Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

OLIVIA

Some mornings feel heavier than others.

Not for any particular reason.
Not because of the weather or the never-ending to-do list that waits for me.
It's something quieter than that. A kind of weight that wraps itself around my chest before the world even wakes up. 

It settles in the stillness, just before the kettle boils, just before Liam's feet hit the floor upstairs. In those in-between minutes, it's just me. 

And sometimes, that's when I have some me time.

The same applies for the evenings after I put him to sleep.

I don't mind solitude. In fact, I've grown to love it. There's peace in the silence.
But there are mornings, like this one, where it feels a little more like a void. A hollow space between what was and what might never be again.

I take my blue mug filled with the perfect kind of coffee between my palms.Long coffee with strong taste and barista milk.

Perfection.

Leaning against the kitchen counter while the early morning light spills through the window. The garden outside is still damp from last night's rain. 

Jesus, my lawn definetly needs a proper care.

I take a sip of coffee and let the taste wake me up. 

This is my quiet ritual. 

Coffee. Silence. And few thoughts I don't say out loud.

I'm thirty five. Divorced. A mother. A writer. Bookstore owner. A woman who can hang shelves by herself and unclog the sink when it acts up.
A woman who still hums to herself while painting and plays piano when the mood hits her just right. 

I know who I am now. Mostly.

It hasn't always been that way.

Over ten years ago, I got married to a man I thought I'd grow old with. 

Victor was charming and brilliant and impossible to ignore. 

He had this magnetic way of drawing everyone into his orbit and I got pulled in so fast I didn't even think to look for an escape route. 

Or didn't want to.

We married when I was twenty-four, had Liam a year later, and for a little while, I really believed we were building something beautiful.

Then came the unraveling. 

The nights he worked late. 

The excuses. 

The distance. 

And eventually, the truth.

His secretary. Nora, a much younger woman. 

I will stop here talking about her. She's irelevant in my mind now.

But, of course it had to be his secretary. He is basic like that. Something out of one of those cliché novels I swore I'd never write, and yet, I did. 

Imediately after I found out, Victor left. And I didn't stop him. 

He left me and Liam. Just like that. 

And I was left with the pieces. The memories. Our house.

We do share custody of our son.

I didn't even think to take away my son's chance to not see his father. Because Victor might be a total dick and an awful husband, but he is very involved in our son's life.

After all, I survived. 

Already three years since I am a divorced woman.

I rebuilt my life in this house and filled it with color and warmth and music. 

I wrote like a woman possessed, thrillers, romance, fiction.

Stories that dug into the parts of people no one wanted to talk about. 

Also, my bookstore was going incredible well and so were my books selling.

There's a strange kind of freedom that comes after heartbreak. 

It's not soft or pretty, but more sharp edged and a little angry at first. 

But then it starts to feel like independence. Like walking barefoot in your own home and not having to justify the books piled on the table or the dishes in the sink. 

Like knowing your worth has nothing to do with who stays or who walks away.

Victor is still with her, last I heard. 

I don't ask. I don't want to know. 

That chapter is so closed.

We are co-parenting and that's it! I don't care about his personal life.

Now, it's just me and Liam. And I wouldn't trade that for anything.

He's ten years old and full of wonder. 

He asks questions like he's trying to solve the mysteries of the univers, builds Lego spaceships with a focus that reminds me of myself when I'm writing. Huge Star Wars fan. He actually begged me to change his name from Liam to Luke.

He's everything good in my life. My favorite person in the whole world.

And the reason I never truly feel alone, even on mornings like this one.

Sometimes Sofia, my best friend ever since we were five, tells me I should try dating again. 

She means well. She always does. 

Her heart is bigger than most people's, and she's never quite let go of the idea that I deserve a big, romantic kind of love after what I've been through. That someone in this wide world is waiting for me.

But the truth is, I'm not sure I believe in that anymore. 

Maybe Victor was my chance in love and that was it. It ended.

Maybe not everyone needs to have a happy ending after all. 

Even I didn't write books with a happy ending. True, not so many, because I know what every reader dreams of...

So I let them have a happy ending at least in the sweet escape of the books.

But God is my witness.

I've tried. 

There were a few coffees, dinners, movie dates with men Sofia or her husband Adam introduced me to. 

Lawyers. Businessmen. One of them even read one of my books, which I thought was a promising start, until he spent the entire dinner quoting lines from it and asking if I'd based the sex scenes on personal experience.

Spoiler: I hadn't.

It's not that I've closed myself off completely. 

I just don't have time for shallow connections. Not when my heart has taken this long to be whole again and I'm content with what I've acomplished in my life.

Still, I write about love. I can't help it. 

I love the complexity of it, the way people find each other even in their darkest time. 

Or especially then.

I love the yearning, the vulnerability, the small gestures that speak louder than grand declarations. 

God, I hate those.

I write about the kind of love that grows slowly, like roots finding their way underground.

And maybe that's enough for me. 

To create it on the page and not to actually live it.

I glance toward the living room where my piano waits patiently. 

I haven't played in weeks. The inspiration comes in waves, like everything else. 

The same applies with the painting. Some nights I paint until the early hours of the morning. Other days, I barely touch a brush. I've learned to stop forcing it.

I set the mug down and pick up my notebook. 

It's full of fragments, like thoughts, lyrics, half-finished poems. 

You never know when inspiration hits.

This morning, I wrote:

"Somewhere between the endings, something still wants to begin."

I stare at the words for a long time.

Maybe I don't know what I mean yet. 

Most likely I don't.

But fiction and sarcasm are my favorite languages.

Outside, the light is soft and golden now. 

The kind that makes everything feel a little more possible. I hear the familiar creak of the wooden floor upstairs and I smile. 

Liam is awake.

The stillness fades, replaced quickly by the rhythm of our day. 

Summer school. Laundry. A nutritive breakfast. Quick visit at the bookstore.

Extra activities for Liam. Cleaning.

Errands.

Debrief of our day during dinner.

Sleep.

But for a those quiet minutes, I had this little moments with my thoughts, the stillness, and it is perfect.

Chapter Text

I always said Sofia's coffee shop smells like home.

It's not just the espresso or the vanilla or caramel flavour she uses in our "gossip day" coffees.

It's her.

The sound of her laugh echoing through the brick walls, the way she always has a flower tucked into a vase on each table.

Today it's a single tulip, yellow.

Wondering what is the story behind her choice, because there is always one.

Some days, it's been a white peony in honor of her mother. Saying they are meant for truly beautiful and smart woman. A single lavender sprig, when she wanted a little calm into chaos. A blush pink rose when she had a fight with Adam. A sunflower after my divorce, to bring up the sun over my stormy heart.

It's also the familiarity and the history of this place. How we went to so many places until we found this one, how we hanged all the paintings on the walls. Almost all painted by me. And how we assembled all the chairs and tables. Puzzles for grown-up.

But most important, the way her arms are open before I've even taken a step inside.

"You're late" she teases, already reaching for the second mug.

"I'm not late. You're just... chronically early." I counter.

"I own the place. I'm allowed." Fair enough. We smile as we always do, the kind that crinkles around the eyes.

I go at our usual corner table by the window, shaking the rain from my umbrella. Bruges is grey today. But still warm, considering is the middle of summer.

Sofia sets the coffee in front of me and sits across with her own. "So, what's the latest with you? Any thrilling murder plots or steamy affairs in progress?" She asks casually taking a sip of her coffee.

"In my writing or my life?"

She smirks. "Both. But I would absolutely love if it was in your personal life"  
I raise my mug and smell the strong aroma.
Third coffee, but who is counting? "Only in fiction, I'm afraid."

Sofia is the kind of woman people are naturally drawn to.  
Effortlessly warm, beautiful in that casual way where her lipstick is always the right shade and her blonde hair has always that amazing volume.
She's been married to Adam for over a decade now, no kids but completely content in their little world.
She's the one person who knows all my history. From the very beggining!

All my love life, my scars, of my stories, my fears and my deepest and darkest dreams.

"I have that book event next Saturday" I say. "A small reading. Nothing major."
Yet, everytime I am nervous about all of my book's launch. Because of so so many reasons.

"You'll do amazing like you always do." Well, that might be the reason we have bestfriends in our life. "And you'll sell out like every other book."
She lifts her mug toward me like a toast. "Don't underestimate your readers."

"I don't underestimate them" I shook my head. "I just don't like being the center of attention."
That's number one of the list of reasons. The second would be if people absolutely hate my work. I understand that you can't satisfy every reader, but there is always the scary feeling when the reviews come in. Sofia laughs "Which is hilarious, considering you write national bestsellers."  
Yeah, but writers are not that popular though, even if we are national or international known. We mingle and can easily go low profile on a daily basis.  

"From the safety of my quiet house, where sweatpants are the best outfit." If I'm being honest, I didn't expect for my books to have such a great succes.  
I don't complaint, don't get it wrong.
From young ages I started writing some short stories and suddenly at 18 years old I was accepted at Oxford University. Balliol College.
English and Literature major. It felt surreal but I've worked my ass off to get to this point in my life.
My first bestseller was at 23 years old and from then on everything went pretty smoothly on my writing career.

Sofia snorts at my answear. "You know, sometimes I forget how strange you are."
"Yeah, you love me anyways." I blow her a kiss.

We fall into easy conversation, the kind that flows without effort.
It's always been like this with us.
 Our rhythm is carved over years of friendship, of shared sleepovers and painful heartbreaks, of stolen bottles of wine from our parents collection and burried secrets.

She was there the night I told her Victor had cheated.  
She was there when he left as well.
She wasn't the type of person that pulls out the 'I told you so' card, even though she was damn right about him. From the very beggining she said Victor was bad news and that he has the vibe of a bad boy. Her and also my mom.
Extremely wealthy. Daddy 's money of course.
Bully over the highschool years and even badder on the uni years. All the girls were drooling when he came around, myself included.
That's where we actually met.

But no, Sofia held my hand when the fairytale turned into my worst nightmare. She sat with me while I cried my eyes out. When I poured too many glasses of alchool down my throat. She took Liam out for icecream the next day so I could sleep.  
That's the kind of person she is.

"I was talking to Adam last night..." she says, again, too casually. "Oh no. Here we go again." I lean against the wooden backrest, crossing my arms. I know what tsunami is coming toward me.
"He thinks you should meet his new colleague. He's single. Funny. Divorced, too. And—"

"Nope." I cut her off.

"You didn't even let me finish!"  She complains like a kid in the store when he doesn't het what he wants.  
"Because I already know where it's going. And no!"  
I'm a mother. I sure in hell know how to handle this situations.  
And it wasn't the first time she wants to set me up with a guy. 

She laughs, exasperated but not surprised. "Liv, honey, you can't just close yourself off forever.”
I roll my eyes for too many times. "I'm not closed. Just settled with my life just the way it is" 

"Really? " she asks and raise an eyebrow. I meet her eyes, and she softens.  
There's concern there, always laced around her teasing.

"You know" she starts, "you walked in here looking like a romantic novel cover. And I don't mean one of those cheap ones. I mean classy, windswept hair, glowing skin, mysterious 'don't talk to me unless you're interesting' energy."

I laugh. "Is that a compliment or an editorial review?”

"Neither, it's crime for the male population" she says, dramatically leaning forward. "That you look like that and you're not out there melting the minds of the male population. It's actually selfish of you."
I shake my head, half amused, half resigned.

"No, seriously. Perfect curves, those breasts of yours are to die for. Nobody ever believes your age. " I widened my eyes but hold my laughter "that honey brown hair of yours that falls like it belongs in a shampoo commercial, and those incredible blue eyes. If I were into women, I'd be all over you."  

Now I start laughing. Quite loud.

"Sofia...."

"What?" she grins. "You're a walking heart attack." Auch?! Was that still a compliment?  
"I'm not lonely nor closed" I say gently. "Not in the way you think."

I look out the window, watching the rain bead on the glass. A couple walks by, huddled close under a shared umbrella. Young. Laughing. She clutches his jacket like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it is. For them.

"I'm not waiting for someone to fix me" I say. "I'm not broken."
Sofia reaches over and squeezes my hand. "I know that. But maybe you don't need fixing. Maybe you just deserve someone who sees you clearly. Someone who makes your heart stir again."
I smile faintly. "You've always been too vanilla."

"And you've always been the realist. Which is why we balance each other out."

I finished my coffee and stood up from the table. Before leaving I glanced one more time on the table "The yellow tulip?"  I ask, dying to find out what's the story behind. "Hope. Rooting for a new begginning for my bestfriend"

I shook my head and kiss her on the cheek before heading out.

Chapter Text

By the time I get home from a broadcast interview about the launch of my new book, the rain has faded into a soft drizzle, and the clouds have lifted just enough to let the late afternoon light peek through. Damme is quiet, like always. A postcard kind of quiet. My house stands at the edge of a narrow lane, wrapped in ivy and time.  
It's not big nor small. But it's full happiness and joy.

It's home.

I open the front door to the sound of muffled music, a soft humming, and something crashing in the kitchen.
"Liam?" I call out, stepping inside. "Mom?"

I call again while taking off my shoes "Is everything still standing?"
My mother's voice floats out, calm and amused. "He's trying to cook for you. I'm just supervising from a safe distance."
I smile as I set my keys down. "That doesn't reassure me, Mama."

I follow the scent of something sweet into the kitchen, where Liam stands on a stool in front of the stove, tongue peeking out between his lips in concentration. My mother sits at the kitchen island, cutting strawberries with the a precisions of a chef.
Just another cozy afternoon in the De Vos family.
She looks up at me with a smile that warms the whole room. I am forever greatful for having a mother like her. 

"Surprise!" Liam says proudly, gesturing toward the pan. "I'm making you dinner!"

"Dinner?" I eye the pile of chocolate chips on the counter. "Looks suspiciously like breakfast."

"It's a surprise pancake night" he says, as if it's the most natural idea in the world. "With bananas and strawberries. And a little whipped cream. A new tradition for every Wednesday."

"Mm-hmm." I glance at my mother. "And you're just letting this happen?"
She lifts her shoulders with a light shrug. "He had a vision. I didn't want to get in the way of his creativity."
Liam grins. "See? Mémé gets it."

I walk over and gently take the spatula from his hand. "All right, young chef. How about I flip this one while you do the most important job: plating?"

He hops off the stool, wipes his hands on his t-shirt, and starts arranging the pancakes with intense focus. My mother stands and starts clearing the scraps from the table.
"He's been talking about this all afternoon." she says quietly, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. "Wanted to surprise you when you got home. I just made sure he didn't set the house on fire."

"Thank you for being here" I murmur. "I didn't mean to be gone that long."  
I know she doesn't mind staying with Liam whenever I am held up with work stuff. Both her and my dad are taking Liam for days to stay with them at their house. Especially now, when it's summer.  
We eat at the small table by the window, the three of us cozy around mismatched plates.  
Liam chatters the whole time, telling stories from summer school and how happy he is for the upcoming summer camp.

Flash news: I' m not! But I don't want to be that kind of mother. And I want for Liam to explore everything.
He asked us if dragons ever existed, because dinozours did, so it makes perfect sense in his little mind. He also argued with my mother over whether sour and salty sauces belongs on pancakes.

(It doesn't, but I don't interfere.)

After an hour, Mama kisses us both and bundles herself into her coat. "I'll let you two have your evening" she says. "Call me if you need help cleaning up the aftermath."

"We'll manage" I promise.  
We always do. Just the two of us.

She smiles at me in that way only mothers do, knowing, patient, a little amused. Then heads out the main door.
Liam disappears upstairs for a while, probably working on another one of his secret blueprints or sketching rocketships in his notebook.

I clean up the dishes, humming softly, and find one of his journals on the floor near the couch. It's filled with drawings. Robots, battle scenes, cars. He got this talent from me.
I smile as I flip through it.

These are the moments I never take for granted. Just the two of us, in our little happy place.  
Safe and enough.

After a while, he comes bounding down the stairs with a soccer ball tucked under his arm. "Can we go to the field?" He asks and puts those cute blue eyes into work.

"It's wet." I try to resonate because I was already dressed into my cozy clothes and poured myself a glass of wine. Thinking I'll catch up  on some reading.  
"I like the mud." Liam flashes an innocent smile. The one he knows I find it hard to refuse.
"Of course you do." 

We pull on rain boots and jackets and walk out to the grassy field behind the house. The ground is soft, the sky heavy with low light.
Liam races ahead, kicking the ball and spinning in circles, laughing like the world has no weight. Of course it doesn't from his perspective. I make sure of that everyday.

Watching him, I feel it again.
That quiet, aching gratitude. He saved me in ways he'll never understand. 

After Victor left, there were nights I felt like I was unraveling from the inside out.  
But Liam kept showing up with his little voice and endless questions, with his love that didn't ask me to be perfect, just present. He might be incredible young, but his mind was sharp and intuitive, many of the adults didn't posses those kind of traits. Sometimes I'm sad that he is not growing up in a unite household, in a perfect family of three ( or more ), to have both mother and father figures present at all time. But then, I shook my head, because no matter what, no woman should remain with an abusive or a cheater next to her. Period.

"Mama!" he calls out, mid-kick, interrupting my thoughts "Can I be in one of your books?"

"You already are" I say.
"Really?" his face lit up at my answear.
"Every hero I write starts with you."

He grins and kicks the ball so hard it soars over my head, landing with a muddy thud. "Cool.”
When we finally walk home, damp and laughing and covered in grass stains, it feels like paradise. It always does when we spent time together.

Later that night, after his shower and bedtime story, I tuck him in and kiss his forehead.

"I love you, Mama" he whispers melting my heart.

"I love you more."

Once the house is still, I settle at my desk.

The glow of the screen lights up the room, and I try to write.  
A few lines come out.
They sound slow and clumsy, but I leave them there.

Some days, writing is like breathing.

Others, it's like digging for gold on a cobblestone beach. But I don't put pressure on myself now.

Chapter Text

There's always that moment just before an event begins. The final, fragile quietly moment before the hum of voices, the clink of glasses, the rustling of coats and browsed pages are filling up the space.

I stood in the middle of my bookstore, surrounded by soft lighting, artfully arranged books, trays of hors d'oeuvres, and the faint scent of fresh lilies, combined with smell of new and old paper.
My chest felt tight. Not unpleasantly so, but tight enough to remind me I was still human.  
Still prone to nerves, even after all these years of experience. Of doing this for multiple times.

"Olivia, breathe." Robert floated past me, adjusting a stack of my books like it was a sacred ritual.

Robert is one of my employees. My first  employee actually. And he has been a part of my life ever since. Safe to say that he has seen all of me. Literaly. Lucky for both of us, having a pair of boobs wasn’t mandatory for his first choice. But on a deeper matter, he has seen my good side, my bad side...my angry side. He had noticed when I was on the brink, both mentally and physically, and reached out to me, which was the most important thing about him.
We still have some inside jokes about ways to cover a murderer.  
Robert is kind and wild but very serious at doing his job. And I'll be forever grateful for having him in my life.

"You look like you're about to faint or sprint out the back door."  
"Is that an option? I'll take it in an instance." I tugged at the hem of my shirt. At this point, my loose shirt was causing me to feel like it was constricting my air supply.
"Do we have enough wine?" I ask to calm my nerves.
"More than enough. And sparkling water, too. We are civilized." He winked.

Eva popped her head around the corner from the counter, clutching a tray of mini quiches. "I restocked the glasses and the napkins. And Sofia brought that amazing pear tart from her café." I nodded and gave her an warm smile "Also, I heard from one of the guests that you're trending locally on Instagram. Some girl just tagged your book as 'the most emotionally savage novel of the year.'" her tone of voice dropped above an whisper.

Eva, another employee of mine.
Carefree, smart, feminist. She reminds me of myself when I was her age. 22 years old. Recently graduate of the University of Ghent, Communication Studies. Eva came into my life P.V( post Victor ) and she only witnessed the improved version of Olivia, unlike Robert. She thinks about me like her mentor. Heavy label, but I’m trying my best to prove myself worthy of it.

"Emotionally savage" I repeated with a faint smile. "That's... flattering?"
"Are you kidding? That's marketing gold!" she said. "If I ever write anything, I want people to sob and hate themselves afterward."
Robert let out a laugh. "And that's why you are single."  
Eva smirked. "Says the man who cried over that one breakup for six months." "It was a deep connection. He made me a playlist and wrote me a poem."

I laughed, grateful for their familiar banter.
They kept me grounded, even when my nerves clawed at my insides like wild cats.
Also, keeping me updated with the "cool" stuff that are trending nowadays.

Liam had gone to his father's for the weekend.
Victor's every other weekend dad act, always punctual, always polite.  
He'd picked Liam up that morning with a sleek black car and his usual cologne that lingered in the hallway long after he left.

"Good luck at the book launch" he said before leaving with Liam and kissing on the cheek. Yuck.
I gave him an akaward smile and slam the door behind him.  
I was used to it now.  
The drop-offs. The knowledge that he shares his life with someone else now.  
I didn't feel pain about it anymore, not in the sharp way.  
Just the dull echo of a door long since closed.
But tonight was about something else entirely.

My new book sat in a pyramid on the front display.

Echoes Beneath, a psychological thriller wrapped around a doomed love story.

Not unfamiliar ground for me, but this one had cut deeper.  
I'd written it during a season where my nights blurred into my mornings, where loneliness and hope had wrestled in my chest.

People started to trickle in. Familiar faces, curious ones, the quiet kind who always asked the best questions. Sofia and Adam arrived among the first. My mom and my dad.
Sofia simply radiant in a tailored green dress that made her look like she'd just stepped out of a magazine.  
Adam kissed my cheek and handed me a bottle of wine.

"Your nervous face is back" Sofia whispered, hugging me.
"This is my calm face" I whispered back.
"You're a terrible liar. I know you better than yourself." I give her that.

"Also, you look amazing. Total power woman. How are men not lining up outside this place?" I scoffed.
"Because I don't want them to. I'm not bait" I said dryly.  
She grinned and sighed. "Still a waste. Just saying." I rolled my eyes but smiled. She meant well. She always does.

The event was rolling forward like a wave.  
I did a short reading, then took questions.
Some funny, some insightful, some oddly personal. Always the same drill. And my editor was smiling from one ear to another. 
Very good sign, considering his usual self is grumpy as fuck.

I signed books, exchanged hugs, laughed when someone told me they had to put the book in the freezer because it scared them too much. And slowly, the tightness in my chest unraveled.

This was what I loved.

Not the attention, no.

I never liked being the center of the room.

But the connection with amazing people.

The quiet, electric understanding between writer and reader.

That the things I imagined could help someone else feel seen. Heard. Less alone.

Eva passed by me with an empty tray and a fresh glass of wine. We toasted. "Everyone's is saying only good words about your book and about you..." she said with a grin. "I eavesdropped on those handsome guys over there" she pointed with her chin toward a group of people "they are crazy about you" I shook my head and in the moment I wanted to say something back, her eyes widened as she froze mid-step looking toward the entrance. “NO WAY!” 

"What?" I asked, brows rising and confused.

She spun toward me, gripping my arm. "You are not going to believe this. I swear to God, unless I'm hallucinating. Which I'm not. And I didn't drink that much. But, I think—" She dropped her voice to a hiss and I was getting more and more curious and anxious. "I think Oscar Piastri just walked into your bookstore."

"Who?" I asked even more confused. It was the first time I was hearing that name.

Eva, on the other hand, looked mesmerized. "Oscar. Piastri. Formula One. Amazing driver. Best rookie of 2023. He's in Bruges right now, he posted about it this morning, and, Olivia, I think he's here. Like right now." she was trying her best not to jump up and down with excitment, while I got stuck at the ‘rookie’ part. Is that another word in the urban dictionary?

Robert, who had been close to us turned and nearly dropped a wine bottle. "Oh my God, she's right. I could recognize that jawline and thick neck in a milion."
I blinked at them. "Are you two serious now? I don't have a fucking clue who he is, and which one is he?"  I was scanning among the crowd for person I was suppose to know since he was so famous. But, who am I fooling? I have no idea about Formula 1. Maybe only Schumacher or Senna. But last I've heard, one is dead and the other had suffer an accident that put him in bed.

Eva's voice dropped into the kind of whisper that was somehow louder than shouting. "He's walking toward the fiction table. I swear on Taylor Swift's music. It's him."

In a blink of a second, the air in the room shifted, when I finally saw who they're talking about.

Chapter Text

OSCAR

It was never supposed to be anything more than a quiet walk.

Bruges was charming.  
Just like that one over photographed picture around the internet.
Probably even more.
The crooked cobblestones, the way the canals curved like veins through the city, the pastel townhouses with ivy creeping up their sides.

It felt like the present had pressed pause here.
And maybe that was why I liked it.
No screaming fans. No relentless race prep. No overanalyzed lap times or media briefings.

Just me, a cap pulled low over my head, headphones tucked in but off, and the soft rhythm of the city guiding me nowhere in particular.
I was in my summer break after all, but unlike my fellow collegues of the grid, I didn't want to lay under a burny sun on a lavish holiday home or yacht.

I was walking aimlessly listening to the same playlist with my favorite house music songs.
Ahead of me, a bookstore packed full with people. Some of them outside, laughing and talking with a glass of wine in their hands.

I don't usually stop on this kind of events, not because I'm ignorant and don't want to read, but I'm lacking time. And ok, maybe I’m not really the type of guy who likes to read in their spare time and moreover, to attend any kind of events.

I wasn't even paying the proper attention until my gaze caught on the warm light spilling from the windows, and then on the woman inside.
She stood near the center of the room, laughing. A soft kind of laugh, unguarded, like it had slipped past her lips before she had a chance to contain it.

And I just... stopped.

She wasn't dressed to impress, no tight silhouette screaming for attention.  
But something about her made everything else blur at the edges. 

Long, honey brown hair tumbling down her back, the soft curve of her mouth, the way her body moved, relaxed, but with quiet confidence.  She was floating over there.

And her eyes.  
Even from where I stood on the pavement, I could see the way they lit up when someone spoke to her. Bright. Striking. Amazingly blue color.

My chest tightened, for no good reason at all.

I should've kept walking. I knew that. But instead, I walked straight into that bookstore the street without thinking. Drawn in. Like gravity had changed direction.

The door was wide open and luckly heads didn't imediately turn as I stepped in. People were just busy with their own things, and they really didn’t care who was coming or leaving.
But the warmth swept over me, along with the faint scent of old books.The kind of place people came to feel things.Those people aren't me.
I didn't usually feel much at all. 

After some minutes, few of them noticed me. Nothing unusual. I wasn't in my racing gear, but some people recognized me anyway.  
I was used to that. Not as much as some other collegues of mine, more popular or more into the spotlight. But it’s quite hard to miss us, since we are only tweenty in this sport.  
Unlike the people who usually recognizes me, the ones gathered here weren’t the type to barge into you. They notice, they smile, some discret nudging, but after, they return to their own bussines.

What I wasn't used to was the way my stomach flipped when her gaze landed on me.
She looked up slowly, eyes meeting mine like she hadn't expected me to exist in her world.
She had that particular type of eyes that are seductive without trying.

God, she was even more beautiful up close.

I've seen plenty of beautiful woman in the past time, but something about her captivated me. Messing up all my entire being in every possible way.Her full lips, natural, Stretched into a radiant smile with straight white teeth.

Fuck.me.now.

I tried to think of something to say. Anything. But words don't come easily for me.
She blinked, then tilted her head just slightly, like she was observing, reading. Not in the "Are you Oscar Piastri?" way. Just... curious. Calm. Present.

I walked over, heart strangely unsteady, and picked up one of the books on display.

Echoes Beneath. Her name was on the cover.

Olivia de Vos. Name suited for a goddes.

"You're the author" I said, voice low.
She nodded slowly, eyes narrowing with polite curiosity. "I am."
Fuck, even her voice sounds incredible. Just being so close to her has my knees weakning and my heart racing.

"It's a nice bookstore." Jesus Fuck Oscar, this is such a lame thing to say.
"Thank you" she said, her tone soft but clear. "We're having a book presentation. Feel free to look around."

I'm forever grateful that people don't have the ability to hear ones thoughts. There was a tiny pause. Maybe half a second. But something passed between us in it.
Strange, electric.

I held the book in my hand and tried not to stare at her like an idiot. "I'll take a copy."
Her lips twitched, amused. "You don't even know what it's about."
I shrugged, the edge of a smile tugging at my mouth. "Doesn't matter."

She arched an eyebrow at that, and I could tell she wasn't someone easily charmed. Good. I didn't want easy.

I want real.

"Would you like it signed?" she asked, a little more softly.
"Yeah" I said. Then added, "To Oscar." She opened the book and glanced up. "To Oscar, then"

Call me a little obsessed but my cock was pressing againts the zipper of the jeans painfully, when she leaned over the desk to sign the book.

She started writing, her pen moving with quiet certainty. "With a ‘c’ or a ‘k’?"
I was staring again.
And forgot the words in my throat.  
She turned her face to me while I was so far away with my dirty thoughts.

"With ‘c’ " I said finally and smiling faintly. "The proper way."
She looked up, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Figures."
I raised an eyebrow "What is that suppose to mean?"
She shook her head gently and laughed a little.  “You look like some who insists on doing this properly.”
That made me laugh. Low and genuine. “Only when it counts.”

She handed the book back to me, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment.  The little hair on my neck raises with anticipation.

"Here you go, Oscar with a proper ‘c’’. Hope you enjoy it."

"Thanks, Olivia."

She blinked, a little surprised I said her name, then gave a soft nod. "Well... have a nice evening."
I hesitated. Just a beat. Then said, "You too."

And I walked out. Book in hand. Her name echoing louder in my head than it should've.
I was only in front of her bookstore when I heard the giggle behind me.
Two girls, probably early twenties, both staring a little too hard.

"Wait. Sorry" one of them said in accented English, "are you Oscar Piastri?"

I gave a small smile and nodded. "Yes.”
"Oh my God" the other breathed, eyes wide. "Could we get a photo?"

I glanced back at the window of the bookstore.
She hadn't seen. Or maybe she had, and simply didn't care.
I posed for the photo. Smiled. Said thank you. Even signed a notebook one of them had. But my thoughts weren't on them.

They were still inside. With her.
With Olivia.

”Good luck at the next race” the girls said before leaving.

Chapter Text

The walk back to the hotel felt longer than it was. Bruges was quiet at night, quieter than most cities I'd been to. 

A few tourists still lingered on the canals, the occasional bike passed, but mostly it was just me and the sound of my footsteps on stone.
And Olivia's name stuck in my head like a song I didn't know the lyrics to.  
Just the melody and rhythm.

Dinner with Mark, my manager and mentor, former F1 driver, was the usual checklist of things. Jesus Christ. This guy is not giving me a break not even in the holiday.
Spa prep. Media obligations. Talks about the team's expectations. He knew better than to push when I was half-checked out.

"You okay?" he asked finally, slicing into a rare steak. "You're quiet."

"I'm always quiet" I said, not looking up from my pasta. "Yeah, but this is next level even for you."
I shrugged. "Just tired."  
"Right...well, only one week ahead of us, and the second part of the season will start. You are curently P4 in the driver's championship-"
He continued talking and talking while my mind was in a totally entire other place. "And I've called Arthur. He will arrive probably on Wednesday to start your training."  
"Yeah. All right. Okay" I replied totally unbothered. It isn't like I didn't care, but I will truly want to enjoy the last summer days without racing terms, standings, points, winnings, strategies.
Luckily Mark didn't press any further. He knew when to push into the conversation and when to let silence win.

By the time I got back to my room, it was close to midnight. The air was cool through the cracked window, and the city buzz was replaced by my own thoughts.
I sat on the edge of the bed, opened the book she signed for me, then suddenly it hit me.

I wanted to know more.Not about the book, though I would read it.
But, about her.

It wasn't like me. I wasn't the type to chase.  
But something about her had messed with my coordinates.
She wasn't impressed. She didn't even know who I was. That wasn't an insult, just a relief.

I pulled out my phone, typed in:

"Olivia Bruges author."

A few links came up. 

An video interview in Le Soir where she is speaking in french. Liquid poetry. Another  feature in a Flemish literary journal.  And some reviews by the New York Times.
I found the list of her books. Very good ratings, I might add.

She was worldwide known. I mean her books were. Obviously, among the educated and not ignorat people like myself.
She is probably listening to some clasic or jazz music while going for a cardio run… 
But no social media. No Instagram, no Twitter, not even a public Facebook.
Smart. Odd. Or guarded.
Probably all of them.

Curiosity. That's what made me do it.

I figured if anyone close, like in my family had heard of Olivia, or read her books, it'd be my sister. She devours novels like they're breakfast. And unlike me, she actually remembers the characters' names after two chapters.
It was 8 a.m. in Melbourne. Probably just before she headed out to Uni courses, so not too early to call. At least, that was my justification.

She picked up after two rings. "Why in the world aren't you sleeping?" she said as a way of greeting. "Hello to you too."

"Don't give me that. It's your summer break. Aren't you supposed to be dreak drunk or at some yachts parties, or both?"
"Yachts aren't really my thing" I muttered, while putting her on speaker to search more things about Olivia. "And neither is sleep lately, apparently."

"Ugh, what now?" she sighed. "Please don't say existential dread or some amazing overtakes on a random race."

"Neither. I met someone."
There was a beat of silence. Then a snort. "Wait. You met someone? Like a human? Who talked back?"

"Don't be dramatic" I said, smirking. "No, no, this is huge. Does she know you speak in full sentences? Should we send her a medal?"

I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn't see it. "Her name's Olivia. She owns a bookstore here in Bruges. She's a writer. I think she's kind of..." I trailed off, suddenly unsure what word to land on. Magical? Gorgeous? Entirely too distracting?

"Ohh, I saw on your instagram that you’re in Belgium already. But, please. Continue. Kind of what?" I inhaled deeply "Different." i said while exhaling.
"A bookstore owner?" she repeated and sounding intrigued. "What's her full name?"

"Olivia de Vos."

Another pause. Then the sound of furious typing. "Hold on—Googling. Ah. Okay. Okayyy, I've seen her name around. She writes those moody psychological novels, right? You know, the kind Mum secretly reads at 2 a.m. but hides under a cushion when Dad walks in?" That made me laugh. "Yeah, probably those." I didn’t have the slightest clue.

"Wait. Was she hot?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with you calling me in the middle of the night just to ask about a writer."  
I ran a hand through my hair. "She's... yeah. She's beautiful. But not like flashy. Just... natural. Real. She didn't even know who I was."

"Oh, well that explains the obsession” she teased. "Finally found someone who doesn't want a selfie or a sponsorship."
"I'm serious."
"I know" she said, her voice softening slightly. "You sound weird about this. Like... weird in a good way. Should I be worried?"

"No" I replied, quietly. "I just wanted to know if you've read any of her books."

"Only one. The one with the red cover... ugh, what's it called…something about glass and memories. Heavy stuff. But beautiful writing. Made me cry like three times and question my entire exitence”  
"Sounds like a light read." I let out a small laugh. "Oh, for sure" she deadpanned. "It's exactly your type of reading."  
Gotta love my sister with her sarcastic answears.

I glanced down at the book in my hands, thumb brushing over the embossed letters of her name.
"She signed a copy for me" I said, almost casually.
There was a sharp pause on the other end.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. I bought her latest book. Told her to sign it."

"What did she write? 'To the random tall guy who didn't know the plot'?" "No" I said, smiling. "She just wrote 'To Oscar.'"

"Wow. Romantic. Clasic and on point. Bet she'll remember you forever."
I exhaled slowly, staring out at Olivia's website.
"Mum will freak out when I'm going to tell her. " she said in an evil way. "Could you please, don't?" I was already regretting calling her. "c'mon Osc, maybe she'll forgive you for your short visit in your summer break."

"Okay. I'm hanging up now. Bye"
"Always a pleasure talking to you." She laughed and ended the call.

Olivia’s website was simple, elegant, clean. A soft palette of cream and navy, handwritten fonts.  
Her bio was short: 

Writer. Mother. 

Her work is inspired by everyday complexities, human connection, and the quiet strength found in reinvention.  
When not writing, she devotes time to painting, music, and curating a private life away from the public eye.

Below that, a photograph of her standing on a armchair.  
Confident. Brilliant. Beautiful.
God, she is incredibly beautiful. The photo didn’t show her true beauty.

I'd read a chapter before even realizing I had.  
Her writing wasn't just good, it was surgical.  
Each word chosen with intention. There was a kind of grief in her pages, and hope buried beneath it. 

I wonder if it's like her...

And I knew then, without overthinking it, that I was going back to the bookstore very soon.

Chapter Text

I showed up around noon on Monday.
No cap this time, just my usual outfit. Jeans and a plain t-shirt.

The bookstore was quieter than Saturday night.  
No crowd. Just the smell of fresh coffee, few people scattered among the piles of books, and the sound of two employees laughing at the counter.
But when they saw me, the laughter stopped and it was replaced by some whispering.

"Back so soon?" The girl asked, grinning.
I smiled back a little shy. "Umm, I thought I'd buy some more books." they both chuckled looking at each other, then at me.
"I'm Eva by the way and he is Robert."
I extended my hand to them "Oscar. Glad to meet you both."
“We know who you are.” Eva said with a giggle.  
Robert raised an eyebrow and leaned in dramatically. "So, probably you want some more books of a certain someone who writes them, right?" I just laughed and shook my head.
"She's not here." Eva said, like she'd seen through me. "She had a meeting this morning. Should be back soon though, if you want to wait..."

I didn’t know how to feel. This was a new teritorry for me. On one hand I really wanted to see her again, but on the other…Fuck. I was so damn nervous.  
Didn’t want to leave in the next second if she wasn’t here so, I browsed anyway. Picked up two more of her novels, one of them a psychological thriller. The one Hattie mentioned, with the red cover. Paid in cash, signed the little loyalty card they handed me like I was a regular.

And just as I turned to leave and opened the door, Olivia stormed in.  Big coffee in her hand, and we bumped into each other.

The second she saw me her eyes went wide.
Hopefully for all the good reasons.

"Shit—" she said looking down at her white blouse.
Now with brown shades from her coffee.
She raised her eyes  at me, somewhere between embarrassed and amused look. Fuck sake Oscar, you sure in hell know to make an apperence.   
"Well. That's one way to bump into someone." 

"Umm. I'm so sorry" I said instantly. "Are you—?"  
"It's fine" she cut in, brushing at the stain with a napkin Robert had already handed her. "It's just coffee. And this top was too clean anyway." Eva snorted.
While I wanted to dig myself a hole to hide in there.
I offered to take her blouse to a cleaning service, but she refused.

"Come inside" Olivia said, already walking past me. "Before you spill something else."
I followed her in the back, at what I assumed was her office. Embarrassed was an understatement.  
"You came back." she said putting her handbag on the desk.
"Couldn't stay away" I said, offering a half-smile.
She gave me a look. Not judgmental, not playful, just trying to figure me out. 
Like I was some contemporary puzzle with too many complicated pieces.

"I read almost half of Echoes Beneath the last couple of days" I continue. "It kind of messed with my head, in the best way."
And the author itself, but kept that idea to myself.
A flicker of surprise crossed her face. "You actually read it?"
Okay...auch?! That sounded badly for me.
What is her actual impression of me? That I'm some kind of duffer.

"I don't just collect signed copies."
She laughed quietly, my eyes dropping to her blouse again. "Most people don't get past the first chapter."
I pinched my eyebrows together, because that sounded a little weird for me.

"Maybe I'm not most people"   
She tilted her head. "Is that so?" She said raising her eyebrows, crossing her arms.
"Umm, yeah...Most of people forget what it costs to begin again and don't usually read between the lines. The true authority over our minds lies in our souls. Even if it's already scarred."

That made her go still for a moment. Then she said, "You're too young to talk like that."
"Am I?" I leaned back on the door of her office."How old do you think I am?"  
She gave me a sidelong glance. "I don't guess. It's impolite."  
Why is the age issue even taken into consideration ? It was the least important thing for me.

She went into the bathroom but didn't close the door behind her. I went in that direction as well.
But couple of seconds later, she was back in front of me.
She'd changed into a simple white tank top.
No bra.
My willpower was being tested like never before. The fabric clung to her breats, tight on her body.  
She didn't seem to notice, or care, but my eyes kept betraying me.

"Afraid of being wrong?" I ask.
"No" she replied. "Afraid of being right." I smiled. "Alright. I'll make it easy. I'm twenty-four."
There was a pause.
Then a slow inhale, like she was weighing something heavy but invisible.
"Of course you are." She went pass me and searched something in her bag.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."  
"It's not. It's just..." She stopped herself and looked at me again. "I was already writing my first book when you were still in school probably."
Then she took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up one. "So?" I ask confused.

"So, that's a gap." Her full lips around the cigarette inhaling deep in her lungs that poisnoness smoke.
"Maybe" I said. "But I've learned time doesn't always move the same for everyone."
She didn't respond to that. But I could tell the wheels were turning behind those blue eyes of hers.
And I didn't need her to say anything more.

“So why did you come back?” she asked looking me straight into my eyes. 
God, she is so damn straightforward.

Then I said it. What I came back to say with the little courage left inside of me . "I'd like to take you to dinner."
"No." she said without thinking and without hesitation.

"No?"  
She looked at me, eyes calm but firm. "You're famous. You have fans, a spotlight. I have a son and a quiet life. And eleven years between us"
I didn't argue. I just said, "Okay."

She blinked. "That's it?"
"For now."

Her lips curled slightly, surprised. But before she could say anything else, we heard the commotion outside.

Voices. Movement.

Robert poked his head into the room, his expression grim. "Uh... Oscar? You might want to see this."

I stood, stepped out of her office, and saw them.  
A full hand of photographers, phones out. Some fans too. A few girls holding notebooks, waving at the window.
Olivia joined me at my side. Her mouth tightened.

"I'm sorry" I said quietly. "They must've tracked me here."  
What the fuck?! This isn’t something that occurs for me. Maybe for the more popular drivers. I’m quite private and low key.

She didn't speak. Just stared at the crowd for a moment and before I got to change to make an excuse or to try to explain something, she retreated into the office again, shutting the door with a thud.

And suddenly, the warm, safe bookstore suddenly didn't feel so quiet anymore.

And I hated that I might be the reason why.

Chapter Text

OLIVIA

It started with a flicker.
A glint of movement outside the window.
Then more.
Flashes. Raised phones.
Faces I didn't know pressing closer to the glass.
And just like that, the outside world barged into my quiet corner of the universe.

I took a step back, heart fluttering in my chest, not panic, not yet though. But something close.  
That sense of something shifting out of your hands before you even realize you were holding it.

I heard Robert trying to shoo them off, Eva whispering something sharp. A mix between English and Dutch.  
I didn't want to listen or to see. I stayed back to the office, heart pounding harder than I cared to admit, with the door close behind me. Not as a dramatic gesture, just... a boundary.
A moment to breathe.

I leaned against the wall and pressed my fingertips to my temples.
Inhale-Exhale Olivia.

What was I thinking?
No, scratch tha…was I even thinking?
Of course not!  
I'd let him into my space. And for what exactly?
He is stranger to me. But not to others. 
He is just a customer. A famous one, but still, a customer and that’s it!

The book presentation had gone well.  
The feedback was warm, the turnout even better than expected. Earlier that day, I went for a meeting with another author. She wanted to have her book launch at my bookstore. And of course I've said yes.  I like helping my fellow authors.
Everything had been... fine. Good, even.
Life was back on it's normal track.
And then he showed up. Again.  
Sure in hell, I hadn't expected him to come back.

Of course I remembered him. I’ll be lying if I say he didn’t catch my attention, but that wasn’t enough to go crazy about it. I have eyes and I can admit when I like a male presence.

Oscar Piastri.

Tall, calm, and infuriatingly composed.  
As if he didn't even notice the girls whispering or the way Eva nearly dropped the entire tray of prosecco flutes when she saw him Saturday night.
And that annoying insistent feeling, came back.  I felt it at the presentation, I’d felt it today too.  
Probably it would be easy to describe if I was used to it, but no, it was a flicker of something unfamiliar. Not excitement exactly. More like a static buzz behind my ribs.

