felt a bit surreal.

When I looked down, I found Alexia in the crowd immediately. She was crying too, and not even just a little bit; she was fully crying, her hands pressed to her mouth, and I pointed at her, mouthed "I love you."

After all the media obligations, after the team celebrations, I finally found my family in the Mercedes hospitality. My mum grabbed me first, pulled me into a hug so tight I could barely breathe.

"Mi niña," she whispered. "Mi campeona."

My Dad was next. I could see the wet patches on the collar of his shirt and the tear trails from where he’d also been crying . "I am so so proud of you."

My brothers were less graceful when they mobbed me. Both of them are jumping at me, trying to knock me over, and both of them are shouting at me all at once. To say Santiago had two, nearly three children, I wouldn’t actually have expected anything less from the pair of them.

There was the rest of the Lloris-Putellas clan, who had taken over the paddock, standing back slightly, watching it all go down. I placed the trophy down on the table and walked into the middle of it. Alexia wrapped me in her arms as everyone else moved around us, forming one massive hug in the middle of the room.

She didn't say anything, just held me, and I buried my face in her neck and let myself feel it all, the joy, the relief, the vindication.

"I knew you would," she whispered finally. "I always knew you would do it."

From then on, I was relentless.

Monaco: Second to Seb Canada: Won Azerbaijan: Second to Daniel, I messed up the pit stop on that one Austria: Won Silverstone: Won

I was at the factory constantly, spending hours with the Lucas and the others, learning every system, every component, every single data point I had. I'd arrive before anyone else and leave after everyone had gone home. I studied telemetry until my eyes burned, worked with the mechanics to understand every adjustment, every setup change, everything I could do to get the most out of the car.

"You don't have to do this," Lucas said one night, when it was just us in the hotel at midnight, data screens glowing in the darkness. "You're already fast enough."

"Fast enough isn't enough," I said. "I need to be undeniable."

Lewis's protests got quieter as the season went on. He still fought in the team meetings, still insisted he was the number one driver, and he still demanded priority on strategy calls, but the results didn't lie. I was out qualifying him, outracing him, outperforming him at every turn.

By mid-season, even Toto had stopped pretending there was a number one driver. We were both free to race and both given equal treatment to do so. I just so happened to be winning that battle decisively.

Germany: Won Hungary: Second to Sebastian, but Lewis was third Belgium: Won Italy: Won

The championship was becoming a real possibility. I was leading the points, but Sebastian was close, and Lewis was still mathematically in it. Every race mattered. Every point counted.

Singapore: Won, under the lights, in the rain, in what the media called the drive of the season.

Malaysia: Max took that one away from me, but the heat was brutal Japan: Won

Mexico: Won

Two races were left. Brazil and Abu Dhabi. Two races stood between me and the championship.

I needed to win in Brazil or finish ahead of Sebastian to clinch the championship. Preferably just the first options to make it easier for me and everyone else involved.

The only problem ... Interlagos was chaos. It always was. The track was bumpy and technical, with elevation changes that made it feel like a roller coaster. The weather was unpredictable, the crowds were massive and passionate, and the pressure was starting to turn into a suffocating feeling.

Qualifying didn’t really go the way I’d planned. I qualified second behind Lewis with Seb in third. A good starting point for my championship, not a good spot for proving my point.

Everything was set for tomorrow; I just had to go and deliver the title now. I'd proved my point well and truly. I wasn't an embarrassing little girl playing at being a racing driver, I was just a girl driving a racing car and doing it in a winning form.

The hotel room in São Paulo was quiet except for the distant hum of the city below. The lights of the city sprawled out endlessly as they twinkled in the warm Brazilian night. I stood on the balcony, arms resting on the top of the ledge, my chin resting on my arms as I stared out at nothing and everything.

I felt Alexia's arms wrap around me from behind, her chin coming to rest on my shoulder. "You're thinking too much," she murmured, her breath warm against my neck as she placed a quick kiss behind my ear.

"I'm thinking just enough, thank you very much," I said, leaning back into her. "Tomorrow, everything changes."

"It already has," Alexia said softly. She turned me around to face her, her hands coming to settle naturally on my waist, while mine snaked around her neck. "You've already changed everything. Tomorrow is just ... making it official."

I looked at her, like really looked at her. The woman who'd been there through every single moment of this journey. Who'd rearranged her entire schedule to be here, on the other side of the world, in this room the night before the most important race of my life.

"I'm ready," I said, and I meant it. "I know what I'm capable of. I've beaten Lewis, I've beaten Seb. I've won ten races so far this season; what's one more? I know I can do this."

Alexia smiled, that beautiful smile that always made my chest feel too full. "I know you can too. I've watched you all season. You've been unstoppable."

We moved back inside and back to the bed so we were sitting side by side, our backs against the headboard. My head came to rest on her shoulder as she took my hand, threading our fingers together, her thumb tracing gentle patterns across my knuckles, the same comforting gesture she'd done a thousand times before.

"Do you remember what you told me after Russia?" Alexia asked quietly. "After you won and ignored team orders?"

I did remember. I'd told her everything that night. I told her about the conversation I'd overheard between Lewis and Christian, about every hateful word they'd said. About how it had changed something fundamental inside my head.

"I told you I was done playing small," I said.

"And you have," Alexia said, squeezing my hand. "Not once have you slipped. You've been magnificent, Cece. You've shown everyone exactly who you are, who I've always known you've been, and tomorrow, you're going to finish what you started."

I turned to look at her, but she was already looking at me with such pride, such love, that it made my throat tight. Seventeen years I'd known her, and still she made my chest feel all warm and fuzzy every time I looked at her.

"I know I always say it, but I say it because I mean it. I couldn't have done any of this without you," I said quietly. "You've been there for everything. Every win, every struggle, every moment I needed someone to remind me why I'm doing this, and I'm so grateful for everything you've done and do for me."

"That's what we do," Alexia said simply. "We show up for each other. Always."

She shifted down the bed so she was lying down, and I naturally came to rest my head on her chest. I could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Her arm came around me, holding me close, as she began to scratch up and down my back.

"Tomorrow," I said softly, "I'm going to be a World Champion."

"I know you will," Alexia said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "And I'll be right there, watching you do it. I’ll be standing right at the front waiting when you cross that line first."

We stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other's arms, the city lights glowing through the window.

With the beat of Alexia's heart in my ear, I felt myself drift toward sleep. I felt calm. I had the person I needed with me, the person who kept me focused and calm. I had the car and the knowledge to deliver what I needed to.

Tomorrow, I would prove once and for all that I belonged here. That I was more than what they'd said about me. That I was, in fact, a champion.

Race day in Brazil dawned grey and heavy with moisture in the air. The air at Interlagos was thick and oppressive, the kind of weather that made every driver nervous. I could feel it in my chest as I walked to the grid, the pure weight of what this race meant, what it could be. What could I be after it?

The formation lap was chaos. Rain started falling halfway around, fat drops splattering my visor, making the track surface gleam under the lights. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. I tested the brakes through the Senna S, and as I did, I felt the rear step out slightly on the painted curbs.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the rain stopped. The track was damp in areas but drying in equally significant patches. Slicks or intermediates was the question running through everyone’s mind; the decision or an early switch could and would make or break the race. The right gamble that could win or lose everything.

We opted to start on the slicks.

Lights out.

I got a good start, held second behind Lewis through Turn 1. Sebastian was right behind me, his Ferrari close enough that I could see his front wing in my mirrors through the tight left-hander of Turn 2. My hands were slick with sweat inside my gloves, my breathing controlled but still quicker than I would have liked.

One turn at a time. One lap at a time.

The first ten laps were a battle of inches. Lewis pulled a gap, but I stayed within overtaking range, close enough to pressure him, far enough to manage my tires. The track was drying unevenly, bone dry on the racing line, still damp on the lines. Every corner was a careful calculation; a risk assessment made in milliseconds about millimetres.

By lap fifteen, the rain was back.

"Rain increasing, Ciela," Lucas said on the radio. "Heavy in sector two."

I felt it before I saw it, the rear of the car stepping out through the fast left of Turn 9, causing my steering to go light. My heart lurched. I caught it … just and managed to keep the power down, but behind me I could see Seb backing off slightly to give himself space.

Smart, but I wasn't here to be smart. I was here to win.

The rain intensified, and through the long back straight, I could barely see Lewis's rear lights through the spray. My visor was streaked and utterly useless, my tearaways were gone, and despite my constantly wiping my visor, I was left to drive on pure.