So when I walked into the bookstore today and literally crashed into him. Or he into me. That buzz pounded way harder that I was expected. I am usually a vulcanic type of human being and when I was about to say something pretty rude, I looked up and my rude words got stuck in my throat. His sweet panicked face brought up my kindly demeanor side. Messy brown hair and those brown eyes who were looking back at me with a concerned expression.  
I'd managed to keep my cool. Mostly.

Except for the part where coffee stained my white blouse along with my bra and I had to change.
Safe to say that Oscar saw far more than I usually show strangers on a Monday.  
But I'm not the type to melt under pressure. Not anymore.

Still, there was something about the way he was talking with me. So simple and calm. "Maybe I'm not most people." Like he wasn't just talking about books. That steady way he looked at me. He seemed to be so simple in every aspect, but somehow so very complicated.  
Intriguing…
I pulled my cardigan tighter around me and tried not to think about it. About him. About the way his voice sounded when he asked me to dinner, soft and sincere.
Calm.
And the way I'd said no.

Because it was easier that way. Safer.

After he left. After the fans and photographers made my cozy bookstore feel like a tabloid backdrop, Robert and Eva came into my office with a new coffee.

Robert, of course, was the first to break the silence. "Coast is clear now."  
I nodded and gave them a smile.
"He came back…" Eva whispered with what I felt, a little trace of hope in her voice, handing me the coffee.
"He's a customer. And it's a bookstore. That's literally what people do here." Taking a sip of my freshly brewed coffee, trying to look completely unbothered and composed.
"To see you" Robert chimed in, resting his elbows on my desk. "Let's not pretend otherwise."  
I rolled my eyes and shoo them out of my office.
I don't need this kind of distraction. 

When I came home later that day, curiosity got the better of me.  
I searched him.
Just a name: his name.
It was enough to open a digital floodgate.

Formula 1's rising star. Australian. Private. I snorted. What happened in my bookstore didn’t seem private at all.
Intensely focused.
But the pictures of him on the race track hit differently. Sweaty hair, jawline tense under the weight of a helmet, the kind of eyes that made you look twice without meaning to.
And I had looked. For too long. Now on the photos and earlier when he was standing in front of me.
Didn't even realize I was bitting my bottom lip.

Those pictures were showing another person. Not the boy I met in my bookstore.
The one who smiled softly when he talked about books. The one who blushed when he spilled my coffee. The one who asked questions like he genuinely wanted to know the answers.
That version wasn't in any of these photos.

Some fan page had posted a clip of him getting out of his car, removing his helmet, his fingers going through his hair to arrange it. Drinking that bottle of water with such thirst.
The comments underneath were unhinged.  The thirst was real. For all of us. But almost all of them made complete sense. He was ridiculously attractive. Not the perfect kind, the Ken doll, but some sort of carisma that seemed impossible to ignore. Even I could admit that.

But it wasn't just looks. It was the stillness in him. Like nothing rattled him, but everything was being calculated. Quiet power.  
These guys are dangerous as fuck.

"Mommy, I can't find my green socks" Liam shouted from the top of the stairs. Reality check. I'd shut the laptop imediately, feeling ridiculous. Like a teenager stalking her latest crush.  
I'm a mother for God's sake.

And he is way to young. Even for my fantasies.

 
"Coming honey" I say and went upstairs.

I hadn't dreamt of him that night.
I'd made sure of that.

—————

Next day I was first to arrive at the bookstore, way before the opening hours.
I begin typing some ideas for my next book.
My focus was everywhere but in the words.

"You good?" Sofia leaned her head in. I glance at the clock on the wall. It was 11 already.
"Fine" I said, perhaps a little too quickly.
She stepped inside, eyeing me. "I heard your mystery guest really stirred up things around here." I rolled my eyes. I will put duck tape over Eva's and Robert's mouth soon enough.
"He's not my guest" I replied.

"No?" Her tone was light, teasing. "Because he definitely looked like he wanted to be. Probably even more …."
I gave her a cold look, and she raised both hands. "Just saying. You know I've got eyes."

"I'm not interested" I said, keeping my voice even. And lying.
She raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, but she didn't push it. Just sat down on the arm of the couch and glanced toward the curtained window. "Well, interested or not, he's gorgeous. And clearly smitten judging by what I've heard."
I scoffed softly. "He's not smitten. He's... curious."
"Same thing" she said with a shrug.
"No, it's not." I stood, brushing invisible dust from my jeans. "Curiosity fades away." She watched me closely, then sighed. "You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Talk like you're already preparing for the worst. Like something good can't possibly last."  
I didn't respond. She wasn't wrong, but I didn't want to admit she might be right.
"I'm just being realistic" I said finally. "He is twenty-four. And famous. And probably used to women throwing at him. I don't want to be another version of that."

”Liv…he walked into your world. Not the other way around. That says something."
I didn't respond. Not because she was wrong, but because I didn't have a counter-argument.
And that silence, coming from me, was louder than any confession.

Chapter Text

I don't fall easily. And when I do, I land on my feet.

That was the line I'd written once in a book, and it had stuck with me. Now, more of a mantra than the fiction I usually write.

I'd repeated it to myself more times than I cared to admit, especially after Victor. Especially after the version of love that looked good in photos but was hollow behind closed doors.

Some mornings feel like exhaling. Wednesday was one of them.
I was back on my daily routine.
Daily summer routine since it was August. So, I moved slower than usual. Not because I was tired, but because I was allowed and I wasn't pressured by the main enemy. Time.

The house was quiet. Peaceful. Liam had already begun packing for his two-week camp with his summer school group. He did it mostly on his own, with the kind of pride only a ten-year-old boy can carry when folding socks into perfect, slightly wrinkled bundles. I checked his checklist twice, adding an extra toothbrush, an extra hoodie and underwear.
Even a book but he probably wouldn't read. I slipped a note in which I wrote that I am very proud of him and to be careful out there. He might pretend not to care about but would secretly keep. 

By ten, I was at the bookstore.

Robert had already brewed coffee strong enough to keep us all upright through a mild apocalypse, and Eva was humming something that sounded  like a Taylor Swift song.  
It scares me that I recognize those songs and  I was so used to them, I could easily sing them myself.
Business was steady.  
People asked about Echoes Beneath, about signed copies, about future events.

And I smiled, signed, answered.

A few interviews were scheduled in the afternoon. One for a Belgian magazine, another for a Dutch podcast. And later, another podcast with an american author.  Publishers were already poking at me for the next manuscript.  
Jesus, why the rush? I literally just launch a book.
Writing takes time. And many many words. And ideas. Plot. Character development.
Words and ideas that I was kinda struggling to find at the moment. But I know inspiration will come, eventually. It always does for me.

Another aspect that takes time was the recovery from being exposed. Eva kept showing me news and photos on the internet about our bookstore and the fact that Oscar has been seen there.  
Formula 1 fan pages wondering what was he doing in a bookstore on his summer break. Like it was something completely unusual.  
I still hadn't processed the scene from a few days ago.
The fans, the cameras, the buzz of erratic people outside my bookstore.  
The way Oscar had looked at me after. Apologetic.  Eva showed me a picture with him after he left where he was trying to get rid of the people following him. His face a mix of anger and dissapointment. Like he'd knew he brought the storm inside.

Yet, because of him, we had more customers between the ages of 15 and 25.  Probably in a hope or a glimpse if a certain famous driver showed up around the place again.

But hey, it was in our benefit after all. Robert kept saying.  
We have sold more books in these couple of days than last weeks.

I hadn't seen him since then.
But I had thought about him. More than once.
And then, on Wedenesay evening, I saw it.
An email. From an unknown sender.

I opened it quickly.

Subject: Friday. 8PM. Café Fleur. Just dinner.

I really want to see you again.
Just the two of us. I promise.

O.P 81.

No preamble. No follow-up. Not even a "hello."
Just confidence.

I stared at it longer than I should have. Let it sit there, glowing in my inbox like a dare. I'm ashamed to admit that I actually knew what that 81 means on his signature...
Thank you Formula 1 fans community, I guess…

I didn't respond. But I didn't delete it either.When I caught myself smiling at it while chewing on my favorite writing pen, I shook my head.  
As sweet and intriguing it may be to go on a date with him, there is also the part that holds me back. And that part includes everything that comes with his proximity. 

"Trouble?" Robert asked, appearing beside me with a tray of new arrivals. "No" I replied too fast. "Just work."
"Work never makes you look like that" he said slyly. "And yet, it is just a work thing."  
He smiled but didn't push with other questions. Probably didn't believed me.

Sofia called later that afternoon, her voice already halfway into celebration mode.

"Don't forget Adam's cocktail thing tomorrow" she said. "Six sharp. It's formal, so none of your artsy-chic outfit. I want heels and glamour."

"Sofia..." I sighed loudly while folding the clothes from the dryer.

"I'm serious, Liv. Adam's being honored, and it means a lot. Also—" she paused for effect, "you're meeting Gabriel."

"Who?" i ask confused and tired. "Adam's colleague. Forty. Smart. Successful. Never married."

"That's oddly specific." I say.

"He's single, Olivia. And he is not young nor famous, since that is the issue with the other ones..."  

I groaned. "I'm hanging up now."

"You're wearing the blue dress" she said while I was rolling my eyes "the one off shoulder above the knees and tight around your ass. Don't argue and stop rolling your eyes."
She hung up on me before I had the chance to say anything else, making me laugh about her last remark.

Of course I will go at the party. Not because I am so happy to meet another guy with whom I'll never stay in touch, but for them. For my two good friends.
I know how important it is to have the people you care on a special event.

On thursday afternoon I was searching inside by dressing for that particular blue dress.
In that search I couldn't help seeing some of my glamorous dresses. Now, placed way behind my everyday clothes.
Because I was no longer a trophy wife. Like I used to be with Victor.
He was making me wear all sort of couture dresses, expensive jewelery, well known brand of shoes and bags. And not for some work events, parties....on a daily basis.  
Victor was the type of man who wanted me to wait for him when he got back from the office all dressed up and with warm food on the table.
Then, if I had given a blow job, he'd been over the moon. All the demands and expectations while he was screwing his secretary.
Fucking shit show.

By six, I was at the cocktail party.

The blue dress was still fitting me, elegant, and barely within my comfort zone.  
My very high heels clicked across the polished floor of the law firm's event space as I scanned the room for familiar faces. The room was full of high class people around Bruges and not only.  
Lawyers, prosecutors, legal experts. Their usual circle of interest. And everyone was dressed to the nines.  
Advancing on the slow rythm of jazz music, smiling and greeting politely the people I was passing by, when Sofia saw me and came in a rush toward me. She kissed my cheek, and pulled me toward the bar like I was an exhibit.

"Gabriel, this is Olivia de Vos" Sofia said, too proudly. "Our very own bestselling author."

Gabriel was tall. Handsome. Salt-and-pepper hair, warm eyes, strong handshake. By far, the most attractive man she introduced me to.  
"A pleasure" he said. "I've read some of your work." And a little fawning.
"That makes one of us" I smiled.

Sofia and Adam hovered long enough to make it look natural, then disappeared with a suspiciously urgent thing "Oh, I just remembered, I need to check something very important!"
Yeah. I bet you do, Sofia. Subtle as ever.

There was an awkward pause. That first moment of being left alone with someone who may or may not try to impress you. We both started to speak at the same time, and both laughed lightly at the overlap.

"Go ahead"  I said.

"No, no" Gabriel insisted but then he asked. "I was going to ask how you manage to write characters so... psychologically precise. It's unsettling, really."

"Maybe I've spent too much time studying people I never intended to become," I said, tone even but with a trace of irony. "Or maybe I just write what I'm too polite to say in real life."
He chuckled. "There's an entire genre in that idea. You're more observant than most analysts I know." I smiled while taking a sip of the champagne.
"That's kind of you. But probably analysts get paid better."

"Ah, but do they get to bury their grudges in hardcover and sell catharsis in foreign markets?"
I tilted my head, amused. "Touché."  
He sipped his drink. "You know, I almost pursued literature. Briefly. But my father insisted law was more... respectable."

Red flag alert here.

"And yet here you are. Talking to a woman who made a living inventing people who don't exist."  Your dad would possible have a heart attack, I wanted to add, but kept it to myself.
"Maybe I'm trying to make up for lost time" he said, looking at me with a touch more intention

It wasn't forced. It wasn't cheesy. He was genuinely good at this charismatic, clever, aware of the weight and shape of words.  
He asked questions. He listened. He had opinions about news cycles and digital echo chambers, about how social media had made people feel louder but somehow less heard.  
We disagreed on a few points. Politely. It was the kind of conversation that should've felt like connection.
And for a while, I let myself enjoy it.

Gabriel smiled. I smiled back. But somewhere between his third compliment and my second glass of champagne, I noticed it.
Oscar's soft smile and intense gaze.
And I knew.
It wasn't about age gap, or status, or logic. It was about a feeling. The hum I'd felt not too long ago in the middle of the bookstore. While having another male presence in my front.

Suddenly Gabriel's warmth felt like a perfectly made hotel bed, neat, clean, and utterly impersonal.
"I should go" I said, with a soft smile.
He looked a little surprised but not offended. "Of course. It was a pleasure, Olivia. Truly."

"Likewise."

And then I found Sofia in the corner, leaned in, and said just loud enough for her smug grin to freeze “Turns out I also have something very importanti to take care of."

My mind already making the decision to go tomorrow at the dinner with Oscar.

Chapter Text

Friday came very fast.
And with it, a weight in my chest I couldn't quite shake.
My anxiety was subtle but vivid. Pressing down on my thoughts like fog. I told myself I wasn't nervous, it was just a dinner, after all.  
A simple, harmless dinner. But no matter how many times I repeated it, the heaviness stayed.

"May the force be with you, darling parents." Liam said before boarding the bus for camp and then hugged me tightly. Victor came too.
I didn't cry, or not in front of Liam. But my throat swelled. He waved from the window and made a silly face as the bus pulled away. That little boy of mine has my whole heart.

When the bus disappeared around the corner, I turned on my heels, heading toward my car. I could already hear Victor's steps trying to catch up.
"Hey, Olivia. How are things going?" he asked, falling into step beside me.
Of all the days, today he decided to be chatty. Fantastic timing, really.

"Fabulous!" I answered shortly, digging into my bag for the keys. No need for pleasantries. Not today. Especially not with him. "Wish I could say the same..." he added with a dramatic sigh that could win awards.

"I was thinking—" he started, and I didn't even let him finish. I already knew. I've known Victor too long. I could smell the script before he even opened his mouth.
I've crafted his script for too many times.
"No." I cut in.
Firm. Clean. Without hesitation.

I might have been crazy about him in the past, and without too much effort he could have turn my mind upside down. That girl was long gone by now.
He blinked. "You didn't even let me say what I was going to—"

"And I don't care."
I got in my car and shut the door before he could start another sentence.

His disappointed face vanished in the rearview mirror as I drove off.
While driving I saw my phone's screen lit up. Text message from Victor:

"Liv, come on. Call me back, I need to talk something with you"

The fuck we don't! I shouted and threw my phone to the passanger seat.  
I know his game plan too well. Regardless of how good he is still looking and how well he adorns the words, it's impossible for me to fall into his net.  
I'm leaving this oportunity for other women.
Best of luck for his partner.

******

By late afternoon, I was still pacing around my bedroom like a crazy version of myself.
I'd told myself I wasn't going. Then, changing my mind and wanting to go.
And I did that twice. Maybe three times.

And yet, there I was, standing in front of the mirror, trying on every damn dress I owned. Something sleek? Too much. Something casual? Not enough. Floral? God, no.  
Too elegant. Too fancy. Too shiny. Nothing felt right.  
Nothing felt proper.
I didn't want to look younger, but neither like an old maid.
At one point I was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, holding a glass of water like it was prosecco, feeling defeated.
I won't go. That's it!  
I don't own him anything. He will eventually move on with his life.

But, I quickly stood up, walked back to the mirror, and stared at my reflection. Naked.  Vulnerable in every way possible.

You are a grown woman, I keep encouraging myself. You've been through heartbreak, betrayal, humiliation. This? This is just dinner with a gorgeous man who's eleven years younger and famous worldwide. No big deal.

I exhaled and started laughing, thinking about what I just said.
Then, with a big shook and a deep inhaling: Get it together, de Vos. You got this!

It's just a damn dinner.

Eventually, I settled on a black dress.
Maybe too basic, but you can't go wrong with black. Long sleeves, a deep V neckline that flirted with recklessness.  
It hugged in all the right places, balancing elegance with danger.
A small part of me hoped he'd notice.  
A bigger part hoped I wouldn't fall apart when he did.

I lit a cigarette, cracked the window slightly, and took a long drag. In a big hope it will calm the nerves. The dress was on, the makeup light, the hair effortless, but calculated.  
And yet I still wasn't breathing right.

My phone buzzed.
Sofia.
Of course.

Sometimes I wonder if she had installed nanny cameras around by house.

"Hey" I answered, tone of voice casual.

"I'm still a little mad about you leaving that way..." she said without any other form of greating. “Sorry Sof, I remembered I…” fuck, what should I say next. “I had to buy some extra socks for Liam.” I hated myself for lying to my bestfriend, and moreover to use my son as an excuse. “You know…for the summer camp. He left today.”  
Nice job Olivia.  
It was a moment of pause, but I think she believed me.

"Hmmm… Okay” she said totally unbothered. “You will not believe who asked for your number"   
“Oh?” There you got. That’s why she’d call.
I'm not stupid, of course I knew who she reffers, but let her say it anyways.

“Gabriel. The one from last night."
I rubbed my temple, leaning against the window. "Great" I say softly.

"He was mesmerized. His words. 'Olivia is a rare kind of beautiful.' I mean, come on. That man is a walking Armani ad."
I hummed. "He's...nice."  
This wasn’t a lie. He was indeed something else.

"You sound thrilled." What the fuck was I supposed to say.  
My mind was already exhausted by my little break down from earlier. I laugh. "Sorry. Just tired."
She let it go. Thankfully. And I didn't mention the dinner.  
I didn't want to. Not yet.

I ordered an uber and after 15 min I was in front of the restaurant.
Small, pitoresque and tucked between the trees on the outskirts of town.
The sky had shifted into its darker tones.
I stepped out of the car, heels clicking against concreate, my heart thudding in ways I hadn't felt in years.

Then I realized, the restaurant was empty.
Not a breathing soul in the sight. Slightly flickers of what I assumed were some candles.
But no paparazzi. No fans. No phones.
Just silence, and the scent of summer.
He actually kept his promise. I'm impressed...

I pressed the door handle and walked in.
And there he was...standing imediately from the table when I got inside.
His face lit up and not with the polite smile I'd seen in the interviews or press photos.  No. This was different. His smile was breathtaking and unfiltered.
That familiar racing focus softened into something else entirely when he saw me.

His eyes drank me in, slow and deliberate.
Following with his gaze my every step until I reached the table
He had some kind of wonder behind his eyes, as if he couldn't believe I was real.

Neither could I, to be honest.

And just like that, the nervousness... didn't vanish but it amplified everything inside of me.
Whatever tonight would become, I was here.
I wanted to be here.
And so was he.

Chapter Text

OSCAR

I'd been in countless high-stakes situations wheel-to-wheel at 300 kilometers an hour, final laps with podiums waiting for me to cross the line. Engineers screaming in my ear and sweat pouring under my helmet. But this? Waiting in an empty, candlelit dining room in Bruges for a woman who had unknowingly torn my mind for days? This was on a different kind of level on the nervousness scale.

The restaurant was small, elegant, and completely ours for the night.
I had called in a favor.  
Talked with the owner, gave him enough money to cover up their loss for a lost friday night without other customers. Privacy was a must priority. Especially after what happened at her bookstore.
I was so mad about what happened that day...I talked, or better say, I kinda shouted, which isn't something I'm proud of, to Mark, to my PR...

A soft hum of classical jazz floated in the background, the scent of freshly baked bread mixed with something faintly floral from the bouquet placed at the center of our table.  
Just one waiter and a chef were in the back, keeping out of sight.

I checked my phone again. No response to my e-mail.
It wasn't like I was expecting her to say something, just like I wasn't sure she will come tonight, but I can still hope.

But then—

The door creaked open.I stood up instinctively, and for a second, I think I forgot to breathe.

There she was.

Black dress, long sleeves, a neckline that made my throat dry. Her eyes a deep, striking blue even in the dim lighting.  
She had that natural kind of beauty that didn't try too hard. And somehow, she walked into the room like she owned it, even with the flicker of nerves in her expression.

"You came." I said, my voice quieter than I expected. My insides jumping up and down with excitement.  
"I did" she replied, meeting my gaze. Her lips curled just slightly. "You rented out the whole place?"  
"Fame has some good perks, not only bad ones" I said, pulling the chair for her "Figured you've had enough unwanted attention lately."
She sat down slowly, crossing her legs, and I took my seat across from her.

A pause.

Then she added, dryly, "You do know this makes you dangerously close to charming."
I grinned. "That was the goal."
She smiled in that own incredible way, fucking up my entire nervous system.

Dinner was a slow build.  
Like tire temperatures rising lap after lap, finding the proper grip.  
She was guarded at first, sipping her wine, asking polite questions.  
But there was a sharpness to her mind I liked. Every sentence she gave had weight.

She is something else...

"So" she said, swirling her glass between two fingers, "tell me something I wouldn't find on the internet about you."
A vicious smirk came around my face "Did you look after me on the internet?"
Olivia grabbed the glass of wine and nodded. "Of course I did."  
Well, lucklily I tend to be quite private about my life, and hopefully she didn't read something bad about me.
I mean, I think she didn't, since she is here after all...
And I kept it to myself the fact that I also searched her, and talked with my sister.

"Like a fun fact?" I ask.

"Like something real."  
I leaned back, thinking. "I talk to my mum before every race. Still. Even if it's just a text."
Her face softened. "That's sweet."  
"She worries too much. But she's proud. And always watches the races even with the big time zone differences"
Olivia nodded, setting down her fork. "Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Worry. Before races."
I hesitated. "Always. If I stop worrying, I'm either too arrogant or too numb. Neither helps me win."
She tilted her head. "You're more introspective than I expected."

"What did you expect?" I arched an eyebrow and she smirked. "Cocky, adrenaline-junkie race car boy." 
I chuckled, shaking my head. "You're not entirely wrong. I just... had to grow up fast."
She leaned in a little, curious. "Because of racing?"

I nodded, fingers tapping once against my water glass. "Yeah. I left home when I was fourteen. Moved to the UK for six months with my dad, then on my own. Boarding school, then racing full-time. My family stayed in Melbourne."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Fourteen? That's young."

"Felt older at the time” I said. "But looking back... it was brutal some days. Missing birthdays. Family dinners. My sisters. The sun. I didn't know how to cook or do laundry properly, only knew how to drive fast and work hard."
There was a beat of silence. She didn't rush to fill it.

"You ever get homesick?" she asked quietly.
"Sometimes." I looked at her. "Especially when things go wrong. Or when it's quiet. But I got used with it, even enjoy the quiet."
Her lips pressed together, like she was absorbing that. Then, "And now? Do you feel like it was worth it?"
I didn't answer right away. "Some days, yeah. It is what I’ve always dreamed of. But, some other days, I still wonder what it cost me."
She nodded, thoughtful. "You're not who I expected."

"And you're exactly who I hoped you'd be” I said, without thinking.

Her gaze snapped to mine. A pause. A flicker in her expression, like she didn't know what to do with the words, but didn't want to run from them either.
"You're not too bad yourself" she said finally, her voice softer now. "Dangerously close to charming, remember?"
I smiled. "Maybe I'm just getting started."

She laughed and shook her head.

"How old is your son and what is his name?" I asked, trying to keep it casual. Not too direct, but not like I was just checking a box either.
"Liam. He is ten” she said, her lips curling a little, her eyes softened, when her son came into discussion . "He turned ten in May."
I nodded. "That's a great age. Curious about everything, but still thinks you know everything too."
She laughed, the sound soft but real. "Exactly. He's like a little old soul some days, and a complete maniac the next. Keeps me on my toes."

There was a pause. I wanted to ask more. And I knew I was crossing into territory that might not be mine yet, but... I couldn't help it. "And his dad?" I asked, slower this time. Careful. "Do you... mind if I ask?" She didn't answer right away. Just looked down at her wine, turning the glass slowly between her fingers. Then, finally, she met my eyes.

"Victor."

She said it with a weight. Not heavy, but definite. Like saying his name cost her something.
"We were married. I was twenty-four. Liam was born the year after."
I waited. Gave her space. And maybe it was the way I didn't push that made her keep going. "He cheated" she said. "With his secretary. Of course."

Fuck.

I didn't say anything. My jaw had already clenched before I could stop it. I could feel it in my shoulders too. Tension creeping in. "I walked in on them” she added, almost like it didn't even surprise her anymore. "His office. Middle of the day. It was like... every cliché at once."

"Shit" I muttered. It was the only thing that came out. And it wasn't enough, not really. But she just gave a small shrug, like she'd gotten used to telling it. "What made it worse” she said, "was how not shocked I felt. Like part of me had already figured it out, just didn't want to believe it yet."

God, she deserved better. So much better.

"You still see him?" I asked, trying to steady my voice. "For Liam, I mean?" She nodded. "Yeah. They see each other. He's... a good father when it suits him. And Liam adores him. So I keep it civil."
Her expression changed. Just a flicker, but it was there. Something vulnerable, something touched. 
I didn’t press any further questions. There is no point and I saw she didn’t want to talk about him anymore.

"I haven't been on a race track before. Nor watched a race on the TV. I think it's...boring." she went on.  
"Auch" I placed my hand over the chest faking a sharp pain from a knife. The knife being her words.

I studied her as she spoke. She had this way of disarming with silence, watching you just a beat too long. She didn't fill every space with words and that made every word she did say more powerful.

"I finished your book" I while eating. "You did?" Her eyebrows lifted, surprised.
"Last night. Already started the next one."
She blinked. "You didn't strike me as a thriller reader."

"I'm not. I don’t usually read anything to be honest,  but the way you write people? It's like you crack them open." She seemed genuinely taken aback.
Then she asked, "Do you ever think about how temporary everything is? The wins. The attention. The pressure?"

"All the time" I said, staring down at my drink. "In this sport, you're only as good as your last result. But I've made peace with that. I don't race for legacy. I race for how alive it makes me feel. And it's only my second year in Formula 1."
She exhaled slowly. "I envy that."

"Why?"

"I used to feel that way about writing. Lately it's been more about keeping up... feeding what people expect."
I leaned forward, voice lower. "Then stop. Write what haunts you again."
She stilled at that. Her fingers froze around her glass.
Another silence. This one heavier.

When dessert came, something delicate and chocolate layered, I barely tasted it. My eyes were on her lips as she licked a smear of ganache from her thumb.

God, this woman was going to wreck me.

Of course I wanted for the dinner to never end because I was simply enjoying her presence, the way she was talking.  
Fuck me.
Everything about her!
But she said she had a meeting on the morning and it was probably for the best to go home.
I don't know for how it was 'the best'. Not for me, that's sure.

The air was cool when we stepped out. I led her around the corner, toward the side street behind a little café, where my car was parked.  Neither of us said much during the short drive.
But every now and then, our gaze met.
And tension was palpable.

We reached her front door, her keys already clutched in one hand. I didn't want to go. Not yet.She turned to face me, her expression unreadable.

"Thanks for tonight" she said, softly. "It was... unexpected."
"I like being unexpected" I said, stepping closer. Leaving almost no space between us.
Her breath caught. Just slightly.
One more step. Her back hit the door behind her.
I looked down at her mouth. "Tell me to stop."

She didn't.

My lips crushed against hers, and she melted into me like she'd been holding this in since we met.  
My hands slid to her waist, pulling her against me as her fingers tangled in my hair. The kiss deepened.
Hot, desperate, full of tension.

She moaned into my mouth, and I nearly lost it. Her hands slipped under my jacket, roaming greedily over my chest. I backed her harder against the door, my mouth moving from her lips to her jaw, then down her neck.  
My hand cupped her left breast.
Soft and firm at the same time. Her nipple pushing against the dress fabric.

She arched into me, her breath ragged, nails digging into my back.
Every inch of her, every movement, it was electricity. Raw, consuming.

Her voice was a whisper against my lips. "This is crazy."

"I know" I mumble. "I don't care."

When we finally broke apart, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, her eyes met mine with a wild glint.

Chapter Text

OLIVIA

"Oscar, we should stop..." I whisper, breathlessly on his soft lips. Yet my body was betraying me in every possible way.  
My spine arching with every press of his body against mine.  
And not even wanting to mention the situation from my underwear.
Spoiler: drenched.
"This is so wrong. I'm too old for you."

I tried to reach for the door handle, but his hand wrapped around my wrist, gently, firmly, pulling me back.  
His mouth brushed my neck, his breath hot and uneven.
"No, you're not" he growled, his voice low and husky. "Don't say that."
This time, I felt the desperation in him, in the way he was kissing me, but also something more grounded.  
A purpose. A choice.

"You don't understand" I murmured, torn, even as I tangled my fingers in the collar of his shirt. "This... this can't happen."    
"It already is." He kissed me again, harder. As if he was trying to prove me wrong. His hands roaming all over my body. My knees nearly buckled.  
And for a brief second, I didn't care about anything.

Rationality, judgment, logic.

I just kissed him back like I needed air, like I hadn't felt anything this real in years.  
But then I pulled away. My breath shallow. My heart thudding.

"I have to go inside. Please, Oscar..."   It was the right thing to do. The normal thing! If we continue kissing the way we did.  Crazy, passionately. Like teenagers after a succesful prom dance, I will eventually loose my senses.
He looked at me, wild and focused all at once. His eyes scanned every inch of my face like he was memorizing it.  
He didn't try to stop me again. He just nodded.

"Okay" he said, softly. "But this... this isn't over."  
I don't know if he meant it like a promise or something else. And I didn’t want to argue.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, leaning my back against it like I had to physically hold it shut to keep the tension from spilling in.
And then came the silence. The overwhelming silence of my empty hallway, in contrast to the fire he left on my lips.
Only some inocent kissses. That's it, Olivia!

No.no.no.  
This can not happen again.

*******

By 6 A.M I was already moving around the house. I didn't sleep much. My body still hummed with his touch, and my mind...my mind was an absolute battlefield.
What was I doing? Or better said.  
What the fuck I did.
He was 24. Twenty-four.  
This is madness…

I made coffee but didn't drink it.  
Just walked barefoot through the house like a ghost. My reflection in the hallway mirror looked different. Flushed cheeks. Bright eyes. Like I'd been living in black and white tones and someone turned the color back on. I was feeling like in a rom/com movie from the 2000’s when the least popular girl kissed the most popular boy, the captain of the fotbal team, in my case, a Formula 1 driver. All rainbows, butterflies, giggling, day dreaming, writing his name all over a notebook…
Only to discover that the popular boy lost a bet or something.
Well, now, that idea was stuck in my mind. What if I was a bet lost?

No, I’m overthinking. He wouldn’t. Would he?
No, he is not like that!
Oh, fuck me. I shook my head in an attempt to get rid of these kind of thoughts.

Yet, the age gap gnawed at me like a relentless tide.  

What would people say? What would Liam think?
And to not forget. The fame, the spotlight.
I don't want that in my life.
I saw how the girlfriends of other drivers travel around with them. How they walk around the paddocks, like they're on some kind of runway.  
Oh wait. Of course they walk like that!
Most of them are indeed models or content creators or what the crap people their age called it nowadays. Not to mention their ages...
Again turning into this point. The age difference.

No!  
I'm taking everything too far. Because this,  whatever it was, won't be happening again.

My editor called around 8 AM, saying he will come at the bookstore around ten. But until then, I threw myself into my studio.

I hadn't painted in weeks, yet, somehow the brush suddenly felt like an extension of my arm again. I painted bold, messy strokes in shades of wine and indigo. Raw and intense. Like the kiss at my door.
Then the piano. I played until my fingers cramped. Old pieces, haunting melodies, something French. Something sad.

And later, I wrote. Not Olivia de Vos, the author. Just Olivia, the woman who couldn't stop remembering the way Oscar whispered her name like a secret. And kissed her like nothing mattered in the world.

*******

On sunday, lunch at my parents' house felt like stepping into another life. The steady, normal life.
My mother had made her roast chicken with potatoes in the oven and my father poured wine like he always did.  
This was familiar and a safe space. Sometimes I miss staying in my old childhood room, so I took the decision to spent the night there.
I needed this kind of escape.

"We got a photo of Liam with the camp group this morning" my mother said as we sat at the table. "He looks so happy. He's growing up so fast."
"Yeah" I said, smiling gently. "He really is."
A dull ache thinking how quickly time flies.
Thinking again about Oscar and how he flew across the world for his dream. Wondering how his mother felt..how I would feel if Liam decides to pursue his own dreams...
As if yesterday he was only a baby, now he is 10, and in a blink of an eye he'll be gone at college.

"Any news on the book tour?" my father asked, between bites and snapping me from my overthinking.
"A few more interviews, maybe an event in Antwerp. Nothing locked in yet but Tom said yesterday to be ready because it will be sooner than I think."

We watched a movie after lunch.

Some romantic comedy my mom liked. I barely followed the plot, too busy catching myself zoning out, thinking of brown eyes and light skin. And the way his thumb had brushed my jaw like I was made of porcelain.
I thought I was escaping my wild naughty thoughts, but nope. He was still printed in my mind.

*****

Monday morning was grey and slow at the bookstore.  
Eva was already at the counter, humming something on her phone. Robert had left a note saying he'd be in after lunch.
I was just about to start going through invoices when a courier walked in. Barely making through the door because of what he was carrying.
A massive arrangement of flowers. Cream roses. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Elegant. Ridiculous. Beautiful.

Eva's jaw dropped. "What in the royal hell..." she exclaimed.
There was a small white card nestled between the stems. I plucked it out, heart already hammering in my chest.

I can't stop thinking about you.
—O.P 81

I quickly tucked it into my coat pocket before Eva could start interrogating me. She didn't need to know.
No one did.

"Olivia...who-" Eva started but I ignored her and went straight into my office.  
Just as I was trying to keep my head grounded and to not let myself be totally impressed by his gesture, my laptop buzzed with that specific sound. A little hope grew in me to see if it was from that certain sender.  
It wasn't.
Only my editor,  Tom.

I opened it, expecting something about an interview request. Instead, it was the official confirmation of my upcoming book tour.
Well, he did say it will be sooner than I was expecting, but I wasn't thinking it will be this soon.

September to late November.
First stop: Italy.  
Then France, Spain, Germany, UK, and finally, starting from the last week of October, an extended promotional run in the United States.

It was the kind of schedule that would leave me little time for anything else.
My mind and heart imediately going to Liam.
Again, we'll have to be separated.
I hated that!

He would stay with my parents, and Victor would take him on some weekends too, when he wasn't traveling or working like an obsessed human being.
It wasn't ideal, but it was necessary.  
It was the life I chose. The life I built.
I replied formally to the email and picked up the nearest pen.

There was still work to do.  
And a thousand roses staring at me from the front window.

No more distraction.

Chapter Text

OSCAR

The race week had begun.
The summer break oficially over.

Up next, one of my favourite tracks, beside the one at home, of course.  
Fast corners, high speed and elevation changes. Everything you really want for a nice race. Eau Rouge and Raidillon sequence might be the most famous combiation of corners from all the tracks. Spa-Francorchamps. Just the name made something in my chest settle, like it always did when I touched down in Belgium.  
The forests, the misty air, the weight of a track that demanded everything. 

My trainer, Luca, had arrived earlier that morning, already texting me about hydration, prep, physio, sleep. He was relentless. But that's why I kept him around.
I wasn't sleeping well, though. Not because of nerves, not because of the race. I could drive this track blindfolded.  
I drove this circuit in every championship I took part. 

Formula 2.

Formula 3.

Now, for the second time, in Formula 1 with a much faster car.

But, I wasn't sleeping for some other reason.  
The best thing that happened for me during this summer break. And in a while.

Because of her. Olivia.

This last week...completely destroyed me. After I invited her to dinner I kept checking my damn email like some intern waiting for a reply from a prestigious company. I told myself I wasn't going to be like that. That I'm cool, and I don't care that much...
But every time I had a free second, after training, during dinner, while brushing my teeth, I opened it.  
Not to mention the pop up sound when recieving an email...I was litteraly checking it in a blink of an eye. Just in case she'd changed her mind regarding my invitation.

And when she finally came... when I saw her walking into that private dining room on last Friday night, wearing that black dress with the deep V neckline and those sharp blue eyes trying to act composed, I felt something crack open in me. I should've kissed her the second she stepped in.
Instead, I waited. Talked. Let her take the lead. Let her ruin my world with every sentence, the signals from her body language…
But when we got to her door, when she kept whispering "Oscar, this is so wrong... I'm too old for you" when she tried to walk away...

I pulled her back every single time.
Because fuck that. She wasn't too old. She wasn't wrong. She was exactly what I wanted.

Her body, her mouth, her mind... the way she looked at me like she couldn't decide if she wanted to slap me or fall into me.  
That kind of tension doesn't just happen.  You don't find it every day, and when you do, you hold on. I didn't care about what people would say. I didn't care about the goddamn gap in our birth years.
What she lit inside of me? It wasn't casual. It wasn't temporary. It was consuming.

On monday morning, I had a massive bouquet delivered to her bookstore. Nothing modest but something obnoxiously big, wild and elegant at the same time, just like she was.

With a handwritten note:

I can't stop thinking about you. — O.P 81

And again, like in a loophole, waiting and checking for a hint, a glimpe, a something coming from her.  
Nothing.

Thursday was here too fast and that meant media day.
I was back in the chaos of the paddock, the cameras, the briefings, the same questions from media about tire strategies and expectations for the weekend.  
Marketing materials. Fan zone meetings. Some even asking about the summer break. If I had a good time, relaxing etc etc.

I did...of course I did.

But I care too much of my private life to start talking around about it.
And all I could think about was her face against the door of her house. Her breath against my neck. The sound she made when I bit her lip.

I was going crazy.

"She's Belgian, right?" Luca said casually over breakfast while reviewing my schedule. I told him bits and piesces about what I've been up to.
About her.  
I simply nodded, while staring at my phone again.
"You're distracted" he added. "No shit" I muttered.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't push. I appreciated that about him. He wasn't the type to pry. Just the type to give me a knowing look when I was acting like an idiot.

Practice day will start on Friday. My car was dialed in, engineers buzzing about updates and weather changes.  
But all I wanted to do was drive to Bruges and knock on Olivia's door like a fucking lunatic. I didn't though. I stayed. I trained. I showed up to every damn meeting and hit my marks like a pro. Because that's what I was. A professional. A machine on track.

Off track? I was anything but.
I did everything they asked me to do, just to keep myself busy enough to not think about her anymore.

Later that evening, I opened my laptop and started drafting a message I wasn't sure I'd send.

You wrecked me, you know that?

I deleted it.

Started again.

I don't care about the age gap. I don't care about what's right or wrong. I care about how I feel when I'm around you. And that's rare, Olivia.

Deleted.

Too intense. Too much.

But wasn't that the truth? I was done pretending. Done acting like this was something I could just walk away from.

 
I shut the laptop before I could embarrass myself and went out for a run around the race track.
Pushed myself until my lungs burned, until my legs gave out, until the only thing left was her name echoing in my head.
I had races to win. Sponsors to keep happy. A reputation to protect. But for the first time in a long time, it all felt secondary.
Because somewhere out there was a woman who made me forget everything else.  
And what if I scared her? What if the kisses, the touching were too much?

Maybe she wasn't ready for that kind of closness, maybe she didn't have other relationship, or sex, or whatever, after her divorce. 
While my mind was playing all sorts of scenarios, my body gave in from the 7 km run around the track.

But, if I had to fight for her, push past her stubborn pride, her tall, steady careful walls, I would.
Spa demanded precision.
But Olivia?
Olivia demanded everything else.

Then, it hit me.
Something she said on our dinner.

Subject: Sunday.
To: Olivia de Vos

Hi.

I remember you said you've never been to a race. That just won't do.
So, here are two tickets for you at the Spa circuit.
One is for the grandstands, in case you want to see the cars fly for many laps, totally boring. You're going to stay anonymous, just watching a Grand Prix, cheering for whatever driver you want.  
The other is for my team's hospitality, if you want to see me.
No pressure. Just... options.

Hope to see you.

—O.P 81

*******

Saturday came with a cold drizzle, but I didn't care about weather conditions, my main focus was to get that perfect time for the quickest lap.
Qualifying was tight. Competitive. I pushed the car, wrestled it through Eau Rouge like it owed me something. P5. Not perfect, but I could work with it.

But it was Sunday morning, the race day, that adrenaline started mixing with something else. Something sharper.
The need to really speed and be the first on crossing the line. 
Main goal: score as much points as you can for the team.  
And another win for me? Just a bonus... Kidding of course.
That is my main goal.

Until then, Drivers' parade.  
The crowd was wild. Like always and everywhere.
People are coming for this one hell of a show.

After the parade, just as I was about to head back to the garage and change into my race suit, I saw her.
At the hospitality deck.

Hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail. Big sunglasses shielding those sharp, impossible eyes. Oversized white shirt half-tucked into short denim shorts. Cool as ever.

My heart fucking stopped.

She looked like she didn't belong in this chaos. Her presence was so grounded, so effortlessly magnetic, it felt like the air shifted around her.
I barely heard my race engineer calling me. Tom nudged me hard in the arm.

"You okay?" he asked.
I was not.
But I smirked. "Yeah. Let's go win a race."

She was here. She came to see me.
I headed back into the garage, but not before turning around one last time.
She was watching me.
And she was smiling.

Race on.

Chapter Text

OLIVIA

I almost didn't go.

I stared at the two tickets Oscar had sent me for over a day. One for the grandstands. One for his team's hospitality. Whatever that meant. And just like the dinner, his note was simple, charming, really. 

One in case you want to see the cars fly.

One in case you want to see me.

I tried to ignore it. Then tried convincing myself it would be too much. That I had work. That I'd already crossed some invisible line by letting him kiss me like that. Touch me like that. Make me feel things I hadn't in years.
But to be honest, I've kissed him back.  
I've touched him back...
Everything was consensual between us.

On Sunday morning, I was sitting on the edge of my bed in a towel, hair still damp, heart pounding. Because suddenly I made it my mind.

Fuck it.

I got dressed.
Short jeans, oversized white shirt, sunglasses on.  It was the most casual I'd looked in a while, and still I spent half the drive wondering if I was insane.

By the time I reached Spa, the crowd was too much for me to cope. Huge queue for every entry on the track.
People everywhere, waving flags, wearing caps, funny costumes, chanting drivers' names.  
Some screaming. Some with big banners with all sorts of messages. I didn't have a clue about anything and I was feeling like an outsider.

Inside the paddock, the energy shifted. Sleek. Intense.  
Every person had a purpose, a uniform, a camera or headset. I felt like I'd stepped onto another planet.
But even so, even around here, there were fans chasing the drivers. Reporters, cameras, influential people from all over the world.
Everyone seemed to know what are they doing around that place.
And there was me...

I didn't fucking know another driver other than Oscar, but when people were starting to get crazy, I knew a driver appeared in their field of view.
Some of them very kind. Talking with the fans, doing interviews, smiling at the photos, signing caps, t-shirts, postcards. Others more focused and not paying too much attention with their fans.
I wondered in which category is Oscar...

And just as that thought landed, I took a wrong turn past a black and red rope and stumbled straight into something I very clearly wasn't supposed to be part of.

"No, no, no! Cut, cut!" someone shouted with a very strong italian accent.

I blinked.

There were lights, people around. And two men in bright red T-shirts, standing perfectly posed with the camera on them.

"Merde!" I muttered, freezing mid-step. "Bonjour?" one of them said. Dark hair, brown eyes, wide grin, amazingly beautiful. "Are you... lost? Or filming a sequel to Mission: Impossible?"  
Uhm, french, maybe? The joke was quite bad so yeah, probably french. 