By lap thirty, half the field had already pitted for intermediates.

"Box, box," Lucas said.

"No. I want to go one more lap," I replied, my voice tight.

It was a complete gamble. If the rain got worse, I'd lose everything, but I could feel it in the air; the rain was easing, and the track was already starting to dry in sector three. One more lap on slicks while everyone else changed tires, and I could jump Lewis in the pits.

Through Turn 12, the downhill left-hander, I felt the car slide. My stomach dropped instantly. I caught it and once again managed to keep it pointed straight as I powered through. The rear tires were on the edge and screaming for an and all grip.

"Box now, Ciela. Box, box. Box, box."

I dove into the pits. The stop felt like an eternity listening to the sound of the guns as the tires came off and my new ones went on. The second the car dropped back to the ground, I was gone. I could see Lewis's car ahead on the giant screen track, and he was still out on track.

I came out of the pit lane, merged onto the track, and there he was. Lewis was just coming into Turn 1, and I’d managed to cut him off and come out ahead.

I was leading the Brazilian Grand Prix.

"P1, Ciela. You are currently P1. Lewis is behind with the gap to Vettel 2.3 seconds."

My hands were shaking like mad on the wheel. Twenty laps to go. Twenty laps now stood between me and becoming a world champion.

Lewis was pushing. I could see him in my mirrors; the matching silver arrow was taking up my entire mirror, always there, always threatening. Through the Senna S, I took the defensive line, forcing him to go wide. Through the long Turn 4, I hugged the inside flat out, refusing to give him an inch of space.

Lap after lap, I controlled the gap. 2.1 seconds. 2.4 seconds. 1.9 seconds. My neck was screaming from the g-forces as my arms were burning from fighting the steering. The track was drying now, the grip coming back, and I was pushing my car to its absolute limit.

Through the tricky downhill section, I could feel every bump, every imperfection in the asphalt. My breathing was ragged, my heart rate through the roof. The car felt alive beneath me, responsive, perfect.

Lap 66. Five to go.

Those final five laps were the longest laps of my life. Every corner felt like a trap waiting to spring. The fast left of Turn 9, where the rear had stepped out earlier, I now took it pin point precision, trusting the grip. Into the tight hairpin of Turn 10, I braked late, turned in smoothly, and powered out clean.

Lewis was still there. 1.7 seconds. He wasn't giving up, but neither was I. I was finishing ahead of Seb's current, meaning I was winning the driver's championship, but if I was going to do it, I was going to do it properly. Take the win … take both the wins.

My vision was narrowing, everything outside the track fading away. There was only the car, the circuit, and the gap to Lewis behind me.

Final lap.

My heart was in my throat. Every muscle in my body was tense, ready to react to any mistake, any problem. Through Turn 1, Turn 2, the long back straight, where I'd nearly lost it in the rain. The car felt perfect. I felt perfect.

Through the final sector, the downhill section, the last corners before the line. I could see the checkered flag ahead. It was waiting for me.

And then I crossed it.

I screamed.

I screamed so loud my throat hurt, screamed until I had no air left, and then I screamed some more. My hands were shaking so violently that I could barely hold the steering wheel straight.

"WORLD CHAMPION!" Lucas was yelling, his voice breaking across the radio. "CIELA LLORIS, YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION! YOU DID IT!"

The cool-down lap was a blur of tears and laughter and pure overwhelming joy. I was shaking so hard I could barely keep the car straight. The grandstands were a sea of flags and noise, the crowd going absolutely insane. I waved, pumped my fist, screamed some more. I didn’t know what to do with myself.

In parc fermé, I brought the car to a stop, killed the engine, and just sat there for a moment. My hands were still on the wheel, my body still vibrating with adrenaline. This machine. This beautiful, perfect machine had carried me to a world championship.

I climbed out, pulled off my helmet, and as I did, the noise hit me harder than the G-force. The crowd, the team, everyone was screaming and cheering for me. I stood on the car, raised my arms, and let it all wash over me.

The second I lowered my gaze, I saw her. A sea of people around her, and I saw her.

Alexia.

She was at the barrier, having pushed her way through the crowd of team members and media, her face streaked with tears, her smile so bright it made my chest ache. Our eyes locked across the chaos, and everything else fell away.