The other one, the wanna be serious, was trying not to laugh.

"Fuck” I whispered. "I'm so sorry. Je suis désolée! I didn't mean to...I was looking for...shit."
"Ne vous en faites pas /Don't worry." The amazingly beautiful one said, leaning slightly toward me. "Ils ne parlent pas francais/ they don't speak french. Mais nous sommes habitues au chaos. Nous pilote pour Ferrari/ We are used to chaos. We drive for Ferrari."
I smiled awkwardly. What was that supposed to mean?!
"I think I just ruined your video" I said, in english now, flushing as I backed away, hands up. "Again, sorry!"

"Definitely going in the bloopers reel" the other one added, voice dry but amused with an unmistakable spanish accent. I half-laughed, mostly at myself. "Right. I'll just go....get lost somewhere else."

As I turned I could still hear them laughing, probably because of me or what I just said. I tried go regain my composure, which was already fucked up. But now…

 Let the ground swallow me whole.
I whispered to myself. 

Why Olivia? Why'd you have to come? This is a crazy, and you don't do crazy shits.

Then, just ahead I spotted the building with the logo McLaren. Showing the staff my pass, they  raised their brows slightly, probably wondering who I was, and for whom I was there. I ignored them. It was just perfect to stay hidden for a while.
Because, I had enough exposure and drama for a long long time. And I really needed some strong drink to forget about that incident. But I refrained, I came by car and I don't drive and drink alchool.

Never.

The hospitality suite was polished and modern. Large sofas and arm chairs, a corner with plenty of food and people dressed quite sophisticated. But nothing could distract me from the sound outside.

Engines screaming in the distance. A roar that felt like it started in the earth and climbed through your bones.
Someone handed me a glass of sparkling water. Someone else offered lunch. But all I could do was stand there, eyes fixed on the screens, occasionally glancing out toward the track.
I somehow get it now. It was madness. Beautiful. Thrilling. A show you should definetely see once in your lifetime.

And then the race began.

Like a true nerd that I am, I've read few articles about Formula 1 in the last days. Watched some short videos and everytime I got scared seeing the speed.
Well, nothing prepared me for what it felt like to be so close. The sound. The vibration. The speed. Everytime Oscar's orange car flew by, my stomach clenched. He was fast. Too fast.
I caught myself holding my breath everytime I saw him.

Mid-race, as I sat by the glass railing watching the pit stop chaos below, a man approached. Expensive suit. Slicked hair. A little too much confidence.

"You're not from around here" he said, leaning in like we were old friends.  
No shit. 
I arched an eyebrow, hardly believing there are always the same persons around here.
But hey, the guy had to start with something.
Doesn't matter if it was stupid.  I turned slightly, giving him a look. "No. I'm not."

"I'm guessing someone special invited you." Glancing at my McLaren VIP badge. Wow, Sherlock. You are too good. I sipped my water. "You could say that."
"Well, whoever he is... he's got excellent taste." He handed me a card like it was a magic trick.  
For real dude?

"Thomas Hunt. Family's been in racing for very long time. You should let me show you the real behind-the-scenes sometime."
I glanced at the card. Old money. A flash of a smile. But his charm was skin-deep, and my skin wasn't interested.
"I'm fine just watching" I said with a small smile.
"Watching can be lonely"  he added.

"Not always."
Dude, get a hint. I'm not interested.
He lingered a second too long before walking off, and I exhaled.  
My eyes drifted back to the screen.

Last lap.

Oscar was P2 and crossing the finish line like a thunderbolt. His teammate took the first place, so the suite erupted. People clapped, laughed, hugged. I stood still, heart pounding in rhythm with the engines.
I couldn't even believe myself how happy I was for him.
I looked down at the paddock from the balcony. Mechanics and team staff flooding the pit lane. Media everywhere. Cameras, interviews.  
It was like watching a different universe in real-time.

While watching the podium celebrations, I suddenly felt ridiculous. Out of place. Like a trespasser in someone else's world.
Okay, I saw his world. It was nice and thrilling but it wasn't for me. After a quick visit of the restroom I was so ready to go back to my home.  
To my own private, quiet life. I didn't belong in this world of podiums and precision and headlines. And certainly not beside someone like him. 

I did my part though, I came, I saw and concluded what I already had in my mind. This is not for me. Just as I turned toward the corridor, ready to slip out quietly. "Leaving without saying anything?" His voice stopped me.

I turned.

Still in his race suit, half unzipped to his waist, fireproofs clinging to his chest, hair and body  soaked from the champagne showers, a bottle of water in his hand. And those brown and wild eyes locked onto mine. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first.

Chapter Text

"I didn't want to get in the way" I said quietly. Oscar stepped closer, the grin slow, lethal.
"You're not in the way."
"Congratulations for P2. You were incredible out there." I change the subject watching him taking a sip of his water.
My mouth suddenly thirsty.
For him. I shook my head.

"It was your turn to see my workplace" he smiled softly.
"I just... this world. Your world. It's a lot." He looked around us.  
Noise. Glamour. Chaos. Then back at me.
"Yeah, it is" he said. "But I don't care about any of them right now." His voice dropped lower stepping closer, and pulling me into a private space.

"Oscar..." I protested but his body was already pressing me " I can't...I don't even know why I came. But now, I should go now, it's getting late" I whispered. "I have a long drive ahead" "You're here because I asked you. And because you wanted to be."

My heart was hammering again, but not from the engines this time. I didn't answear, just stared into his eyes.
"You are not going anywhere" he leaned toward my ear and whispered. "Room 602. Grand Hotel. Key is in your hand. Wait for me there. Please." already placing a hotel key into my hand.

And before I could breathe another protest, his mouth crashed into mine. His kiss was just how I was remembering it.
Fierce. Demanding. Fucking addictive.
Oscar kissed the shit out of me, turned and left.

Meanwhile, I stood there probably still drooling, or at least like a woman caught between reason and desire. In my hand I was holding the hotel key like it was something sacred. Or dangerous.
Maybe both.

But something pulled me forward.  
Not recklessness. Not even curiosity.

Need.

Room 604 was minimalist and quiet.  
I stepped inside cautiously, like I was trespassing in his world.  My sneakers clicking softly on the wooden floor as I paced the room, pausing at the edge of the bed, then walking to the wide window that overlooked the city.

I should go.  
I should turn around and leave.  
Forget about him. Oh God, how many times I've said this by now? I lost count.
But I should just move on with my life and erase the last couple of weeks...

Yeah, I should, but I didn't...
My phone started to ring.

Sofia.

I swear to God, this woman is tracking me. I let the call go into my voicemail. Being too scared to talk with my best friends and to expose myself.
I went to the bathroom and washed my face.
Then I stood there, gripping the edge of the sink, staring at myself in the mirror.

What the fuck are you doing, Olivia? You are grown woman, waiting for a twenty-four boy in his hotel room.  
For what exactly? 

I knew exactly for what and it was making my chest burning.
The door clicked open and then shut behind.
My heartbeat rocketed.

I barely had time to walk into the hallway and then, there he was.  
In his orange team t-shirt. All clean-up. Hair messy and a little damp.
That tired but electric look in his eyes. Before we could say anything to each other, he pulled me into his arms, mouth finding mine.
No hesitation. No room for words. No room to breathe.

Oscar's kisses resembled his driving skills.
Focus, aggressive yet calculated, all-consuming.  
One of his hands gripped my waist, the other slid into my hair, and he angled my head just right as his tongue pushed past my lips. The softness of his lips contrasted the demanding way he claimed mine, and I moaned into his mouth before I could stop myself.

The t-shirt he wore hit the floor first, revealing sculpted abs and smooth light skin. My shirt followed imediately. His hands were already over my body, fingers splayed wide across my skin like he was memorizing me.

"Fuck, Olivia... you are here. You are actually here." he murmured, mouth grazing my jaw, down my throat. His words rumbled against my skin, low and dirty and breathless. I tried to say something smart. Something confident.  
I'm a writer for God's sake.
But then his hand unclapped my bra and his mouth closed over my nipple.
Everything turned to white noise.

I gasped and arched into him, my fingers in running through his hair. His hands moved down, palming my ass, lifting me with such ease I didn't even realize we were moving until my back hit the bed.
Oscar hovered over me for a beat. 

His gaze was fire. Those brown eyes blown wide with lust, jaw clenched, his body practically vibrating with restraint.
"I've thought about this" he muttered, almost to himself while removing my shorts. "Since the first time I saw you in that damn bookstore. I wanted to touch you then." His fingers were roaming around my legs leaving goosebumps in their awe. “And I've wanted to fuck you since you told me no."
My breath caught. Heat curled low in my belly, pooling between my thighs.

"You're intense" I whispered, watching him strip off his jeans. "You have no idea."
That sounded like a promise and I was about to find out.

He dipped between my legs, kissing my inner thighs as he pushed my underwear down. His fingers teased along my pussy, and I was already embarrassingly wet.  
He smirked when he saw it, and then lowered his head. The first swipe of his tongue made me choke on a air.
He licked me like he needed it .
Desperate, messy, thorough.  
Tongue and lips and fingers working in sync like he was born to ruin me. He sucked my clit into his mouth and I bucked up off the bed, his forearm locking me down as he kept going.

"Oscar...fuck...I'm gonna—"
"Do it." His voice was hoarse, muffled. "I want to taste you when you fall apart." I moved on his face in a desparate need to find my realease.

And I did. Shaking. Breathless. Loud.

My thighs clamped around his head and he didn't stop. He kept going until I whimpered and tugged his hair to pull him up.

Quickly I reached his underwear, wanting them off . "I need you inside me." My voice needy, so ready for him. I pulled them down, watching his cock bounce against his abdomen. I hope he didn't catch my facial expression at the sight of it, because...I was completely shocked.  
He was endowed. Like really endowed.

"Condom?" I whispered.
He took one out from his bag, rolled it on and teased me for a while with the head against my entrance.  
Lord, have mercy on my soul. End my sufferings already. The little prick saw I was being desperate and enjoyed his teasing. He then took one of my legs and lift it on his shoulder.

Slowly and tortuosly he slid inside me and my air supply cut off.

Oh God.

He should me sentenced for what is he doing to me.

One hard thrust and he was buried to the hilt. We both groaned.
He felt like fire. Thick, hard, perfect.

"Tell me ‘no’ like you did before…tell me to stop" he whispered. I wrapped my legs around him tighter. "Don't you fucking dare." I warn him. Desperateley. He was driving me insane.
That was all it took.

Oscar fucked me like he had something to prove, deep, fast, controlled only in the way his hands gripped my wrists, pinning them above my head as his hips snapped into mine over and over again.
Every movement was possessive. The sound of skin on skin, of our moans tangled together, filled the room.
I dug my nails into his back, and he hissed through his teeth, mouth finding mine again.

"Say it"  he said roughly. "Say my name." He stopped his fast and hard movements, now moving slowly yet deeper.

"Oscar..." I gasped. "God, Oscar—don't stop. Please"  
"I wasn't fucking planning to."

Alternating his movements from slow to fast for a couple of times, messing my entire being under him.
He cursed under his breath adding so much fuel and I knew I couldn't resit too long.

With a quick move, he flipped me over, pulled my ass up, and railed me from behind. I cried out. This angle was too much. Mixture of pain and pleasure.
He grabbed my waist, nails digging in as he hit that spot inside me over and over.
I was close again. So was he.

"Come for me again" he growled and put one hand on my clit, rubbing in tight with expert circles.  
I shattered. Loudly. That orgasm ripping my senses like never before.
Hopefully there weren't any other guests around his room.  
My body was clenching around him so hard it pulled him over the edge with me.  
Oscar cursed, voice broken, as he came with a deep, guttural moan, collapsing over my back.

For a moment, we just stayed there. Tangled. Shaking. Breathing.
Then he pulled out gently, kissed my shoulder, and rolled us onto our sides.

The air was thick and heavy with sex, but something softer settled between us now. He tucked a blanket over our naked bodies and pulled me into his chest. His skin was still warm, slightly damp, and his heartbeat thundered against my cheek.
No words. Just fingers brushing through my hair, slow and tender.

I closed my eyes and let go of the overthinking. The doubt. The rules I built to protect myself. Right now, here, in this bed, I didn't feel too old.
I didn't feel like someone with baggage or rules or complications.
I just felt wanted. Seen.
Desired.  
And fucked so damn good.

Chapter Text

The morning crept in slowly, silent and golden.  
I stirred against warm sheets, the muscles in my thighs aching, my skin still tingling. His arm was draped over my waist, his chest against my back, one of his legs tangled with mine like he couldn't bear to let me go, even in sleep.

We had barely slept. Every time I thought we were done, that I couldn't take any more, he'd touch me again.  
And apparently, I could take so much more of him.
Mouth, hands, talks.  
God, the things he'd said. The things he'd made me feel. There had been laughter between the moans. Whispers and confessions in the dark. Heat and wetness and unspoken hunger.  
And then softness. His lips brushing my temple. His thumb stroking my hip like a promise.

But now...now it was morning. And reality returned like a slap over my face.
I slid out of bed gently, careful not to wake him. I needed air. I needed space.  
I wrapped myself in one of the hotel's fluffy robes and went to the massive window overlooking the misty hills. My heart pounded against my ribcage like a traitor.  What the hell had I done?

He was twenty-four.
And a goddamn Formula 1 driver.

I pressed my forehead against the glass. My reflection stared back. Messy wild hair, kiss-bruised lips, skin with leftover marks of pleasure. I looked like a woman wrecked by a night of sin.  
I was a sinner.  
And our night has ended. Time for redemption.

"Leaving already?" his voice sleepy and rough but also warm like honey. And I...I  was looking around for my clothes to get the hell out of there. I didn't turn. "I should."
I felt him move. Sheets rustling. The floor creaking slightly as he walked up behind me. His hands found my waist, his chest pressing against my back again, his mouth grazing my shoulder.
"I'm not done with you yet."  
God...just hearing him speaking like that and my pussy was already twitching in anticipation. I closed my eyes. "Oscar...It's not-"

"Don't say it" he murmured, cutting off my sentence "Don't ruin it."
I turned then. Looked at him. His hair was a mess. His eyes were heavy, his jaw shadowed, his skin flushed from the night before. He looked gorgeous and incredible. He looked young.  
And that was the problem.

I pulled away gently. "You got what you wanted."  I said while putting my shirt on.
His brows furrowed. "Excuse me?"  
I stared into his eyes. "You wanted to fuck me. You did. Great. Now you can go back to your world. Go fuck someone your own age."

Something dark flashed in his eyes. "Olivia, don't do that."  
"What am I doing?" I snapped.
"Reducing this to sex" he said, stepping closer. "Acting like I haven't been chasing you for weeks. Like I haven't been thinking about you every goddamn day since the evening of your book launch. And don't even try to say you don't feel something about me"   Of course I feel something... I'm human!
Don't know exactly how to define it, but I do. But, I wasn't brave enough to say it out loud. I took a deep breath. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough for now. And can't wait to learn more" he said fiercely. "I know how your smile curves when you're trying not to laugh. I know your son is your whole world. I know your ex is an idiot for losing a woman like you. But all in my favor. I know you paint when you're overwhelmed. And I know you were scared last night but you still stayed. You let me in."

My throat tightened.
This Formula 1 crazy talented driver will wreck me in all the ways.  
Good and bad.  
I mean it.
"That doesn't mean we belong in each other's lives."
"Why?" he demanded. "Because I'm younger?"

I said nothing. But my silence said more than specific words.

He laughed bitterly. "You think I care? I don't give a shit about any fucking number, Olivia. I care that when I'm with you, the world shuts down. I care that I can't look at another woman without thinking of your eyes, your voice, your body..."
I went to sit down on the edge of the bed. My shoulders sagging. My mind running wild.  Don't even want to talk about my little heart.  
"There's more" I whispered. "There's your life. The fame. The spotlight. The cameras. I don't want to be a headline. I don't want people looking at me like I'm in my midlife crisis and decided to hook up with a younger boy. Because I'm not!" I raised my voice a little but I don't know why...he didn't do anything wrong...

His expression softened, but there was still steel behind it. I really couldn't believe how calm and calculated Oscar is. I was about to explode and he...was just so free from agitation.
God.  
I wish I was like him. 

"You're not a headline. You're not a crisis. You're real. And you scare the hell out of me."  
I blinked. "I scare you?"  letting out a dry laugh.
He ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Because I've never wanted anything this badly. Not even pole position. And I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to go back to pretending you don't exist."
I looked down.  
Being to scared to look at him and burst into tears 

"I have a book tour starting in September."  By this point I was sounding like I was trying to find ways for him to not want me anymore. To forget about me and move on with his life.  
Because I myself, was damn scared about the wave of emotions who were testing me. Scared to admit what I was feeling.
His jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Where to?" he asked.

"Italy first. Then France. Spain. Germany. UK. And the US from October through November."
He didn't flinch. "We'll figure it out. "  
I threw him a icy cold look. Just like that. He was throwing big words.How in the world he was so good with finding good outcomes for everything? All composed and calm. Is he on some kind of drugs? I shook that thought away from my mind. Of course he's not! He a driver....

"I'll be gone for months."  Still trying to put some reason in him.
"So will I. That's my job too." He knelt in front of me, his palms resting on my thighs. Dangerously close to my core. "Let's stop pretending like this is impossible."  
I touched his face. His eyes. His mouth. That beautiful, reckless mouth. "Fuck Oscar...what are you doing to me?" My voice cracked. And I was done finding escape loops.
"When and where is going to be the next race?" I asked him.

"Zandvoort, The Netherlands" he said. "Close enough to not miss you too much."
I laughed softly. He pressed a kiss to my knee, slow and reverent. “Dangerously close to charming, right?”  I shook my head with a big smile on my face. "Please don't shut me out" he whispered. "Not after last night."

I looked at him for a long moment. My chest was tight. My mind a mess. But my heart?
I don't even want to say it out loud.

Chapter Text

Coming home felt like waking up from a dream you weren't quite ready to leave behind. Still closing the eyes and trying to pick up where it ended.

The floors of my house creaked the same way. The scent of lavender from the diffuser Eva had gifted me still lingered in the hallway.  
My bookshelf stood untouched, frozen in time, like the rest of this house that had kept beating while I went off chasing chaos. But there was something different in me.

Like something had cracked open and now I wasn't sure how to close it.

I talked with my baby boy. Yeah, I know he is not a baby anymore, but in my heart he will always be my sweet little baby boy.
I unloaded the dishwasher. Folded the laundry. Watered the plants. Even vacuumed under the couch. And still, it wasn't enough to quiet the noise inside.

That morning, I sat at the kitchen table, coffee untouched, laptop open in front of me, staring at the blinking cursor like it held all the answers. I hadn't written a single word.  
I checked the watch. 10 am.
Eva and Robert were already informed that I wouldn't be coming today at the bookstore and they are both in charge.

Then came Sofia.

Happy and joyful like always, carrying croissants and her mood for listening and talking the latest events in my life.  
On my way back from Spa I called her and confessed what I did and with whom.
She was screaming so loud, I had to turn down the speaker's volume so she wouldn't cause any damage to my ears.

"You look like someone who had sex with a Formula 1 driver and hasn't told her best friend every fucking detail" she said without skipping a beat as she stepped inside.
I blinked. "Good morning to you too." She placed the bag of pastries on the counter and turned to face me.  
"See what I did there?" She said pointing to the paper bag. "I brought a bag full of 'pastries' ..."  emphasizing the last word as if I had to know the meaning of it. I shrug my shoulders, defeated. "Piastri...pastry...Liv, you really should be up to date with the things that are said on the internet about him."  I rolled my eyes and took out the pastries from the bag.

"So... are you going to tell me, or do I have to torture it out of you?" I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. "It was just one night. Coffee?"  I asked with an akaward smile around my face.
"Don't lie to me, Liv and don't avoid my question."

"It was" I insisted. "One night. At least... physically." I paused, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "But it's more complicated than that."
"Was he good??"
I rolled my eyes. God, It was like highschool all over again, but eventually, I nodded "he is incredible"  Sofia was gidding like a little girl. But then, narrowing her eyes she said. "You like him."

I didn't respond and got up to turn on the coffee machine. "Fuck, Olivia. You actually like him." She came next to me, trying to catch me off guard.  
I turned so she couldn't see how hard I was rolling my eyes, and went to the frige to take out some alchool. Even though it was still morning, this conversation needed Prosecco.

"It doesn't matter. He's young. He's famous. I'm a single mother with a bookstore and a book tour coming up." Sofia opened the top cabinet and took out the glasses and place them on the counter, expression softening. "Age doesn't mean shit if he treats you right."

"It's not just the age" I said, running my fingers through my hair and pulled it in a bun over my head . "It's the world he lives in. Cameras, fans, media. I was there Sof. It's a huge chaos. And I'm supposed to just waltz into that and not feel like I'm drowning?"  Before realizing I poured the glass of alchool down my throat and already replacing it with another one. I sighed.

"I don't even want to remember my dramatic intervention in... whatever those Ferrari guys were filming." I groaned, placing my hands over the face, mortified. "I knocked into something, lights, cables? I don't even know. I swore in French. Loudly." Sofia gasped and removed my hands away. "Shut the front door! You met Charles and Carlos?"

"Uhm, yeah. I guess?  The one who talked to me was French. Good jawline. Serious smolder. Handsome. Both were " Sofia looked at me personally offended. "First of all, he's Monegasque. Not French. Big difference. Second of all, you didn't know you were stumbling onto a Ferrari video shoot?!"

I shrugged helplessly. "I was trying to get to the McLaren hospitality and took a wrong turn." Sofia leaned forward, eyes wide with amusement. "How do you keep managing to land in these situations? Honestly. One minute you're signing books, next minute you're flirting with Oscar Piastri, and now you're out here knocking over Ferrari film. Bring me with you next time. I want to film you. " I flashed her the middle finger and she grinned smugly.
"I've been researching ever since Oscar came into your bookstore. Deep-diving into the world of Formula 1. Drivers, teams, rivalries, ex-girlfriends, scandals. You name it."

I laughed loudly.

"So you're officially corrupted now?" “Obviously. So, please, bring me with you next time.” I shook my head in disbelief. "You're insane."

"Liv, on a more serious side. You've been through worse" she said gently. "He isn't Victor. And you're not the same Olivia you were back then."
"It still doesn't make it right." Sofia reached for my hand. "Just... don't push him away because you're scared. If he's serious, he'll show up and still be around. Let him."

I didn't answer, but I thought about Oscar's eyes. The way they undressed me with reverence. How he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. But what if I was just a plaything for him. Maybe he is so good at pretending and messing up my entire existence and this is his real purpose.
He can have probably any other girl in this world. So why me?  
Am I just a checkmark on his list? Or maybe he has mommy issues?

God, I'm overthinking and is exhausting. I hate the fact he has me captivated and tangled like that.

But no one can blame me for having this sort of thoughts, given what I've been through in my life.  
Considering my trust issues as well. And this is a totally new teritory even for me.

Later that evening, after Sofia left, I received a text from him.

Oscar: "I'll be staying in Bruges until the race in Zandvoort. I want to see you again. No pressure. Just...the two of us."

I didn't respond right away. I stared at the message long after the screen dimmed. My heart beat faster, even in the silence.
Ever since he came into my life, he always had this cute initiatives while all I did was "just showing up".

He is the type of guy I'm used to write about in my books. The "men written by woman" kinda one. And I was pretty sure they were some sort of endangered species that exists only in fantasies and fictional characters.
I think now would be the time to try to be bold enough and be the one to surprise him.
Given that Liam had another week to spend in summer camp, my home seemed to be a safe and private enough place to invite him.

Text message to Oscar:

"My place tomorrow. 7 pm"

Chapter Text

OSCAR

A message popped up on my phone while I was lacing my sneakers to go for a run. 

Olivia: My place. 7 PM.

Simple message. No emojis. Just her tone, subtle but firm. It hit me harder than it should've. I stared at the screen like an idiot for a full thirty seconds, grinning.

Fuck.

I'd been thinking about her since Sunday night.  
Fuck that. I've thinking about here ever since I walked into her bookstore.  
But when she left my hotel room with her hair still damp from the shower, the ghost of her taste was still on my tongue.  
Since she told me it was over, again.  
Since she walked away with my hoodie on and that half-broken look in her eyes.  
I really don't understand why she's so scared of what's happening between us.

I mean, I get it. Kind of. The world I belong to is loud. Messy. Cameras in your face, fans digging into every corner of your life. People inventing stories before you've even figured them out yourself. It's tough. But it's not impossible.
We can be private enough. We can make this work. If she wants to. And I for sure will protect her at all costs.

And then I stared at her text again.

What was even more intriguing and part of me still didn't get it.
Not just her fear. But her... interest. In me.

She's brilliant. Confident. She writes books that move people. She walks into a room and somehow takes up more space by saying less. She's unlike anyone I've ever met.

And I'm just…me.

Quiet. Average. A guy who still flinches a little when someone comments on his teeth because he spent half of childhood covering his mouth when he smiled. Who got called "rabbit" by other kids at school. Who only found confidence behind the wheel of a kart, not in front of people.

Sometimes I still feel like that same awkward kid in a helmet, trying to figure out how to be enough.
So yeah. Maybe she's scared of the noise. Or our age difference. But me?

I'm scared of how much I already want her.

And how much she makes me feel like I might not be that average after all.

—————

On monday night I decided to facetime my mom.

She answered from the kitchen in Melbourne, a wooden spoon in one hand, her hair half-up like she'd been baking and lecturing someone at the same time. "Look who decided to call" she said. "The man, the myth, the legend, the slightly moody race car driver."

"I'm not moody" I replied, settling into the hotel couch. "I'm thoughtful." "Darling, you're broody with a steering wheel." She turned the camera slightly to show a tray of burnt cookies behind her. "Don't date someone who bakes, Oscar. They'll have expectations. Look at these sad bastards."
I laughed. "You manage to burn the cookies again?"

"I sacrificed them for the drama" she said. "We can't all be precision-obsessed like you."
"I literally drive at 300 km/h for a living."

"Exactly. And still couldn't slow down enough to call your mother last week. What's your excuse this time?"
I hesitated for a second, then said with an absolutely straight face "I did texted before the race, though"  my mom rolled her eyes at me. "And until that message, I haven't heard from you for TWO weeks Oscar. Thank God for those stories you sometimes post on Instagram. What were you doing in Belgium?" she asked while moving around with the tray of burned cookie.

"I was busy...uhm...meeting someone."
She blinked and almost dropped the tray.  Well, happy to know that my sister didn't say anything to our mum.
Then she burst out laughing. "I knew it! You've got that smug, post-debauchery glow. You had sex, didn't you? Jesus, Oscar. Where? Who?"

"Don't say 'debauchery.' And I'm not telling you details."
Jesus Christ. Why was I so stupid to open my mouth, knowing my mum...

"Oh please. I gave birth to you. I wiped your arse. You owe me the gossip."  
I shook my head, grinning. "It's... someone I met in Bruges in a bookstore. She's-" I stopped. Not because I didn't have the words. But because none of them seemed like enough. "-she's different."

"Oh no" Mum said, putting taking the spoon and waving it at the camera. "You've gone all soft. Is she blonde? Do I need to warn her about the amount of bananas you eat?"
I rolled my eyes. "She's got long brownish hair. Striking blue eyes. She's smart. Like, scary smart. And older."

"How much older?"

"A bit older. Ten years."
Mum blinked. "So, you've got yourself a woman, not a girl." 

Just then, Hattie apparead in the background. Headphones over the ears.   "Hi Hattie!" I shouted, thinking she is listening to that k-pop boy band extremely loud.

"Why are you shouting like that?" Hattie said while removing the headphones.

"Hattie, Oscar was just telling me about the woman he met"

"Wow, breaking news."  Hattie said totally casual, and I offered an half smile to my sister. My mum instantly catching us. "Did you know?" she asked Hattie.

"And how are Eddie and Mae? I saw Eddie went on a trip to Edinborough. How was it?" my plan was to change the subject and to rescue my sister. "Oscar Jack Piastri, I know what are you trying to do, it doesn't work. So, spill the tea." she turned to Hattie "Or you. Or both of you."

"She's an author, I think you read some of her works" my mum's jaw dropped "Olivia de Vos, if I remember corectly" Hattie added and looked toward me. I nodded.  
My mum, still in a bit of a shock.
"No way!" She exclaimed "you two are making fun of me?"  
Both me and Hattie shook our heads.

Mum whistled softly. "Well, you never liked things easy. Does she know what she's getting herself into?"
I shrugged. "Probably not. But she's also not the type to not know."

"Wow Osc, this is quite a surprise, even for you."

"Sure in hell." Hattie added "Our golden boy getting himself a MILF"  

"I'm hanging up."

"You are not" Mum cut in. "You call me the minute this woman breaks your heart or makes you dinner. Whichever happens first."

"I'm seeing her again tomorrow. At her place."
"Ooooh" Hattie and Mum said in terrifying unison.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "This was a mistake."  
"No" Mum said, softening. "This is lovely. And you look happy. Just remember, if you hurt her, I'll fly to Belgium and slap you myself."
"Thanks, Mum."

"And bring her on a call soon. I want to see if she's real or just a fever dream you invented while jet-lagged."

"Bye."

"Wrap it, lover boy!" Hattie called out.
I hung up.

And still grinned like an idiot for another ten minutes.

Chapter Text

I checked the clock. 5:45 PM.

Panic? No. 

But it felt a lot like being seventeen and trying to impress a girl who had no fucking clue how much space she was taking up in my head. I ditched the sneakers, grabbed a bottle of wine I'd picked up in Bruges something local, bold. Something she'd probably make fun of me for and jumped in the shower.

Half an hour later I was behind the wheel, stomach coiled tight. Freshly showered, slightly perfumed, hair messy like always, navy button-up, sleeves rolled. "Alright, I look decent enough." I said to myself.
But I didn't know what the hell I was expecting. A second round of goodbye sex? Her telling me she couldn't keep doing this? Or maybe... just dinner.

But she wasn't a just dinner type of woman. Nothing about Olivia was ever just anything.

Her house was lit softly, warm and golden behind tall windows. I parked by the curb, killed the engine, and walked up with the bottle in hand like it was some sort of peace offering.

She opened the door before I knocked.

Barefoot. Tight black pants. A loose cream sweater sliding off the shoulders, hair pinned up in a soft knot. She looked tired but stunning. The kind of beauty that didn't need effort, just existed.

"You're early" she said. Her eyes flicked down my body and back up, lips twitching. Then, stepping aside to let me in. "You said seven. It's 6:68. Tehnically, I'm on time"

I held up the wine. "Figured I'd bring something decent, in case you decided to kick me out halfway through."  
She arched an eyebrow. "Smart man."

The house smelled like roasted garlic and butter and something vaguely citrusy. I followed her to the kitchen, watched her move with that effortless grace while stirring a pot, checking the oven, brushing past me close enough to graze my hip.

"You didn't have to cook" I said. She shot me a look. "Don't flatter yourself. I was already making dinner before I decided you could have some."

Jesus.

We sat at her table, music playing low in the background, something old and French, Edith Piaf maybe.  When she'll see what kind of music I usually listen to. So help me God.

We ate. Talked.
About nothing and everything.

She asked more about my life, and I told her about Melbourne. About the heat. About the radio-controlled racing before the karting years. My dad's involvement  by sponsoring me through his company, which helped me a lot.  
I even told her about my contract dispute and how everything escalated, prior to my debut in the Formula 1.
How I never really thought I'd make it here, but also couldn't imagine doing anything else.

"You were born for this, and you truly deserve your seat at your team." she said, quietly.
Her voice held no trace of doubt, just this quiet, reverent certainty that wrapped around my ribs like a fucking vice.  
No one had ever said it like that before. Not even my family.

I studied her face in the candlelight. "And you? Always wanted to write?"
She nodded. "Since I was six. I used to sneak my mother's typewriter into my room and pretend I was working on a masterpiece." Her laugh was soft. "Turns out it was a three-page story about a magical pear. But yes. I always knew."

We didn't talk about racing or books anymore. We talked about people. About pain and expectations. About society's pressures.  
I couldn't stop staring at her. Her mouth. Her neck. The veins in her hands. Everything about her undid me slowly, like a thread being pulled from the hem of something expensive.
"You're so different than everyone I've met" I said.
She gave me a look like she didn't believe it. Like she couldn't afford to.
And I was too busy wondering how the hell someone like her ended up across from someone like me.

My hand reached out and she hesitaded for a second before placing her hand into mine. Her fingers curled between mine like they belonged there. Fitting like my favorite pair of racing gloves. And when our eyes met. When I felt her accelerate pulse through the touch of our hands, it was like the world just disappeared.  
Seconds passed and none of us moved.

Then, she exhaled a little laugh, like she was trying to shake something off, and gently pulled her hand away. "I should do the dishes." She stood, already turning toward the kitchen, but I didn't let her get too far. I was on my feet in a heartbeat, grabbing her wrist just enough to stop her and spun her back to me.  
Without hesitation and without any trace of politeness I kissed her.

All the need I'd been holding in since I walked through her front door.

Her body pressed against mine immediately, her hand sliding up my chest, fingers curling around the collar of my shirt as she kissed me back like she'd been holding it in too.

Heat. Tongue. Teeth. The kiss became fire and intense.

We stumbled back through the hallway, knocking into walls, hands on clothes, clothes on the floor.  
Laughing and kissing like nothing else ever mattered. 
Her sweater gone. Her bra next. My shirt unbuttoned and discarded by the stairs.

I pressed her against the wall just outside her bedroom. Her face toward the wall while my mouth went from her neck down her back and stopped at her ass.  
I dropped to my knees and slowly pulled her pants down along with her underwear. 

I turned her toward me and looked for a whole minute at her fully naked body like at a masterpiece. Face flushed, chest rising up and down with the most perfectly natural big round pair of breats with small areolas and hard nipples. “God you’re beautiful” 

She arched her back when I dragged my tongue over her abdomen and slowly down to her inner thigh, tongue pressed, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. Placing one of her leg up my shoulder and then-

"Fuck" she whispered, grabbing the wall.

I tasted her like a crazy person. Every flick of my tongue was deliberate. Every moan she gave me, a fucking reward.  
Her fingers twisted in my hair, her hips grinding forward, her thighs trembling. She was moaning my name like a prayer, breathless and wrecked, and it made me wild.
When she came, she didn't hold back. She fell apart completely. Head back, legs shaking around my shoulders.
I kissed her slowly afterward. Softly. Messily. My mouth tracing circles on her hipbones.

I stood up and she pulled me into her bedroom, pushing me on the bed. Then she dropped to her knees, pulling my pants and boxers down. I hissed as the cool air hit my erection. She wrapped her hand at my base and licked her lips, while looking straight into my eyes.

Jesus Fuck. I’m gonna come just by watching her.

She licked me from the base to the top where she was circling her tongue around my tip. I was already throbbing insanely and when she slowly slide my cock into her mouth I nearly lost it. I groaned and grabbed her hair, holding it out of her face but also guiding her a little.  
“Fuck Olivia…” I muttered as she was moving her head, taking me deeper and deeper with each movement.  
Olivia’s hand was moving in a perfect sync with her mouth, licking the precum from time to time. I felt her throat starting to relax around my cock so I begun to move my hips gently toward her.

That’s when she fucking moaned around my cock and my body tensed in response. The pleasure was undeniably intense and I was holding back to not end it too soon. Cause sure in hell I didn’t want that to happen. But, her mouth was fire and silk. She knew what she was doing. Took her time. Made me groan, curse, grip the hair like it could save me.

“Olivia, I’m gonna-“  I said, to warn her. But she didn’t back off, she didn’t stop. On the contrary, she took me even deeper, gagging around me and that was it. I spilled into her mouth with a guttural groan.  
All this time she barely looked away from me. Like she was enjoying watching me lose control when I was supposed to be in control.

Olivia stood up from between my thighs and threw herself on the bed next to me. But, this wasn’t over. Not a chance, not even close. Probably she thought I needed more time.
Yeah, it wasn’t the case. 

I took out my wallet and a condom from it, rolled it on my already hard cock “come here” I said to her “Sit on my lap.” Her eyes went wide. What did she think? That I was done with her?

Not now, not ever.

She listened and gently sat on my lap. I aligned myself at her entrance and waited for her to sink down when she was ready. It took her some time until she got used to the feeling of being filled by me. I placed my hands under her arse and started move her on me with a harder pace.  She moaned my name and we kissed to muffle the lustful sounds coming from our mouths.  

“God, you feel good…” I muttered into her ear making her quiver. I pressed her harder with every thrust and her fingers were digging into my shoulder.  “Oscar…I…” she whimpered “Come for me baby.” I whispered while my hand slid down on her clit and rubbed it in a sync with our movement.

She came. Loudly, and I thrusted just a few more times until I spilled my cum inside of her.

We crashed on the bed but stayed in that position for a while. My hands stroking her back softly leaving goosebumps all over her body. I pressed soft kisses on her shoulder “You okay?” I asked and she just nodded. When Olivia managed to regain her strenght she got up and sat next to me. That feeling left me almost incomplete.  
Was it too much if I asked to stay inside of her forever?

Yeah…probably.

But after 15-20 minutes, it wasn’t too soon to want her again, cause I was ready. I was born ready to do this with her over and over.
And we fucked like it was the last night on earth.

⸻

Later, much later, we lay tangled in her sheets. My hand tracing the curve of her spine. Her head on my chest, quiet and still.

Neither of us said anything.
But she didn't ask me to leave.
And I didn't plan on going anywhere.

Chapter Text

OLIVIA

The scent of coffee was already in the air, when I cracked the eggs into the pan. The first rays of the sun visible through the window, casting golden light across the countertop. I woke up before Oscar, dressed into some shorts and a loose tank top, made a quick morning skin routine and went straight into the kitchen.  
But it didn't take long and he soon joined me. Face still sleepy, barely being able to form actual words.
Definitely not a morning person. Even if it was 10 am already.

He leaned against the frame of the kitchen door, while speaking quietly into his phone. "Yeah, I'll be in Zandvoort on Thursday" he said, pacing a little. "No, all good. I've got the sim setup this afternoon. Just need a couple of hours. No, I'm not staying in the city."

Pause.

A short laugh. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be there on time, no worries."

I smirked as I stirred the eggs. His voice, usually cool and calm, had a warmth to it I hadn't heard before. The sound of his voice in my kitchen, surrounded by the clink of mugs and the low radio music in the background, felt...dangerously comfortable. Safe.

Oscar met my eyes for a beat, lifting his brow. I shrugged, cheeks warm, and pointed at the toast as it popped. He smiled, half apologetic, and turned back toward the hallway to finish his call.

I didn't know what this was. What we were. There were no definitions, no labels, and maybe that was what made it even more terrifying. But I knew one thing: around him, I felt incredible.
Alive. Present. Happy...!?  
Like someone had finally shaken me awake after years of sleepwalking.

There was something about Oscar that stripped away my walls without even trying. His presence wasn't loud or overbearing, but somehow, it filled every space he stepped into. I found myself craving the way he looked at me when I spoke, like my words were the only ones that mattered. The way he actually listened. The way he made me laugh without effort, made me feel seen without judgment.

And then there was the way he made me feel in bed...
Not just the heat of it. Though God, there was heat. There was hunger. And need.

But beyond that, there was reverence in his touch. Intention in every kiss. Like I was something to be discovered, not just undressed. And when he looked at me. Really looked at me.  
I felt... desired.  
Not just for my body, but for all of it.  
My mind. My thoughts. My sharp tongue and quiet fears.

While I was deep in my thoughts watching Oscar, I heard wheels running on the gravel outside

I froze.

There was a car pulling into my driveway.
And I already knew who it was.

"Shit" I whispered, dropping my mug on the countertop with a loud thud, my body instantly rigid. Oscar reappeared, hair messy from sleep and sex, holding his phone. "Everything okay?"

"No" I said, moving quickly to him, my voice low but sharp. "You need to hide. Now."
His eyes narrowed. "Wait, what? Why?"

"Storage room. There." I shoved the door open beside the pantry. "Don't ask. Just...be quiet. Please."
He didn't argue. Just slipped inside, ducking his head as I shut the door behind him, heart pounding so hard I could barely hear myself breathe.

Then the doorbell rang.

I opened it with a deep inhale and the face I'd once shared a life with stood on my porch.

"Victor" I said flatly. "When I actually thought I was having a good day"  
He grinned like a fucking bastard "Morning, Liv. You look... radiant."
My lips pressed into a tight line. "What do you want?"

"Oh, come on. No 'hello, how have you been'? I was in the area. Thought I'd drop by."
Without waiting, he stepped past me like he still had the right, heading straight into the kitchen and helping himself to a mug. Like it was still his house. Like he belonged. "Sure, have some coffee" I said casually looking at him.
He poured himself some coffee and smiled at me "Smells good in here. Cooking for someone?"

I didn't answer.

"I've just closed a deal with a very important client" he said casually, leaning on the counter.  
Why the fuck he believed I care?

"Guy's got shares in one of the Formula 1 teams. Don't really know which one, actually. Wants me to go with him to the Zandvoort race."
My stomach dropped. Of course. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor.

Victor took a sip, watching me closely. "I'm not interested in your business" I said totally calm. "Or your social climbing."

He tilted his head. "Still got that fire. I always liked that about you."
I nearly laughed in disbelief.

Then, out of nowhere, he said, "It's over. With Nora."
I stared. "Good for her."

He laughed dryly shaking his head. Then, took a slow step forward. "I've been thinking a lot lately. About what I lost. About Liam. About... us."
My throat tightened. My fists clenched.

"You didn't lose us" I said, biting out each word. "You left us. For your secretary. Don't rewrite the story. Only I can do that, because I'm an actual writer, and be sure this part wasn't in any of my books."

He didn't flinch. Just stood there, his voice softening in that maddening, manipulative way of his. But those tricks won’t work on me anymore. 
"People make mistakes. I know I did. But maybe...it's not too late to fix it."
I blinked. "You want to fight for us now? Wow. Are you on some kind of delusional pills?"

"Oh, come one Liv. For Liam. For you." He smiled faintly. "We were a good team once."
My jaw locked. “For me??” I snapped. “Victor, stop this bullshit, and this self deprecating humor. It doesn’t match your expensive suit.” 

And then, mercifully, his phone rang. He glanced at it. "I have to take this, but think about it." He came next to me and tried to kiss me. I ducked away from his proximity.

"Good riddance, Victor."

The second I heard his engine fade away, I let out a long, shaking breath and opened the storage room door.
Oscar stepped out slowly, his brows drawn together in quiet concern.

"You heard?"

He nodded. "All of it."

I looked away, ashamed and furious all at once. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to...Jesus. Sorry."

"Hey, don't apologize" he said, stepping closer, his voice low and steady. "That man is a fucking idiot."
I laughed once, bitter. "You think I don't know that?"
Oscar's hand brushed mine. "He doesn't get to define you. Or us."

'Us' ?
Are we an US? 

I looked up at him, all soft brown eyes and firm jaw, and I felt like I could breathe again. My heart slamming into my chest.  "Still want breakfast?" I asked, voice cracking a little.
He nodded. "Of course. I'm not going anywhere." 

He didn’t start running away from me, from the mess.
He saw me. And he still wanted me.

Maybe that's what scared me the most.

Chapter Text

It was around noon when we both left my house. Me to the bookstore, Oscar to the airport.
He was flying to the UK for a quick day at the McLaren HQ before heading to Zandvoort for media day.

In the car, he explained how those pre-race days looked like: briefings, simulator work, media duties. Friday practice day, saturday qualiflying, sunday the race.
I listened. I actually listened, even though my thoughts were scattered, half was stuck in the kitchen with Victor, the other half already anticipating Sunday and whether I'd actually use the VIP pass Oscar left me for McLaren's motorhome. I wasn't sure. Not with Victor looming around the paddock like some predator in a tailored suit.
Fuck him!

Nevertheless, I was trying my best to really understand Oscar's world. 

The little bell above the bookstore door jingled as I walked in. The familiar scent and roasted coffee grounds helped untangle my nerves just enough. Safe territory.
Eva was behind the register, half hidden behind a stack of mystery novels. Robert stood by the display table, adjusting a set of signed copies we just got in.

"Look who decided to grace us with her presence" Robert smirked. "Did you elope with the mysterious Aussie, or just lose track of time?"
Eva snorted. "She was probably too busy being wrapped around on a certain racing driver."

I raised an eyebrow and set the bag with some take away food for all of us on the counter. "You two are incorrigible."
"So he did call?" Robert asked, grinning.

"No" I lied, effortlessly. "I haven't heard from him since he came at the bookstore."
Eva gave me a sly look. "Mm-hmm. And I haven't eaten three croissants today." I just smiled, shaking my head, and slipped into the back office before they could dig deeper.

I finally had a moment to breathe and facetime Liam. The camp's connection wasn't always reliable, but today the call actually went through.
He answered wearing a camp T-shirt two sizes too big, his hair damp and messy from whatever water activity they'd just finished.

"Hi, sweetheart" I said, already smiling.

"Hi, Mum!" he beamed. "We built a raft today and it actually floated."
"You built a raft? With what?"

"Barrels. Ropes. Wood. And teamwork" he said proudly.
I chuckled. "Well, I'm impressed. No injuries?"
"Only Oscar fell in. Twice."
I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. "Sounds like Oscar needs a life coach."
"Nah, he's just clumsy."

We talked a few more minutes, about his meals, the hikes, and the fact that he was elected "mayor" of his cabin, whatever that meant.

"I'll pick you up Monday evening, alright? When the bus arrives."
"Can we get fries on the way home?"
"Sure monkey. Whatever you want. I miss you!"

"Miss you too mum, gotta go. Bye"  
And then he waved goodbye, already turning his attention to something off screen.
I ended the call with a soft sigh, my chest warm and full. For a moment, everything felt still.

Then came a knock on the office door.

"Come in" I called, straightening the papers on my desk.
A man stepped in. Tall, early forties, slim-framed glasses, sharp tailored coat. He extended his hand.

"Ms. de Vos" he said with a calm, smooth voice. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I'm Bastien Duval. I work on behalf of TSG Entertainment. I'm specialized in literary adaptations."
I stood up to greet him, shaking his hand. His grip was firm but not aggressive, and his eyes scanned the room like he was storing details for later.
"Nice to meet you. I've heard of your company, of course"

"I've read almost all of your work" he continued, sitting down. "But Heaven Was a Lie... that one stayed with me. Still haunts me, actually."
I blinked. That book wasn't an easy read. Even writing it left splinters in me I hadn't fully pulled out.
"I assume you're here because of it?"

"Not just because of it" he said, resting his hands on his knee "but because we believe it could translate incredibly well to screen. The atmosphere, the internal decay, the dangerous seduction of control... it's timely. And frankly, it's fucking bold."
That caught me off guard. Not the language, but the way he said it. Direct. Certain.
"I always thought it was too heavy" I admitted. "Too dark."

"It is dark" he agreed, leaning forward, "but in the way that matters. The religious trauma, the corruption arc, the manipulation veiled as salvation. It's all so disturbingly human. Your main character...she doesn't just escape her beliefs. She shatters them, bleeds through them. It's a slow burn unraveling of everything she's ever known."
I swallowed, the memories of writing those exact scenes tugging at the edges of my chest. "And the main male character?"

He smirked. "He's temptation in the flesh. Exactly what she needed and exactly what makes it dangerous."
His words settled like smoke in the air.

"We would want to stay loyal to your vision" Bastien added, as if sensing my resistance. "You'd have creative control. A say in the casting, script approval, involvement on the production team if you want it."
"And the tone?" I asked. "You wouldn't try to... soften it?"

He shook his head. "God, no. That would kill it."
I didn't answer right away. My mind was racing around questions of control, of exposure, of whether I was ready to open that door and let others step into that fire.

"I'll think about it"I said finally, quietly. "It's not a no. But keep in mind, I'll be gone for a while on a book tour" Bastien smiled, standing up and offering his card.
"So I've heard. Take your time, think. We're passionate about this, Ms. de Vos. The world needs more stories that dare to dig under the skin."

He left with a nod, the click of the door closing far too loud in the sudden silence.

I sank back in my chair, staring at the name on the business card like it was a trigger. My phone lit up with a familiar notification.

Oscar: Just landed. Back at McLaren HQ. Feels weird being so far from you.

I read it once. Then twice.

My lips parted, just slightly. My heartbeat softened, like his words had pulled me out of my own head.
A second message came in before I could reply:

Oscar: Also yes, in case you're wondering, I'm still thinking about last night. A lot.

I smiled in spite of myself, thumb hovering over the screen.

I typed back:

Me: Glad you landed safe. I just had a strange meeting about... one of the books. Might tell you later.
And for the record, you snore softly when you sleep face down. It's weirdly endearing. 

He read it instantly. Three dots danced for a moment, then stopped.

Oscar: Didn't know I did that. Can't wait to see you again. On Sunday. I'll prove I don't snore next time by staying awake all night.

Well, I'll take that.

Chapter Text

Thursday was the kind of day that starts with a coffee you forget to drink and ends with a to-do list that grew three times longer than when it began.

I had spent the morning in a big rush while finalizing itinerary details, coordinating bookstore logistics with Eva and Robert for my upcoming tour, and going over some last minute edits on an article one of my publishers requested. My planner was a battlefield of post-it notes, highlighter streaks, and marked up check on some items I was mildly proud of.

Meanwhile, I knew Oscar had a full day ahead of him too. Media day was no joke for the drivers.  
So I've been told.
Between the press conference, marketing shoots, social media, fan events, and interviews with every sports channel on the planet, it was practically a full day at the workplace.

At some point, curiosity finally won.

After opening my laptop for the third time to check his team's social media page, I gave in and subscribed to every relevant Formula 1 channel and streaming app. F1TV, Sky Sports, Dutch channels.
I wanted to be able to see his interviews, watch some behind the scenes clips, maybe understand a bit more about his world. The world I still didn't feel like I belonged in.  And probably never will.

But I was trying.

And maybe that mattered more than I let myself admit.

Later that afternoon, I stopped by my parents' house.
The conversation started over my mother' s chicken soup, and ended with me practically handing them a parenting manual. Like they weren't parents themselves.

"No screen time past 8 p.m. and probably better to limit it to one hour per day" I said, checking things off my mental list. "He has his book club list in his backpack, but I also left one here. Football practice is every other day. And please, if he eats more than three waffles in one sitting, stop him. Even if he gives you that look."
My mom smiled, already writing things down. "Olivia, you've left us color coded charts before. We'll be fine."

"I know" I said, softer. "I just... I hate being away too long."
My dad, reading a newspaper in the corner, looked up. "You flying back in between?"
"If I can. Depends on the schedule. If there's enough time between events, I'll come home. Maybe even take Liam with me for a week or two. We'll see."

"You always figure it out" he said with a quiet smile, and somehow that meant more than any chart or plan.

———

It was nearly midnight by the time I crawled into bed, exhaustion pulling at my limbs. I hadn't heard from Oscar all day, but I knew why. It was just one of those days where both of us had to be entirely in our own worlds.

I reached for my phone out.  
A notification blinked at me from one hour ago

Oscar:
Still not convinced I should quit racing and become a stroopwafel chef?

[Attached: Video]

I hit play.

The video started with Oscar in his McLaren hoodie, awkwardly trying to crop one of the thin waffles into a perfect cire. He looked absurdly focused.  
Brows furrowed, lower lip caught between his teeth, his hair a bit messy.  
The instructor next to him was giving him advices and Oscar just shrugged with a grin.  
I snorted into the dark, hand over my mouth.
My reply was instant.

Me:
Impressive technique. Remind me again how many Michelin stars you plan to earn with this masterpiece?

Oscar:
Low blow. It was my first one. You should've seen the second.

Me:
Was it still round?

Oscar:
Let's say... it had a unique aerodynamic profile. Very on brand.

I laughed out loud. Somehow, despite the fatigue, I felt warm. Settled. Like he'd crawled into the space next to me even though he was miles away.

I typed again:

Me:
Thanks for the smile. I needed that.

The reply came a minute later.

Oscar:
Same. Can't wait to be back in that kitchen of yours. Stroopwafels will taste better off your counter. I promise I'll make some for you. Or buy some.

My cheeks burned.
God, what was happening to me?

I rolled onto my side and turned off the light, clutching the phone a little tighter than necessary, his name the last thing I saw before sleep pulled me under.

On friday morning I decided to go at Sofia's coffee shop.
She was behind the counter, hair twisted up in a casual bun, already deep in conversation with one of her regulars. She caught sight of me, waved like she had been waiting for me, and mouthed "Five minutes."

I chose our regular spot. The one we always took when we needed to dissect life like it was a patient on an operating table. No flower tucked in the vase today.
When she finally sat down, two cappuccinos in hand, she gave me a long stare.

"Alright" she said, "Spill. You look like a woman who had to hide a man in a closet."  
I blinked. "Storage room. But yes. Basically."
Sofia's jaw dropped. "You didn't."
"Oh, I did." I sighed and took a sip. "Victor stopped by the house. Unannounced. Walked into my kitchen like he had some rights. Oscar had just finished talking to someone from McLaren. I had to push him into the pantry like some twisted rom-com moment."
Sofia clutched her chest. "You're kidding."
"I wish I were. He then poured himself coffee, talked about some business deal, about a guy who has some sharehold on a Formula 1 team and that he'll attend the next race"

"Shut. Up."

"I did the opposite. I froze."
Sofia looked stunned. "And Oscar? Heard all of it?"  
I nodded. "Every word. But that's not the crazy part. Victor threw in the emotional bomb saying he and the bimbo are over. Hinted he wants to fix things."

"Fix things?" Sofia repeated, eyebrows rising to her hairline. "What is this? A restoration project?"
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. "Anyway, Oscar was amazing. Didn't say much afterward, he just stayed...after all this shit show."
Sofia stared at me for a second. "You're falling for him."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

"And..."I continued, needing to change the subject before I unraveled, "someone from a movie production company came to the bookstore and offered to adapt Heaven Was a Lie."
Sofia's eyes widened again. "Wait, wait—the dark one? The priest, the neighbor, the innocent girl?"

"That's the one."

"Holy shit." She clapped her hands softly. "Olivia, that book is going to make people argue and tweet in all caps. It's provocative as hell."

"That's why I'm not sure yet."

"No honey, you should accept. It will be masive!"

Sofia grinned, when I was about to respond the door opened wide. A familiar voice saying, "Two espressos, Sof, and don't burn them like last time."

Adam.
He wasn't alone.

Gabriel was with him. My stomach clenched for half a second. Sofia looked at me.
I looked at her.

"You did this?" I mouthed.  
"I swear I didn't” she mouthed back, eyes wide. "Pure coincidence. I swear on my Bora Bora vacation"  
The men approached the table. Adam turned slightly. "Oh hey, look who's here. Olivia, you remember Gabriel, right?"  
Gabriel smiled at me. "Yes, from the cocktail party. We meet again." I said, giving him a polite nod.
He gestured to Sofia's coffee place. "Still the best coffee in Bruges, huh?"

"The only coffee worth drinking" I replied with a smile, trying to keep it light.“How are things going?” He asked

And we made small talk for a few minutes. Gabriel asking how the bookstore was going, me asking about their caseload. He mentioned something about Paris, and then Adam nudged him, saying they had to go prep for a meeting. “I have your phone number, maybe I’ll find myself some courage to call you” he said just before he left and I smiled at him. Very very false and awkwardly.
As they walked off, I leaned over toward Sofia.

"That was not subtle" I whispered.
"Olivia, I swear I didn't plan this. I know that your attention is fully on a certain papaya car with the number 81." winking at me.
I squinted. "I believe you. But barely."

I got home just in time to catch the start of FP1. I kicked off my shoes, made myself an avocado toast, and turned the TV on.  
The commentators were already buzzing. About the weather in Zandvoort, the packed orange stands for the reigning champion, and some new upgrades for several teams.

I saw Oscar's name flash on the timing screen, and my pulse jumped like it had no chill.
Even through the screen, I could feel how fast paced, unpredictable, and electric it all was. 

Cars darting down the straights, radio messages playing on loop, and shots of the garages where the engineers moved like surgeons in a trauma unit.
I watched FP1 and then FP2, eyes scanning every frame where I could catch a glimpse of him, even with his helmet on, behind a visor.

That calm focus. That ridiculous precision.

That man who hid in my pantry like it was no big deal.

Saturday was a day carved from the same stone. Breakfast on the couch, papers spread across my coffee table, trying to finish outlining a blog post about the upcoming book tour... and watching Qualifying like it was the most natural background noise in the world.

Except I wasn't listening to the commentators.
I was listening for his name. Oscar's lap flashed across the screen, securing P4.
He will not be very happy about that.  
As for me, I actually let out a quiet cheer.

No one heard me, of course.

But somehow... I hoped he knew I was watching.

Chapter Text

It doesn't happen to me often to fall asleep before 21:00, but that saturday was one of those days.  And guess who was moving around the house aimlessly at 5 am in the morning.
The first mug of coffee empty.
Sometime around 22:00 Oscar texted me. Yet I was so deep in my sleep, I didn't hear the notification. Or anything. 

Oscar:  
Any chance I'll get to see you tomorrow ?

I didn't reply.  
By 7 am I was already pouring my second coffee and I'd already gone through an entire internal debate on whether facing a swarm of Formula 1 fans, media crews, and the ghost of Victor lurking somewhere in the paddock was really worth it.
Also, Liam will be back soon on Monday. I should be ready for him...the house should be in order.

Jesus.
Even I don't believe me.

But then, in my rush and clumsiness, I stumble  upon the hallway bench and the VIP badge Oscar left for me fell from my bag.
Like it had been waiting for me to grow some courage.
And maybe I had.
Maybe just enough to drag my body upstairs to dress myself and grow a pair.

I threw on a white linen sleveless top tucked loosely into tailored beige trousers, paired it with loafers.
Casual. Clean.  
Not trying to be anything but invisible. Big sunglasses and a wide brimmed sun hat. Just for the walk in the paddock, because it wasn't my intention to look ridiculos around the motorhome.
Minimal makeup. No drama.

I looked at myself in the mirror. 

You are just a woman with a badge.
I had to give myself a pep talk before leaving the house.
Writing the destination on google maps: Zandvoort Circuit.

Three hours on the road with my playlist of indie pop, indie rock, dark r&b were just enough to let the anxiety simmer instead of boil.  
But as soon as the grandstands rose in the distance, I felt that familiar tightening in my chest.
The closer I got to the paddock, the more chaotic it became. Waves of fans in orange shirts, flags high in the sky, chants echoing. The summer air thick with sunblock, smoke, and adrenaline.

It was only my second race.
But my heart clearly hadn't gotten the memo. It was thudding in my chest like I'd never been to a Formula 1 paddock before.
Same chaos. Same nerves. Same sneaking suspicion I didn't belong here.

I kept my eyes low avoiding any eye contact and fortunately I didn't barge into another team.
I slipped into the McLaren motorhome like a ghost in silk. A few glances, some smiles from staff members, but no questions. Bagde visible if anything.

But, more importantly, no Victor in the sight. Neither around the paddock and especially not around McLaren team.

I released a slow breath.

Good.

For now.

I was standing near a refreshments station, sipping on sparkling water and trying not to look like a misplaced librarian, when someone stopped next to me.

"Have you tried the little lemon cookies yet? Dangerous things. Addictive."
I turned to find a man grinning at me. Boyish charm, unmistakably British accent, curls slightly damp from some hair products, I assume, orange McLaren polo T-shirt.
"No" I replied carefully, "but now I'm curious."

"They're like betrayal in a bite. One turns into five, and suddenly you are leaving with the whole tray"  
I laughed.
He stuck out his hand. "Lando."
I shook it. "Olivia."
"Nice to meet you, Olivia. First race?"
"Second" I replied with a vague smile.

"Oh, so you're a veteran now." He winked. "Soon you'll be pushing camera guys out of your way and rolling your eyes if the food is too salty." I gave a half-laugh. "Good to know that's the next stage of evolution."

"So, what brings you to McLaren hospitality? Let me guess, you're secretly scouting for Ferrari?"
"Caught me" I deadpanned. "They sent me to lure people around here and steal top secret data."

"Damn" he laughed. "Guess I'll have to guard the data sheets with my life."
I laughed, finally relaxing a little. "You're very good at guessing." I teased.

"I'm better at driving, I promise."
"Modest, too."  
He fake gasped. "Yeah....it's on my CV. Modesty, funny, cute, loves cookies"

We stood in a bubble of easy banter. Lando was naturally funny, a little flirtatious in that harmless, charming way some men just knew how to pull off.
He clearly had no idea who I was or why I was there, and I didn't volunteer the information.
But, it took my fried head too many minutes to realize who was Lando.
The Lando. As in the other McLaren driver.As in Oscar's teammate.
I covered it well, though. I think.

Someone behind him called his name. "Mate! Driver's parade!"  
Lando groaned. "Duty calls."

He walked a few steps, then looked over his shoulder. "Try the outside terrace upstairs. Best view on the paddock. And if you do seduce any of us, just give us a heads-up first."

And then he was gone.

I made my way upstairs to the second level. The terrace was just like he said. The perfect overlook. From here, I could see the pit lane, the starting grid, fans packed like sardines on the grandstands, flags waving violently in the wind.
And just below, a side door of the motorhome swung open.

Oscar stepped out first.
Same orange polo T-shirt.  
He looked like focus personified. Sharp. Serious. But not unapproachable.
Lando was beside him, animated, saying something that made Oscar scoff a laugh and shake his head.

Then Lando glanced up toward the balcony.
And so did Oscar.
His eyes locked on me.

And something shifted.
I saw it. Clear as day.  
His expression changed.  
Eyes sharpened. Mouth stilled. Shoulders straightened.
Like his entire system had just been rewired.
Like a storm pulling in behind his gaze.  
Like the whole world tilted an inch and settled on me.

And the only thing I could do was... stand there.
I looked at the clock. Another two and a half hours until the race.

The driver's parade was like something pulled out of a rock concert and a royal tour all at once.

I watched from the terrace as Oscar was with another driver at the edge of the vintage truck circling the track. Fans roared, flags waved, and someone below was already holding a sign that read OSCAR,  YOU ARE MY FAVORITE KIND OF PASTRY.  
I couldn't help but smile.

I assumed, maybe even hoped, he will come up after the parade. Surely he saw me. Surely he knew I was here.  
But he didn't come.
Half an hour passed. Then another.  

No Oscar. Nor Lando.
He must have been pulled into something.
Pre-race briefings, hydration checks, tire talk, whatever else made up the hours before lights out. 

Still, the pit in my stomach wouldn't settle. Maybe it was better this way.  
Better for me to stay low profile, unnoticed. A shadow in the sea of spectacle.

I walked back inside the hospitality lounge, quiet and softly air-conditioned, and found an empty table by the window. I took out my laptop and tried to anchor myself. Fingers over keys. Mind elsewhere. But I managed to open a blank document and start typing.

A couple. A murder. Evident suspect-the husband.

By the time I finished three pages of scattered dialogue and brooding internal thoughts, the sound outside had shifted. The kind of shift that made the floor tremble.

The engines. A different kind of roar now.

I looked up and moved quickly back to the balcony. Few other people were on the terrace now too.

The grid had cleared. Cars in formation.
Five lights. Blinking red.
And then—off.

Chapter Text

The race was still on when I suddenly had the idea of getting something for Liam. A cap, maybe. I figured he'd appreciate that. I made my way toward the fan store, my thoughts debating which team to choose between Ferrari, McLaren, Mercedes, maybe Redbull?
I wasn't sure what he'd prefer.
Then, just as I glanced up, I froze.

There he was. Victor. Standing on the balcony of the Mercedes hospitality suite, eyes fixed on the track like he belonged there.  
Like he was the one who had shareholds on the team.
And clinging to his arm was a woman. Blonde, painfully overdone, like her surgeon had gone a few rounds extra to be sure she s human doll.
But not in the good way, though.

So much for fixing things, I thought, scoffing under my breath.
I shook my head, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of my lips.  
That was his idea of repairing our broken marriage? Parading a plastic trophy around the paddock?

Good God. Divorcing him was the single best decision of my life.

I ended up buying two caps.   
One for Liam-Ferrari, he'd love that red.  
And one McLaren. Maybe that one was for me.

When I returned to the McLaren motorhome, the race was already winding down.  
The final laps were brutal, Lando was out front, the crowd going wild.  
Oscar had driven well, he was smooth, patient, strategic.
But a fourth-place finish wasn't what he'd hoped for. 

I watched the post-race interviews, lingering on the three podium drivers celebrating. Lando popped his champagne in a ridiculous, showman way that made the whole room laugh.

I ducked back inside, looking for quiet, only to be cornered in the lounge by a man in his forties. Old money. Tweed blazer. The kind of man who made being wealthy seem insufferably dull.

"Quite the race, eh?" he said, swirling his wine like it was part of his personality.
"All part of the fun" I muttered, trying to sound vaguely polite.

He launched into a monologue about his travels, vague ventures in real estate, and then, of course, his charming opinion that I was fascinating.  
I nodded, smiled, and pretended to listen while my eyes kept drifting past him, toward the glass, where I saw Oscar walking across the paddock.
He looked sharp and serious, in conversation with someone, eyes flicking past crowds.

That's when Lando burst into the motorhome, soaked in champagne, holding a bottle of water, grinning like a teenager. "Hi, Mom!" he called out, and I turned to see him hugging his mother, still laughing. The warmth of it tugged at something inside me.  
He then looked at me and winked. "Told you I was better at driving" he said to me. I smiled and raised my glass of water to him.
I may be a little rusty, but I recognize a flirt when I see one.

"Excuse me" I told Mr. Tweed, slipping past him onto the terrace, heart hammering.
The air was cooler outside. The roar of the crowd thundered from the track below. Oscar was still out there, standing near a team member, but his eyes were already on me.

I don't know what happened in that second, maybe something in the way I was standing, maybe the quiet between us across the crowd, but his gaze softened. Intensified.
Then he turned back to the person in front of him. Nodded to something they said. And snapped his head back up, like his eyes couldn't not find me. He came near the spot I was standing.

"Magnificent race…" he called up, voice steady and low. A hint of dissapoinment in his voice.
I swallowed. "You... you were brilliant."
He shook his head. "Fourth isn't brilliant."
"Don’t say that" I said firmly. "You overtook clean. You chased. It was more than good, it was smart. Precise."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Thanks."

Then a beat of quiet.

His eyes searched mine. "Come down." My breath hitched. "I...can I?"
His voice dropped, but it reached me all the same. "Yeah."

The stairway was narrow, metal, buzzing faintly under the crowd's excitement vibrating through the paddock. I descended quickly, heartbeat climbing faster with each step.  As soon as my feet touched the ground, I saw him.
Oscar was waiting at the bottom, cap pulled low, arms casually folded but eyes locked on mine. There was a flicker of something in his gaze, relief, heat, something else entirely.

He stepped forward and leaned in slightly. "Just play along” he murmured, lips barely brushing my ear. "You're not supposed to be here unless someone on the team brought you in."  
Before I could ask, his hand slid subtly to the small of my back. His touch was featherlight, guiding. "We don't want attention. Just stay close."

The McLaren garage was a maze of narrow passages and fluorescent lights, humming machinery, and the scent of rubber, sweat, and fresh adrenaline.  
Oscar moved through it quickly, a quiet authority in every step. A few crew members looked up, nodded in passing. Some with a flicker of surprise in their expressions, but none said a word.

He opened a door near the far end of the garage. A small room. Not very neat, some items scattered around. Another driver gear hanging, water bottles on the counter, some energy drinks too. And a personal scent lingering that I immediately recognized.  
It smelled like him. Clean. Masculine. Comforting.  

As soon as he shut the door, he turned and smiled, almost sheepish. "I really thought you wouldn't come" he said quietly. "You didn't answer my text last night."
I blinked, caught off-guard. "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ignore it. I just... needed time to think."

His smile didn't drop, but something in his posture relaxed, like a string in him had loosened. "I get it. But when I didn't hear back, I thought maybe this part of me was a bit too much. Especially after... well, everything."
I stepped closer, hands brushing against the side of his suit. "I wasn't sure. Until this morning, I honestly didn't think I could do it. But I wanted to be here. For you."

His throat worked around a swallow.

"I thought you'd be happy to see me before the driver's parade" I said softly, teasing.
"I was" he said, voice low. "I am."
But then he exhaled deeply, eyes closing briefly. "I guess some sort of button got triggered when I realized you were the woman Lando was just talking about." My brows knit. "What?"

Oscar let out a breathy laugh. "He wouldn't shut up about meeting this beautiful, smart woman with piercing blue eyes and the best smile he's ever seen. Said she had this... incredible energy." He opened his eyes and looked at me. "He flirted with you, didn't he?"
I smirked. "A little. He didn't know I was here for you."

Oscar stepped in closer, hand grazing my waist. "Doesn't matter. You're here now."
Before I could answer, a knock came at the door. Sharp. Quick.
"Oscar, media pen in five." someone called from the other side.

He didn't even look at the door. Just stared at me like he needed to memorize every part of this second.

"Wait here, please" he said. "I'll be about an hour, maybe a bit more. I'll try to finish as quickly as I can. But stay, alright?"

I nodded, lips parting to say something, but the words were lost in the next second.
He leaned in and kissed me.

No hesitation. No buildup.

His mouth claimed mine like we had hours, not minutes. Like we weren't hiding behind a thin wall in the middle of a paddock. His hands slid up, cupping my jaw, thumbs grazing my cheeks.  
I kissed him back with the same heat, with a rush of everything I hadn't let myself feel since this morning.
When he pulled away, breathless and a little unsteady, he rested his forehead to mine.

"You're impossible to stop thinking about" he whispered.

Then he turned, grabbed his team radio and a bottle of water, and walked out, leaving me alone in his space with my stupid little heart racing, lips tingling, and a strange, giddy sense of being exactly where I was meant to be.

Chapter Text

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, a heavy silence settled over the room. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding and looked around.
Oscar's driver room was functional, small but personal. Few neatly folded towels, a stack of papers I didn't dare peek at. Too many caps were slung on the edge of a chair, and one of his gloves, just one, was tossed onto a the table like he'd yanked it off mid-thought. I laughed in my chin.

I paced. Sat. Got back up.

My mind was spiraling. I kept replaying our kiss. His tone when he'd said, You're impossible to stop thinking about. The heat in his eyes when he admitted getting kinda jealous over Lando's thoughts.

God, what was this?

I shouldn't feel this intensely about someone I met just weeks ago.  
A man ten years younger. A world apart.  
And yet, every time he looked at me like I was gravity itself, I felt... tethered. 
Desired. Alive.

An hour passed. Then another fifteen minutes. Then ten more.

I was curled up on the small bench, laptop open on my knees, a blinking cursor mocking my lack of concentration.
That's when I remembered.

The caps.

"Shit" I whispered, snapping the laptop shut.
I'd left them behind. Both.  
The Ferrari and the McLaren one. I could see them now in my mind's eye, sitting neatly on the couch I sat the McLaren hospitality.

I hesitated, debating with myself.

Should I go back?

I technically wasn't supposed to be here at all, and the last thing I needed was someone important asking me why I was casually wandering around the inner maze of the garage.
Still, the area was calmer now. Less buzzing. The post-race adrenaline had shifted into debriefs and quiet shuffles. And I really didn't want to lose them. 

I got up.

If I go quickly... and memorize every step. I muttered, mostly to justify it to myself, no one will notice.

So help me God.

With a deep breath, I slipped out of the driver's room, trying to mimic the purposeful stride of someone who belonged there.  
I traced my way through the corridors, then up the familiar staircase, retracing the same path I'd taken earlier.

The McLaren hospitality was mostly empty now. Just a few staff still tidying up and a couple of guests deep in quiet conversation over drinks.  
Lando’s mom was still here, smiling from an ear to another.

The caps were exactly where I remembered. Unbothered, untouched.  
I snatched them up quickly and stuffed the McLaren one into my bag, the Ferrari cap in hand.

"I KNEW IT."
I jolted, turning around so fast I nearly dropped the cap.
Lando stood near me, grinning like a cat who had just caught something small and suspicious sneaking through the kitchen. He pointed at the flash of red in my open bag. "So you are indeed from the Ferrari team. Knew it."
I blinked. "What?"

He took a playful step closer, squinting like he was inspecting contraband. "You were nice. Too nice. I said to myself, right after I saw you here. Of course you’re rooting for the Ferrari boys'"
I couldn't help but laugh. "Actually, it’s for my son. The McLaren one too." removing the McLaren cap and showing it.
I don’t know why I felt the need to justify myself… 

"Convenient explanation” he said, mock-suspicious.  
Lando's expression shifted subtly. That cheeky spark didn't disappear, but something gentler bloomed behind his eyes. His mouth parted slightly, surprised. "You…have a son?"
His tone had changed, quieter now, almost thoughtful.
"I do” I nodded.  
"That's..." he blinked, then gave a soft chuckle. "Wow. You don't look like…I mean, not in a bad way, just..."

"Like someone with a ten-year-old?" I finished for him, amused.
"Ten years? Wow again."

Then his grin reappeared, faster than a switch. "Next time you come to the motorhome, bring him. I'm great with kids."

"Oh, I'm sure you are."

"I really am!" he insisted, then leaned in with mock seriousness. "But full disclosure, they usually end up liking me more than their moms."
I rolled my eyes, smiling. "You're insufferable."

He held up his hands. "Hey, if the charm works on all age groups, what can I do?"
He leaned against the wall casually. "We're heading out later. Some private club in Amsterdam. No press, just couple drivers, close friends. Come."
I blinked, caught off guard by how casually he threw it out. "I…no. I'm not really the clubbing type."
He narrowed his eyes with exaggerated disappointment. "Shame.”

“Have fun at the club” I gave him a polite smile and turned to leave, my heart thudding a little faster now. Not because of Lando, but because I'd already lingered too long. But just as I placed my hand on the stair rail-

"Wait—" I turned. Lando was a step behind me now, his voice lower, curiosity sharpening again.
"What's your full name?"
I blinked. "Why?"
"Because I need to know what to search on Instagram” he said shamelessly, smiling "Or you could save me the trouble and give me your number."

I let the silence stretch just enough.

"Just Olivia”  I said simply. "That's all you get."  
His mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. "Mysterious. I like it." 
“Goodbye Lando.”

Now, I really turned and descended the stairs, navigating the path back to Oscar's room as quickly and silently as I could.
Just as I shut the door behind me, heart starting to settle again, I heard footsteps approaching.

Oscar.

He slipped in quietly, his cap still on down on his face, face slightly flushed.

"I'm so sorry” he said immediately. "Everything ran late. Debrief. Some more interviews. Chaos."

"You're here now” I said, folding the Ferrari cap into my bag. I didn't mention the detour. Or Lando. 
Especially not Lando.

He came closer, brushing his fingers down my arm as his eyes searched mine.
"Did you wait long?"

"Just enough to miss you” I murmured, and his expression softened instantly.  
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of car keys. "I parked outside of Gate B. There's a lane that cuts around the fan exit. Walk straight, past the tire compound, take a left, and you'll see a McLaren team van. My car's parked two down from it."
I blinked. "You want me to leave without you?"

He shook his head. "Just a few minutes ahead of me. I will change my clothes meanwhile. And it will keep the attention off. If we both leave together, someone will notice. You'll be fine. I'll catch up before anyone even realizes."
A strange twist pulled in my stomach, but I nodded. We were already pushing boundaries.
"Okay” I whispered.

I slipped out just as he said. Quiet. Head down. Nobody looked twice. I arrived and his car and sat on the front passenger’s seat. 

Exactly like he said, Oscar showed up three minutes later. I saw him coming. Big steps toward the car, but he wasn't alone…two fans had caught sight of him.  
Luckily, a some security guy stepped between them, redirecting them politely but firmly.  
Oscar slid into the driver's seat and tossed his cap onto the dash. "Lean your seat all the way back” he said under his breath, eyes on the mirror.

I did. My back flattened as the seat reclined, and I lay there for a minute in silence, the heat of the day pressing against the windows, tension crackling between us like static.
After a few moments of quiet, Oscar finally turned to look at me. "Alright, we're good."

I pushed the seat up again and raised my eyebrows. "Felt like I was doing a spy operation."
He grinned and reached for the stereo, turning the music up. House music filled the space, pulsing and loud, vibrating through the car.

I gave him a look. "Seriously? This is what you’re listening to?"
He laughed, that rare, breathy chuckle that made me want to lean closer. "It helps me disconnect. Zone out."
“I was expecting something more... existential. Maybe some boy’s band or some depressing guy with a huge beard”

"Not everything about me is sad and introspective" he said, mock-offended.

"Mm, if you say so…” I teased.

We drove for about twenty minutes, the city giving way to long stretches of coast. Then he turned onto a narrow, forested road.
"Where are we going?" I asked, voice soft now.
"To breathe" he said simply.

And then, an empty wild beach came in sight. Sand stretching endlessly beneath a pale sky, the dunes quiet and golden in the sun's retreat.
He stopped the car behind a line of trees, mostly hidden, engine ticking to a stop.

Neither of us moved at first.

"Can I be selfish for a few seconds and have you just for myself?” he said quietly. "No cameras. No fans. No other men lurking around you. Just us."
I turned toward him slowly, sighing. “You think this'll ever be simple?” I said quietly, eyes down "I mean-"

"Probably not" he admitted and not letting me finish my sentence. His voice rough. "But it's real."
His hand reached over, brushing my cheek, thumb tracing along my jaw. And then he pulled me toward him.

His mouth met mine.
The kiss was hot, deep, desperate.

My fingers diving in his hair, as my body arched closer and the seat belt snapped tight my chest.
Oscar kissed me harder, teeth catching my lip, breath shallow and hungry.

"Fuck” he breathed. "Get over here."
We unclicked belts like our lives depended on it. I climbed over the center console, awkward, laughing when my knee hit the gearshift.

"This car is impossible” I muttered, settling onto his lap.
"I can drive us back to my hotel." Oscar said while tilting his head and caughting my mouth again.
“No” I replied sharply like a desperate woman.  
He dragged his mouth down my jaw and along her neck and I gasped, fingers tugging on the collar of his t-shirt.

I started unbuttoning my shirt slowly, while Oscar’s knuckles were brushing the curve of my breasts as I spread the fabric open.
My nipples tight already, goosebumps rising along the skin from the sudden air. 
He leaned in kising the top of one breast, then lower, pulling one into his mouth. I moaned softly, grinding my hips against his erection through his pants.

"You're going to kill me” he muttered.
"Then die with some dignity" I whispered back, breathless.
That did something to him. His mood completely changed, becoming very intense and wildly.

He reached between us, pulling down his pants just enough to free himself. And I shifted, undid my pants, and kicked them down the legs one side at a time, panties dragging with them.  
Oscar’s fingers already brushing the inside of my thigh, and my breath hitched.

"Olivia…" he said between kissing and touching “I don’t have any condom on myself.”   
The mature and responsible Olivia would have stopped the act at that point.
But, the mature and responsible Olivia was replaced by the horny teenage girl. "Can you pull out?” I asked bitting my lips while still grinding myself on him.  Desperate wasn’t big enough of a word to cover the state I was in.

 “Yes. Are you sure?” he asked, forehead pressed to mine.

I nodded. "I need you..."

I rose slightly, guiding his cock with one hand. And then I sank onto him.  
Slow, inch by inch, tight and overwhelming.

"Jesus” he groaned, hands on my hips. "Olivia-"
I silenced him with a kiss, rolling my hips. Oscar buried his face into my shoulder as I began to move faster.
Everything about this was hot and awkward and fucking incredible.

The car creaked with every shift. The windows fogged up.  
It wasn't sure which of us was breathing harder.

I was quite embarased by how aroused everything made me and I started to tremble, hands gripping the headrest behind his head, face flushed. "Oscar…"

"I've got you” he said, one hand slipping between us to touch me where I needed. My whole body clenched around his as I came, gasping his name. Then, with a swift move he removed his cock and spill on both of us.

Neither of us spoke for a long moment. Just the wind outside. Our breath. The echo of something that felt way too real to ignore anymore.
He kissed me softly once more. Slower this time.

"You okay?" He asked.

I nodded, resting my head on his shoulder. "Yeah. Just... I wasn't expecting this. Or at least not in a car”    
"Me either."

Chapter Text

OSCAR

Olivia reached into her bag, pulling out some wet wipes with a quiet laugh. "We're an actual mess."

"Bit of an understatement" I muttered, taking one from her and wiping down my abdomen and chest as best as I could. I opened all the car's windows to let some fresh air inside.
We still looked like we'd sprinted on a maraton in a heatwave, but at least we didn't smell like sex and saltwater anymore. 

Small victories.

The coast faded in the rearview mirror, but she didn't. She was right here, next to me. Hair tousled, cheeks flushed, legs curled beneath her. Olivia sat beside me in the passenger seat, half-silent, half-smiling, her fingers lazily tracing invisible lines on her thigh.  
My body still ached from the weightless chaos of what we'd just done in the car, but my mind? That was nowhere near settled.

I glanced at her again, watching the way her mouth quirked slightly at the corners, like she was playing a secret game with herself.  
God, she didn't even realize how stunning she was.

No wonder Lando had said what he did. "Smart, funny, gorgeous woman, kind of mysterious. She had this perfect smile with perfect white straight teeth on her, mate...I tell you. I was blown away."

I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

It was fine. Lando didn't know.  
And even if he did, Olivia had chosen to be here...with me.  
Still, something tightened in my chest.
Lando had that charm, that easy-going spark.  
I had always been more reserved. Precise. Measured. Not showing much emotion.
But with her, I was always on the verge of losing control. And I didn't hate it.  
That's even more crazier thinking is about me we're talking.

When we reached the outskirts of the hotel, I slowed down, eyes scanning the entrance already crowded with fans. Some held signs. Others had cameras raised.   
It's always like that when more drivers are staying at the same hotel.
I pulled up by the corner, far enough to blend in but close enough she could duck in unseen.

"I'll circle around to the front" I told her, killing the engine. "Give me couple of minutes to sign a few things, distract the crowd. You go in the side entrance. There's a corridor past the lounge, leads straight to the lifts. Take it up to room 708." I said giving her the hotel key. She nodded, then hesitated. "You sure?"

I leaned over, kissed the corner of her mouth. "I'll be right behind you."

It worked like in the paddock.

Smooth, quiet, clean. Ten minutes later, I slipped into the elevator with my cap pulled low, cheeks still warm from the flashes outside.  
When I stepped into the room, Olivia was standing by the window, barefoot, phone in hand.

"Sorry" I said, locking the door. "Fans were in full hunting mode."
She glanced at me over her shoulder. "That's ok. I'm glad you still make time for the fans."

I jumped into the shower first, while she made a couple of calls. The warm water hit like a brick wall of relief. Muscles relaxed, mind started to slow. And when I stepped out, only a towel around my hips, Olivia was walking into the bathroom, already undressing herself.
Her eyes flicked down to my chest and abdomen. "I see the appeal of racing drivers now."
I grinned. "Wait till you see us in racing socks."

Twenty minutes later, she emerged, wrapped in the massive, white, fluffy hotel robe and dropped onto the bed beside me.
Her skin glowed against the cotton.

"I was going to take you out" I said, handing her a glass of water, "but fans are still around. I think it'd be chaos."
"I'm okay with room service." She curled a leg beneath her. "Besides, this robe is way too fluffy to take off."
I raised an eyebrow. "We'll see about that."

We ate on the bed, plates balanced on our knees, olives and grilled vegetables, steak for me, fish for her. I couldn't stop looking at her. At how natural it felt. Like we'd done this before, like we could do this again. "Have you given any more thoughts on the movie adaptation?" I asked between bites.  
She released a long sigh. "A little" she admitted.  
"What's holding you back?"

She didn't look at me right away. Instead, she pushed her plate aside and tucked her legs under her, the sheet slipping just low enough to make it hard for me to focus.  
But when she met my eyes and I could see it, something deeper than just nerves or hesitation.  
My horny side slowly fading in the background.

"I think..." she started slowly, "even though my books are out there, everywhere, people don't really know me. I like that." She gave me a soft smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "My private life is mine. I've worked so hard to keep it that way."
I nodded. "And a film would blow that open."

"Exactly." She brushed her hair behind her ear. "The second a camera's involved, everything changes. More people will want interviews, red carpets. I'd have to explain things I never wanted to explain. People will pick it apart."
A beat passed before she added, quieter, "Even whatever this is between us... it's already crossed so many boundaries I thought I'd never cross. I barely let anyone in, Oscar. Not like this. And especially not someone like you..."
I set my fork down. Reached for her hand. "You haven't done anything wrong by letting someone in. Even thought I'm younger and...Jesus I hate saying this about myself" I muttered "famous"
"I know" she said. "But it's... fast. And complicated."

I didn't argue. Part of me surely understands her point of view, but I also couldn't pretend I didn't want it. 
There was also the part that will do everything in his power to keep her safe. 
And I was quite private myself…I hope she sees that about me.

I squeezed her hand gently and said, "Then let's just keep doing what we're doing. One page at a time."
That earned a small laugh. "God, that was cheesy."
"I know" I smirked. "I was saving it."
She rolled her eyes and leaned over to steal something from my plate. "Just for that, I'm eating your fries."

"Absolutely not-"

Too late.

And suddenly the weight in the room felt lighter again.

"When does the book tour start?" taking another bite of my fries before she decides to eat them all.
"Thursday. First stop's Rome, then Milan over the weekend."
I paused mid-chew. "You're in Milan next weekend?"

"Yes."

A slow smile spread across my face. "Monza is next weekend."
Her eyes sparkled. "Where's that?" she asked and I let out a laugh. She's so cute when she is clueless about everything in the racing world.
"Monza is a race track in Italy, near Milan. Is the pride and joy of the Tifosi, as in Ferrari fans"  
She nodded listening me.

"See?" I leaned back on my hands, grinning. "We're already figuring it out step by step."She laughed, then clicked on the TV, flipping through channels until old music videos started playing on some retro channel. 

Something funky and synthy.

She jumped up suddenly, grabbed the remote like a mic, and stood at the edge of the bed. "Oscar Piastri" she said in a low, dramatic voice. "Do you know this classic?"
I stared at her, robe tied loosely, hair drying in waves, hips swaying offbeat. "Nope."

"Then you're about to learn."
She reached out her hand like a popstar and pulled me up. I stumbled into the bed with her, pretending to resist. "I'm terrible at dancing."  
She laughed a real, unfiltered laugh and danced like a complete maniac. It was perfect.
And I tried. Really, I did.

"Wow" she said, panting. "You really can't dance."

"I warned you" I said, catching her waist and pulling her toward me. "I'm good at other things."
"Oh?" she smirked, chest rising and falling, robe slipping just an inch. "Like what?"

I didn't answer.
Instead I took her in my arms and we both crashed on the bed. Then I kissed her.

Hard.

The music kept playing behind us. The bed dipped beneath us.
Her robe didn't stay on much longer.

My hands ran over her body like I was memorizing her again. Her skin was warm and soft, and I traced the lines of her ribs, the curve of her waist, the slope of her hip.  
She gasped when I kissed the inside of her thigh, teasing her, dragging it out, her head tipping back, fingers fisting the sheets.
I wanted to take my time. But I myself was losing patience.

She was already trembling beneath me. "Oscar..." her tone of voice with a trace of demand in it.

"I know."

I reached into the nightstand for a condom, hands a little shaky, pulse erratic, the room dim except for the glow from the television still playing some love song from the nineties.

When I pushed into her, everything went silent. Just her breath, just the way her mouth opened in a soft moan, just the feeling of her wrapped around me.
She kissed me in response. Desperate, needy, like she was trying to anchor herself too.