I jumped down from the car and ran to her. She was reaching over the barrier, and I grabbed her, pulled her close, and kissed her. Hard and desperate and full of every emotion I'd been holding in for the entire season. The cameras were everywhere, flashes going off, but I didn't care. This was my moment. Our moment.

"You did it," she was saying against my lips, crying and laughing at the same time. "You did it, mi cariño. You're world champion."

"I couldn't have done it without you," I said, holding her face in my hands. "You were there for everything. Every single moment."

She kissed me again, softer this time, and I felt her hands in my hair, felt the way she was shaking with emotion.

From the moment I pulled away from the kiss, I was being pulled away by the team. The team mobbed me next, everyone cheering and crying and celebrating. Mechanics I'd worked with for hours in the garage, engineers who'd helped me understand every aspect of the car, everyone who'd been part of this journey. I hugged them all, thanked them all, and felt the weight of what we'd accomplished together.

Then Toto was there, pulling me into a crushing hug. "I knew you could do it," he said, his voice thick. "From the moment I signed you, I knew. I knew what you were capable of, and I knew you could do it."

Then I saw Lewis, standing off to the side, waiting. A sort of sad smile on his face as he looked down at the floor, finding it more interesting than the scene in front of him.

The cameras were everywhere, capturing every single moment. To everyone watching at home, it would look like a gracious moment between teammates, a celebration of the team's success. When in reality it would be anything but.

I walked over to him and pulled him into a hug. As I did, I leaned close to his ear.

"Not bad for just an embarrassing little girl, hey?" I whispered.

I felt him stiffen, felt the exact moment the words registered. His entire body went rigid, his hands frozen on my back. When I pulled back, his face had dropped, going paler, his eyes wide with recognition and something that looked like shock, maybe even fear.

He knew. He knew exactly what conversation I was referencing. He knew that I'd heard every word he and Christian had said about me. He knew that those words had cost him his fourth.

I smiled at him, bright and genuine for the cameras, then turned and walked away back to Alexia again. I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I'd said everything I needed to say.

The flight home to Barcelona was surreal. I had the trophy with me, the actual trophy, heavy and real and mine. Or at least it was until Abu Dhabi, when I had to return it to the team, but I was definitely paying for the replica of this one, so I could immortalise my first championship forever. I kept touching it, running my fingers over the engraved plate with my name on it, making sure it was real, that this wasn't some elaborate dream I was about to wake up from.

Alexia was in the seat next to me; her chair reclined down to the bed. She was curled up close to the divider, her hand stretched out holding mine. She’s refused to let go of my hand the entire flight. Every time I let go, for whatever reason, whether it was to get to the bathroom or to set my food, or simply to grab something from my bag, her hand would still be there, making a grabby hand at me, so I’d hold it again.

By the time I stepped foot on Barcelona soil, I was exhausted and completely emotionally wrung out. Every muscle in my body was aching from the physical and mental strain of the race, but I was also so happy in a way I'd never been before. I'd done it. I'd actually gone and done it.

When the taxi pulled up to our apartment building in Barcelona, I grabbed my suitcase and the trophy and made my way up. It was crazy what three years and an F1 paycheck could do for a living situation. We were no longer broke twenty-year-olds living in the shitty apartment because that’s all we could afford. We were twenty-three living in a nice and safe area of Barcelona, with an apartment that was bigger than the shoe box we had before. We actually had rooms, separate rooms with actual walls. Our new kitchen was the size of our entire previous apartment.

As much as I loved racing, I loved it so much. Racing literally ran through my veins, but what I appreciated the most about the position I was in was being able to give Alexia a life she deserved. I live where she was safe, valued, and loved more than I could physically communicate to her. A life where she didn’t have to worry about anything. The stress we’d had three years ago simply evaporated.

By doing something I loved, I could give the person I loved most in the world everything she deserved.

The building was quiet as we walked down the hallway, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the windows. I fumbled with my keys; my trophy still tucked under one arm as I pushed open the door. Alexia was behind me, carrying some of our bags.

"SURPRISE!"

The explosion of noise and the bang of confetti made me scream and physically jump back, nearly causing me to drop everything I was struggling to hold. My heart leapt into my throat as I stumbled backward, then forward, trying to process what I was seeing.