We moved together like we'd done it a thousand times.  
Familiar but still new.  
Slow at first, letting it burn until the tension felt unbearable, and I started to pick up a faster pace.
My name fell from her lips again and again like a prayer, like a warning.  
My control thinned with each moan, each arch of her back, each plea she didn't even know she whispered.

I slipped a hand beneath her arse, tilting her hips just right. She gasped, nails dragging down my back, eyes fluttering shut.

"Open your eyes. Look at me" I said, breathless.
She did. And it wrecked me.
I didn't last much longer.

We came together.

Her falling apart in my arms, and me chasing that high like it was the last lap of the season.
After, we stayed tangled. Skin sticky, breath shared, limbs locked.

"I don't think I can move" she murmured into my shoulder.
"Good" I said. "I'm not done with you."

Chapter Text

OLIVIA

Of course we didn’t sleep that much. Maybe four hours at most, scattered between kisses, whispered jokes, tangled legs, and the kind of closeness that makes you forget what time it is.
But when my eyes cracked open and I saw the soft light filtering through the curtains... panic.

"Fuck" I muttered, sitting up fast.

Oscar stirred beside me, his face half-buried in the pillow. "What? What time is it?"

"I need to go. My car is still at the track."

He blinked at me, still half-asleep, then nodded and rubbed a hand down his face. "Okay. I'll take you. Let me throw my stuff in a bag."

I tried to protest - it wasn't necessary - but he was already moving, tugging on a hoodie, zipping his luggage, hair sticking up in five directions, looking way too good for someone with sleep creases on his face.
In the elevator, he told me he'd fly back to Monaco for a few days, then head to Italy on Wednesday.
I didn't say much. I was too focused on memorizing his face again, like it would fade the second we parted.

At the track, the crowds were gone. Just a few staff and security scattered around. It felt hollow compared to yesterday's chaos.  He pulled up on the parking lot. "My car's there. Go, before someone sees us." I said quietely with some heaviness on my heart. 

He hesitated but after be leaned across the center console, kissed me slow, like he was trying to press a memory into me. "Umm, text me when you get home, okay?"

I nodded. "I will."

And then I got out. My chest ached before I even made it to my car.
The drive back to Bruges was a blur of winding roads and fuzzy radio static.  
I barely remembered getting on the highway. I just followed the GPS and tried not to overthink.

By the time I pulled into the parking lot of Liam's camp, my nerves had settled into something warm. Familiar. And when I saw him...

"Mum!"
He came flying toward me like a rocket. Sun-tanned, hair messy, backpack bouncing behind him. I dropped to my knees, and he practically launched into my arms.
"There's my boy" I whispered, kissing his face over and over again. "I missed you so much. I can't wait to hear your amazing stories."

And he had plenty. 

About giant spiders, burned marshmallows, a counselor who snored like a bear.  
He didn't stop talking, and I didn't stop smiling.
When we reached the car, I pulled the caps from my bag. "Here. Pick one."
His eyes went round. "Whoa... Ferrari or McLaren?"

He grabbed the orange one without hesitation. "This one. Mum, you know I don't like red...because-"  
"Because it's the color of the lightsaber of Darth Vader"  
We said at unison.
Fuck. I forgot about that.

He pulled it on proudly. "Where did you get these?"
I hesitated for half a second. "I... went to a race."  
His mouth dropped open. "You went to a Formula 1 race?! Without me?!"

"I know, I know" I said, raising my hands in defense. "It was last minute. Total surprise."

He jumped up and down, clutching his cap. "Can I go next time? Please please please?!"
I smiled, taking his backpack. "We'll see, mister."

And then I heard a voice I hadn't prepared myself for.

"Well, look who has turned into a man after the summer camp."

Victor.

I stiffened immediately, my grip on Liam's shoulder tightening as my ex-husband sauntered toward us. Sunglasses, pressed trousers, perfect hair, same smug energy I used to mistake for charm.

"Dad!" Liam ran over to him, beaming. "Look! Mum got me this at a Formula 1 race!"

Victor turned sharply, lifting his sunglasses slightly to stare at me. "You did, huh?"

I ignored him.

Liam skipped off to show his cap to some friends, leaving us standing there in tense silence.
"I don't remember you being into F1" he said, folding his arms.

"Well. Things change, fortunately for me."
He tilted his head, tone sharpening. "You didn't go because of me, did you? I told you I'll be there when I stopped by your house"  
How could I have forgotten that horrible intervarion of a perfectly good morning.

I laughed. Actually laughed. "Oh, Victor. Because everything is about you, right? If I wanted to spy on you, I'd pick a more discreet location than an international sporting event."
His jaw tensed. Victor's gaze slid to the Ferrari cap, still in my hand. 

"Well, how about that" he said. "Ferrari and McLaren. What are the odds? Those are exactly the two teams I'm considering buying some shares in."
I rolled my eyes so hard it basically hurt.
Of course.
Of course he was.

Because God forbid his new partner who he said, held shares at Mercedes, have something over him. Of course Victor had to swing his ego into the sport like it was a pissing contest.

I snorted. "The universe really has an impeccable sense of humor." He raised a brow. "You're saying it like it's a bad thing."

"Victor, I really don't care about you, your money or businesses, so spare me."

"Anyway, have you thought more about my proposal?"
I blinked. Is he for real? My mouth fell open. "Are you fucking serious?"

He smirked. "C'mon, Liv. You really want to grow into some bitter old maid? Let's be honest...you've still got a hot body. Why let it go to waste? I volunteer myself to keep it warm and wet..."
I actually saw red. My hand twitched at my side, with an urge need to punch the smug of from his face.
But before I could slap him so hard he could spun back in the devil's hole from which he crawled, Liam's voice cut through the air:

"Mum! You promised fries!"

I turned, swallowing my rage, my hand slowly dropping. My voice icy calm.
"That's right monkey, let's go get some."

Then I looked Victor dead in the eyes. "Remember I'll be leaving on the book tour on Thursday. So do something useful and be there for your son if he needs you. Don't get too comfortable because he would be staying at my mum's."

He opened his mouth again, probably to toss another idiotic comment, but I was already walking away, holding Liam's hand tightly in mine, the McLaren cap bobbing proudly on his head.

Chapter Text

The days passed too quickly.

I tried to make the most of every minute with Liam, soaking in his giggles, his endless stories from camp, the way his small hand still slipped into mine like it belonged there forever. School was starting in just two weeks, and between packing for Rome and preparing for the tour, I felt this mounting ache in my chest every time I looked at him.

"Promise me you'll eat well, do your homework, and try not to convince grandpa to watch your disney movies instead of reading" I teased as I folded his pajamas into the big suitcase for his stay at my parents'.  
Liam gave me the most grown-up nod a te -year-old could manage. "Only Star Wars and probably The lord of the rings" I turned to him narrowing my eyes. He laughed "I'll be good, mama. And I'm really proud of you."  
I softened in an instance.
God, I love this boy so much it almost hurt.

One afternoon, while we were drawing together on the kitchen table, I casually mentioned, "Hey, you know how you asked if they'd ever make a movie from one of my books?"

His eyes grew wide with hope. "Did they?" "They did. But I'm still thinking... but maybe. One day...”

He leapt up from his seat and gave me the fiercest hug. "It's gonna be the best movie ever. But only if I get to see it first." We laughed. And I kissed the top of his head, trying not to cry.  
Probably he'll be allowed to see it when he is at least twenty years old, but hei...he doesn't need to know that now.

In between the moments of laundry and preparing meals, me and Oscar texted and called each other.
Every day.

Tuesday morning, I woke up to a series of photos of Oscar and his trainer on the trails above Monaco. He was sweaty and flushed from a run, hair a mess, his smile bright even through the screen.

Me:  
Did you run or did you escape from a crime scene?

Oscar:   
Both. But mainly the hills murdered me.

Me:  
Trim your hair, wild man.

He sent a laughing emoji and a heart.

Later, a selfie from the padel place. T-shirt drenched. Sweat dropplets down his thick neck.  I nearly dropped my phone.
He might be young, even looked young, but some parts of him where incredible mature.
And no, not that ones...don't even wanting to think about those...      
But in fact, he was indeed a very grounded person. Totally different of how I was imagining the portrait of a Formula 1 driver. 

On Wednesday, while I was at my parents' place dropping Liam off, my phone buzzed again.

Oscar:

[ photo attached ]

A picture with his hair freshly cut, shorter at the sides, still a bit unruly at the top.

Better?

I smiled before I could help it. Apparently, a little too obviously.

"Who's that?" my mother asked, eyeing me over her glasses. "No one" I said way too fast, cheeks warm.
"Mmhmm" she replied, clearly not believing a word.

Later, when Liam was playing football in the backyard with my father, I sat on the terrace with my mother, sipping iced tea and watching them.

"You've done well, Liv" she said softly, her eyes not leaving Liam. "He's growing up to be such a good boy."
I nodded, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. "He really is."

A pause. Then she turned to me.

"I did saw the way you smiled at that message from NO ONE. And don't tell me it was from Sofia or a book agent. I'm your mother. I know that look."  
I glanced down into my glass, feeling the heat crawl up my neck. "It's... complicated."

"It always is" she said gently. "Especially when it matters."
I bit my bottom lip, suddenly defensive. "Look, I would never—never—bring someone into Liam's life if I thought for a second it wasn't safe. Or stable. Or right. You know that."

"I do" she said quickly, reaching over to touch my hand. "I'm not questioning your instincts. You've always been protective of him. Fiercely. And after what Victor put you through, I don't blame you for being cautious."
She paused, her thumb gently brushing my knuckles.
"I just don't want you to be afraid to be happy again. You deserve to have a life, Olivia. A full one. Not just one built around caution and surronded by your books."     
But they are such a good company though… I thought to myself.

I looked out at Liam running around with his messy hair, his laughter, his joy. "He's my whole world. I can't risk him getting hurt."
"You're not risking him by allowing love in. You're showing him what it looks like when a woman knows her worth" she said. "It will probably be the best lesson you could give to your son. I watched you shrink for Victor. For years. Now you're blooming again."

Her voice cracked ever so slightly, and I realized her eyes were glossy.

"You don't have to tell me who he is" she added, a soft smile tugging at her mouth. "But I hope he sees you. Truly sees you. And treats you like the woman you are."

I blinked fast. "He does. He's... different. He's kind. And respectful. And so so complicated...Also, I'm scared by my own feelings. It's just... a lot"

"A good 'a lot'?"

I smiled. "Yeah. I think so."

"Then take your time. But don't shut the door before it even opens."
I leaned my head on her shoulder, letting out a long breath. "God, I love you."
"I know" she said, kissing my hair. "Just don't forget to love yourself a little, too."

We stayed like that for a while. Me thinking and overthinking about...everything.  
I was happy hearing my mum's advice, but would she say the same if I told her "no one" is eleven years younger, and a Formula 1 driver...

Yeah, that's another conversation for another time...

The goodbye was harder than I expected.
I knelt in front of Liam, cupping his small face. "I'll call you every day, monkey."
He wrapped his arms around my neck, holding on tight. "Can I come with you sometime?"

"I'll try" I whispered into his hair. "Maybe in the U.S., if the schedule works."
He nodded, his eyes bright but brave.

As I walked away, waving, I turned back one last time. He was still standing there at the gate, waving with both hands, the orange McLaren cap crooked on his head, heart wide open.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat.

Rome was waiting.  
My book tour was waiting.
But my heart? My heart stayed behind for a little while longer.

Chapter Text

The airport in Rome was buzzing with life, the marble floors echoing with footsteps and rolling luggage. I blinked against the warm afternoon sun that poured through the high glass ceilings and adjusted the strap of my bag.  
I texted Oscar right away: 

Just landed.

 I added a little airplane emoji, though I knew he was already well into media day at the track. No reply came through, and I didn't expect one.

A man in a crisp suit stood just past the arrival gates, holding a sign with my name printed in elegant cursive. "Buongiorno, Signora Olivia" he said with a smile that was far too bright for someone wearing that much navy wool. "I'm Matteo. From Mondadori."

I smiled, grateful for the familiar name of the Italian publishing house, the artery of the publishing house I belong to, which was based in the UK. "Ciao, Matteo. Nice to meet you."

He drove me into the center of the city, past ruins and cobblestones, scooters zipping between traffic as though laws didn't exist.  
My hotel was tucked into a quiet street near Piazza Navona.  
It was central, elegant, and soaked in charm. 

I took a quick shower, changed into a white linen maxi dress, but with a midi decolletage, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail before heading out with Matteo to the library for the evening's event.

I didn't expect so many people.

The square in front of the library was already full, readers clutching books, chatting in rapid Italian, and craning their necks toward the entrance. Inside, the air buzzed with excitement. I signed what felt like hundreds of copies. Listened to questions. Posed for photos. People asked about the endings, about the pain in the characters, about whether I ever wrote from my own life.  
Funny how so many readers believe everything we, authors, tend to write has it’s roots from our own experience. 
But fortunately it isn’t always the case. 
Thank God for that!

Time blurred. I barely made it to the bathroom once and hadn't even checked my phone.  
By the time the last reader left, I felt breathless, my hand sore but my heart full.

Francesca, the bookstore owner, insisted on taking me to dinner. "You can't come to Rome and not see the skyline at night" she said with a wink. We went to a rooftop restaurant with white tablecloths and flickering candles, the Pantheon glowing in the distance. The wine was crisp and far too easy to drink.

I said yes to a second glass. Then a third. Somewhere between Francesca's story about hosting Margaret Atwood and a waiter spilling balsamic vinegar, I realized my mind was a little intoxicated with alchool.  
That was a feeling I kind of forgot. 

The night air wrapped around me as I walked back to the hotel, heels clicking against stone.  
The city was alive with music and laughter, golden lights illuminating every corner. It felt like something out of a movie. I passed a street violinist playing a soft version of the Italian national Anthem, and I smiled at the romance of it all.
When I reached my room, I pulled off my sandals and dropped my bag on the bed, reaching for my phone.

A dozen notifications. Two missed calls from Sofia. A flood of texts. One of them being from Oscar.

Oscar:  
"Good luck today. Let me know how it goes. I'll be thinking about you."

An hour later.

Oscar:
"You ghosted me. That's mean."

Another one, more recent:

Oscar:  
"I just watched an interview clip of you signing books in Rome and now I feel completely envious of those people. Hope it was good.
P.S: that dress of yours..."

I grinned, my cheeks flushed from the wine and the rush of it all. But before answering, I tapped on the call button and pressed the phone to my ear.

"Monkey?" I asked softly when the line picked up.  
"MUM!" Liam's voice was loud and clear and made my entire chest ache. "I beat Grandpa at Uno. Twice!"
"You didn't!" I laughed, curling up on the bed, the lamp casting a warm light over the ceiling. "That's a serious accomplishment."
"Yeah. I think he let me win though." A pause. "Did you land okay? Did you talk about your books? Did they like them?" So many question from such a little guy acting like a grown-up.
"I did. It was amazing. So many people came. I missed you so much, baby."

"I missed you too. Grandpa and I are making pancakes tomorrow. And, oh! I wore the McLaren cap today."
I bit my lip, my heart melting. "You did?"

"Yeah. Everyone said it looked super cool. And I told them my mum got it at a real Formula 1 race." I smiled. "You're the coolest kid alive."

"Grandma says I should let you sleep now. You need energy for more books. She's right." 
I laughed. "She usually is. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay. Love you, Mum."

"Love you more."

When I hung up, I stayed curled on the bed for a moment, holding the phone to my chest. There was a strange blend of emotions stirring inside me...pride, joy, longing, a deep rooted sense of who I was and what mattered.

Another notification lit up.

Oscar:  
"Please tell me if you survive the Italian mob or should I come rescue you?"

I texted back quickly.

Me: 
"Barely. But they are my new addiction."

His reply came instantly.

Oscar:   
"Ouch. Replaced by a crowd of espresso-drunk book lovers?"

Me:
"They smell like Versace and ask me to sign their chests. You've got competition."

There was a pause. Then:

Oscar:  
"Fine. I'll start wearing cologne and bring a marker to Monza. Chest included."

I laughed out loud, shaking my head.

Me:
"You're crazy."

Oscar:
"And yet... you miss me."

And damn it...he was right.

I chuckled and rolled onto my back. I could still hear the street violinist from the window.
Maybe it was Rome, maybe it was the wine, or simply maybe it was the way Oscar was making me feel...
I don't know...but I was clearly stepping on a ground which I never thought I'd step again.

————-

Friday in Rome felt like déjà vu, but not in a bad way.
Another beautiful library, this one older, with creaking wooden floors and windows that opened to a garden filled with orange trees. People were already waiting when I arrived. Some familiar faces from the day before, others entirely new.
Italian readers who had fallen in love with my books long before I ever set foot in their country.

It was heartwarming.  
Exhausting, but heartwarming.

I signed copy after copy, smiled for endless photos, and answered variations of the same five questions. I'd grown used to dodging anything too personal, steering every answer back toward the characters and plotlines, pretending I wasn't living a secret little subplot of my own.

From time to time, I checked my phone, always discreetly, always with a flutter of something in my stomach.  
Oscar had a solid practice session. I watched short clips of him weaving through corners like it was art. 

Every now and then, I'd get a notification from the F1 app. McLaren was doing well. He was doing well. 

The more I saw, the more surreal it all felt.

This thing between us... whatever it was, it was growing legs. And I was trying not to trip over them.

Chapter Text

On Saturday morning, I flew to Milan. The city was hot and loud and stylish in that effortless Italian way. Nothing was planned for the afternoon, so I wandered the streets with sunglasses and a notebook tucked into my bag, pretending I was just a tourist and not a woman who had too many interviews coming up in the next three months.

Since I was in one of the cities of fashion, I did some shopping too. A few extra dresses never hurt.   
I found a small gelateria tucked away from the crowds and sat on a bench with the best chocolate vanilla gelato I'd ever tasted in my life.

I sent a selfie to Sofia, smiling with gelato in one hand and the Duomo behind me.

"This is happiness. I'm moving here and writing romance novels about gelato."

Her reply came a few minutes later from halfway across the globe:
Photo of her and Adam lounging in a hammock over turquoise waters.

"I raise your gelato with THIS. We are in heaven. Bora Bora suits us, don't you think?"

I smiled with all my heart. I'm beyond happy for them.

By 16:00, I was back at the hotel, curled up on the bed, laptop open, watching qualifying.

McLaren was flying.

Lando took pole. Oscar was right behind him on P2. I felt a wave of pride swell inside my chest. Not mine to feel, not officially. But I felt it anyway. He looked completely in control.  
Focused, fast, flawless. And when they both got out of the car, their helmets tucked under their arms, I could tell Oscar was trying to act calm. But I'd seen that little twitch of his lips before.

After an hour a new notification popped up on my phone.

Oscar sent a video.

I pressed play and nearly dropped the phone.

There he was, in nothing but shorts, neck-deep in an ice barrel, wet hair plastered to his forehead, surrounded by three rubber floating toys bobbing on the surface.

"We got Skippy and... Mama Skippy," he said, pointing at one of them who had attached a little baby. "We got...Ice Cube—is obviously the MVP. And uhhh...I don't know, I'll let everyone decide who that is" 

He gave the camera a smirk. That dangerous, melting kind of smirk.

I texted back:

Me:  
"Terrible at picking names. Also, Skippy's family looks like they've seen things. Because that video should be rated 18+."

Oscar:
"Too bad, because it's going on my social media accounts."

Me:  
"Warn people. I wasn't ready."

A moment later:

Oscar:
"Will you come tomorrow?"

I blinked. My heart did that annoying flutter thing again.

Me:  
"To the race?" 

I asked rhetorically.

Oscar:
"Or tonight. Either works. I'm just thinking it's been a full five days since we've been in the same room. I don't like that math."

I smiled. Bit my lip. Checked my schedule.

Me:
"What time's the race tomorrow?"

Oscar:
"15:00. I know you've got that Milan signing..."

Me:
"It starts at 10:00. Shouldn't take too long, but..."

Oscar:
"But you don't want to rush it."

Me:  
"Exactly. And our hotels aren't even close. Yours is practically inside the circuit. Mine is next to the bookstore."

There was a short pause, then another ping.

Oscar:  
"Fine. I'll just have to fantasize about you showing up mid-race with your hair all perfect and a McLaren shirt tied above your waist like a groupie."

I snorted.

Me:
"You're delusional."

Oscar:
"A man can dream."

I didn't answer right away. Just stared at my screen, cheeks warm, stomach fluttering in that dangerous, intoxicating way.

But I couldn't help myself. Still sitting on the edge of my hotel bed, Milan glittering outside the window, I angled my phone just right, hair a little tousled, lips still tinted with pink lipstick, my dress slipping slightly off one shoulder. I snapped the photo and hit send.

Me (photo + text):  
"Since you're so confident... here's a reward. But don't let it go to your head, Piastri."

The moment that photo was send I felt a little ridiculous.  
He didn't reply immediately, which made my heart do this ridiculous, teenager like flutter, waiting…   
But because I was unsettled, I set the phone aside and reached for my laptop.

I typed: Milan to Autodromo Nazionale Monza.

A few lines popped up about the Grand Prix, and then I found the train route. Direct. Around 15 minutes. Easy enough... unless race-day chaos caused delays, which, of course, it would.

New notification. I grabbed my phone quickly

Oscar:  
"You're playing a dangerous game, Olivia."

Me:
"Am I?"

Oscar:
"Very. Because now I'm actually considering driving to your hotel."

Me:
"In your ice barrel? Don't forget your rubber duckies."

He sent back a photo of the three little water toys lined up at the edge of the barrel, captioned:

Oscar:
"Skippy and Mama Skippy, Ice Cube and the other one, are judging you."

I couldn't stop laughing.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was exactly the kind of recklessness I needed.

Later, I went for a dinner on my own and then for a leisure walk around the center. When I got back to the hotel, I set my alarm and, before I could change my mind, hung the new dress on the closet door. I'd bought it that afternoon from a boutique. Pale red silk, midi-length, halterneck, with a triangle neckline and a dangerously low scooped back. 

It was bold.  A statement. The kind of dress you don't just wear.

In the morning the city was just waking when I stepped into the bookstore in Milan, dress hugging my figure in all the right places. I'd paired it with sandals that had just enough heel and a thin gold bracelet. My hair was swept into a soft bun, curls escaping around my face and some thin golden framed sunglasses. 

Dangerous or not, I felt good. And when I saw myself in the mirror, I actually smiled.

I arrived at 10 sharp. Even though I knew I was pressed for time, I didn't rush anything.  
Nor giving the impression that I didn't want to be there, because that wasn't true.  
Every reader who came deserved attention, and I gave them all of me. Smiles, answers, signatures. My voice was already slightly hoarse from all the talking I'd done this week, but again,  I didn't care.

Time ticked fast.

At 13:45, with an apologetic but determined nod to the organizer, I slipped out the back, clutching my bag and straight to the station. 

I made it to the station with five minutes to spare. The 14:15 train was already boarding. I found a seat near the window, heart racing, not just from the sprint but from the anticipation.  
The dress, the decision, the moment I'll see Oscar again.

When we pulled into Monza thirty minutes later, because of course, as I anticipated the train had a delay, it was mayhem.  
The closer we got to the track, the louder the crowd became.
In 15 minutes the race was about to start. And if I was totally impressed by the orange army, I have to admin, the passionate Tifosi were putting on a show I've never seen before. Waving those big Ferrari flags like their lives depended on it.

When I entered the paddock I heard the revs coming up and I saw on the screen when the cars took off.  

In secret, fingers crossed and praying for Oscar to have a good race.

Chapter Text

OSCAR

I leaned against the fence at the starting grid next to my McLaren car, fireproofs sticking slightly to my back, sweat clinging to every inch of me despite the pre-race cool down.

I was trying not to overthink it, but that never worked.
Was she still in Milan? Had her signing run late? Or was she deliberately avoiding the chaos of another Grand Prix?  
My fingers twitched, wanting to check my phone, but I couldn't.
Not now.

"Oscar" Tom said, slapping a clipboard in front of me with the data. "Strategy brief. Wake up, mate."

"Yeah, sorry" I muttered, snapping into gear. I rubbed the back of my neck and glanced quickly and discretly toward the balcony of the McLaren hospitality.

Somewhere out there... maybe she was already watching.

The race itself had its usual Monza chaos.
Turn 1 is always a gamble.

But at the second chicane, I performed an unexpected overtake on Lando, quite bold if I may add, forcing him to break and allowing Charles to overtake him, moving Lando down to third from P1 where he began. The tire degradation wasn't as bad as we feared, mediums holding up longer than simulations predicted.

Leclerc stopped early to run the hard tyres, but as we already know about their strategies, we thought it was a mistake.

It wasn't.

He ended up running the tyres to the end, while myself and Lando pitted two times. At lap 45 I overtook Carlos for P2 and I kept that position till the end.
The Ferrari fans were relentless with their cheers for Leclerc, but I blocked them out. 

We both pushed, trading fastest, but I couldn't overtake Charles. In the end he got the win in Monza, causing the Tifosi to go wild.
As for our team, it was still a good race after all. Not exactly what we hoped for, but good points all together.
McLaren P2-P3. And Lando a bit upset for that. 

After the champagne and national anthems, Lando and I walked off the podium drenched from the champagne fight.  
I had to towel off before going into the media pen and post-race conference.

But before I could even make it there, I got held up.
"Aussie legend!" a voice called out behind me.

I turned. It was ....Fuck who was he? Some sportsman whose name I couldn't remember now, but he had that signature grin and handshake ready. I couldn't just walk away now.  
We talked quickly, exchanging words about the race, mutual admiration and a few jokes about Aussie's performances in Europe lately.  
It was polite, fast.
Still...it delayed me by ten, maybe fifteen minutes.

When I finally made my way toward the hospitality area, I saw the crowd gathered around. Mainly people around the team, sponsors, families, all of them, celebrating.

And then I saw it.

Her.

Standing by the drinks table, laughing.

With none other than Lando.

My jaw clenched.
She looked... breathtaking. That pale red dress?  
It wasn't just stunning. It was dangerous. Silk clinging to her body in a way that made me feel unhinged for a split second.  
Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at something Lando just said.

He had one hand on his hip, gesturing animatedly, typical flirty grin plastered on his face.  
He was charming. Easygoing.  
Everyone liked Lando.... Everyone is drawn by Lando's presence.

I couldn't hear him. Didn't need to. I knew that look on his face.

He liked her.

And she was smiling at him.

I inhaled through my nose, tried to keep it cool.
Lando spotted me first and smiled at me in a 'dude, look what I just catch' kinda way.

Olivia turned too, her expression softening only for a second.  
Controlled. Almost indifferent.

I walked toward them, nodding at Lando, trying not to look at her too long. Or too obviously.

"Oscar" he called "I was just talking to Olivia here" Lando said with that signature smirk of his. "We bumped into each other again. Small world, huh?"
Mate, are you for real? You didn't just bumped into each other...she came to a race, and not for you. Yet, I kept my thoughts to myself.
I simply glanced at her. "Yeah. Seems like it."
She smiled polite and measured. Like we were strangers meeting for the first time.

Lando clapped me on the back. "I'm Lando's team mate, Oscar" I extended my hand. "Hello Oscar, I'm Olivia."

Fuck.me.now.

"Anyhow..." Lando stepped in "I was just talking with Olivia and even though we're in Monza, and she's obviously a spy from Ferrari" he said, throwing her a look. "Don't think I forgot."
Olivia arched an eyebrow. "You have a scary memory."
What is he talking about? I was feeling like the third wheel between them and that was pissing me off.
"I have priorities" he shot back, grinning. "But still, she came again to our hospitality today. We're better than them, aren't we?"

Olivia didn't say a word just shook her head, but she did glanced at me sideways, just for a second. My chest tightened. Lando, oblivious, kept on. "We're having a team party tonight. In Milan. Andrea's birthday, remember?" He said toward me.  
Of course I knew about the party but I already said to Andrea, our Team Principal, I couldn't go. My plan was to spend the day just with her...

"You should come too" Lando kept on talking with her "I will not accept another no, not after the refuse in Zandvoort."  
"She refused you?" I asked, sounding surprised. Because I really was. When the fuck did they even talk so much?  
My gaze slid to her again. She hadn't answered yet.  
But I was boiling inside.

Pretending I didn't know her was one thing. Watching Lando flirt with her again, invite her to another party, and her maybe considering going?  
Lando laughed. "Cold-blooded. Said no like it was a business meeting. I'm wounded."
Olivia smiled, totally innocent. "You really don't get refused that often, do you?" She said quite flirtous if you ask me.

"What can I say" Lando said. "I'm cute and charming. It's hard to say no to my face."
I wanted to say something. Anything. Pull her away. Tell Lando to back off. But we were in public, surrounded by cameras, engineers, and too many eyes. Instead, I kept it together.
"Guess we'll see you there" I said, holding her gaze.

Lando's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He glanced down, then up again. "Some mates, gotta take this. Don't disappear, Olivia."
With a wink that made my jaw twitch. He vanished into the crowd.

Finally.

I took a breath, slow and quiet, keeping my expression neutral. Olivia shifted slightly, but the quiet between us wasn't soft. It was loud, electric, and sharp at the edges.
Still, my voice dropped. "You two seemed to hit it off" I said, too cool, too sharp.
She scoffed, her whole body tensing. "Seriously, Oscar? That's what you're starting with?"

"What? I'm pointing out what I saw...and I got to be the spectator of you and him...but glad to see that you made it to the race, even if it was straight into Lando's charm."
She stepped closer, her voice rising just enough to make my chest tighten. "Don't you dare make this about me. I came here in a rush, after hours of talking, signing, and running through a crowd like a lunatic. I didn't come to flirt. I came because and for you."

I crossed my arms. "He doesn't know anything about you, and yet you're laughing like he's your favorite book character and he come to life."

"I wasn't aware I needed your approval on who I'm allowed to smile or laugh at." she fired back instantly.
"You don't" I snapped. "But maybe don't act like this is something when the second I'm not around, you're-"
She cut me off, stepping closer, voice rising just enough to make my skin burn.

"Come on, finish that sentence, Oscar."

The sharpness in her tone stopped me and I stayed quiet, swallowing hard.

She wasn't done.

"I've crossed every boundary I set for myself" she said, breathless. "The age difference. The fame. The fucking reality of falling into something with a man whose life is followed by cameras and hashtags."
I couldn't look away. She was incandescent...angry, stunning, and absolutely right.  
The air between us was molten and my pulse loud in my ears.

Few people came next to us, talking between them and we both smiled politely, like nothing totally crazy was happening with us. When they disappeared she laughed bitterely and continued.
"You don't get to throw that back in my face just because your teammate cracked a few jokes and your ego got bruised."

I exhaled. "I didn't mean-"

"You did. Or at least part of you did."

We stared at each other, tension buzzing in every breath.

In the distance, Lando's laugh echoed, carefree, making me angrier by the second.
Olivia's eyes locked on mine one last time, hard, disappointed, and then she turned on her heel.

No dramatic exit. No final words. Just the quiet burn of a woman deciding she'd had enough.

Shit.

I took a step after her, guilt already gnawing at the pit of my stomach, but before I could even got the change something-

"Olivia!" Lando's voice cut across the air "This time I'll need your last name to put it on the guest list."
I stood there, frozen, watching this play out like I was invisible.

Olivia raised an eyebrow. And for a second, I thought she might ignore him. Or giving him a fake name. I was pretty sure she won't come to that goddamn party, not after what just happened. But she didn't.

"De Vos" she said simply. "Olivia De Vos."

"Perfect" Lando grinned, typing it into his phone. "Got it. Finally."

She gave him the smallest smile, almost tired. Then, just before walking off, she glanced at me again.
Brief. Sharp.

Then she was gone.

And I was standing in the middle of the hospitality, boiling with everything I couldn't say out loud.
"Oscar, let's move!" my PR shouted from across the room, clipboard in hand. "Conference starts in five."

I didn't answer.

My hand was already in my pocket, fingers wrapped around my phone like a lifeline.
I typed quickly.

Me:
I was out of line. I know that. Can we please talk? Alone? Just us two."

I stared at the screen.

Nothing.

Not even the dots typing back.

Fuck. Fuck fuuuck!

"Now, Oscar" another shout from him. "You're gonna be late."

I slid my phone back into my pocket, jaw tight.
She said she crossed lines to be here. Broke her own rules.
And I just pushed her away.

Great fucking job, Oscar.

Chapter Text

I sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the rows of flashing cameras and reporters with the flood of questions.

I didn't want to be here.

Hell, I wasn't even here. My mind was still in the McLaren hospitality, stuck on the image of Olivia's face right before she turned and walked away. That was a look I never saw on her face.
Shining with something that had nothing to do with the Monza sun and everything to do with me being a complete fucking idiot.

"Oscar, great result for the team but probably not the position you've wanted." one of the journalists said. "But it's another double podium. How are you feeling about the performance today?"

"Good" I muttered.
A beat of silence.  
"Anything in particular that stood out for you?"
I shrugged. "The car felt decent and I managed to held my position."

Beside me, Lando and Charles side-eyed me for a second. Then, Lando grabbed the mic to answer the next question which was adressed to him, like the press darling he was. Joking about the strategy that didn't kinda work for him.  
Something about the tires, and something about Monza magic.

I sat there like a statue. Just picking up few words from the whole sentences.

More questions came. I gave them the bare minimum. Monosyllabic replies.  
Nothing to dissect.  
Nothing to give away how absolutely fucking miserable I was.
Because I blew it.
Because I let jealousy and ego cloud my mouth and the second I opened it, I threw knives instead of sense.

Eventually and mercifully, it ended.

I didn't stick around.
The second we were excused, I jumped off and stormed out of the room, ignoring the swarm of PR handlers and journalists trying to get last-minute opinions.  
My phone was already in my hand before I cleared the hallway.

Still no reply.

No new messages.

Nothing.
Just the last thing I sent her.

I ran a hand through my hair, dragging it down my face as I turned the corner toward the driver's area.

"Oscar!"
I turned, biting back a groan.
Lando was jogging after me, half out of his race suit, sweat still glistening on his neck. He caught up fast.

"What's going on with you, man?" he asked, keeping pace beside me. "You barely spoke in there."
"Just tired" I muttered, eyes ahead.

"Bullshit" he said. "You always give polite and nice answears. Did something happen?"
I shook my head and pushed the door open to the driver's lounge. "It's nothing."

Lando stopped at the threshold, hands on his hips, clearly unconvinced. "Alright, moody. See you at Andrea's, yeah?"
I didn't reply, just nodded vaguely and let the door fall shut behind me.

I peeled off the race suit and threw it in the corner of my driver's room. Then, dressed up quickly in my casual clothes. I walked straight to my car and then to the hotel. No other delaying, not even stopping to some fans who were shouting my name.

Back in my hotel room, I was pacing barefoot on the cold tile floor, like that could help my brain settle.

It didn't.
All I could hear was her voice.

"I crossed every line for you."
"I came because and for of you."

And I ruined it. I should've pulled her aside. I should've said I was glad she was there. I should've kissed her like I wanted to, instead of acting like a prick.

But no.

I let my pride speak louder than my heart and now she was...        

Where was she?
I paused at the window, heart pounding.
I didn't even know where she was staying. Milan was massive.

She could be anywhere. And she was probably blocking me right now or throwing her phone across some fancy hotel suite, cursing my name in those multiple languages she can speak.
I checked my messages again. Still nothing.

I called her and then another text: 

Me:  
Olivia, please, let's talk. I want to fix this.

I wanted to fix it. Do something.  
But what?
Should I go to Andrea's party?

The idea felt ridiculous. A team principal's birthday wasn't exactly the romantic backdrop for mending the biggest fuck-up I'd made since this thing with Olivia began.
And yet...There was a slight chance she might be there.

If Lando had written her name down, if she hadn't changed her mind, if she wasn't halfway back to....I paused thinking about the countries she said her booktour will be... maybe.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Eyes dark with frustration, jaw clenched.
I have to go. If she was there and I didn't show up, I'd never forgive myself.
Even if I didn't deserve her attention right now, I wasn't about to let this end like that.
Not because I let my jealousy speak for me.

I stared at my suitcase for another full minute before I finally gave in.
Finally, pulling out a pair of dark casual trousers and a crisp white shirt. Safe, simple, like myself. I didn't have the energy to think about style tonight, not that I had one.

The uber took me straight to the location Andrea picked. 

It was private rooftop bar tucked in the heart of Milan. The place was buzzing. Mellow lights. Laughter echoing between champagne flutes. A whole chunk of the McLaren crew already three drinks deep, celebrating another double podium and Stella's birthday like we just won the whole championship.

I nodded to a few familiar faces as I stepped inside. Smiled briefly at one of the engineers.  A polite wave to the PR manager, who was already taking pictures of me for the McLaren social accounts.
But I wasn't here for small talk. Certainly not for posing at photos.

I walked straight to the bar.

"Whiskey" I said.
The bartender blinked at me. "Neat?"
"Strong."

The glass slid into my hand a moment later. I took a sip and let it burn, slow and sharp, right down my throat. Just enough to dull the pressure still building in my chest.
My eyes scanned the crowd.  
Looking for brown hair and a flash of blue eyes.

Even Lando's curls would have helped...because he would have know where she is, or worse, he would have been with her already…

Neither of them were there.

Fuck.

I turned back to the bar, clenching the glass in my hand as if it could somehow distract me from the thousand thoughts spinning in my head.
A loud voice boomed behind me.

"There he is! My Aussie assassin!"
I barely had time to brace before Zak Brown's arms came around me in a bear hug that almost cracked my ribs.
"Jesus...Zak..." I coughed.
He finally let go, eyes shining, face already flushed with wine. "You were bloody brilliant today. Both of you. But you...hell, Oscar, I knew we struck gold with you. We're lucky to have you. Very fucking lucky."

I gave a small smile. "Thanks, Zak. Means a lot."

He patted my shoulder with all the subtlety of a freight train and disappeared into the crowd, humming some Bruce Springsteen song.
I turned back to the bar, downed the rest of my whiskey, and opened my phone.

Please Olivia, talk to me.
I whispered more to myself and without caring of how desperate it sounded anymore.

And then...

I saw her.
Just walking in.
Like something that came straight out of my best dream ever.

Her dress was a deep, light blue...strapless, tight on her chest and waist, hugging every curve, but loose from the waist down.
Classy but also sexy.
Hair down on her back.
Every part of me went still. Except my pulse, which shot straight through the roof.

She hadn't seen me yet.

But Lando, out of nowhere, apperead too. And he saw her too.

The fucker moved fast, crossing the floor like a man on a mission. I saw it unfold in slow motion: the way she smiled politely, the way he grinned wider.

He took her hand and kissed it. 
Unbeliveble…

My jaw tensed. I didn't move. Couldn't. I stood rooted to the floor, fingers tightening around the empty glass to the point it could easily crack in my hands, as I watched them exchange words. She said something. He laughed.
My blood boiled quietly in my veins.
By this point, I didn't know if I wanted to strangle Lando, or myself.

I should've been the one greeting her. I should've been the one kissing her hand. I should've been the one making her laugh.

And now, I was standing on the edge of the party, watching the woman I couldn't get out of my head become the center of someone else's attention.

And it is killing me.

Chapter Text

OLIVIA 

"Olivia, please, let's talk. I want to fix this."

I had. He didn't listen.
And now he wanted to fix it. Because everything is so easy for men to fix...I tossed the phone aside. He'd have to do better than that.

I didn't owe him anything.
Not after the way he spoke to me

Maybe I was foolish to even care. But it was hard not to when the man who had kissed me like I was his last breath, just turned around and acted like he was in highschool and some random dude made a compliment to his girlfriend.

I'm too old for this....

And I knew I shouldn't care. But I did.

With a sigh, I did what every emotionally compromised woman does: I called my best friend.
It was 6 a.m. in Bora Bora, but I didn't care.

"Liv?" Sofia croaked, voice thick with sleep and paradise. "If you're not bleeding or getting married, I swear..."  
"Sorry, I know it's early, but...uhm...I really needed to talk to you."
Silence. Then, the rustle of sheets and a dramatic groan. "Tell me."

I told her everything, from the hospitality tension, Lando's flirt to the storm in his eyes and his bitter little jabs.
She gasped in all the right places, cursed his name at least twice, and finally said, "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Debate between showing up to that party or staying here and binge watching depressing films while eating overpriced room service." I said quietly.  "Wrong. You're going to put on the most devastating dress in your suitcase, show up, and look like a woman no man deserves unless he fights for her. Then, you're going to ignore him. Completely. Until he crawls."

"Sof..."

"Nope. He snapped at you after you showed up for him. Let him stew in it. Go, look gorgeous, and let him hate himself a little. It'll be healthy for his character development."
I laughed despite myself. "You are crazy."

Now here I was, standing in front of the hotel mirror in a strapless midi light blue dress, looking like I had something to prove.  
To myself, to the world... maybe even to him.
Or especially to him?

Oscar's words from the hospitality still echoed in my head. Sharp tone, cold, delivering accusations I didn't deserve.  
All because I smiled at Lando and had the audacity to be polite.

I inhaled deeply and left the room.

The rooftop venue was buzzing, packed with McLaren staff, sponsors, team members, and way too many photographers.  
But the moment I stepped in, everything slowed just a beat.

And then, of course, Lando was the first to see me.

"Well, well, if it isn't the most gorgeous Ferrari traitor I've ever met" he grinned, walking up to me with his boyish charm.  
He kissed my hand like some charming devil straight out of a vintage movie. I smiled. Tight, polite, aware of the eyes on us.  
Not aware of one particular pair of eyes because he wasn't in sight.  
Maybe...he didn't come?

"You clean up suspiciously well" he teased.  
"You're not that bad yourself either." I said back.  
He chuckled  "And now that I know your last name, I had to Google you. You're kind of a big deal. Books, deep thoughts... I feel very intellectually inferior right now."

"I'll try to speak slowly for you" I said with a smile, but my eyes flicked past him.

There he was. Oscar.

Leaning against the far counter at the bar, his posture rigid, jaw clenched. The second our eyes met, he turned and walked away. My chest tightened, but I swallowed the feeling before it surfaced.

If that's how he wanted to play this, fine.

"You didn't tell me you were a writer." Lando kept on, unaware of my inner struggles.
"You never asked" I said, sipping my drink. "You were too busy flirting." Lando laughed "Fair enough."

"Come on" he said, offering his arm. "Let's go sit. I want your take on which books I should pretend to have read."
I allowed myself a small laugh and followed him to a table of the rooftop, where the city's lights glittered like scattered gold.

We sat, we talked. I tried to stay present. But then I saw Oscar again. A drink in his hand. Hair tousled. His expression neutral but his posture relaxed. Smiling awkwardly.
He was talking to a girl...tall, stylish, clearly a model of some kind. His other hand rested casually on the rail.

I stared. I hated that I stared.

There was nothing overtly flirtatious about it. He wasn't touching the girl, wasn't grinning like Lando had been with me earlier. Or...probably all the times we talked.
But still...seeing Oscar like that, talking to someone else, when my entire body still remembered the tension between us at the hospitality... it stung.  
Way more than I wanted to admit.

God. Was this how he felt ?
Had that been a gut-punch for him too? When he saw me talking to Lando?

When I smiled, when I let myself laugh, even if it was just to mask the discomfort of standing between two drivers who lived in a world I barely understood? And to mask the fact that Oscar wasn't just...any other person.

"Be right back. Gotta say hi to a sponsor. I'll be back with some drinks. Don't run away." Lando said before leaving.  
Fuck. I was so deeply lost on my thoughts I almost forget about him, being next to me...

Lando left and I sat there, breathing through the jealousy that clawed up my throat.
Yep. I think I saw enough.  
This was already too ridiculos...
This is not me.  
And not for me.

It was beautiful while it lasted, now I'll go back at my own private and quiet life, leaving all this ....whatever it was, behind.

Chapter closed.

No, scratch that.

End of the book.

I got up, not even looking toward him and made my way through the crowd.

The hallway was barely lit, a narrow path between shadows and muffled music. The rooftop party had just kicked back to life. Bass pulsing through the floor, laughter spilling down the stairwell. I kept my eyes ahead, heels clicking on the tiled floor, making my way toward the lift.

I sighed, the sound lost under the bass thumping from the speakers.  
Maybe I had been too quick to roll my eyes at his jealousy earlier. Too quick to write it off as immature or possessive when in truth... maybe it had just hurt...

The same way this did now.

But even with that tiny sliver of understanding, it didn't excuse how he'd spoken to me.  
Not the sarcasm. Not the sharp, cold tone. Not the way he made me feel like a fool for showing up just to see him.

One second I was walking. The next, a strong grip wrapped around my arm, pulling me sideways into a doorway I hadn't noticed.

I didn't even see him coming.

"Oscar..." I started, startled, breath hitching.
The door shut behind him with a soft thud.

Darkness. Shelves of bottles. Cool air, and the faint scent of citrus and sweat.
It was a storage room packed with bottle of wines and liquors. Dim overhead light.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I needed you to look at me" he said. "Really look."

"You're aware that this is a dark space, I barely see you..." I countered. "You could've said something like a normal person."
His jaw flexed. "I'm not a normal person when it comes to you."

I crossed my arms. "That much was obvious earlier this day..."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
He closed the space between us in one slow, deliberate step.
His eyes locked on mine, voice soft but unshakable.

"I'm not used to this" he admitted. "Not the feelings. Not the losing control. And definitely not someone like you."
I blinked and furrowed my eyebrows.
"Someone like me?" I teased, even though my voice was barely steady. "Someone who makes me feel like I could lose everything just by saying the wrong thing. And I really didn't want to say…”

"What?" I crossed my arms. "Accuse me of things I didn't do, talking to me like I was there to fuck your team mate?"
I hissed, stepping back just enough so he could see the fury in my eyes. "I came because I wanted to see you. Because despite every reason not to, I care."
He exhaled, jaw clenching. "I saw you talking to him and all I could think about was how easy it would be for you to just... walk away. From this. From me."

"Do you think I'm that weak?" I asked, voice razor-sharp.

"No. I know. I was a dick." He let out a breath. "You didn't deserve it."

We were breathing the same air now. I could smell the faint citrus of his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"I..." I opened my mouth trying to find the right words "I'm sorry too..." his whole face softened "But this was a mistake." I kept on. "I thought we can somehow make this work...maybe have this...just between us for a while. But it's too hard. For both of us."

I turned on my heel, heart pounding, ready to leave the suffocating air of that storage room and his infuriating presence behind.
But his voice stopped me cold.

"So why did you come tonight, then?" he asked, low and rough. "To break things off with me? Is that what you really want, Olivia?"
I froze with my hand on the door handle, fingers trembling slightly.
I didn't turn around. "I don't know what I want anymore."

"That's bullshit."

He came closer...I felt the heat of him behind me before I even heard his breath. "No, it's not Oscar." I whispered. "I came to remind myself why I should walk away. Why this is impossible. You and me, we're..."

"...not impossible! " he said firmly.

I turned then, sharply, ready to argue, to scream, to cry....but the look in his eyes made the words stick in my throat.
"You didn't come here just to end it" he said, voice softer now, intense. "You came here hoping I'd give you a reason to stay."
My chest rose and fell rapidly. "And what if I did?"

He stepped forward. "Then I'm fucking giving you one."

Chapter Text

His hand was on my waist before I could answer. I didn't even have time to gasp, his lips crashed against mine like a damn breaking. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, and I arched into him without hesitation, matching his hunger with my own.

He spun us away from the door, my back hitting the shelves now, bottles rattling behind me, and still he didn't stop.

His tongue slid against mine, demanding, coaxing, destroying me from the inside out.

My hands tangled in the collar of his shirt, yanking him closer, needing more.  
All of him. 

He pressed into mine, one of his thighs sliding between my legs like he knew exactly what he was doing. My dress had no defense...it rolled up high on my hips as he pushed his knee higher, grinding right where I was already soaked for him.

I gasped into his mouth. "Oscar..."

He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down my neck, biting gently, then soothing the mark with his tongue. "Tell me you didn't think about this"he said against my skin. "Tell me you didn't ache for it. Tell me Olivia...You still want to leave?"

"I hate you" I breathed, fingers in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.

"No, you don't" he said, dragging his mouth over my collarbone. "You want me. Just as much as I want you."

The bottles were clinking around us like a warning. But I didn't care. Not when he was this close. Not when his kissing me like that...touching me like that.
My thoughts...gone. My sanity?
Long gone.

"I want you" I whispered, dizzy, needy. "I want all of you."

He groaned and dropped to his knees in front of me, his hands running up my thighs with a reverence that felt worshipful and wild all at once. My dress slipped higher as he looked up at me, eyes wide, hot breaths against my sensitive spot.

"Then let me have you" he said, voice rough and reverent. "Right here. Right now."

"Oscar...someone could come in."

"I don't give a damn" he cut me off, ripping off my underwear "Hey!" I protested. "I could have slide them down." 

"I'll buy you new ones" he said leaning in to kiss the inside of my thigh.

I wanted to argue with him some more, but the first swipe of his tongue stole the air from my lungs. I grabbed the shelf behind me to stay upright as he pulled me deeper into the darkness, lifting one of my legs over his shoulder. His mouth was relentless...slow, then fast, then teasing again until I was cursing and trembling and clawing at the air.

He held me open like I was his entire world and tasted me like he never have another chance. My moans echoed off the walls, but I couldn't stop them.  
And when he sucked hard, groaning into me as I came on his tongue, everything inside me shattered. 

He didn't move right away. Just kept kissing me softly, gently, almost tenderly now.
When he finally stood, his mouth was swollen and glistening, his eyes wild.

His mouth crashed back to mine as his hands dropped at the top of dress and pulled it down, exposing my breasts.
I could feel how hard he was when he started grinding into me with every inch of his body. How much he wanted me.
Fingers trembling with urgency as he was moving them around my nipples.  He cursed softly as he took in the sight of me...bare, already soaked, and still wrecked from his mouth.

"You're unreal" he muttered, kissing me.

I grabbed at his belt, desperate, fingers fumbling from how badly I wanted him. "Hurry up."
He smirked against my lips. "Bossy."
"Shut up and fuck me, Piastri."

His breath hitched as he shoved his trousers and boxers just low enough, freeing himself. I felt the hard, hot weight of him against my thigh, and my whole body clenched with anticipation. "Condom?" I asked softly, yet desperately.

"No. I'll be careful...trust me"

I nodded and then, he lifted me effortlessly, pushing me back into the shelving. Bottles clinked again, and I barely registered the noise before he was inside me in one perfect, devastating thrust.
I cried out, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound.

"Fuck" he groaned, his head falling into my chest.
Then he started thrusting. Deep, slow, hard. Each stroke hit exactly where I needed, every movement making the shelves rattle louder, my moans growing shameless and my mind wild.

"Is this what you want?" he rasped while he caught my cheeks between his thumb and index finger, holding my jaw into a grip. My mouth staying slightly open. "To bring me on the bring of maddness...to crawl for you?"

"Yes" I choked out, nails digging into his back.

His hands were everywhere...on my ass, my waist, sliding up my back to pull me closer. He moved like he couldn't get close enough, like the act of being inside me still wasn't enough.
The tension coiled tight again.

"Fuck, Oscar...I..." I gasped.

"Come...." he growled. "Let them hear you."

And I did.

My body shattered against him, pulsing around him as he kept thrusting, chasing his own release. He came seconds later with a rough, broken sound while pulling out probably in the last possible second.  Still not letting me go, still holding me so tight I thought we could melt into each other. 

We stayed like that for a moment, his forehead resting against mine, our breths labored breaths and the thump of my racing heart.

I closed my eyes for a second, grounding myself. My legs still trembled. My heart felt like it was about to beat out of my chest.

"Okay..." I finally whispered. "That was..."

"Yeah." Oscar's voice was rough. Still breathless. "It was."

Slowly, he set me down gently like I was made of glass. I straightened and pulled on my dress with shaking hands, leaning against the wall as he tied his belt.
We looked at each other.
Messy. Flushed. Breathless.
Still burning.

Oscar reached up, brushing a strand of hair from my face with maddening tenderness. "You destroy me."
My throat tightened. "You already destroyed me."

He smiled, then kissed me again. Soft this time. Almost reverent.

"Let's get out of here" he whispered against my lips. "Before I'll start fucking you in front of everyone."

I blinked. "Where should we go?"

"Anywhere you'll let me take you tonight."

We snuck out of the storage room like two teenagers who had just defiled the janitor's closet after prom.
Except I was thirty-five, a mother, and Oscar Piastri had just whispered don't go against my skin like he meant it with his whole soul.

The rooftop was in full swing by the time we stepped back into the hallway. Music louder, lights brighter, the party picking up speed.  
No one noticed us slipping out the side entrance into the warm Milanese night.

It was close to eleven, but the city wasn't sleeping. The streets were alive with movement. Locals still strolling with gelato, tourists laughing near fountains, the scent of fresh pizza and wine through the air like something sacred.

We didn't speak for the first few minutes. We just walked, side by side, brushing arms. His hand eventually found mine but we acted in a profesional kinda way. You could never know from where some people might show up.

"I feel like I should say something serious." Oscar finally muttered.

I looked over, lips curving. "Not yet." I replied.
He laughed under his breath.

We passed a tiny takeaway pizzeria tucked between two shuttered boutiques, still open. The red neon sign flickered as he pointed. "Hungry?"

"Starving" I admitted. "Apparently spontaneous sex burns a lot of calories."
Oscar choked on a laugh. "That's not going in the fitness program at McLaren, but... noted."

We grabbed two slices, mine with prosciutto and rucola, his with pepperoni, and sat down on a wooden bench beneath a tree. Tourists walking around the square, but in that little pocket of time, it felt like we were the only ones.
"You have some sauce on your chin" I said, pointing.

Oscar wiped the wrong side. I rolled my eyes and leaned in, swiping it off with my thumb, then licking it off my finger with a dramatic flourish.  
He stared at me. "Please, stop doing this in public."

"Why Oscar? You don't have any self control?" I said, biting into my pizza.

He shook his head. "No." 
Short, plain, on point answear.

We sat like that for a while. Talking. Laughing. Kissing between bites of greasy food. His knee brushing mine. My shoulder resting against his.  
I couldn't believe that a couple of hours we were arguing and throwing knives at each other.

It was passed midnight when we caught a cab to my hotel.
The moment the elevator doors closed, his mouth was on mine again, less frantic than earlier, but no less needy.

His hands were in my hair, my fingers gripping the collar of his shirt. We barely made it to my floor without tearing each other apart.
I don't remember fumbling with the keycard or kicking the door closed.
I just remember him...his voice low against my ear, his body pressing mine into the wall, and the way we unraveled all over again like we couldn't help it.
Because we couldn't.
The night wasn't over.

————

The next morning, I woke up tangled in white sheets, naked and the quietest kind of sunlight.   
Oscar was still asleep beside me. His hair was a mess, his breathing deep and even, and I couldn't help but smile as I traced tender kisses on his shoulder.
He looked younger in sleep. Softer.

"I could get used to this." he mumbled, eyes still closed.
"Maybe I am debating if I should kick you out."

He opened one eye, grinning. "After last night? That would be cruel."
I rolled onto my side. "So, what now?"

He blinked, then pushed himself up on one elbow. "You tell me. What's next on your glamorous book tour?" tracing a finger along the curves of my body, leaving goosebumps.

"France" I said. "Marseille on Tuesday. Paris on Friday."
He stretched, muscles flexing deliciously. "Perfect."

I arched a brow. "Perfect how?"

"I've got a free week before I need to be at McLaren HQ to prep for Baku. I'll come with you."
I blinked. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "Why not? We haven't done anything remotely normal together. A train ride, French bookstores, real coffee for you, some fine dinning... sounds nice."
I bit my lip. "It does."

"But" I added carefully, "we need to talk about how we... behave. In public."  
He raised an eyebrow. "You mean like no storage room incidents in France?"

"I mean, we've mostly kept this very private. No photos. No attention. You're... you, Oscar. And I have a life. A child. I want this to stay ours, not something the media gets to chew on." He nodded without hesitation. "So we act casual." while his hand dropped between my thighs, a smirk across his face when he felt how wet I was already.

"E...exactly." I sttuter.
"Polite" he said while rubbing me. 

"Reserved. Boring." I added with my eyes nearly closed

"With secret glances and elevator kisses when no one's watching." He leaned in, brushing his nose against mine. "Deal." capturing my lips

And just like that, we made a plan.
And another lazy morning tangled between sheets.

Chapter Text

The boarding area was crowded, buzzing with tired conversations, rolling suitcases, and the occasional sharp voice over the intercom announcing delays on other gates. Our flight was on time, gate A17, boarding in thirty minutes.

Oscar stood a few meters away, back against a tall column, hood up, cap pulled low. To most, he looked like another guy trying not to be noticed.  
To me... he looked like a damn secret.

I was seated across the hall with my legs crossed and a paperback open in my lap, pretending to read while watching him from behind oversized sunglasses. He wasn't looking at me, not directly, but every so often, I could feel his attention shift. Like a tug on a string between us.

My phone buzzed.

Oscar:  
You're really going to ignore me in an airport? Cold.

I glanced at him from behind my sunglasses. He hadn't moved, but I could see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Me:  
We said casual. Strangers at Gate A17. Like spies in a French noir.

Oscar:  
I've never wanted to ruin a casual plan more than I do right now.

I bit my bottom lip, cheeks warming. Goddamn him.
He stood then, stretching slightly, and began walking toward the café beside the gate. Not toward me. Not quite. He bought a bottle of water and returned to lean against the same column.

His fingers were moving again.

Oscar:  
Your legs look ridiculous in that skirt.

I raised an eyebrow.

Me:  
Ridiculous good or ridiculous tragic?

And it's a two piece outfit. It's classy.

Oscar:  
Unfair. You shouldn't be allowed to sit like that if we're pretending we're not sleeping together.

I almost choked on a laugh, quickly hiding it behind a fake cough.

I typed back.

Me:  
You know you could just sit next to me. We're two normal people, you know. Like passengers 21A and 21B.

Oscar:  
21C and 21D, actually. I checked us in this morning, remember? I even picked the side with the better wing view. That must be love.

I shook my head, smiling like an idiot, closing the thread of messages with Oscar and dialed Robert.

"Still alive?" I asked as soon as he answered.

"Barely" he groaned dramatically. "But your bookstore lives on. The signed copies flew off the shelves, and the new shipment from the publisher just arrived. Thank God, because I was ready to start selling your chair for the right amount. People are crazy for having your signed book. They are following your tour on social media."

I laughed quietly. "You're the best. Seriously. I owe you coffee. Or wine."

"Wine" he said instantly. "You're in France. Make it a good bottle."

"Deal." I lowered my voice. "How's everything otherwise?"

"Normal. Eva her usual self. Eating too much junk food, then blaiming she gained few pounds. Now she is on another diet. I bet 10 euros she'll drop it by 7 pm."

"Heeeei. I can hear you." Eva shouted somewhere in the back. "15 euro" I offered "and she'll make it till 9pm."
I laughed missing our usual banter.

"And how is the man, the legend, the mighty Oscar?" Robert asked. I cleared my voice "How sh-" but before I could finish my lie, he interupted me "Olivia, we've known each other for so so many years, it's just useless to lie to me."

I sighed.

"Okay, okay. He is fine. We are going together in France...but Robert, keep it to yourself. I mean it!"  I said barely above an whispear.

A pause.

Then some screming at the other end of the line. "I knew it!!" Robert said full of excitment. "God Olivia, i'm very happy for you. Truly. And relax, your secret is safe. As far as I know, you are still in a committed relationship with your espresso machine."

"Perfect."

I ended the call with a grateful sigh and glanced at my phone again.

No new messages from Oscar. My eyes flicked over to where Oscar stood near the café. A small group of fans had noticed him, two teenage boys and a girl clutching a phone. One of them approached hesitantly, and then the rest followed.

He smiled, tucked his water bottle under one arm, and nodded as they asked for selfies. He posed quickly, easily, signing s notebook one of them pulled from a bag.

His expression was polite but distant. Professional. Like a light he'd switched on for them.

I watched, an odd flutter in my chest.
God, he was infuriating. And irresistible.

Feeling my chest ache a little with a different kind of longing, I opened my contacts and called Liam.

He answered quickly. "Mama!"

My heart lifted. "Hey, sweetheart. How are you?"

"Just got back from Dads. We had pizza, but his pizza is not as good as yours, he added very seriously.

"Of course it's not" I said with a laugh. "We'll have a pizza night when I'm back."

"Can you bring me something from France? Like a beret?"

"A beret?"

"And a sword or another lightsaber."

"Liam..."

"A toy one!" he clarified quickly. "For fencing!"

I smiled. "I'll see what I can do, mon petit mousquetaire."

Over the speaker, our flight was called for boarding.  
"Got to go monkey. Take care. Mama misses you." 

"I miss you too. Bye"

I put my phone away slowly, the ache in my chest growing sharper this time. Being apart from Liam never got easier.

Oscar didn't look at me as we moved with the crowd. He was in front of me, not close enough to draw attention, not far enough to feel apart.
Our fingers never brushed. Our eyes didn't meet.

That's when two airline crew members approached him, clearly recognizing who he was. One of them said something, I couldn't hear exactly, but gesturing toward the gate with an apologetic smile and waving what looked like new boarding passes.

Oscar shook his head immediately. A small, polite refusal. He pointed toward the queue with a little shrug, keeping it casual.

He turned slowly and met my eyes from across the crowd, briefly. A flicker. His fingers subtly reached down to type on his phone.

Oscar:
Crazy to think I will change my ticket and not be close to you.

He didn't want an upgrade.
He wanted to sit with me.  
I swallowed, something warm pooling low in my chest.

Another text.

Oscar:  
You okay?

I smiled softly.

Me:  
Yeah. Just missing my little human.

Oscar:  
Understandable. I miss you when you leave the room for two minutes, so... seems fair.

Oscar slid into the seat beside me just as I buckled my belt. He said nothing at first, only glanced sideways, his arm brushing mine as he got settled. His hair was still a bit tousled from earlier, his jaw tight. But his lips twitched the moment he caught me watching him.

He leaned toward me "Do you always bite your lip when you're looking at me?" he whispered

I didn't respond imediately, just bit down harder, letting my smile grow.

"Do you always watch how people's lips move?"

He didn't look at me. Just rested his head against the seat and replied.  "Only when they're yours."

I shifted slightly, pretending to get comfortable. But my heart was doing somersaults.

The plane lifted off.

————-

Two hotel rooms, booked under different names. Different check-ins. Separate entrances when we could manage it. And just the right amount of polite distance in public, like we'd only recently met and hadn't figured each other out yet.

Which was ridiculous, of course.

He knew things about my body no one else had touched in years. And I knew the sound he made when he was falling apart under my hands.

But still...we acted. It was better, mostly for my own sanity.

Chapter Text

Of course it was mostly my idea.  
The pretending. The caution. 

And Oscar didn't push, didn't question. Just booked his own room and offered that small, understanding nod. But I saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes when I said I'd prefer he didn't come to the bookstore with me.

"It'll just create unnecessary chaos" I had told him earlier that morning, curling my hair with one hand and sipping coffee with the other. "You walking into a crowded room and it might result in someone fainting. Or worse, me getting swarmed by people trying to find out who I really am to you."

He had looked mildly amused. "We could say I'm a literature enthusiast."

"You've read two of my books” I teased.

"And Googled all your interviews” he added shamelessly.

Still. I insisted.

So while I stood in a sun-drenched bookstore full of French readers who asked thoughtful questions and held worn copies of my novel like fragile glass, Oscar went to the gym.
He sent me a selfie mid-rep, shirt damp with sweat, his usual smirk playing on his lips.

Oscar:  
Working on my brain cells so I can keep up with my favorite author.

I'd almost dropped my pen.

When I got back to the hotel, after many hours spent signing books and dodging questions about "love inspiration". Which was funny, because the love I usually have in my books, is mostly dark and twisted. 

Oscar was waiting for me in the room, dressed in faded jeans, sneakers, and a plain white shirt that somehow looked like it had been tailored to his frame.

"I made us a reservation" he said, standing as soon as he saw me. "It's nothing fancy. Thought we'd keep it simple."

I'd changed quickly, throwing on a light orange off-the-shoulder midi dress. The fabric skimmed over my waist, dipped along my collarbones, and clung in the kind of way that made me want to walk slower, just to feel it move.
He stared for a beat longer than he should've when I approached.

"That's... a color." he said, eyes moving down then back up. "If next time you'll be wearing my merch T-shirt, I think I'll marry you."
I rolled my eyes, but the heat crept up my chest. "You're such a smooth liar."

"I'm not lying." He grinned. "But I'm probably pushing my luck."

The restaurant wasn't crowded, exactly what we hoped for. Quiet chatter in French echoed off tiled walls. Dim lights. The scent of garlic and butter in the air. We were seated at a small table near the back, partially hidden behind a decorative screen and a fake olive tree.

Oscar reached for the wine list, handed it to me without comment, and when the server left, he leaned forward.

"So" he began. "Tell me something crazy you've done."
I smirked, sipping water. "Define crazy."

"Something spontaneous. Out of character. Weird. Stupid. Pick your poison."

I thought for a second. "I once drove to Amsterdam in the middle of the night with by best friend, just to see the sunrise on the canal. Didn't tell anyone. We were 18 and I had just got my driver's license. My parents grounded me for a month."

He blinked. "That's kinda poetic."

"And reckless."

He leaned back, folding his arms. "I jumped from a moving train in the UK, when I was at boarding school."
My eyes widened. "You what?"

"Long story. Wrong stop. Teenage ego."

We laughed, and then the question shifted.

"Craziest thing you've ever eaten?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Raw eel in Japan" he said. "Didn't chew."
I wrinkled my nose. "Sea urchin in Sicily. Worst decision of my life."
His smile was lazy. "Alright... sex in public?"

I nearly choked on my sip of wine. "Oscar."

"What?" He grinned. "You already know my answer. Storage room. Milan. With you." His eyes twinkled. "That was my first time."

I hesitated and couldn’t look at him.

"Wait…" he said. "That wasn't yours?"
I could feel the blood rushing up to my ears. "I…well. It's not like I've done it often."

"But you have." He leaned in. "And now I'm very curious."

"I was younger" I muttered. "It was stupid."

"You were curious” he said softly. "Like I was…with you. And horny as fuck."
I didn't meet his eyes. "Does that bother you?"
He shook his head. "Not even a little. I am well aware that you had a life before me. And it just challenges me to have plenty of other firsts to explore with you."
I let the words linger between us.
"You're ten years younger" I said slowly. "You'll get bored of me before we get through half of them."

"Don't bet on that."

I didn't reply. But his hand grazed mine over the table, and I didn't pull away.

We stepped out of the restaurant and wandered aimlessly, as if we didn't need to be anywhere. For once, that was true.

Oscar walked beside me in silence, close but not touching. His shoulder brushed mine occasionally, our steps slipping into a shared rhythm without trying.

Then, his hand brushed mine.

I looked up, just slightly, and he slipped his fingers between mine like it was instinct. No grand gesture, no lingering glance. Just warmth, steady and sure, and it made my pulse hiccup in my throat.

We didn't speak much at first. We didn't need to. We were enjoying our little moment. But then two women passed us, walking in the opposite direction. One of them slowed a little too obviously when she spotted Oscar. Her eyes flicked to our joined hands.

He noticed and I gently withdraw my hand, like nothing had happened. I didn't say anything, but something in my chest tightened. Not anger, not quite sadness. More like... reality. The kind of reality that comes with a man like him. A world like his.

A few minutes later, we passed a little square, where a street merchant stood with buckets of roses. Deep red and bright peach and soft pink.

Oscar stopped.

He pulled a few euros from his pocket and pointed to a bunch of light pink ones. As the old man wrapped them, Oscar took the flowers and began snapping the thorns off the stems with his bare fingers.

I just stared at him.
"You could've asked for the thorns to be removed" I said softly.
He shrugged. "Didn't want to wait."

He handed me the bouquet, now perfect and smooth.
And suddenly, I couldn't look away from him.

We kept walking, this time through a quieter street, a little out of the way. I held the roses like something fragile, like they might vanish if I squeezed too hard.
I don't know what made me say it. Maybe the roses. Or the way his fingers were still a little red from the thorns. Or the look in his eyes when no one was watching.

But I spoke.

"Do you ever think about... I don't know. The point of all this?"
He turned slightly. "Of what?"
"Life." I waved vaguely at the darkened streets, the glowing windows, the noise behind us. "Of racing. Of writing. Of trying so damn hard to make something out of ourselves."
Oscar didn't answer immediately. His pace slowed, and I matched it.
"Sometimes" he said finally. "More lately than before."

"Like... what if we're doing everything right but still missing the whole point?"

He looked over at me, eyes darker now, thoughtful. "And what do you think the point is?"

"I don't know.” I said honestly. "Connection, maybe. Doing something that matters. Or maybe just finding someone who makes it all feel less... absurd."
He stopped walking completely. I turned to face him.

There was a softness in his face I hadn't seen before. Not when he was teasing. Not even when he was touching me.
"I used to think racing was the whole point of my life." he said. "That nothing else mattered. Just going fast. Winning. Being the best."

"And now?"

His gaze dropped to my lips for half a second. "I still want those things, but…now I think maybe other important parts are those that happen in between ."

I didn't speak. I couldn't.

His fingers brushed mine again. This time, I didn't let go, even when another group passed us, even when someone looked too long.

By the time we reached the hotel, my skin felt too tight, my nerves too sharp. The roses were still in my hand, their scent clinging to my fingers, their softness at odds with the ache that had settled low in my belly.

We didn't speak in the elevator.

Oscar stood behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath at the nape of my neck. The low hum of the lift was the only sound between us, but the tension…God, the tension…wrapped around us like a wire pulled too tight.

When the doors slid open, I stepped out first, trying to breathe normally. I didn't make it two steps down the hallway before his hand closed around my wrist.
He turned me around, pressed me against the wall with one smooth movement, and his mouth was on mine.

I whimpered.

That's all I managed. A soft, desperate sound, before he kissed me like it was the last thing he'd ever do. Hot and punishing, full of hunger and something that felt dangerously close to need.
We stumbled down the hallway, half-laughing, half-moan, hands everywhere. 
My key card was nearly impossible to find, my body shaking as he dragged his fingers  down my hips.
The moment the door opened, he kicked it shut behind us and pressed me back against it.

"I've wanted you all night” he rasped.”No, sorry…I want you in every second, minute, hour of the day.”

My dress was already slipping off my shoulder, the fabric sliding down like it couldn't wait to be forgotten. His hands found my bare skin, gripping my thighs, lifting me off the floor until I wrapped my legs around him.

"You're not gentle anymore” I whispered against his mouth.

"Do you want me to be?” 
I shook my head frantically.

He smiled against my lips while carrying me to the bed and laid me down. He began hovering above me like a storm ready to break. His shirt came off in seconds. My dress followed. The cool air met my skin for only a moment before his mouth replaced it dragging along my collarbone, my breast, my stomach.

"You drive me insane” he murmured against my skin. "Every time you look at me like you know how much I'm fucking aching for you."

My breath hitched as he slid my panties down, his eyes locked on mine. His tongue was on me in the next second, slow at first, deliberate, torturous. He took his time, learning every reaction, every stuttered breath, every twitch of my hips.
And then he grinned against me. That wicked knowing grin.

"I could keep you like this for hours."

"Don't you dare" I gasped, tugging at his hair. "I need you inside me, now!”

He trailles his kisses up removed his underwear. When he pushed into me, I let out a low, broken moan. It felt like too much and not enough all at once. Like I could drown in him and want to.

We moved together in a rhythm that wasn't sweet, it was wild, desperate. Our hands tangled, our lips brushed between gasps and curses, his name on my lips like a chant. He held my hips in place as he moved harder, deeper, his control unraveling right along with mine. Instinctively, I closed my eyes.

"Look at me!" he demanded, voice low and rough.

I obeyed.

Then, I pushed him on his back sinking him onto the mattress with that hungry look still in his eyes, like he was giving me permission but daring me to do something reckless with it.

I climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, rolling them just enough to watch him tense. A smirk curled on my lips as I dragged my nails lightly down his chest, my hips circling slowly, letting him feel just how wet and needy I still was. His hands twitched at his sides, and I leaned down to whisper, "No touching."

He groaned frustrated "Olivia…"

I kissed my way down his neck, bit gently at his jaw, then rocked my hips forward again. Just enough friction to make him grit his teeth. My nails grazed his ribs as I sat up again, took him in my hand, and guided him right back inside me, inch by agonizing inch.

"Fuck…” he muttered, his eyes fluttering shut. “Oscar…look at me!” 

I started slow. Torturously slow. Watching his hands grip the sheets, his jaw tense, his throat work around the sounds he was trying not to make.

"You said you wanted to keep me like that for hours" I teased, rolling my hips just right. "Thought I'd return the favor."

"Olivia…" he growled, his voice almost a warning, but his hands didn't move.

"You can take it” I said sweetly, grinding harder now. "I know you can."

He bit down on his bottom lip, and God, the sight of him coming undone beneath me? That was a power trip I hadn't expected.

But then he snapped.

His hands shot up to my waist, pulling me down as he thrust up hard, deep, knocking the breath out of me. My teasing smile shattered into a moan.

"I warned you" he hissed. "You want control? Then take it. But don't think I'm just going to lie here and behave."

I didn't want him to behave. I wanted him feral.

So I rode him harder, faster, meeting his every thrust, fingers digging into his chest as the rhythm grew frantic. Every sound echoed off the hotel walls, my name from his mouth, his curses tangled in kisses, skin against skin in a symphony of sweat and need.  
He flipped us again, this time pinning my wrists above my head as he drove into me with brutal precision.

We broke together. Breathless, boneless, wrecked. It was loud and raw and messy, my legs shaking, his head buried in my neck, his breath against my collarbone.

For a long time, we didn't speak.

He stayed inside me, his body heavy and warm, his arms around me like he couldn't bear to let go. And neither could I.

Chapter Text

Paris was pretty much the same situation. Not even a glance when we checked in. Not when we passed security. Not while waiting at the gate. And definitely not when we boarded.
We flew in silence, the occasional ding of a message breaking the monotony. His name never flashed on my screen.

I hated how good we were at pretending.

But I hated more how necessary it was.

—————-

I was brushing a bit of powder onto my cheeks in front of the vanity when my phone lit up.

Unknown Number:  
You have no idea how difficult it was to find your phone number. I think I deserve a badge for being such a good detective.

It's Lando btw.

I blinked.

The sheer absurdity of it hit first. Then the growing suspicion that he'd probably asked around until someone caved.  
Robert? Eva?  
Well, he had my last name, and he seemed to be the kind of person who couldn't find peace until he get what he wants.

Before I could even form a reply, I heard Oscar coming out of the bathroom and instinctively locked my phone,  like I'd just been caught cheating on a test. He walked in looking devastatingly calm. Effortlessly hot. 

"You ready?" he asked, eyes trailing briefly over the green costume I had just zipped up.

"Almost."

He leaned against the wall, folding his arms, towel wrapped on his hips.  I tried by best not to look at him too much, and not only for the obvious reasons. "You look good." he said softly.

I hummed, grabbing my bag, heart still pounding from Lando's message. Oscar's presence made it worse, somehow. Guilt from a text I didn't ask for.

"Olivia?"

I looked up. He was watching me closely now.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah" I said too fast. "And what are your plans for today?" I asked. "I'll stay at the hotel, binge watching some shows. Waiting for you to come back..."

I went to give him a quick kiss, but he grabbed my waist and gave me a proper kiss.

—————-

The Paris bookstore was as charming as I remembered it. Honey colored wood shelves curving beneath vaulted ceilings, walls papered with letters from authors long gone, and candles flickering in corners as if Hemingway might stroll in with a glass of red at any moment.

Inside, I did what I always did: smiled, chatted, signed. Took photos. I let myself get lost in it, grateful for the routine, the rhythm.

It was near the end of the session, the air inside the fancy Parisian bookstore warm with chatter, flashes from cameras, the scent of coffee, old books, and overapplied perfume. My fingers hurt from signing, my jaw ached from smiling. But my heart.  
It was steady, but not for too long.

I was halfway through a page from Echoes Beneath, a scene about the female character denying her feelings when they threatened to swallow her whole, when a tall figure in the back raised a hand.

Simple black cap pulled low, black hoodie, a pair of blue jeans.

The crowd murmured. I knew that sound. A wave before the storm.

He cleared his throat. "Hi. This question's about your main character."

I froze.

That voice.

That fucking voice.

I blinked once, twice, forcing my eyes to adjust. I didn't want it to be him. I really didn't.

But there he was. Oscar.

Cool and calm and standing in the bookstore and not at the hotel, like he said.

I gripped the mic tighter. "Go ahead."

He gave a casual smile. "She does a lot of things that scare her, especially emotionally. But she keeps doing them anyway. Why?"

God. My stomach clenched. Was he talking about me? About us? Was this some veiled metaphor in front of an audience of a hundred people, most of whom were now stealing glances at him, then at me, like we were a matching puzzle no one had quite figured out yet?

I gave a vague answer, professional enough, eyes darting across the room like I was trying to locate an exit. I couldn't even remember what I said. Something about bravery and the blurred lines between fear and desire.
It barely mattered.
Because the moment was already spiraling.

People recognized him. The whispers turned into clicks. Phones rose like weapons of speculation.

I did everything I could to stay composed. Stayed glued to the floor behind the signing table, thanked a few people, smiled when I had to. I looked over only once, saw him standing with a small cluster of readers, politely letting them take selfies. And the ache in my chest was cold and sharp and furious.

I didn't go to him.
But he came to me.

A few minutes later, I felt his presence at my side. He slid a copy of Echoes Beneath in front of me and leaned in low.

The voice was low. Measured.

"Why is this feeling so familiar?" he said with a smirk across his face. While he intented to be funny or romantic or whatever was in his head, I was fuming inside. My pen scratched against the page harder than necessary.
He was still smiling. Like he didn't feel the tension radiating off me in sharp, brittle waves.

"What the fuck Oscar? Was this necessary?" I didn't look up. "People are taking pictures" I muttered, eyes still down. "You're going to blow this entire thing up."

"I'll leave," he said softly. "Right now. If that's what you want."

I didn't answer.
He didn't wait.

I watched from the corner of my eye as he turned and walked out.
My chest hurt. For too many reasons.

I stayed another hour, answering questions from those who weren't too distracted by the Oscar Piastri shaped ghost that had haunted the second half of my event. My mouth moved. My mind didn't. Not even mentioning my heart...

And when I finally returned to the hotel, tired and hollow, just as I was about to slide my keycard into the door of my room, my phone lit up.

Unknown number:  
Come on, I suffered enough when you left the party in Milan without saying a word...

I rolled my eyes and typed back quickly.

Me:   
I'm sure you've recovered beautifully without my presence.

I locked the phone without waiting for his reply. Because I had another problem now. The second I stepped into the room, I was hit by the scent of fresh flowers and something else... vanilla and sandalwood.

Candlelight glowed from nearly every surface. And flowers scattered around the room. Dozens of flowers. 
The doors to the terrace were wide open, soft drapes fluttering in the breeze. The whole suite shimmered like something out of a movie.

And Oscar. Standing in front of a table set for two.

"Dinner" he said simply. "Figured you'd be hungry after the dramatic chapter I added to your evening."

I exhaled a bitter laugh, still standing by the door.
God...you are testing me every fucking day with him...

"Oscar...what are doing to me..." I let out a long sigh. "This isn't a book club. You show up and the entire dynamic changes."
He stepped closer, lips twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I didn't come to ruin your event."
"Then why did you come?"
His gaze burned into mine.

"To be where you are."

I clenched my jaw. "I really thought you will respect my wish, and understand how complicated this is for me."

"Why are you so scared?" he asked keeping a calm tone of his voice.

I swallowed hard.

"We're not doing anything wrong, Olivia." His voice dropped lower, quieter. "You keep acting like we are. But we're just... two people. Who want to be around each other."
I looked at the candles. The wine. The man standing in front of me, trying.

And I felt my anger begin to melt, not vanish, but shift.

Not because he was right.

But because I didn't know if I was ready to be.

I walked past him, needing air.
Ironic, since we were on the terrace. The Paris sun slowly hiding. A city built on love, and here I was trying to rationalize love.

Oscar followed slowly. He didn't speak. Just leaned against the railing beside me, arms folded, eyes trained on the city like it held the answers.

"Oscar, honestly" I said, my voice low, steady, too even for how much I was unraveling inside. "What are your expectations from this... us?"
He turned his head, frowning. "Why can't you define it?"

"What?"

"You're a goddamn author" he snapped, half frustrated, half brokenhearted. "You spend your days putting feelings into words, page after page, but when it comes to this, to me, you go quiet."

"No...It's not-"

"I want a relationship with you." His voice cracked just slightly. "And I'm full in. All in. Don't look at me like I haven't thought this through."
I blinked, thrown off by how raw he sounded. "Jesus, you are so twenty-four years old."

His whole body tensed. "What is that supposed to mean?"  
I sighed and pushed off the railing. "I mean, how can this work? How do we even begin to make sense of it? Right now it's all rainbows and butterflies because I'm traveling too. But it's going to end eventually. I'll go back to Bruges. To my bookstore. To my son. While you... you'll still be hopping between circuits and cities. Living in Monaco. With fans tracking your flights and sponsors filling your schedule. How does the math add up?"

He didn't hesitate.

"You can travel with me. You can move in with me in Monaco."

"Oscar, be serious..." I scoffed.

"Or I'll come to Belgium. Move in. Leave Monaco. I don't care. I'll do it. Whatever it takes." He took a step closer. "I'm willing to make that sacrifice. Are you?"
I stared at him, stunned. "Are you serious right now?"
"Dead serious."

"I have a ten-year-old son. I'm not going to move him around like carry-on luggage just because his mom decided to date an F1 driver. A much younger one, by the way." His eyes darkened, jaw tightening. "Again with the age?"

"Because it matters."

He took another step. "Not to me."

"Oscar-"

"No." His voice rose, and for the first time, I heard it. Felt it.  
That gut-punched fury beneath his calm exterior. "I don't give a fucking shit about our ages, Olivia. You think I don't know how this looks? You think I haven't thought about all the ways it could go wrong?" He paused, his eyes burning. "But I'm not scared. Not like you."
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"I wake up and you're the first person I want to talk to. I walk into a room and I look for you. I leave a race and all I want is to know where you are. I've never felt this... this pull to someone before. Not like this." His voice lowered, trembling just slightly. "You look at me like I'm a boy playing pretend, but I swear to God, Olivia, I've never been more serious about anything in my life."

The tear slipped out before I could stop it.
So I turned around, facing the railing, letting the wind tangle my hair. Letting him think I was fine. That I was holding it together.

But I wasn't.

He came up behind me without a word, his arms wrapping slowly around my waist. His forehead pressed against my hair, his breath warm against my neck.

"We'll figure it out" he whispered. "One step at a time. No pressure. No headlines. I promise. Just... us. I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to. Just like earlier in the bookstore."
I closed my eyes, one more tear slipping free, silent and stinging.
Then he turned me around. Hands cupping my face, fingers brushing the wetness from my cheek.

And kissed me.

Slow and deep and aching. Like a promise wrapped in fire.

The night had cooled, but I barely noticed. Not with him in front of me, not with my heart still beating like a warning bell in my chest. His lips moved against mine with a slowness that felt dangerous, like he was holding back the storm, trying to savor it before it broke.

But I didn't want restraint, and I kissed him harder, gripping his T-shirt, needing to feel him beneath my hands, needing to remind myself this was real. That he was real. That no matter how impossible this all seemed, his mouth was on mine, and his body was pressed so tightly against me it felt like he could imprint himself into my bones.

I pushed him into the low chair, legs parted, his eyes tracking every move I made under the soft flicker of candlelight. He looked wrecked, in that dangerous, beautiful way that made my breath catch. The top of his chest rising and falling in short, heated bursts.

I stepped toward him slowly, taking off my top and then sliding off my pants as I knelt between his legs, the tiles cool under my knees. His breath caught as I reached for his pants. "Olivia..." His voice was thick, unsure.

"Shh" I murmured, looking up at him through my lashes. "Let me."

His head tipped back, a curse whispered into the wind as I freed him, took him into my mouth slowly, deliberately.  
His hands fisted at his sides, then in my hair, trembling with restraint. I sucked him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, tasting the salt and heat of him as he groaned my name like a prayer turned sin.

It wasn't long before he pulled me up with a broken sound, his mouth finding mine, tasting himself on my tongue as his hands gripped my waist.
And then I was straddling him, knees sinking into the cushion as pulled aside my underwear and sank down onto him in one slow, aching slide.

"Fuck..." he growled into my shoulder.
I rocked my hips, teasing him with rhythm, biting down on his neck as I whispered, "Sorry if I'm being such a bitch..."

He gripped my hips harder, thrusting up into me now, meeting every roll of my body with hunger. My hands tangled in his hair, pulling, anchoring, grounding myself as pleasure licked at the edges of my vision.
But it wasn't enough, not for him.

And suddenly, he stood up, still buried inside me, my arms flying around his shoulders with a startled gasp. He crossed the terrace, wild and focused, until we reached the table where the dinner laid untouched.
With one furious sweep of his arm, everything clattered to the ground. Plates, glasses, the silver bucket that had once held champagne.  Then he laid me down on my back, legs open for him under the stars.

He didn't say a word and just ripped my underwear, again... I tried to protest but in the next second he drove into me again, this time harder, faster, the wood beneath me shaking with each thrust. I swallowed my words.

I arched under him, hands gripping the edge of the table, my moans echoing into the open Paris night as he leaned over me, lips brushing mine.

"You're mine" he growled, hips slamming into mine. "Say it."

"Yes" I gasped, dizzy. "God, yes."

"Again."

"I'm yours."

He kissed me like a man on fire, and I kissed him back like I wanted to burn. The tension snapped somewhere between pain and euphoria as I fell apart beneath him, trembling, clawing at his back as he followed with a gutural groan, spilling in his hand.
He stayed close for a moment longer, forehead against mine, catching his breath. Then, with a low grunt and a wicked little smirk, he reached for a stack of linen napkins from the wanna be dinner setup.

"Sorry" he murmured, wiping himself with a quick glance toward his hand, where his release had smeared across his skin. "Messy."

I snorted, as I sat up on the table, legs still trembling, picking up my ripped underwear. "That might be the understatement of the sexual encounters."
He turned, raising an eyebrow, looking at my underwear "yeah...about those... Let's go tomorrow and buy like of dozens of those"

"Or you could just pulled them down like a normal person"

He laughed. "Look around us, normal is not an option."

I looked around then, really looked. The candlelight flickered over the chaos we'd caused. Silverware scattered on the tiles, glass shards glinting like diamonds in the corners. The floral arrangement was tipped sideways on the floor, petals bruised and wilting.

"We literally had a hotel room next to us. With a bed. A clean, flat, non-breakable bed." I said, gesturing vaguely Oscar laughed, deep and low. "You're right. We're idiots."
"Starving idiots" I added, nudging an empty plate with my foot. "We didn't even get to eat the appetizers."

He grinned as he stepped closer, wrapping an arm around my waist and pressing a warm, lazy kiss to my shoulder. "The dessert was better though."
"Yeah" I said, giggling, "nothing screams food critic like aggressive table sex."

We both laughed harder than we should have, the kind of laughter that left my stomach sore and my cheeks flushed. It was absurd. It was reckless.

But God, it felt good. 
Afraid of saying perfect…but it kinda was. 
When we are together, just us…

Still barefoot, I bent down to gather the unbroken plates and silverware while Oscar grabbed a few more napkins and a towel from inside. We moved around the terrace together like a strange little domestic dance, carefully sweeping up glass, righting chairs, and relighting a few of the toppled candles.
He handed me a fork with a dramatic bow. "Your weapon, madam."
I curtsied, barely managing to stifle my laughter. "For the next course, I presume?" 
"Or if you want to stab me.”