Our living room was packed with people. Absolutely packed. Our entire family, my Mamá, Papá, my brothers, Laura, and the kids. The entirety of Alexia's family, Eli, Alba, her aunts and uncles, and her cousins. Our best friends Miriam, Carla, and Marc all stood in the middle, looking the most guilty but smug as they held the confetti cannons.

The further round the room I looked, the more people I saw. All of Alexia's teammates were there too, the whole Barcelona Femení squad, it seemed. Faces I'd gotten to know very well over the years and who'd become our family in their own right.

The apartment had been completely transformed. Silver and black balloons hung from the ceiling in clusters, streamers crisscrossed overhead, and string lights had been draped along the walls, creating a warm golden glow that made everything feel more magical. Tables had been set up along one wall, covered with food: tapas, empanadas, jamón, cheeses, olives, fresh bread, and what looked like the rest of the fridge section of the supermarket.

The emotion of everything that had happened over the last thirty-six hours caught up with me in that moment. I could feel the tears building as I looked around the room at all the people in my life who made this all mean so much more, but it was the walls that made the tears fall.

Photos covered every available surface. One of me as little girl in my first kart, tiny and determined with my little crooked smile. Me in British F3, standing on a podium with a trophy bigger than my torso. I'm in GP3, GP2, and it appeared every other race I’d ever competed in, each stage of my career documented and displayed. There were photos of my family at races, of Alexia in the stands, of moments I'd forgotten but that someone had captured and saved.

Someone, Alexia, I realised pretty quickly, had created a timeline of my entire career. It stretched across the main wall, starting with that first karting photo and ending with a picture from Brazil just hours ago, the moment I got out of the car with me standing on the car with my arms raised in victory.

"Mi campeona," my mother said, appearing in front of me as she pulled me into a crushing hug. "We're so proud of you. So, so proud."

I was crying openly now, couldn't stop the tears even if I wanted to. "Mamá …"

"No, no crying," she said, pulling back to cup my face in her hands. "Tonight we celebrate. Tonight you are the World Champion, and we are going to make sure everyone knows it."

My dad was next, wrapping me in his arms and lifting me off the ground like I was still a little girl. "My daughter," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "My daughter, the World Champion."

"Papá," I managed, laughing through my tears.

"I knew you would do it," he said, setting me down but keeping his hands on my shoulders. "From the moment you told us you wanted to race, I knew. You have always had that fire, that determination. Nothing could stop you."

Like always, Santiago and Xavier were the next to grab me, lifting me up and spinning me around. "World champion! Our little sister is a world champion!"

"Put me down!" I laughed, swatting at both of them away.

"Never," Xavier said, but they set me down anyway, grinning. "Seriously, though, Cece. That was incredible. We were all watching and screaming at the TV. Mamá nearly collapsed when it started raining."

"I did not," Mamá protested from nearby, but she was still smiling.

Miriam, Carla, and Marc were the next to fight their way to the front, a whirlwind of hugs and congratulations and excited chatter. Poor Miriam was crying as hard as I was. "I can't believe it," she kept saying. "I can't believe you actually did it."

"I can," Marc said, elbowing her in the side. "I always knew our best friends would do great things. World champion greatness."

Then Alexia's teammates found me. Mapi was first, pulling me into a hug that nearly knocked me over. "World champion! Do you know how insufferable Ale has been? 'Cece is going to be world champion, Cece is the best driver in the world, Cece this, Cece that … '"

"Shut up, Mapi," Alexia said, appearing at my side and wrapping an arm around my waist, but I could feel her smile on her face against my cheek.

"It's true, though," Leila chimed in, appearing with a glass of champagne in each hand. She handed one to me. "She hasn't shut up about you for weeks. Months, actually."

"Years," Sandra added, laughing. "Since the day you made the grid, honestly."

"You're all terrible," Alexia said, but she was laughing too, pulling me closer.

"We're terrible?" Mapi said, incredulous. "You made us watch every single race this season. Every. Single. One. Even the ones at ridiculous hours."

"And we loved it," Aitana said, joining the group. She smiled at me, warm and genuine. "You were incredible, Ciela. Truly. Watching you race this season has been amazing."

"Thank you," I managed, overwhelmed by the love and support surrounding me. "Thank you all for being here."