Just as we were wiping down the table, the very one we'd just desecrated, a knock came at the door. Oscar disappeared inside and returned a moment later with a tray of food: warm focaccia, grilled vegetables, pasta, and a slice of chocolate tart. He sat beside me, thigh pressed against mine, and we both dug in like ravenous animals.

Chapter Text

OSCAR

We stayed in Paris for another two days past her reading. And for once, we didn't just hide. Or not in an exaggerate way.

We walked. A lot. From Montmartre to the Jardin du Luxembourg, hand in hand when the streets were quiet. Sometimes I'd pull her by the waist when we passed under a canopy of vines or near some flower shop that smelled like heaven, and I'd kiss her like I had all the damn time in the world.

It was dangerous and stupid and so fucking addictive.

She looked good in Paris. Like she belonged here, wind in her honey colored hair, sunglasses low on her nose, asking for pastries in her perfect French, then rolling her eyes at me when I mispronounced everything.  
Every time she laughed, I felt something cave inside me.

We kept it casual. No over-the-top displays. But she let me take some pictures of her, even some selfies with us.  
No hand-holding when crowds passed or when she noticed someone's head turn just a second too long.

But there were moments I slipped. Moments when I looked at her and forgot that we were hiding. Moments when I kissed her without thinking, touched her lower back in that way that made her bite her lip, or let my hand linger too long on her thigh under the table.

And then there was the damn bookstore.

Some part of me knew the second I will walked in it will create some chaos. But the other part, the one that is lead by my emotions, couldn't not be there.

I believe I will always remember how she froze when I raised my hand to ask her a question, and I knew I was in trouble.

And I was right.

By night the internet was already lighting up, but I only had the courage to open the social media accounts the next day.

Then, everything exploaded. Photos of me in the audience. Some blurry. But those were the few ones.

Most of them were quite clear.  
The selfies I took with readers.  
A few of Olivia, standing behind the desk just a glimpse of her in the background.

But it was enough.
Just enough for people to start asking questions.

The McLaren team's post was probably the most viewed one:

| "Part-time driver, full-time book enthusiast.    
| #OscarInParis "

Of course, they had to stir the pot.

The picture wasn't that bad. It was me in the bookstore, listening. Smiling. A book in hand. You could barely see Olivia in the background, but it didn't matter. The damage was done.

Then came the reposts. The fan pages. The gossip accounts. And the comments.
I spent too long scrolling.

@mclarenfan_22: Bro why is he always so serious. Somehow he fits in a BOOKSTORE 

@f1gossip: What was happening in that bookstore??

@blueflagforever replied@f1gossip: Apparently it was a reading for Echoes  Beneath... a drama-thriller novel, I hear. 

@britishcore replied to@blueflagforever:  
Of course he is into freaky stuff. Dude is a walking red flag.

@parisianreader94: I was there. He asked a question. He was very cute and polite with everyone. I didn't imagine I will meet Oscar Piastri in a bookstore.

@f1girlief1: Who goes to a book reading on a race break???? Touch grass 

@joshepine789: The author is Belgian and STUNNING btw. Saw her in an interview once. That's all I'm saying.

@oscarcore replied to @joshepine789:  
       Who is she? What's her name? 

@oscarp_edits: What if they're dating omg. New power couple unlocked???

@azulserena: Hei, I believe I saw him with a woman. Walking around Paris. 

@denisseirwin: Sorry but this man is too awkward to be flirting. Probably just wanted a free book or some marketing videos.

@nicolepiastri: (because of course she commented)  
Finally something other than racing gear and helmets posts about you. Your nan would be proud Osc.

Then came the texts.

Hattie:
I'm guessing this means things got really serious?  She looked amazing, by the way. Mum found me a better pic lol. Call me. I want details.

Mark:
This better not become a PR disaster. Also: call me.

Eddie:
You're like a walking romance trope now. Proud of you, nerd.

I put the phone face down and exhaled slowly.

Olivia sat across the bed, in one of my hoodies. Bare legs tucked under her, glasses perched low on her nose as she answered emails. Every once in a while she looked up at me with that what-now? expression.

I waited. Then showed her the comments, the photos...

She scrolled through them quietly. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. Not angry, not surprised. Just... resigned.

"This Oscar. This is what I wanted to avoid." she said flatly.

"I know."

"I didn't want to hide you, Oscar. But now all eyes are going to be on us. They are going to search things about me...And I don't know if I'm ready for that. For what that means."

I didn't say anything.
She went back to her emails.

I lay back on the bed, hands behind my head, trying to balance two truths: I didn't regret going to her reading. Not for a second. But she was right...there would be consequences. Whispers. Speculation. People digging.

We ordered dinner and tried not to talk about it. We cleaned up the terrace again...still laughing about the chaos from the night before. We watched something mindless on TV, curled under the sheets.

But reality was waiting just outside the door.

The next morning, she rolled her suitcase to the front of the room, sighing. "I have a flight to Spain at noon. Barcelona on Tuesday. Then Berlin on Friday. Next week I'm in the UK."
I sat up. "That's a packed week."
She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I know."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "I need to be at McLaren HQ this week. Baku prep."
She nodded slowly, pulling on her coat.

"You think you can make it?" I asked, quieter now. "To the race?"
She looked at me, soft but firm. "I don't know. I really don't."

I didn't push. I couldn't.

But I wanted her there. I wanted her in the paddock, maybe wearing one of my caps. Haha, I am allowed to dream. She, smiling in the back of the garage. I wanted her to see me race and know I was doing it with her in my head. In my heart.

But I also knew she had her own world, and I wasn't about to yank her out of it just because I was falling faster than I'd planned.

She kissed me goodbye, soft and brief, her hand lingering on my jaw.
"Don't get into trouble" she said.
I smirked. "Too late."

—————-

By the time I stepped into the McLaren Technology Centre on Tuesday at noon, the Paris buzz had already faded into a kind of professional hum. I'd swapped candlelit terraces for wind tunnels, soft dresses for simulator suits, and Olivia's voice for engine data.

Sort of.

Because she was still there, like a soundtrack playing quietly beneath everything.
I was barely through the main corridor when my phone rang. Mum.

"Hey" I answered, switching it to my left hand as I nodded at a passing engineer.
"Well, you do look good in bookstores, I'll give you that" she said without saying hello.

I groaned. "Mum..."

"I'm just saying! You've finally figured out your angles. The fans are going wild. And don't think I didn't notice that very pretty woman in the corner of the photo."
I rubbed a hand over my face. "I thought you did... "

"I'm your mother Oscar, I know you very well, and you weren't exactly subtle, love. You were staring at her like she's the Grand Prix trophy." I smiled, despite myself. "I'm not trying to be."

A pause.

"She seems lovely. And grounded. I'm so happy for you."

"She is. But it's... complicated."

"Well" she said, gently, "of course it is. That's why I know it's serious. Bring her home, we can try to act like a normal basic family."

Before I could answer, Tom, my race engineer, waved me over to the conference room. "I've gotta go."

"Tell Zak I said hi."

"Mum..."

"Fine, fine. Go be a champion."

I ended the call and stepped inside the glass-walled room where Zak Brown, Andrea Stella, our race engineers and Lando were already seated around the oval table.
Zak looked up first. "Ah, Mr. Book Club has arrived."
I rolled my eyes as I sat down. "We doing this already?"
Andrea smiled. "It's nice to see you outside the simulator."

We dove straight into the numbers: the car updates, the new rear wing configuration for Baku, adjustments for the street circuit, tire degradation predictions. The tone was serious, because we were serious. We were leading the constructor's championship, and they wanted us to stretch that lead like elastic until it snapped.

"The goal is simple" Zak said, leaning forward. "We want both cars on the podium. Ideally? First and second." Andrea nodded. "You're both free to race. But cleanly. No contact. No drama."

I felt Lando's gaze before I saw it.
And yeah. That glance? It wasn't about racing.

I kept my face blank. He looked away, smiling slightly like he knew more than he should.

Right.

After the technical breakdown came the performance review clips for Netflix. We ran through the same conversation all over again, sanitized, camera-ready, tight-lipped.  
No mention of Paris, or bookstores, or mysterious Belgian authors. Just tire strategies and simulations and how we were 'pushing for every tenth.'

Acting. Basically.

Once the filming crew left, our PR rep popped in like a gust of wind. "We've got social content to shoot. Both of you. Instagram stories, a TikTok trend, and a few shots for the McLaren site. Let's keep it quick."

I followed her with Lando to the media room, where bright lights and a backdrop of logos waited.

We posed next to the car. Pretended to compare notes on a clipboard. Shot a fifteen second video answering random fan questions, favourite breakfast, pre-race rituals, dumbest thing we've done in a car. Lando of course, laughing and making fun of everything.

Eventually, we wrapped, and I pulled off the race suit top, stretching my neck. Lando came by my side.

"So" he said casually, "how is Echoes Beneath?"

I stared at him. "It's an interesting book. You want to read it?"

"Nah" he said with a grin. "But I heard the author's quite something."
I swallowed hard and walked off before I said something I'd regret.

I picked up my phone:

Me:  
Hola. ( that's the single word I know in spanish ) how's Barcelona?

Lando followed me in the lounge and tossed himself onto the couch.

No reply yet. I figured she was still getting settled at the hotel or maybe going over her notes for the reading tomorrow. Still, it didn't stop me from checking the screen twice.

Then Lando spoke. Voice casual. Too casual.

"So... that woman in Paris."
I didn't look up. "Which one?"
He let out a soft laugh, annoyingly smug. "You know which one. The one you handed the book to be signed. What was her name..." pretending he didn't know.

"Don't start."

"She's the same one I met in Zandvoort then in Monza, right?" he continued, like we were dissecting strategy. "I believe is the same one I somehow introduced you too..."

I lifted my gaze. "And your point...?"

He bit off a piece of his protein bar and gave me a look. That cocky, amused Lando Norris look that made people think he was all jokes and no sharp edges. But he was sharper than people thought.

"Olivia...she's got this... vibe" he said. "Sexy, mysterious, kind of intimidating. Very not your usual type."
I narrowed my eyes. "What's my 'usual type'?"
He smirked. "Honestly? I didn't think you had one. You barely look at anyone. You're like a robot when it comes to girls."

"Cool." I muttered. "Thanks."
He shrugged. "But her? Yeah. I get it now. That dress in Milan? Mate... that did things."
My jaw clenched, but I didn't respond.

"Oh come on Osc..." he added. "Maybe I'm not as smart as you, but it all makes sense when I saw you in Paris, at her reading. Did she know you will be there or it a total surprise even for her? "

"I don't know where are you trying to go with these questions, but I won't give in."

Then, Zak popped his head into the lounge, thank goodness, saving me from this awkaward conversation. "Boys, come back into the office, we have a guest, a new sponsor. He wants to meet you." Lando shot me a grin. "Time to kiss corporate ass."

I was the first one to storm out of the lounge and toward Zak's office. But Lando catch up on me.

"So, going back to Olivia. Smart, older, intriguing, you're lucky she likes you." 

And that, surprisingly, hit. Because yeah. I was lucky. For whatever reason, despite the age gap, the travel, the chaos of it all, she had chosen me. Not him. Not anyone else.

"And yet, you flirted with her. A lot."  
I don't know why I said it, maybe because it still irritates me a lot when I saw him flirting with her.
"Well, yeah. She's hot. And she was alone. You never even told me you like her too."
"I didn't think I had to give you a warning label."

There was a beat of silence, and Lando chuckled, low and unbothered. "Touché. But the problem is...I kinda like her too. And I will try to know her better." He said just before opening the door at Zak's office and entering first.

What the actual fuck? What was that about? A challenge?

Inside the office, Zak stood beside Andrea and Matt, our comercial officer , all of them facing a tall, sharply dressed man. Polished shoes, expensive suit. A kind of presence that reeked of wealth, ego and something else I couldn't put my finger on yet.

Until I did.

Chapter Text

The man's smile widened the second we stepped in. He had perfect teeth and a very nice trimmed beard.

Of course he did.

Zak gestured with his hand. "Oscar, Lando, this is Victor de Vos, the founder and CEO of V-Technologies. They're coming on board as one of our new digital innovation partners for the next year and hopefully many more after that."

The name hit me like a fucking punch to the gut. Victor.
Victor de Vos.

I blinked once. Twice.

And now he was standing in my team's office. Shaking hands with me.

"Nice to meet you both" Victor said, his voice smooth. Charming. Everything I instantly hated. "Big fan of what you're doing this season. Lando," switching his gaze toward him "I really hope you can challenge Verstappen for the driver's championship, we need some diversity around Formula 1."
Lando stepped forward, extending a hand. "Thanks. Appreciate the support."

Then it was my turn. I shook his hand, firm but not too eager. His grip was strong, deliberate. His eyes locked on mine a fraction too long.   
I gave him a tight smile, professional. Controlled.
Victor's gaze didn't move from me. "Oscar Piastri. Quite the rising star."

"Trying to keep the car out of the wall" I said, dry. "That's always step one."

Zak chuckled behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. "He's being modest. Oscar's been brilliant this season."
Victor nodded, then tilted his head slightly. "I imagine it takes a lot of discipline. Balance. Especially with all the... attention. Not just on track, but off it."
My pulse thumped once, deep in my chest. 

Lando, clueless, just grinned. "Oh yeah, Oscar is quite a driver, calm, grounded, steady behind the wheel, excelent I may add, considering it's only his second season."
I gave him a glare to stop with the praise. It was really unnecessary.

Victor's smile didn't move. "I imagine certain... distractions... come with the job. You manage that well?"

The room suddenly felt smaller. Stiller.  
No. I won't cave.

I took a slow breath. "I keep the people close to me away from the circus."
That made his smile twitch. Just slightly.

"Well, I hope the team brings you both more wins" he said finally, looking at us both. But it was me he was talking to. "And I look forward to seeing more of you. Around."
Lando stepped back, clearly ready to bolt. "We'll leave you guys to talk business."

I nodded politely and followed him out.

Once the door closed behind us, Lando turned to me, brow furrowed. "What the hell was that?"
I turned and walked away, big steps. My jaw was tight. Every muscle in my shoulders locked. I was already calculating how to get Olivia on the phone without sounding like I was spiraling. Which I might've been.

Behind me, Lando jogged a few steps to catch up. "Wait...hold on. That guy. Victor...Victor de Vos?"
Lando's eyes widened. "Dude. That's Olivia's last name."

I kept walking. Like I hadn't heard him.
But of course I had. He continued casually, but there was a hook in his tone. "You think they're related?"
I shrugged. "Don't know."
He narrowed his eyes at me. "Come on. Same last name? You're telling me that's just a coincidence?"

I gave him a sideways glance and threw in my most convincing deadpan. "Lando, de Vos is probably like the Smith in the U.K."
He blinked. "Is it?"
"No idea. Sounds plausible, though, doesn't it?"
He snorted. "You're a terrible liar."
I didn't answer. Just kept walking.

Because as far as Victor was concerned, he didn't know. He didn't know I'd been kissing his ex-wife. He didn't know I'd been inside in every goddamn way a man could be inside a woman.

And until I had a clearer picture of what the hell Victor was doing here, I wasn't giving anything away.
Not to Zak. Not to Lando. Not even to the walls.
And I wasn't sure if I should tell Olivia quite yet.

—————

Back in my hotel room, the silence felt heavier than usual.
The first thing I did, after tossing my keys somewhere near the minibar and yanking my hoodie off, was reach for my laptop. Not for Netflix. Not for a race replay. But for something way more reckless.

Victor de Vos.

I typed it into the search bar, watching the results load in a rapid-fire blur of links, headlines, magazine features, financial reports, political donations, and... Forbes.

"Top 50 Most Influential European Tech Entrepreneurs Under 45."

"The Mind Behind V-Technologies: Victor de Vos on AI Sovereignty, Legacy, and Power."

"Belgium's Quiet Giant: A Man Who Speaks in Billions."

Jesus. This man wasn't just rich, he was dynasty rich. Old money tangled with new power.

There were mentions of his family owning half of West Flanders' land in the 1800s, luxury estates, private equity ties in London, and... some deeply polished, too-clean photo of him shaking hands with a government minister.

No wonder Olivia had that tension in her voice every time his name came up.

I shut the laptop before it could spiral further. No good would come from scrolling his goddamn LinkedIn endorsements.

My phone buzzed in the hoodie I'd discarded. Her name lit up the screen.

Olivia. FaceTime Incoming.

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaled, and answered.

She appeared immediately. Her beautiful honey-colored hair loose, lips bare, her eyes warm but tired, propped somewhere in a softly lit hotel room. I caught a glimpse of stacked books and a coffee cup behind her.

"Bonsoir" she said, tilting her head like she was about to say something clever. "Shouldn't you great me with 'hola' instead?"  
She chuckled "Guess who just read three pages too fast and spilled hot coffee on her own dress in front of fifty people?"

"Let me guess"  I said, leaning against the wall, trying not to smile. "A wildly talented Belgian author with very little balance and even less self-preservation instinct?"
She pointed at the camera. "Correct. You win a prize."

"What kind?"
She smirked. "A long-distance kiss and a dramatic retelling of the tragedy."

"Go on. I'm listening."

She recounted the moment, dramatic hand gestures included, and by the time she mimed the coffee cup flying through the air, I was laughing.

"You know" I said, "I was expecting your big Barcelona reading to be all smooth and Parisian, not performance art."

"Well, I'm versatile. I can write, read, and humiliate myself simultaneously."
I grinned. "You forgot one thing."

"What?"

"You look really fucking good while doing it." She gave me a suspicious look. "And you? How the meeting went at the MTC?"
I blinked, pausing but not enough to give myself away.

"Usual talk about the next race, what are the expectations, the advantages of our car on a race track like Baku. Then the Netflix crew came, we had to re-do the meeting but acting, but not disclosing too much."

She nodded at every word and smiled softly.  
God, she is gorgeous.
I shrugged. "Nothing new."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you okay?"
"I just..." I tried, rubbing the back of my neck. I didn't want to plant seeds of panic, not while she was floating on post-event adrenaline and still wearing that sleepy, gorgeous smile "miss you a bit more than usual tonight."

Her expression softened.

"Well" she whispered, leaning closer to the screen, "I was planning to wear your oversized hoodie for this evening. The one that still smells like you, because...I'm kinda missing you too."

"You're trying to kill me. Barcelona is just two hours flight away. Don't tempt me like that."

"Tempt you?" she replied, voice smooth as sin. "Oscar, I'm just saying I'll wear an oversize hoodie. I had no idea you were so... distractible. Besides, if I really wanted to tempt you... I wouldn't be wearing anything at all."

My throat went dry. "You want me to get on a plane, don't you?"

"Of course not" she said sweetly. "You're supposed to be focused, sharp, disciplined. Baku's coming."
I stared at her. "You're evil."

"I prefer the term motivational." Her smile deepened.
I tilted my head back with a groan. "You are actually trying to ruin my life."
She laughed. God, I loved when she laughs like that. Carefree and wicked but still not aware of the chaos she caused in me.

"Focus, Piastri" she teased, using that sharp, commanding tone that only made it worse. "Win me a race. Then maybe I'll consider rewarding you."
I leaned closer to the screen. "Careful. I take those deals very seriously."

"Good" she murmured. "Because I wasn’t bluffing."

I looked at her for a long second. She was glowing, even through pixels. "You were made to ruin men, you know that?"

"And you were made to win races and walk into the wrong bookstore and start talking with the wrong women."

"I didn't walk into the wrong bookstore" I said. "I dove. And it was the best decision of my life."

We stayed there in silence for a moment, both holding it in, like a breath too tender to release.
She smiled and shook her head. "Go eat something, Piastri. Then have a goodnight sleep."

"Only if you promise to dream about me."

"I already do."

The screen faded to black, and I stood there a moment longer, heart in my throat, wondering when this thing would finally stop feeling so unreal.

After I hung up with Olivia, I sat in the dark for a while, still on the edge of my bed, phone balanced in my hand, screen black.

I told myself I wasn't overthinking it.

That it was just... curiosity.

That it didn't matter that the man I shook hands with today, suited, polished, and full of smug charisma, happened to have been married to the woman currently wearing in my hoodie.
But the longer I stared at the screen, the more that feeling crept in.

Not jealousy. Not exactly.
Wariness.

The kind of quiet edge you feel when another driver gets close to your gearbox in the middle of a corner. You don't panic. But you pay attention.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened my contacts and tapped on Zak.
He picked up on the third ring.

"Oscar" he answered, chipper as ever, even though it was late. "What's up? Don't tell you are sick or something."
I laughed softly. "No, no. Nothing about that."

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah. I was just wondering..." I leaned back in the chair and tried to sound casual. "That guy today. Victor de Vos. How big is his involvement with us?"

Zak exhaled. "Ah. The V-Tech deal."

I didn't say anything. Just let him talk.

"He's not involved on a day-to-day basis. He's more of a principal investor through one of his holding companies. Branding partnership, tech alignment, potential R&D crossover in the longer term. Classic big-money optics. Nothing inside the garage. Why?"

"Just curious" I said with a shrug, knowing he couldn't see me. "The guy looked like someone I might've seen before. On a panel, or maybe a magazine. Wondered if he was going to be around more." Zak chuckled. "If he is, I hope he brings his wine cellar with him. He owns a vineyard in Provence."

Of course he does.

"Anyway" Zak added, "if he were to get more involved, I'd tell you boys. But don't worry, he's not going to be sitting in your strategy briefings or anything. He's PR sparkle, not pit lane muscle."

"Got it" I said, nodding. "Just making conversation."

"Hmm," Zak hummed. "You never just make conversation, Piastri. What's the angle?"

"No angle" I lied smoothly. "Just had a weird vibe."

"Well, don't let weird vibes mess with your head before Baku. Lando's already convinced you're overthinking everything because of a woman."
My stomach tensed.
"He said that?"

"Not in those exact words" Zak chuckled. "But close."
I gave a dry laugh. "I'm fine. Focused."

"Good. Keep it that way. We need both of you sharp."

"Always am."

We hung up, and I set the phone down, heart still tapping an uneven rhythm beneath my shirt.
So Victor wasn't embedded in the team. Not yet. Not officially.
But he was there. Which meant proximity. Which meant risk.

Chapter Text

Every muscle in my body was already awake before the sun had even climbed properly over the London skyline.Luca, my trainer, was in full dictator mode.

"Again" he barked as I finished the last rep on the resistance band, sweat running down the back of my neck.
"I hate you." I muttered, chest heaving.
"Great. That means it's working."
I wiped my face, still catching my breath. "If I die in Baku, it's on you."
Luca grinned like the psycho he is. "You won't die. You'll podium."
There was no joking in his eyes. Just laser focused belief. That's what made him the best. And sometimes the most annoying bastard on the planet.

He handed me a bottle of water, nodding. "Light cardio this afternoon. Stretch. Pack. And no more pastries. I know you think I don't notice."
I raised an eyebrow. "I do notice you eat them too."
He shrugged. "Different metabolism. Also, I don't drive 320 kph for a living."

Fair.

By evening, we were boarding the private jet, courtesy of one of McLaren's more generous sponsors, en route to Baku.  
Smooth, quick, efficient. Quiet skies, minimal turbulence. But the chaos wasn't in the clouds, it never was, it's always waiting for us on the ground.

————

On thrusday we were already rolling in the paddock. Media day.
The heat in Azerbaijan was the kind that didn't ask permission. It just wrapped around you, heavy and blinding.

But the fans didn't care.

The paddock was vibrating with energy, with sun, with questions nobody wanted to answer and cameras everyone pretended not to see.

Me and Lando were pulled onto a stage in front of a rowdy crowd for a live fan Q&A.

Standard pre-race stuff: laughs, charm, the occasional snide jab at Ferrari or Red Bull. A question about tyre strategies. Another about who we'd want to race against from history. Then...

The host grinned too wide.

"So, Oscar..." she leaned in dramatically, mic lifted like we were at a bloody talent show, "We all saw those viral photos from Paris. Now we've all been wondering: are you secretly a literature lover? Or was there... another reason you dropped by?"

The crowd exploded.

Cheers. Laughter. Phone flashes. Somewhere in the audience, someone actually yelled "Echoes Beneath!"

My ears burned instantly. I tried to smirk.
Next to me, Lando was already cackling. He was enjoying it way too much.

"Oi!" he shouted into his mic. "Oscar's got layers! Race car driver and poetry enthusiast. Watch out, ladies!"
I shot him a sharp look. "Some of us enjoy being educated."

"Some of us are just chasing authors" Lando said under his breath, just loud enough for the mic to catch it. "Or both of us." He said quietely and not on the mic.

The crowd lost it again.

I tried to laugh it off, jaw tight. "It was a good book. And a better event."
The host gave me a look. "So no clarification? About the rumors?"
I shrugged. "I read what's in front of me. Sometimes that's telemetry. Sometimes it's a novel."

The crowd screamed. The host backed off. For now.

And Lando? Still grinning like a five-year-old who'd just pulled the fire alarm.
He bumped my shoulder as we stepped off stage. "Don't look so tense" he said. "You are giving yourself away."

"Shut up" I muttered.
He winked. "Oh, come on Oscar, the fun just started."
I rolled my eyes, but my stomach twisted.

Because the thing is... I could laugh about it. Joke about it. Pretend I didn't care. But the truth was, every cheer, every photo, every question was one more crack in the shell we were trying to keep private.
And I had no idea how long we could keep holding it together. For her sake.

On saturday, the sun was still blazing when I stepped out of the media center.  
I had the usual post-qualifying high buzzing in my bloodstream.  
Front row start tomorrow, not bad, even if Charles snatched pole position by three-tenths. He'd nailed his final sector, and I knew it.

No excuses. I just had to beat him on Sunday. That's where it counted.

Lando, on the other hand, was pissed as fuck. He'd been knocked out in Q1 after a yellow flag ruined his lap. P17.  
Brutal.

He didn't say much after. Just muttered something about "shit timing" and disappeared into his room. I couldn't blame him.

After finishing my rounds, debriefs, PR, more debriefs, I finally collapsed onto the padded bench in my driver's room, still dressed in my race suit. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind only the kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones.

I pulled out my phone and opened the message thread that had become my favorite part of every day.

Olivia:  
Watched all the stints. You looked smooth. Ruthless. Very handsome too. The camera man knew what I wanted to see.

A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth. I didn't bother texting back.

I FaceTimed her.

She answered after three rings. The screen lit up. Berlin buildings blurred behind her.

"Well, look who's calling all sweaty and victorious" she said, smile tugging at her lips. "Congrats, front-row man."

"Merci," I replied, voice low. "It would have been better if I was in pole, but P2 is good too."

"Hei, don't be so hard on yourself. You did great." she added proudly, then narrowed her eyes. "You'll get Charles in the race tomorrow, I'm willing to bet on it."

"I lost two tenths in Turn 15. Slipped wide by just enough." I sighed, leaning back, running a hand through my damp hair.

"So... see you tomorrow?" I asked.
She hesitated. That pause was enough.

"I... I can't make it, Oscar" she said, her voice softening. "There's this author I admire, she invited me for coffee tomorrow in Berlin. It's a bit of a big deal. I couldn't say no."
I didn't say anything right away.

Of course I knew she had a life, her own career, her own tour. I wasn't entitled to anything. But I still felt it. That stupid pang. The disappointment I didn't want to admit I felt. "It's okay" I said, maybe a little too fast, brushing a hand over my mouth. "That's good. I'm glad. You should go."

"I'll watch the race" she said quickly. "I'll stream it from the café if I have to."

"Yeah?"

"I'll be yelling at the screen if Charles tries anything stupid, I promise."
I gave her a tired smile. "Good."

There was a pause between us. Her eyes studied me. "You're upset."

"I'm not" I lied. "Just tired."

She didn't push.

She leaned closer to the screen, like it made the distance shorter. "Go rest, okay?  
I chuckled. "I will."

We ended the call.

But even as the screen went dark, I kept staring at my reflection.
I didn't want to admit it, but her absence would be the loudest part of the grid tomorrow.

————

You know how the day will unfold depending on the first moment you wake up.  And I woke up with a good feeling on sunday morning.
That sharp, quiet kind of focus that settles in before a race you know might go your way.  
The engineers were confident, the car felt dialed in, and my start from P2 meant everything was within reach.

It could've been perfect.
If Olivia had been here.

Instead, my phone buzzed just as I was finishing breakfast.

Olivia:  
Good luck, my favorite race driver. I'll be watching and rooting for you to have a brilliant race. Heading to the café now.

I stared at her message for a second longer than I should've, thumbs hovering above the keyboard before I typed a quick reply. Then I deleted it, placing the phone on the table. I finished my breakfast, then I dressed up in the McLaren polo T-shirt and headed to the race track.
By the time I arrived in the paddock, I knew I shouldn't act like a brat and I replied to her text.

Me:  
Have a wonderful day too. I'll call you after the race. 

I sent a second message to Mum, just a quick "Love you. Starting soon."

Once I was strapped into the car, engine snarling underneath me like a caged animal, the noise in my head fell away.  
It was just Baku and me now. And 51 laps of pure intensity.

Leclerc kept the led for 19 laps, but on Turn 1 on the lap 20 I lined up an overtake on the inside and took the first position.

By nearly 30 laps the Ferrari of Charles applied a constant pressure on myself, attempting, but failing, to retake the lead.

It was intense.

It was one of my best races.

I was in the position of the hunted, which is the one I liked.

And I won.
Second win this season.
Second win of my career.
And maybe, the sweetest one yet.

"That was probably the most stressful weekend of my life. Thank you so much everyone. Thank you thank you. Thank you." I  said calm and chill into the radio, yet my heart hammering in my chest as I crossed the line.
"I don't know what thank you in Azerbaijani is, but I'm not even going to attempt it."

The team erupted with cheers as I stepped out of the car with a little stumble in the very moment I wanted to punch my fists into the air. I jumped into their arms, laughter and adrenaline bubbling out of me. Andrea clapped my back hard. My mechanics soaked my fireproofs in champagne before I even got to the damn podium.

Then I saw her.

My mum.

She was waiting just outside parc fermé, hands pressed over her mouth, eyes glassy.
She pulled me into the tightest hug she could give and I hugged her back gently without crushing her.

"Oh my god, Oscar" she whispered, cupping my helmet. "You did it."
I kissed her temple, still panting. "Thanks mum."

Then came the flood. Interviews, photos, the press conference. A million questions I barely processed, yet my answers polished and practiced like a pro.
But through it all, I kept glancing at my phone.

Still nothing from Olivia.
Not even a "congrats."
That was…odd. Or...I don't even know what else to say.

I was trying not to let it get to me, but it like a losing battle.   
I understood...no. I understand. 
She was busy, she was probably doing something important, work-related. But still....

God. I was trying my fucking best to not let ‘this’ outshine my victory.

But, for once, I wanted to come off the track and know she was there, watching with a stupid grin, waiting to kiss me behind the media wall. Or at least waiting in my messages...              

Yeah...I'm being delusional. She could never be that kind of 'girlfriend'. 

Standing outside the garage, I kept smiling from time to time when people came to me with another round of congratulations. "There's my race winner boy." My mum said extending her hand for a hug.    "Thank for coming mum. It was an awesome surprise."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world. Though," she said, glancing around, "I was hoping I'd meet Olivia too. I even bought her last book for her to sign it.”

"Mum…" I snorted "She's in Berlin." I explained, brushing my damp hair with my hand. "Had a reading. Couldn't make it."
Mum nodded, but her gaze lingered on me for a beat longer. "Well, I'm sure she wanted to be here."
I nodded, jaw tight. "Yeah."  
But did she though? 

Stop it Oscar!

My mum didn't push the conversation. Just squeezed my arm.

"Alright, alright, get in here, mate!" Lando's arm looped around my neck as he pulled me into the garage. He'd made up a lot of places in the race, finishing P4. Quite impressive.  
Still, he looked ridiculously happy for me.

Mini celebration. Group photo. Champagne. Hugs. More champagne.
My race suit was drenched and sticky. I should've been buzzing. And part of me was. But part of me was also still staring at that screen lighting up with everyone's name but hers.

Then Zak shouted above the noise, lifting a bottle of Moët like a warlord on a podium.

"Tonight, everyone's getting smashed! My treat! Whole team out, we earned it!" A massive cheer broke out.

I tried to step back, wipe my hands, play it cool.
"Actually, I might..."

"Don't even start, Oscar!" Zak warned, grinning at me. "You're the race winner. You don't get to disappear into your hotel room like a monk. You're coming."

I opened my mouth again.

"No arguments" he added, pointing the neck of the bottle at me like a mic drop. "Team orders! We party. Tonight, we're gods."

And just like that, my plan to sneak out and catch a flight to Berlin vanished into the roar of the team.

I forced a grin.

Gods. Sure.

But even gods have their distractions.
And mine still hadn't messaged me.

Chapter Text

OLIVIA

The streets of Charlottenburg were dappled in morning light, trees flickering shadows over the café terrace where I sat, stirring my coffee with more attention than necessary.

Fiona Hoffman was even more captivating in real life. Graceful, elegant, and the kind of woman who listened with her whole body. I'd read her essays for years, and when she reached out after my Berlin reading to meet for coffee, I'd been honored... and slightly terrified.

We started talking about writing, the state of the world, motherhood. But I didn't expect it to slip toward the subject of love.

"I've always thought love stories are best when they're not trying too hard" she said. "Like, give me a man buying the wrong kind of bread for a woman who doesn't even eat carbs, and still, somehow, she falls in love with him. That's romance."

I smirked. "That's stupidity."

"No. That's life" she countered. "We don't all get enemies-to-lovers with witty banter and a broken engagement."
I laughed, rolling the ceramic cup between my hands. The rain had just stopped, the street slick and quiet.

Fiona leaned back, arms crossed. "So, what's your next story, Olivia? You always go deep, dark, layered. What if you wrote something... simple, easy-going.”

"Hmm…”  I narrowed my eyes and twitched my lips.
"You know" she said with a teasing tone. "Something bordering on a rom-com. Wildly inconvenient timing. Opposites. Big feelings. Low odds."

I raised a brow. "All right then. I'll give you a pitch."
Her eyes lit up. "Go on." I cleared my throat dramatically. "Okay. Picture this. A thirty-five year old single mother. Lives in a small European town, let's say Belgium. She's a writer. Fiercely independent, emotionally cautious, because life has taught her to be."

"I'm already interested" Fiona murmured, smiling behind her cup.
"She meets a guy. Mid-twenties. Famous. Globally famous. Not the TikTok kind. The 'recognized-in-airports-on-all-continents' kind. He walks into her bookstore during an event, they talk, and for some inexplicable reason... they connect."
Fiona didn't interrupt. Her smile grew, but her eyes narrowed.
"They're nothing alike. She's rooted. Has a child. A past. Responsibilities. He travels for a living. Lives out of a suitcase. Has no idea what real stillness feels like. But they fall into something. Attraction, friendship, maybe more."

"Go on" Fiona whispered.
"She tries to stop it. She rationalizes everything. The age difference, the schedules, the noise, the risk to her private life. But he... he keeps showing up. Quietly. With intent. And it’s all very fucked up and complicated.”

Fiona set her cup down. "And?"

"And now she's in another country, on her book tour. He's racing somewhere else. She pretends it's fine. That she can compartmentalize. But she's not sleeping. She's checking race times. She knows the grid order like she knows her son's school schedule. And now, today, he's racing. And she's grabbing coffee with someone she admires, like it's any other day. Because she’s too scared to face her real feelings and too scared about what will come after.” 

I paused.

Fiona was looking at me differently now. Her gaze was steady. Almost too quiet.
I kept going, trying to laugh it off. "So. What do you think? A bit far-fetched, right?"
Fiona tilted her head. Then smiled, that sly, wolfish kind of smile.
"Oh, Olivia" she said. "You're surprising me with this one."

"Why?"

"Because it's such a rom-com. Simple. Like life itself. So not your type."
I tried to chuckle. "It's just a premise..."

"No, it's a confession in a trench coat" she said, lifting her cup again. "You're not writing this. You're living it."
My mouth parted. Closed. "That's a big assumption."
Fiona leaned in, elbows on the table. "You're thirty-five. He's what, twenty-four? I don't need his name, Olivia. I only need to look at your eyes right now."
I swallowed hard. My fingers wrapped around my necklace.

"I've written a thousand endings" Fiona said gently. "But only one matters. The one where the woman doesn't run. So let me ask you, what's actually stopping her?"

"The cruel life?"  
Fiona nodded. "Then let me rephrase. What part of you is willing to risk missing something extraordinary because you're scared your life might change?"

The café felt louder suddenly. Or maybe my own heartbeat was just drowning it all out.
Fiona sipped once more. "You've already made your decision, by the way. You just haven't admitted it to yourself yet."

I stared at the table.

"And what should I do?" I asked, barely above a whisper.
She smiled. "You go, Olivia. You get up from this café, and you go. You miss the race? Maybe. But he won't care. You just need to show up."
I stood. My bag over my shoulder before I could talk myself out of it.

"I have to run."

"You already are."

In the car on my way back to the hotel, I searched flights like a woman possessed. Only one without any stops- Berlin to Baku. Four hours. First class. Ridiculously expensive.
Didn’t care.

I booked it.

By the time the wheels of the plane touched down in Baku, the sun was already beginning to drop behind the horizon. It was 20:00 pm local time.  
I unlocked my phone the second I had signal again and every Formula 1 app I had lit up at once.

The push notification flashed across the screen:

Oscar Piastri wins the Azerbaijan Grand Prix.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.  
I was alone in the back of the taxi but I grinned like an idiot, holding my phone against my chest for a second. I wanted to scream. Laugh. Cry.

I was so goddamn happy for him.

And proud.

But I didn't text him. Not yet. A surprise felt better. Felt right.

I told the driver to take me to the circuit as fast as he can. Wasn't even sure if anyone would still be there this late. But I he could be wrapped in a chaos of media duties and champagne sprays.  Hoping he might still be around.

By the time we pulled up to the paddock entrance, the buzz had started to fade.  
Security had loosened, and I could see a few engineers wandering with tools, some cleaning crew dragging crates. The energy was different. The crowd was gone. It felt like walking onto a stage after the curtain had fallen.

I clutched the luggage handle tighter, trying to steady the rush of nerves in my stomach, and approached one of the McLaren mechanics standing just outside the garage.

"Excuse me" I said, trying not to sound completely breathless, "Do you know if Oscar is still around?"
He looked at me with a tired but polite smile. "Ah, I think the team left a while ago, love. Zak's throwing a party. Whole team's heading there."

"Do you know where?"
He did. He even spelled it out for me.

It would've been easy if I just texted Oscar, let him know I was here, but something about that felt too... convenient. Predictable. I didn't come all this way to send a text.
I wanted to see him. I wanted something straight out of a romance book with a happy ending after.

I booked a hotel nearby, ran upstairs with my luggage, ripped through my suitcase and pulled out a silver dress I bought last-minute in Paris, not even knowing why I'd kept it.  
Thin straps. Silky fabric. A little bold for someone who usually lived behind book covers, but tonight I didn't care.
I curled my hair loosely, minimum make-up, and stepped back from the mirror.  
For once, I didn't care what people would think. Not about the age gap, not about who I was or wasn't supposed to be. 

I cared about Oscar. Only him.

Outside, some light rain started right when I got out the car. The bouncer barely looked at me when I dropped the team name. McLaren. I was in.
House music vibrated through the concrete. Lights strobed in every color imaginable, bouncing off sequins, glass, skin.

The club was packed to the point of insanity, a jungle of bodies and noise. I made my way through the chaos, my heels sticking slightly to the alcohol-slick floor, breathing in sweat, perfume, heat. The lights made it impossible to see clearly, flashes of movement everywhere.

And then I saw him.

He was in a VIP lounge area, slightly elevated. I recognized that head of tousled hair immediately, the sharp lines of his jaw, the boyish grin softening his otherwise serious face. 
My heart fluttered in such a way…I was scared of my own feelings.
His shirt was half open, his cheeks a little too flushed, and in his hand a glass of alchool, I presumed.  
He was... dancing? Not quite. More like swaying drunkenly. Laughing. Unfiltered joy.

And then she appeared.

Some girl. Blonde, tight dress, perfect. She slipped behind him like a ribbon of smoke, hand sliding across his chest like she owned it. Her mouth went to his cheek, then dangerously close to his lips.

She pulled him into a kiss.  
And he didn't move. He didn't stop her.

I froze.

Just... froze.

Everything in me shut down.

I couldn't hear the music anymore. Couldn't feel the crowd around me. I was suddenly cold, even as sweat formed along the back of my neck.

Was this real?
My heart thundered in my throat, the silver straps of my dress feeling like chains now.

I wanted to turn away, disappear into the blur of strangers, forget I ever came. My hands trembled. My mouth went dry.

And then the lights shifted, briefly sweeping across my face.

Oscar looked down.
Our eyes locked.

It was instant. Recognition. Shock.

His drunken smile faltered. His body stiffened. He stepped forward a little, drink still in his hand, like he wasn't sure what the hell he was seeing. But I didn't give him a second longer to figure it out.

I turned.

I walked away.
I didn't wait to see if he followed.
I didn't want to watch him try to explain something that already felt like betrayal.

Chapter Text

I pushed through the crowd like a woman on fire, the strobe lights slicing across my vision, people brushing against me with every step. I needed to get out. I needed air.
But the walls were closing in.
Everything blurred.

Laughter. Flashes of light.
That pulsing bass thudding in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Too loud, too fast. I couldn't even tell if the ringing in my ears was the music or my own mind unraveling.

My heels slipped once on the floor and I caught myself against a table, drawing looks I didn't dare meet.

They were laughing.
They were all laughing.

Not really, but it felt like they were.  
Whispering. Pointing.  
The woman in the silver dress who thought she mattered.

I stumbled again and shoved open the back of the crowd, trying to find a corridor or door or anything resembling an exit.  
My lungs wouldn't coordinate. 
Air in, no air out.
My chest clenched and I couldn't breathe.

Then a hand caught my arm. Firm. Warm.
I flinched hard, ready to pull away...

"Hey" a voice said, close and low, "Are you okay?"

I turned.

Lando.

His curls were messy, a drink still in his other hand. His eyes, usually playful, were full of concern now.
I froze for a second too long, stunned.
"I'm fine" I said, breathless, voice too sharp. I tried to yank my arm free but he didn't let go immediately.

"You don't look fine" he said, squinting slightly to look at me in the flickering lights. "Do you need help? I can..."
"Lando." I pulled my arm back harder this time. "I'm fine. Please... just leave me alone. I just want to leave."
His lips parted, like he wanted to argue, but then he nodded slowly and stepped aside.

"Alright" he said, backing up a step. "But maybe tell him that."

I didn't ask who he meant.
I didn't look back.

I just walked.

Through the suffocating music. The dancing strangers. The sea of oblivious celebration. I kept walking until the sound was behind me, until the club doors finally opened and the air hit my skin like a slap. But not only air, rain as well.

It wasn't soft or gentle, it poured like punishment.
Like the sky knew.
Like the heavens themselves had been watching too.

And only then did I let myself gasp. Like I was coming up for air after almost drowning.

I stood there, motionless.

Letting it drench me.

Letting it hurt.

Because it felt easier than whatever was ripping me apart inside.

"Olivia!"

His voice.

I flinched but didn't turn. Not at first. I didn't want to see the face I'd flown across the continent to surprise. The one I couldn't get out of my mind and heart.  
The one I just saw laughing with a stranger's lips against his.

"Olivia, wait..please"

I turned around, my eyes wild, tears mixing with the rain. I didn't even know which drops were mine anymore.
"Don't!" I warned him, stepping back. He slowed to a stop, panting, dripping just as much as me now. "It's not what it looked like.."

"Oh, please spare me that line" I snapped, my voice cracking. "It's always not what it looks like, isn't it. Fuck you, Oscar!"

"I didn't kiss her..." he said in his defence.  
"But you didn't stop her either."
I laughed bitterly. "You stood there and let her touch you. And you smiled, you were enjoying it."
His brows pulled together. "I was drunk. I am drunk…I didn't even know her..."

"I crossed half of Europe for you" I said through clenched teeth. "I didn't even text you because I wanted to surprise you. I flew here, Oscar. For you. To tell you something that terrified me."
My voice broke, trembling.
"To tell you that I'm in love with you and I am all in. Monaco or whatever place, with you!" 

He froze.

The rain pounded harder, but neither of us moved.
I stepped closer now, anger burning through my veins, boiling over my heartbreak.

"Tell me, Oscar. If I didn't show up tonight, would you have slept with her?"  
His lips parted, but no words come out. Just silence.
The hesitation was enough. It shattered whatever fragile hope I still had.  
"Thank you for making it so much easier."

"No...FUCK." He shouted. "I..."

"You know what hurts the most?" I whispered, locking eyes with him. "Not that you were with someone else. No. What broke me, Oscar, was seeing you smile with her... as if I didn’t exist. Like I was just another stop along your golden-boy road trip."  
His chest rose sharply, rain pouring off his shoulders, dripping from his lashes.

I let out a shaky breath, my fury rising to meet the ache.
"That's not true" he said quickly, his voice raw. "Olivia, please let me talk."

"No." I raised my hand. "Don't say my name like that. Like I'm still yours."
He flinched.

"You want the ugly truth?" I said, my voice trembling with something between grief and fury. "Of course this happened. Of course it did. You're twenty-four. You're still figuring out who you are. This was never going to end any other way."
He tried again to speak, but I didn't let him.

"I should've known better" I snapped, stepping back. "I'm older, I have a life rooted in reality...and I let myself believe that you, a twenty-something superstar surrounded by people and lights and women every damn week... could somehow fit into that." I scoffed bitterly, wrapping my arms around myself as the rain poured harder.
"God, I was so stupid to think this could actually work."

"Don't say that" he said, shaking his head, stepping forward again.
But I held up my hand again.
"No, Oscar. We don't belong together. We never did."

And just then, I noticed it. The quiet murmurs, the way the buzz of the club shifted as the front door swung open again behind us.

A group of people, half-drenched under the club's awning, stared at us.
Some phones out. Eyes wide. Some whispering. Others watching with something close to pity.
And I felt the final crack form right down the middle of my chest.

They had seen it.

All of it. My sprint into the storm. His chase. Our shouting. My heartbreak.
I turned back to Oscar. And I lowered my voice.

"It's over, Oscar" I said, staring at him as the rain soaked through my hair, my dress clinging to my skin like a second layer of shame. "Go live your life with whomever you want. Forget you ever met me, because I'm already doing it." His face twisted, like I'd punched him.

"No, Olivia, I can't. It's not over."

A bitter laugh escaped me. My eyes burned, not just from tears, but from exhaustion. From humiliation. From hope being ripped away.
"You're right..." I said quietly, cold water dripping from my chin. "How can something be over... if it never really started?"

And then I turned. Walking away from him, from the club, from the weight of everything I had risked, and everything I had just lost.

My heels clicked over the cobbled pavement, echoing into empty streets like they, too, had been abandoned.
I still couldn't breathe right. My lungs were tight, bruised with the weight of everything unsaid, undone, destroyed.

By the time I reached the hotel, I was soaked to the bones. My face wet with a storm I couldn't blame on the clouds anymore.  
The city lights blurred behind my tears as I stumbled through the lobby, barely noticing the looks I got.

And when I shut the door behind me...

I crashed.

I slid down the inside of the door like something inside me had snapped.  
Knees hitting the floor, arms wrapping around myself like it would keep the pieces of me together. It wouldn't. They were already everywhere.

Pain doesn't feel like knives. Not always. Sometimes it's a quiet drowning. A collapse in slow motion.

It all fell down....

I wanted to scream, to throw something, to pull the dress off and burn it for how foolish I felt in it. But I just sat there. Soaked. Shaking. Breathless.

What made me think I could be happy? What made me believe someone like me...a single mother, divorced, emotionally guarded and practical to a fault, could have a fairytale with someone like him?

God, you are stupid, Olivia.
You knew better, a voice inside me whispered. You write stories, Olivia. You know how this ends. 

And I did. All the signs were there from the beginning.

The age gap. The spotlight. The distance between our worlds. I should've known I was a chapter for him...not the story.
The illusion shattered, and I was left bleeding under its weight.

My phone buzzed beside me.

Over and over again.

Oscar.

Again. Again. Again.

A text message from Lando.  
Then another call from Oscar.

I turned the phone face down and pressed the button on the side. Darkness.

I didn't want some other apologies. Or explanations. Or pity. Or anything.

I wanted silence.

And to forget. To move one with my life...

Chapter Text

I don't know when I drifted off. Maybe it was when the buzzing stopped. Or when my head couldn't hold the weight of my own thoughts anymore.

But I woke up to pain.

Aching, burning, heavy pain, like my whole body had bruised itself overnight.  
My eyes stung before I even opened them. When I did, the sunlight through the curtains pierced straight through my skull.

Please let it be a dream, I thought.
Please let last night have been just another one of those nightmares I never write down.

But no. The ache in my chest was too real. And so was the buzzing of my phone on the carpet next to me.

I grabbed it with a hand that shook. The screen lit up.

20 missed calls. 12 messages. Oscar. I didn't even bother to open them.
Then, beneath that, Sofia. Robert.

My stomach turned.
I opened Sofia's message first.

She'd sent a link and a single line of text:

Is that you?? What the hell happened??

Sofia:  
Do you need me to do damage control?

The link led to a blurry video already going viral.  
Rain. Lights.
The quality wasn't that good, but you could tell, it was Oscar.
Wet. Furious. Devastated.
And me.
Unrecognizable to most, thank God.

But I knew...

I knew the way my arms were flailing. I knew that heartbreak.
The video didn't have sound either, mainly because of the rain, just a shaky capture of a messy scene and a dramatic exit.

It already had thousands of likes. Hundreds of comments.

| "Who's the mystery girl?"

| "Oscar fighting a woman? What a drama king"

| "That was intense, anyone know who she is?"

| "What is wrong with this guy? A minute ago he is all dreamy in a bookstore, now this..."

| "Guy should stick with racing."

I dropped the phone like it had burned me.
Then it buzzed again.

Robert 2 hours ago:  
Olivia, are you okay? I saw the video... I know it's you, of course I know...

Robert now:  
Liv, please, talk with me. I'm really worried.

He had attached screenshots of a F1 gossip account, dissecting the footage frame by frame. No one had clocked me yet. Not publicly.

I didn't answer him either.

I finally pulled myself up, every joint protesting. My body felt like it belonged to someone else. My dress clung to me like shame. I made it to the bathroom on unsteady legs.

And when I looked into the mirror, I gasped.

My eyes were swollen. My hair was tangled, still damp at the ends. There were black streaks down my cheeks from mascara I didn't remember wearing. I looked like someone who had broken.

And I had.
God, I had.

Under the scalding shower, I let my head rest against the tiles. I didn't cry. There was nothing left. But the silence screamed around me.

A small, traitorous part of me considered calling my publicist and canceling the rest of the tour.
I could go back to Bruges. Disappear into the house. Shut the curtains. Pretend none of this had ever happened.

But no.
No. I wasn't going to let him, or me, burn this down.
I would not become a cautionary tale in my own life.
He might've shattered me, but I would not hand him the ashes too.

So I booked the next flight out of Baku. To London.

I packed mechanically. The silver dress went straight to the hotel bin.  
I stared at it for a moment like it was a metaphor for all the things I never should've let happen.

Just before heading to the airport, I did the only thing I could to stop myself from slipping again.

I blocked Oscar's number.
And his email.
And any other line he might find to reach me.

For the next week, I would be Olivia De Vos, author.
Not the woman who fell in love with a man who didn't stop a stranger from kissing him.

London. Bristol. Birmingham. Oxford.
A full week of pretending.
Let the whole world speculate.
I wasn't saying a word.

———-

I stood in the green room of the independent bookstore tucked near Notting Hill, staring at myself in the mirror, trying to find the version of me that people expected to see.

Polished. Happy. Beautiful.
Not broken.  
The outfit helped. A tailored ivory blouse tucked into high-waisted navy trousers. Nude lipstick. Subtle earrings. Hair sleek. Not a strand out of place. Not a single tell of the storm underneath my skin.

Fake it, Olivia. Fake it all.

The event was huge. The store had been buzzing since eleven. People lined up outside with copies of Echoes Beneath, hoping to hear me read, to ask their questions, to take photos.  
They didn't want the woman who'd collapsed on a hotel floor in Baku.
They wanted the author. The woman who could string words into meaning.

"Ready, Miss De Vos?" Anna asked with a kind smile. She was an intern at my publishing house asigned to follow me during the book tour in the UK. Black curls, soft brown eyes, red lipstick too bold for her age and a permanent Ipad glued to her hand. I didn't ask her age. I didn't want to know. But anyone that bright eyed should be protected from what the world actually does to women like me.  
I nodded, pressing my hands to my sides so no one would see them shake. "As I'll ever be."

The applause was warm as I stepped out.
Londoners had always been generous with me. That didn't change today.
What did change was the way I felt inside.
I gave them a soft smile, thanked them for coming, read two passages, and opened the floor to questions.

The first ones were simple.

"What inspired this character? What do you do when you get writer's block?"
Then a girl, barely twenty, stood up and asked, "Your characters always seem to be on the edge of love and devastation. Do you think that's where we live best, as humans?" Her voice shook a little as she said it, and something about that tremble cracked the surface of my performance.

I paused. Exhaled.
And instead of dodging, I told the truth.

"I think we live where love terrifies us" I said slowly, watching her nod. "On that edge. Where the stakes are high and the fall is steep. But the air is real there. The fear makes the connection matter."

More applause. A few thoughtful hums.
But inside, I was the one still falling.Still breathless from a love that had left me without air.

After the Q&A, the signing began. A winding line of readers, smiles wide, arms full of books.
I signed each one carefully, making sure to look each reader in the eye. They deserved that much.

"You're my favorite writer" a middle-aged woman whispered as I handed her copy back. "And I don't say that lightly."
"Thank you" I said softly.

Another reader, maybe a bit younger than me, leaned in with a knowing smile. "I love how your female leads always choose themselves in the end. Always. It's so... rare." I blinked. My mouth opened, but nothing came.
Then I smiled, because that was safer than the truth.

Then came another girl. Blonde, early twenties, big glasses. Nervous energy radiating off her. She handed over her copy with wide eyes and a shaky laugh. "Hi. I'm so sorry if this is weird, but... um... are you dating Oscar Piastri?"

My pen stopped mid-signature.
A strange heat climbed my neck. She rushed on. "It's just...I saw some pictures with Oscar in France with a woman who looked like you. And today I saw this video on TikTok, someone said it might be you in the rain with him"  the girl's tone wasn't cruel, just curious. Innocent, even. But I felt like she'd cracked the glass. "I just thought... sorry! That was inappropriate. You don't have to answer."

I looked up at her slowly, pressing a gentle smile onto my face. The kind you wear when you're bleeding, but the show must go on. "Well" I said lightly, "I'm afraid you can't trust everything you see on TikTok. That's how conspiracy theories are born."  
She laughed nervously, cheeks pink. "Right. Of course. Sorry again."

I signed her book, added a little flourish, and handed it back. "Thank you for reading."
She walked off, and I held myself together. Just barely.
Another girl stepped forward. Smile. Thank. Sign. Repeat.
But behind my ribs, something had cracked again.

He was still following me, even in rooms where he wasn't.

I told Anna I needed a break and bless her soul, she managed to distract the people so I could sneak out.
The door to the backstage room clicked shut behind me, and for a few precious seconds, silence wrapped around me like a blanket.

No more fan questions. No more polite smiles. No curious eyes asking what they couldn't quite say out loud.
I sat down on the velvet sofa, kicked off my heels, and reached for my phone.

I unlocked the screen.
Another missed messages from Sofia.
Three more from Robert.

But there was only one call I really needed to make.
I tapped "Mama" and waited.

It only rang once before the screen lit up with her face.
"Oh, chérie" my mother said in that warm, unwavering voice that always knew how to find me. "You look exhausted."
I laughed weakly. "Thanks, Mam. Just what I needed to hear."
Her eyes softened. " You're too thin again. Are you eating properly?"
Before I could answer, another voice came crashing into the frame "Mama! Mama!"

Liam.
I nearly bursted into tears. I felt something in my chest break in the best and worst way.
His cheeks were flushed, hair sticking up in all directions like he'd been running around the garden.

"There's my boy" I whispered, my voice wobbling.
"Mama, guess what? Grandpa let me drive the tractor, just a little, but for real! It was soooo cool!"
"Did he now?" I smiled, trying to blink away the tears. "You lucky boy. Are you taking over the farm already?"
He nodded proudly. "I think I can do it better than Grandpa now."
"In no time, I'm sure."

He started telling me about a frog he found in the pond, about the mud war with the neighbours kids, how he lost his slipper and didn't even care. As he talked, I found myself clutching the phone tighter, wishing I could step through the screen.
After a few minutes, he ran off again, shouting something about needing to show his grandmother the frog again.

My mother chuckled off-screen. "He's happy" she said softly. "Really. He's doing well."
"I know" I murmured. "Thank you for watching him, Mam. I don't know what I'd do without you."

She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. "You'd do exactly what you're doing now. You'd push through. You always do. But Olivia..."
I knew that tone. The prelude to something motherly and wise. "...don't let the whole world see your strength if it costs you your softness."

I closed my eyes.

"I'm fine" I said, and it was almost convincing.
"You don't have to be. Not with me."
Her voice was gentle. Unshakeable. "I know mom, but I'm fine. Just tired" I forced a smile and she didn't push.

We said goodbye a few minutes later.

———

Next UK stop. Bristol.
The bookstore smelled like old paper, cinnamon tea, and dreams I no longer believed in.

I hadn't eaten since Berlin, I think.

Only today : four coffees already, way too many cigarettes.
But at least... I was writing.
God, I was writing.

Words poured out of me like blood from an open wound.  
A new story, dark and sick and twisted, more confession than fiction.  
That's my jam. No rom-coms, no fantasy. Just the cruel reality.  
Characters with ice in their veins and ghosts in their mirrors. I didn't stop, not even when my hands ached.  
Only when Anna popped her head out of the  room with her hopeful voice:
"They're ready for you, Olivia."

The reading went by in a blur. I remember a few laughs during the Q&A, some warm questions, a little girl clutching my book like it was sacred, and a woman who cried when I signed her copy.
Afterward, I slipped into the tiny courtyard behind the bookstore, away from the noise. Away from the smiles.

It was dusk. Quiet. Some wooden tables and a sky that looked like it hadn't decided whether to storm. Typical UK weather.
I lit my cigarette with shaking fingers. First drag, then breath, then something close to peace.

God help me, I knew it was poison, but it was my poison.

And then—

scrape.

A chair pulled back across the stone tiles. Someone sat down at my table.
Cap pulled low. Bomber jacket zipped to his throat.
The smell of expensive perfume and trouble.
"I didn't know this was a designated smoking area" he said with a cheeky smirk.

I froze.

"Seriously? What is wrong with you McLaren boys?" I snapped, turning sharply to face him. "Do you all just enjoy fucking up my life by showing up uninvited?"
Lando Norris smiled, a little wounded, mostly amused. "Nice to see you too, sunshine."
I stared at him. "You followed me here?"

"Nope" he popped his lips. "I'm actually from around here. Grew up in Glastonbury. Bristol's basically my backyard."

"How charming" I muttered, stubbing out the cigarette but not lighting another even though I wanted. "So what? You came to buy a book? Or are you here to try your luck while I'm emotionally ruined?"
He tilted his head. "Wow. That sharp tongue of yours, does it ever rest?"

"No."

Lando laughed softly and then, unexpectedly, his tone shifted. "About that night in Baku. In the club..."

"Don't."

I didn't want to go there. Not again.
Especially not with Oscar's teammate.
But Lando leaned forward anyway, elbows on the table, voice softer now. "I'm not trying to upset you. But I saw how you looked when you left. Like you couldn't breathe."

"I'm still breathing, aren't I?" I said tightly. "Still doing the signings. Still smiling for the cameras. Still pretending like that night never happened. That neither you or your teammate exist."
"That's not fair" he said gently.

"Life isn't."

He was quiet.

Then,  "You know, you've got me all wrong. I'm not the villain. I just... I don't know. Maybe I wanted to talk to the woman who made me laugh. You're... something else."

"I'm not interested, Lando."

I made my voice harder. Meaner. "Not in dating. Not in hookups. Not in conversations like this. I just want a quiet life with my son."
His voice came low. "So why Oscar then?"
I turned slowly, fire in my eyes.

"Careful now" I hissed. "You don't know anything about me. And we are nowhere near close enough for you to dare to ask me those things."
He held his hands up in mock surrender, but didn't move. "Fair enough. I'm sorry."
I stood, ready to walk away, when Anna appeared in the doorway, mouth agape.

"Is that...? Oh my God."
Lando didn't even flinch. He kept his eyes on me.
"I think I deserve a chance too" he said. "We're not the same, you know. Me and Oscar."

I took a step closer, close enough to feel the heat off his jacket. "Oh, is that so? Do tell me, Lando, why you think you 'deserve' a chance, and why you're so different?"
He exhaled, something real flickering beneath the usual swagger.

"Because I know what it's like to not be taken seriously and to always pose in that funny guy who has no care on his shoulders" he said. "To watch someone get what you want too... and in the end just be the one who makes the jokes."

The words landed like a punch.
My mouth parted, but no reply came. I wasn't sure I could find one.

So I didn't.

I turned.
And I walked away.

Chapter Text

OSCAR

I couldn't get the rain out of my fucking head.

Not the pounding music.
Not the taste of whiskey I don't even remember ordering. And re-ordering.
Not the girl's hands, the one whose name I still don't know. And by no means the moment she leaned in to kiss me.

Just the rain.
The way it fell like judgment from the sky.
And her face...like a ghost coming apart under the storm.

It has been ...I don't ever remember how many days after what happened in the club, and I hadn't slept more than a couple hours.  
My body was exhausted, but my mind...my mind wouldn't stop replaying the same moment like a cruel, endless slow-motion replay. The way she'd stood there, not moving, when she saw me with that girl. The way her eyes broke before her feet did.

And then the words.
God, her words.

"Tell me, Oscar. If I didn't show up, you would've slept with her?"

I had no answer. And the silence. My fucking silence, was the answer.

"It's over, Oscar. Go live your life with whomever you want. Forget you ever met me, because I'm already doing it."

And then that last blow, clinical and final:

"You're right... How can something be over if it never really started?"

I felt it in my ribs.
Like something had cracked. Not metaphorically. Not figuratively.
Actually cracked.

There were three smashed glasses in the hotel room, and a dent in the drywall where I'd thrown my phone. I didn't even checked if she replied to my texts.  
Because I knew.
She didn't. She won't.

Why would she?  
I know I didn't deserve anything...

I screamed so loud out of frustration that someone actually knocked on my door. I didn't even bother to go see who or what the fuck they wanted. Afraid I might do something I will regret after.  
I mean, something else, cause the damage was already done...with her.

I sat on the floor of my hotel room in Baku, knees drawn up, back against the edge of the bed like a man waiting for sentencing. I hadn't gone to the airport. I hadn't even spoken to Zak. Or Mark. Or my engineers. Or my fucking mum, sisters.  
Who of course saw that fucking video and they were all asking me questions like I was helding the ultimate truth.

People in the comments were guessing.

Laughing. Wondering who the mystery girl was. One asshole wrote, "Probably just a fan. Doesn't look like his type. She too hot, way out of his league."

I threw my phone again.

The entire world could go to hell for all I cared.
Because I ruined the only thing that ever felt... quiet.  
Real.

This time, I didn't bother picking it up.

She thought I chose someone else.
She thought she didn't matter.
She thought I forgot she existed the second another girl touched me.

And maybe the worst part...
She's not wrong to think that.

I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I was drunk. Distracted. Fucking disoriented after winning a Grand Prix I thought I'd never win. Even a little mad because I haven't heard from her all day.  
But that is still no excuse...
Because, of course you didn't heard, you stupid asshole, she was flying across the whole continent to surprise you. And in all the noise, I didn't hear her heart break until it was too fucking late.

And I hate myself for it.

I hate how I've fucked up everything.

———

In a crazy, twisted hope she might still be around, I stayed in Baku another day.
Checked some random hotels.
Checked the airport.
But it would have been easier to look for the needle in the haystack.

Now, I was in Monaco. My flat looked like a showroom, messy and impersonal.

I sat on the balcony for hours, staring at the sea, trying to write a message I couldn't send.
Trying to find the right words for someone who wouldn't even read them.

"I'm sorry" felt too small.

"I love you" felt too late.

And the thing is...I never got to tell her that part.
Even if she somehow said it that night.
But I do love her. Probably long before she realized she loved me too.

And now she was gone.

I saw her in London.
Not in real life, of course, that would've required a miracle I didn't deserve.
But on Instagram. A fan had posted a photo with her, beaming, holding one of her books, and Olivia was right there beside them, smiling.

It was a weak, worn-out smile. But a smile, still.
She looked beautiful.
She also looked thinner. Her eyes darker underneath. Tired.
Not just tired, burnt out.

A sudden urge to punch my fucking face for being the cause of it.

The caption said something like "Can't believe I met the author of 'Heaven was a Lie' ! You're incredible Olivia!"

I stared at it for minutes, the words bleeding into one another.
So she was in the UK. And she was... doing fine?
No. Not fine. Just, functioning.

And I hated that I wasn't part of it anymore. Hated that I had no right to be. That I couldn't walk into one of those signings and apologize in front of everyone if I had to. I just wanted to see her. Even if she spat in my face. Even if she didn't look at me.
Just one more look.

My fingers itched to message her again, but I knew it would bounce. I tried again her email ...the same.

So I searched Sofia on Instagram. I remembered her name from Olivia's stories.
Her profile was private. But her DMs were open.
I hesitated. Then typed:

Me:
Hi. I know you have no reason to talk to me. But if there's any chance you can tell me if she's okay... I just want to know.

She replied an hour later.

Sofia Martens:
She's alive. That's all you need to know.
You should really leave her alone. For good.

That was it.
Those lines. Cold. Deserved.
And it felt like ice in my lungs.

Next on the calendar was Singapore.
But before that, we had to be at MTC. A couple days for prep, simulator work, media meetings. Stuff I normally could do half-asleep.
This time, I was actually on a automatic pilot.

I showed up late for the first meeting. My engineer asked a question and I gave an answer that didn't even make sense. I drove like a beginner in the sim.
At lunch, I sat alone, pushing food around on my plate.

Zak raised an eyebrow but didn't press.
People knew.
Not what happened. But that something did.

Lando had been weird around me all day.
Not in the usual sarcastic, hyperactive, bouncing-off-the-walls kind of way. No, this was different. Calculated. Careful.
And then during sim debrief, he said nothing when my lap was a mess. Usually, he'd roast me. Today? Not even a smirk.

I was barely holding it together, drowning in guilt, in heartbreak, in Olivia-shaped silence.  
My fingers were twitching around my phone like some addict, checking for notifications I knew wouldn't come.

And Lando...he just kept avoiding eye contact.

We shoot some promo for Singapore. Me pretending to smile while reading stats and pretending to joke about the humidity. I barely understood a word I said.
We were still holding props when Lando turned to me.

"Mate"  he said. "You look like you've been hit by a freight train."

I didn't reply.
We finished filming and it was just me and Lando in the lounge.
"I take it she still hasn't answered?" he continued watching how desperately I was looking at my phone the second I had a chance.

I didn't look up. "She blocked me. Everywhere."
A long silence followed. He scratched the back of his neck, then sighed.
"You really fucked up, haven't you?" he said.
I didn't even flinch. "Yeah."

A pause.

"Maybe you should give her time... I dunno..." he added. "But what happened between you and her? And how...cause I find it quite interesting."
"I can't..." I said, voice tight. "Nevermind. I'm not having this conversation with you."

"Why not?" he said with a mischevious grin.

"Because."

I stood, ready to walk out.
"She's fine, you know" Lando called after me. "Trying to move on from... whatever you and her had."

I stopped.

Slowly turned. "How...?"
My stomach dropped, my face dropped.

"You saw her?" I said between gritted teeth. "You went after her?"

Lando shrugged, too casual. "Maybe she deserves someone better. Someone who really appreciates her. Someone who doesn't go kissing random women on a night out."
The punch landed square in the center of my chest.

"Funny" I said, stepping closer. "Coming from you. Who sleeps with a different girl every time we land in a new city."
He didn't flinch. "Maybe I've changed."

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Really? That fast? Wow!"

"Would that be so shocking?" he said, and for the first time, his voice didn't sound like a jab, it sounded honest. "I like her. Really like her."
Silence stretched between us, tight and ugly.
I clenched my jaw. "You went to see her. You didn't even tell me."

"You didn't deserve to know."

"Excuse me? And you think you do?" I snapped.
He shook his head. "No. But at least I didn't break her."

I turned, walked out before I did something we'd both regret.
But the rage sat in my chest like fire and ash, swallowing every rational thought I had left.

Chapter Text

The jet hummed around me, all smooth leather and soft lighting, like the whole world had been padded in silence.
Courtesy of a sponsor and we were flying private to Singapore.

I sank into my seat and stared out the oval window, jaw tight. Cloud cover. A blur of white and sky. Nothing to hold on to.

Lando strolled in like he didn't have a care in the fucking world, tossed his backpack into the seat across from mine, and stretched out with a dramatic sigh.

And then he pulled it out.
Her book.

Echoes Beneath. The black and ivory cover I knew too well.
Now, s copy of her book was in his hands. Pages flipping casually under his fingers.

I tried not to look. Failed.

From time to time, he'd pick up his phone.  
Tap something. Grin.

Text. Scroll. Grin.

Text. Scroll. Fucking grin.

My knuckles ached from how hard I was clenching the armrest. I could feel my pulse in my throat. My chest. My teeth.

"Good book" Lando muttered, eyes still on the page. "Mysterious. Smart. A little unhinged. Kind of like her."

I said nothing.

He glanced up. "You should read this chapter. It's about a man who thinks he's got everything under control. Until he doesn't."
I snapped my head toward him. "Are you trying to piss me off?"
He smirked. "Is it working?"

Silence.
Because I will not give him any satisfaction. I know what he was trying to do...

"You know, you keep acting like this is some competition" I said. "But it's not."
He shrugged. "Good. Then I don't have to play fair."

I stood suddenly, needing space. Air. Anything.
The altitude wasn't the only thing crushing my chest anymore.

Singapore wrapped around me. Hot, gleaming, overwhelming. It never let up, not even for a second.  
Neither did the whispering.

Media day was brutal. A thousand questions hurled at me with smiles and microphones. None of them about the video, but I could feel it in their eyes. The way their gaze lingered just a little too long. The way some journalists held their phones too conveniently close to the table.  
Everyone saw it. Everyone knew that it was something more to it.

Practice sessions gave me a brief illusion of focus. Sharp braking points, telemetry, Tom's voice in my ear like a lifeline, but it never lasted. Between FP2 and FP3, I caught Lando grinning at his phone again.

Thumb tapping. Typing something.

I didn't ask. I don't usually ask or care but now, I had some fucking twisted feeling that he was texting her...
I didn't want confirmation. I'd already imagined every possibility and each one gutted me more than the last.

Then came Saturday. Qualifying.
Lando on pole.

Me? P5. 

Could've been worse. Could've been better. Tom said we were still on for strong points.  I nodded. Smiled like a good soldier.
Faked it for the cameras. Fake it for the people around me.

Race day. Strategy room.  
The familiar smell of coffee, carbon, rubber and nerves.

I sat beside Lando, trying to keep my shit together while the team talked sector gaps and tire degradation.  
Lando had his phone under the table, still smirking like the smug bastard he was.

Andrea glanced at him sharply. "Lando. You want to be part of this briefing or should we just email you the strategy?"
Lando chuckled. "I'm all ears, boss."
I didn't look at him. If I did, I might've thrown something.

Andrea snapped. "Phones on the table. Now."
Sharp. No room for argument.
Lando lifted his eyebrows, "Seriously?"
Andrea's voice was ice. "Do I look like I'm joking? On the table. Both of you."

We obeyed. Slowly.

I placed mine screen-down like always. Lando smirked and dropped his next to mine, screen up. And that's when it happened.

A notification popped.

Olivia de Vos.
iMessage.

Just her name. Nothing else.
But that was enough.
My heart stuttered. My eyes shot to the screen, then to Lando. A sudden urge to throw up.

He saw me see it.

And without a word, he flipped the phone over, face down, like it would undo what just happened.

Too fucking late.

The silence between us now felt like a loaded gun.
And before I could say anything, before I could even breathe, the door opened.
Zak strolled in, all wide grin and energy like he always carried, and behind him...

Victor de Vos.

I felt the room shift. Even Lando straightened in his chair, phone disappearing into his pocket like it burned him. Andrea cleared his throat. Everyone suddenly way too focused on their laptops.

Victor was exactly how I remembered. Polished. Corporate like. Perfect sponsor package. But his eyes, his eyes were locked on me.
He walked in like he owned the place. Like he'd earned the right to sit here. And maybe he had, now that he was McLaren's newest sponsor.

"Gentlemen" he said, tone smooth. "Just wanted to wish you all the best today. Big opportunity ahead. Red Bull's creeping up in the Constructors'. We're only twenty points ahead, gotta avoid distractions."

We? Already we?  
Dude, relax a bit. You've been on board for how long now? I rolled my eyes at his statement.

His gaze flicked straight to me.
I met it, unblinking. My fists clenched under the table.

Then the bastard added, "Luckily, it rarely rains in Singapore. No drama expected."  
Something in me snapped.

"What is that supposed to mean?"
Victor smiled. Dry. Cold. Calculated. "Nothing, Oscar. Just saying Verstappen thrives in the rain. Not everyone does. Others ...just prefer theatrics."

He knew. He fucking knew.

He probably recognized his ex-wife. Or... I don't know.  
Anyhow, fuck you, Victor!

I could feel every breath in the room pause. Andrea stared straight ahead. Lando looked at the table. Zak's hand shot up like a referee trying to keep a fight from breaking out.
"Well, I have no doubt our boys will give one hundred percent" Zak said, eyes darting between us. "On-track. No matter what's happening off-track."

I forced a smile so tight my face hurt. "Of course we are."
Victor gave a slow, smug nod. "Good."

Another smile like he'd won something.

And then he turned and walked out like he hadn't just pissed gasoline on everything I was trying to hold together.
The door shut.

Silence.

Lando shifted beside me. "That guy's a dick." he whispered.

I didn't answer.
My entire world was spinning out of control, and I had no way to stop it.

On Sunday, the grid was a blur. Like every fucking time before the start of the race.
Everything buzzed. The heat, the tension, the smell of fuel hanging heavy in the air.  
Mechanics darted in and out of my vision, headphones pressed to ears, hands flying. Reporters, VIP guests, cameras.

But inside my mind, it was dead silent.

Just the low hum of the engine.
Just my heartbeat pounding in my throat.
I stared at the five red lights. Waiting.

Holding my breath.

Lights out. I launched.

Tires screamed. Cars jostled. It was chaos. Immediate. Pure. My pulse snapped into focus and I gripped the wheel like my life depended on it. I lost a place on the beggining but quickly took it back.

I didn't care about strategy. Or saving tires. Or lifting through the corners. I was aggressive from the start. Reckless, almost. Tom kept saying "Manage pace, Oscar. Keep it clean."

But I needed to feel something. Something other than the slow decay inside my chest.
Every time I braked late or clipped a curb, I thought of her.

Of her soaked in rain.
Of her voice when she said, "I'm already forgetting you."

Sector after sector, I pushed harder. Overtook Hamilton. Overtook Russell. Defended like hell from Russel, then I put a massive gap to him. As much as I pushed I couldn't manage to get Max. And basically, I was driving by myself with no one in my front nor in my rear view mirror.  
The car danced under me and I pushed it to the limits.

When I crossed the line after the final lap, I just exhaled like I hadn't in hours.
Lando had taken the win. Max second.
I was third.

“The car's been exceptional all weekend and got some great points for the team. Thanks to the team for their hard work. Time for a short break now, and we'll come back fighting in Austin." I told David Coulthard at the post race interview, ending in with a nod and a polished smile.

Podium, champagne, the usual chaos, all another blur. My smile was mechanical. Posed. My heart not in it. Lando sprayed the bottle like a lunatic, leaning a little too close to Max, laughing.
I didn't even bother trying to fake the joy.

The air conditioning inside hospitality was a relief, but the knot in my chest stayed heavy.

Then I saw them…my family.

Mum, her boyfriend, Dad, and all three of my sisters crowded into one corner of the lounge. I gave a tired smile as I walked in.

Mum hugged me first, tight and warm. "We're so proud of you" she whispered into my shoulder.
"Good drive" Dad added, clapping me on the back.

But then... Hattie.

She was grinning like a devil. A phone in one hand, a drink in the other. "Well, well, if it isn't Rain Boy himself" she teased. "You're going viral again. But not for your overtakes this time."

I rolled my eyed.

"You looked like you're in a Nicholas Sparks movie" Hattie continued, deadpan. "Except worse dressed."

"Give it a rest, Hattie" I muttered.
"Oh come on, I'm just saying. Very The Notebook meets F1, don't you think?"

I grabbed the water bottle from the table and sat down, rubbing a hand across my face.
Mum gave Hattie the look. The one that could shut down a circus. Her voice cut in, firm. "Leave your brother alone, Hattie."  
Hattie rolled her eyes but backed off, tapping something on her phone. "Fine. But it's still cinematic as hell."

Mum looked at me closely. "You okay honey?"
I shook my head. "Nothing that matters anymore." said with a shrug.

But it did.
It mattered more than any podium ever could.
Third place today on a podium and somehow still managed to feel like I'd lost everything.

The Marina Bay was still buzzing below, but I wasn't part of it. The room was quiet, too quiet. I'd turned off the lights, lying on the bed in the dark, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling like it had the answers. Ipads tucked in my ears, music too loud.

My phone was somewhere on the carpet, dead or maybe just off, I couldn't remember.  
I didn't want to check. And, oh well…It wasn’t like I’ll be recivieng any text or call from her any time soon, or ever.

Another thing that was heavily pressing my mind… after what I saw earlier.

Her name. On Lando's phone.

She was talking to him. Or texting. Something.
Why…like really why?

A knock came at the door. I didn't move.
More knocks louder and louder.
Then a voice: "Oscar. Open up. Or I'll break in and eat your minibar snacks out of spite."

Hattie.

I dragged myself off the bed, barefoot, hair a mess, and opened the door. She pushed in before I could speak, carrying a paper bag and two cans of Coke.

"You didn't come to dinner" she said casually, setting things down on the desk.

"I wasn't hungry."

"Yeah, well, I brought you food anyway. Be grateful."

She threw herself on the bed. I stayed standing, staring out at the skyline, the city bleeding neon into the black waters of the bay.
"I'm fine, Hattie. You don't have to babysit me."

She took a sip of her drink. "You're obviously not fine. You looked like a corpse on that podium. Congrats, by the way."

"Thanks" I muttered.
A pause. Then her tone softened.

"God. You really fucked things with her, didn’t you?"
I didn't answer. My throat felt like gravel. Hattie leaned forward. "I watched that video a couple of times. I know the world saw some mystery woman crying in the rain. But we're not stupid. That was Olivia, wasn't it?"

I swallowed hard, nodding once.

"And you hurt her..."

Another nod. Slower this time. I turned around and leaned back against the window. "I fucked it all up, Hattie. So badly I don't even know if there's a way to come back from it."

She stayed quiet, just watching me.

"She showed up for me" I whispered. "After everything... she showed up. And I ruined it. I let someone else…FUCK. I didn't even push her away. I didn't do anything."

Silence stretched between us.

Then Hattie stood and came over and leaned on the window beside me.

"Okay” she admitted, "you made a mistake. A big one” she gave me a slap on the head it “And yeah, you'll probably have to crawl through hell to make it right. But you're not a lost cause, Oscar."
I smiled faintly "She's talking to Lando."
Hattie rolled her eyes. "Lando flirts with everyone, Oscar. He probably flirts with Siri when no one's watching."

"She replied to him."

"And maybe that's her way of coping. Maybe it means something. Maybe it doesn't. But what you do now matters more than who she answers."
I looked down at my feet. "I don't think she'll ever want to hear from me again."

"Maybe not today or tomorrow" Hattie said softly. "But don't let this version of you be the last one she remembers."
I turned away again, heart heavy. "You think I still have a chance?"

She shrugged, walking toward the door. "That depends. Are you going to keep sulking in the dark like a Victorian widow... or are you going to fight for her?"

Chapter Text

OLIVIA

Birmingham and Oxford were... peaceful, compared to Bristol.

The night in my hotel room in Birmingham, I ordered room service I barely touched, poured myself a glass of red wine, and turned on the Singapore Grand Prix.

I didn't know why.

No, that was a lie, I knew exactly why.

The second I saw him on the screen...focused, helmet on, face unreadable, I felt something clawing at my chest.

He was still him. Still maddeningly good at what he did.

And I hated that I still cared.

I watched the entire race from the armchair, curled under a throw blanket. Lando on pole, Verstappen in second. Oscar in P5.  
My stomach twisted every time the camera cut to him.

And then... he made it to the podium.

Third place.

He looked exhausted. Hollow-eyed. Like he was running on fumes of something other than fuel.

When they handed him the trophy, he lifted it like it weighed more than it should.

I turned off the TV before the champagne sprayed.
I wasn't ready for celebration.  
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
And probably I should stop watching any other race...

Safe to say, there weren't no other sudden appearances from certain McLaren drivers during the readings.
No dramatic entrances, no brooding F1 stars lurking in bookstore courtyards. Though technically, McLaren still managed to worm its way into my day. Just not in person.

Because Lando had a phone. And an unlimited supply of ridiculous, witty, oddly charming text messages.

Messages that shouldn't have made me smile, but did.

Messages like:

"You miss me yet? Don't lie, Olivia. Even your cigarette knows you do."

"Halfway through Echoes Beneath. Honestly? Bit offended the psychopathic villain isn't named Lando. Feels like a missed opportunity."

"Ok. Ok, I'll give you permission to write a book based about me for the male lead character. "

I never gave him more than a line or two back. But that didn't stop him.
He asked about my next stops. Said he hoped to see me again.

I never answered that part.
And he never showed up, or not yet.

Still, a small part of me, against all logic, found comfort in those messages.
Maybe because they weren't trying to dissect my soul like Oscar had.  Maybe because I just wanted something light. Easy. Surface-level.

Even if Lando Norris was anything but surface.

In Oxford, I stole a quiet afternoon to myself and walked through the old cobbled paths of the university I once called home. I hadn't returned in years. The stone buildings stood unchanged, but I wasn't the same girl who used to pace those halls, books clutched to her chest, dreaming of stories.  
It was strangely comforting, like visiting an older version of myself, now buried beneath chapters I never thought I'd live through.

I turned a corner out of habit and found myself in front of the old library courtyard. Quiet, the ivy-covered walls whispering memories I hadn't meant to summon.

That's when I saw it.
The bench.
That was where Victor kissed me for the first time.

I stared at it, motionless.

God, we were so young. I remember thinking back then that life was going to be simple.  Finish college, build a future, raise a family.  
Be happy.

That bench knew the beginning of us. And maybe, somehow, it also carried the weight of everything that came after.

I didn't sit down.
I just stood there, letting the moment pass through me like wind through the leaves above.

And then I kept walking.

Because I wasn't that girl anymore. And I had no intention of going back.

And with that, the UK chapter of the tour closed. October and November were already blocked out for the USA:
New York, Boston, Chicago, Salt Lake City, Seattle, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Las Vegas.

It looked glamorous on the itinerary.

But in my chest, it felt hollow.

So before crossing the Atlantic, I made a decision for the one week off.
I'll return to spend it where my real life was.

Home.

I didn't tell anyone. Not even Liam. Especially not Liam.
I wanted to see his face light up with surprise when I will walk through the door.

The train ride from London to Bruges was quiet. Peaceful.
I read. Slept a little. Wrote another chapter.
And successfully ignored the unopened text from Oscar still sitting in my blocked folder like a ghost.

Late september in Bruges, with the familiar mild cold and slighty windy weather. The rain being always a posibility.  
Less crowed streets. The air so crisp it stung my lungs.

I filled my arms with gift bags.

Toys and books for Liam, a perfume for my mother, cigars for my dad, a ridiculously overpriced silk scarf for Eva, a handmade set of cute little coffee cups for Sofia, and a nice bottle of wine for Robert.
And something more for Sofia, a cheeky tote that read "My Best Friend is a Mess but I Love Her Anyway."

For a moment, walking those cobbled streets again, my coat wrapped tight around me, I let myself believe..
...maybe, just maybe, I could still reclaim the pieces of my life that didn't hurt.

The second I saw Liam burst out of my parents' front door, barefoot and wild-eyed, I felt like I could finally breathe again.

"Mama!" he shouted, arms wide, voice cracking with joy as he barreled toward me.
I dropped the bags on the gravel and dropped to my knees, catching him in the tightest hug my body could manage.

His arms wrapped around my neck. His curls smelled like soap and grass and sunshine. His little heart thumped against mine like a bird desperate to fly.

"I missed you" he mumbled into my shoulder.

God. My heart crumbled.
I held him tighter. "I missed you more. So, so much."
I didn't let go for a full minute. Maybe more.

Back at our house, it smelled like stillness.

Like old wood and lavender and books left half open. The silence almost startled me after the chaos of the past weeks.

Liam ran around unpacking his toys like a storm of joy, squealing at every new discovery I had brought him. I let him roam free, barefoot on the floorboards, while I started gathering the packages and letters that had piled up by the door.
Most were predictable. Publishing things. Fan mail. Postcards.

One looked like it had been handled by an overenthusiastic postman during a thunderstorm.

But then... there was one.

Wrapped so elegantly it felt like a crime to tear the ribbon. No sender name. No label. Just weight. Substantial. Intimate.
Curious, I pulled it onto the kitchen table.

Liam was in the living room now, sword-fighting invisible dark forces with his new lightsabber.

I untied the ribbon and peeled the paper back. And the air caught in my lungs.

First editions.
Of the novels I dreamed of owning.
The ones I had always whispered about in rare-book shops, knowing it was so damn hard own them.
Impossibly rare. Obscenely priced.  
I was starting to believe they were myths.

How...?

There was a letter nestled between the spines. Cream-colored envelope. My name written on it.

My fingers trembled as I opened it.
And then I read:

"Olivia,

I don't know how to begin this because there's no sentence I can write that will undo what I did.

I've gone over it in my head a thousand times, and each time it plays out worse than the last. There are moments I wish I could rewind, delete, replace with something else, but real life doesn't work like sim-racing.

And there are no pit stops for the heart.  
No strategy for regret.

So I'll just say this.

I saw you that night. Not just in the rain. I mean... really saw you.
You weren't just the woman that has been in my mind for every damn second since I've passed that bookstore door, and haven’t even tried or wanted. You were everything I never let myself believe I could have.
And I ruined it. Because I let fear, stupidity, and a second of carelessness write a chapter I never meant for us.

These books...they're not an apology. You deserve more than that. They're a piece of your dream, something you've always wanted.  
I know I can't give you peace, not after the storm I've brought into your life. But maybe, in a quiet moment, they can remind you of who you are.

Of what matters. Of everything you've built before I came in and lit a match to your calm.

I don't expect forgiveness. I probably don't even deserve to be remembered. But if there's still a small part of you that wonders if any of it was real...the bookstore, the late-night talks, our little secret. The silence that said everything, I need you to know: it was. For me, it was the most real thing I've ever known.