"Are you kidding?" Mapi said. "We wouldn't miss this. Besides, Ale would have killed us if we didn't show up."

"True," Alexia agreed cheerfully.

I looked around the room, taking it all in. The decorations, the food, the photos, the people. Every detail had been planned, every person invited, every moment orchestrated. "You did all this?" I asked Alexia quietly. "Before you left for Brazil?"

She nodded, her eyes soft. "I knew you were going to win. I wanted to make sure you came home to a celebration worthy of a world champion."

My throat tightened with emotion. "Ale … "

"Come here," she said, taking my hand and pulling me toward the balcony, away from the noise and the crowd.

Outside, the Barcelona evening was cool and clear, the city lights beginning to twinkle as the sun set. Alexia closed the door behind us, muffling the party noise, and turned to face me.

"I am so proud of you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "So incredibly proud. You worked so hard for this, fought so hard. You deserve every bit of this success."

"I couldn't have done it without you," I said, setting the trophy down carefully on the small balcony table. " You were there."

"Always," she said simply. "I'll always be there."

I pulled her close and kissed her, soft and slow, pouring everything I felt and couldn't put into words into our kiss. She melted into me instantly, her arms wrapping around my waist, and for a moment, the world fell away. It was just us, just this moment, just the overwhelming love I felt for this woman who'd stood by me through everything.

When we pulled apart, she was smiling, her eyes bright with tears. "We should get back to the party. Your family is probably wondering where we went."

"Let them wonder," I said, but I was smiling too.

Back inside, the celebration was in full swing. Someone had turned up the music, and people were dancing in the living room, laughing and talking and celebrating. The champagne was flowing freely, and I lost count of how many toasts were made.

My father found me again later, pulling me aside to the quieter corner near the kitchen. The party continued around us, but here it was calmer, more intimate.

"You know," he said quietly, "when you first told us you wanted to race cars, your mother and I were terrified. Not because we didn't believe in you, but because we knew how hard it would be. How much you'd have to fight, how much you'd have to prove."

"I'm still fighting," I said. "Still proving."

"I know." He put his arm around my shoulders, and I leaned against him as I used to when I was little. "But tonight, you don't have to. Tonight, you're the world champion, and no one can take that away from you."

I was quiet for a moment, watching the party, watching all these people who loved me and believed in me. Then I said, quietly, "I heard them, Papá. Lewis and Christian. They said I was useless, that I'd slept my way into the seat, that I was just a pretty face with no talent, and I was simply just a good marketing ploy."

He was quiet for a moment as his arm tightened around me. There was already something in his voice as he spoke that indicated the smile on his face, but there was also a lot of pride alongside it. "What did you do?"

"I won eleven races, so far, and took his championship as I went." I couldn’t help the smile that appeared on my face as I said what I’d done.

"Exactly." He kissed the top of my head, just like he used to when I was little and I had scraped my knee or lost a race. "That's my daughter. You took their hate, and you turned it into fuel. You proved them wrong in the most spectacular way possible."

"I did, didn't I?" I said, and I couldn't help but smile wider.

"You did," he confirmed. "And I have never been more proud of anyone in my entire life."

The party went on for hours. We ate and drank and laughed until my face hurt from smiling. Xavier told embarrassing stories from our childhood, making everyone laugh. Santiago reminisced about the days when I'd race my kart around the street like a lunatic, terrifying everyone in the process.

At some point, Eli brought out a cake decorated with a tiny fondant Formula 1 car and the words "World Champion” in silver icing. We cut it together, Alexia and I, her hand over mine on the knife like our wedding cake all over again, but it was just one of those perfect moments.

I looked around the room, at all these faces I loved, at the decorations Alexia had so carefully arranged, at the photos documenting my entire journey from a little girl with a dream to a woman who'd achieved it. I felt overwhelmed by the love in this room and the support that had carried me through that first season, the hardest season of my life.

This was what mattered. Not the people who'd doubted me, not the cruel words I'd overheard, not the battles I'd had to fight. This. These people. This love. This moment.

Alexia found me later, when the party had finally started to wind down, some people had already had to head home, and others had settled into quieter conversations. She slipped her arms around my waist as she held my hands in hers, squeezing them.

"Happy?" she asked.

"So happy," I said, and I meant it with every fibre of my being. "Thank you for this. For everything."

"You're welcome, mi campeona," she said, and kissed my cheek. "You deserve all of this and more."

As the night finally came to an end, as the last guests trickled out with hugs and congratulations, I stood in our living room with Alexia, looking at the remnants of the celebration. The balloons, the streamers, the photos still on the walls, the trophy sitting proudly on our coffee table.

"I can't believe you did all of this before you left for Brazil. What would you have done if I’d lost it?" I asked quietly.

“I had complete faith in you that you’d do it …” She went quiet for a second as I could see her contemplating her words. “I’d roped Miriam and Carla in for help. They got the cake and the food. It depended on the result on Sunday, so I told them if you lost or didn’t finish before Seb, then they’d have to come and take it all down before we got back.”

I just laughed as I dropped my head to her chest. Her arms naturally found their home, one draped across my shoulder, pulling her closer into her body, and the other found its place on my hip. She pulled me closer and, in the process, pulled me in for a kiss. A proper kiss. Not a kiss for the camera or a quick one around our family before Santiago, Xavier, and Alba all complained that nobody wanted to see that. Alexia kissed me properly, our lips moving together in perfect sync. It wasn’t a quick and tender kiss; instead, it was one of passion, with eight months of emotions being poured into it.

I pulled back slightly for air, our foreheads resting together. “I can’t believe this is all real.”

"Believe it," Alexia said, moving her hand to cup my face. "You're a world champion, and I know this is just the beginning."

She was right. This was just the beginning.

A month later, Alexia and I were in Versailles for the FIA Awards ceremony.

We'd gotten a hotel room near the venue, and the morning of the ceremony was spent in a state of controlled chaos. What hadn’t helped the situation was that we’d gotten completely distracted by one another and might have lost track of time altogether.

Alexia's dress was elegant and understated, deep blue that made her eyes look impossibly bright. She looked impossibly beautiful, and all that occupied my brain while we got ready was how I’d ended up lucky enough to be here with her.

My dress was significantly more dramatic. It was silver with a fitted corset top, with the rest of the silver fabric draped from the bottom of that. It had a high slit on my right side, which Alexia kept running her fingers along while I was trying to do my makeup.

"Stop," I said, laughing, batting her hand away from tracing any higher up my thigh. "I need to concentrate."

"You're beautiful," she said, wrapping her arms around me from behind, her chin on my shoulder as we both looked in the mirror. Her hand finding its way back to my thigh, "World champion and beautiful. How did I get so lucky?"

"Trust me, I'm the lucky one. I mean, look at you." I said, turning to kiss her.

Alexia naturally deepened the kiss, and against all natural instinct, with her, I had to force myself to pull away. She chased my lips, leaning back in towards me. I closed my eyes, turning my head away from her, holding on to those last few beads of self-control.

“Are you dodging my kisses?” she said teasingly, her hand slipping further into the slip of my dress, gripping the inside of my thigh as her hand moved higher.

“Alexia … please … I’m trying really hard here. I mean, look at you … if I don’t do this, then we’re never going to leave this hotel room, and then I’m going to get in a lot of trouble.” I said through gritted teeth, still trying to hold on.

I felt Alexia's hands leave my body, and as they did, I looked back into the mirror. She was standing behind me, still looking incredible, but she was standing there with a very proud smirk on her face. Eight years, and she could still make me fold like a piece of paper, and she knew it. I knew it, and she knew it. If it wasn’t for some serious levels of self-restraint, I would have done it all over again.

She sauntered out of the bathroom back to the bed, and it took so much in me to not follow her. Instead, I took a deep, controlled breath and continued on with my makeup.

The red carpet was overwhelming. Cameras everywhere, reporters shouting questions and commands, other drivers and team principals all mixing together along the carpet, taking photos. I felt my body tense at the scene in front of me, but the second it did, I felt Alexia's hand in mine, steady and sure as she squeezed my hand in reassurance.

"Ciela! Over here! How does it feel to be a world champion?"

"Ciela! What's next season going to look like?"

"Ciela! Who are you wearing?"

I answered what I could, smiled for the cameras, but mostly I just held onto Alexia and tried not to get swept away by it all, or more embarrassingly, fall over.

Inside the venue, the ceremony was elegant and formal. At the beginning, I was sitting next to Alexia, holding her hand for dear life, as we sat with the other driver and their wives and girlfriends. Lewis had been civil since Brazil, but distant. We'd spoken only when necessary and maintained professionalism for the cameras. I did wonder if he'd ever acknowledge what I'd heard or what I'd said to him, but I knew the answer would be no.

We watched the other championship winner be awarded their trophy before, closer to the end, Lewis, Toto, and Seb were all ushed back stage for the F1 prizes. I got up from my seat, kissing Alexia on the cheek one last time before I left.

"Go get your trophy, campeona," she whispered.

Seb and Lewis went first for their second and third places. I felt my stomach go when Toto went to collect the constructors' trophy because I knew it was my turn next. I’d found my confidence on the track again, but this bit, this bit was still new to me. In previous years of my racing career, I’d never really had to do this, so this was all new and felt big … because it was.

When they called my name for the Driver's Championship trophy, I walked out onto the stage, joining the hosts and Toto. The trophy was handed to me, and it was heavier than I expected but just as beautiful as I imagined, and standing there under the lights, looking out at everyone, I felt the full weight of what I'd accomplished.

"Thank you," I said into the microphone, my voice steadier than I felt. "Thank you to Mercedes, to Toto for giving me the opportunity to do this, for seeing something in me that was worthy of driving that car, and I hope I’ve been able to repay that this year. To the whole team, both on the track and at the factory, for building the perfect car. I owe a big thank you to poor Lucas, who, for the past three seasons, has had to put up with me questioning everything … all of the time. I owe the biggest thank you to my whole family, every single one of you. I’m away a lot, and I always have been. I’ve been chasing this crazy dream, which, for most of my time, I thought was just a dream. I’ve missed birthdays, important dates, and an awful lot of matches, which I did watch, I promise, but I hope this season and today show that it’s been worth it. That maybe I wasn’t as delusional as people thought I was.”

I found her in the crowd wiping tears from her eyes, and I just smiled at her. Not at anyone else in the crowd, just her.

After the ceremony, after the mingling and the congratulations and the photographs, Alexia and I slipped away. We walked through the grounds of the Palace, as I carried the Driver's Championship trophy under my arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Remember when we first met?" I asked, her arm linked through mine. "You were this intense, focused girl who barely talked to anyone. I originally thought you hated me because you were the only person who wouldn’t talk to me."

"I was terrified of you," she admitted. "You were so confident, so comfortable in your own skin. I didn't know how to be around you."

"And now?"

"Now I can't imagine being without you … ever.”

We found a quiet spot, near one of the many ponds, where it was empty and peaceful. The palace in front of us, elegant and timeless, and the night was clear and cold.

I set the trophy down carefully on a bench, then turned to Alexia.

"Dance with me," I said.

"There's no music," she pointed out, but she was already stepping closer.

"We’ve never needed music."

So, we danced in the empty garden in Versailles, just the two of us, swaying slowly under the stars. Her arms were around my waist, mine around her neck, and we moved together like we'd done this a thousand times before.

"Three years ago," I said quietly, "I was fighting for a seat in Formula One, trying to prove I belonged. I was so scared. I never told you at the time, but … after I won GP2, I was going to give a few more months, with the offer from the Super Cup, but if I hadn’t had anything, then I was going to call it quits. Just be an engineer or something like that ."

"And now?"

"Now I'm world champion. Now I've proven everyone wrong. Now I have everything I ever wanted."

"Everything?" she asked, pulling back to look at me.

I looked at her, really looked at her. At the woman who'd stood by me through everything, who'd believed in me when I didn't believe in myself, who'd loved me through the doubt and the fear and the anger.

"Everything," I confirmed. "The championship is incredible, but you... You're everything that matters. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted and ever needed."

She kissed me then, soft and sweet and perfect, and I thought about Lewis's words. Embarrassing little girl. No talent. Slept her way to the top.

Let them think what they wanted. Let them say what they wanted. I had the trophy. I had the championship. I had proven, beyond any doubt, that I belonged, and I had Alexia, dancing with me under the stars in Versailles, the Driver's Championship trophy sitting on a bench nearby like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Not bad, I thought, for an embarrassing little girl.

Not bad at all.