Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They were the kind of boys who should’ve gotten in trouble more often — but somehow never did. Maybe it was the charm, or maybe it was the Leclerc-Schumacher last names that got teachers and neighbors to look the other way.

Arthur Leclerc had spent long summers at the Schumacher estate in Germany — the house with the vast garden, the cold floors, and that heavy silence that only great legacies carry. It was Mick who introduced him to that world. To Michael, who watched them with a distant kind of warmth, and to Corinna, who treated Arthur like a second son.

They’d race toy cars until the sun dipped below the hills. Dirt under their nails, scrapes on their knees, making up rivalries and podium celebrations long before they ever wore race suits.

Arthur also got to know David Schumacher — Mick’s uncle — but they never had the same closeness. David was a little more aloof, a little more prideful.

But to Mick, Arthur was his brother in every way that counted. They shared secrets. Bruises. First crushes. Tears after races that didn’t go well. Arthur was there during those early karting days where every loss felt like the end of the world, and every win was enough to believe they’d make it all the way.

Arthur remembered Corinna once saying, “You boys... you’ll never be alone, not if you’ve got each other.”

And they weren’t. Not for a long time.

That friendship was golden, almost untouchable.

Until life got complicated. Until F1 politics, and family shadows, and career gaps drew lines between them. Until Arthur found himself part of the Leclerc empire — a kingdom ruled by Charles, with sharp expectations and little room for softness.

And Mick — well, Mick was a Schumacher. With a legacy too heavy for even two boys to carry.

But before all of that, it was simple.

Just Arthur and Mick.

Boys in the summer sun, pretending the world didn’t already have plans for them.

Arthur had always been a delicate thing.

He wasn’t weak—no, not that—but he was *gentle*, in a way the world often tried to crush. Sensitive. Thoughtful. A little anxious, sometimes. He cried when he scraped his knee, and he got nervous before kart races. He hated shouting. Hated conflict. And the noise of the paddock overwhelmed him on bad days.

But then there was Mick.

Mick who was loud when Arthur went quiet. Mick who jumped into fights if someone mocked Arthur’s stutter, or his soft-spoken voice. Mick who pulled him by the wrist and said *“Come on, don’t be scared.”* Mick who made Arthur feel like he could be a little brave too, just by standing beside him.

Their friendship was seamless, effortless—something neither of them had to work for, only protect.

Arthur’s mother used to say *“Mick is good for you, mon ange.”* And she was right. When Arthur was frozen by fear, Mick would move. When Arthur second-guessed himself, Mick believed for both of them. When Arthur couldn’t speak, Mick had already understood what he meant.

They were boys who shared beds at sleepovers, who whispered secrets under blankets and planned their futures like a fairy tale. One would win Monaco, the other would win Spa. Then they’d both stand on podiums, side by side, waving to the crowd, helmets off.

Arthur didn’t have other friends. He didn’t need them.

Mick *was* the friend. His best. His only. His brother not by blood, but by everything else that mattered.

Their bond wasn’t just friendship—it was rhythm, harmony, like two lines of poetry written for each other.

And to Arthur, Mick was everything he wasn't: bold, steady, fearless.

And to Mick, Arthur was everything he kept hidden: softness, vulnerability, heart.

Together, they were perfect.
A balance.
A little miracle.
Until the world grew louder, and the dreams got bigger.

When they got older, things started to change—but not all at once. It was slow, like the soft pull of a tide, like growing out of a favorite shirt and not noticing until the sleeves no longer reached your wrists.

Mick made it first. Formula One.
A seat at Ferrari.
The red suit. The prancing horse stitched to his chest. The legacy.

It was everything he had worked for, and Arthur was proud—so incredibly proud—but the ache in his chest was real too. Because Arthur was still in Formula Two, circling tracks that no longer felt like home. And Mick was… gone. Busy. Famous.

They didn’t speak as often, and Arthur didn’t blame him. He knew what came with the spotlight. Press. Sponsorships. Constant travel. A thousand things that demanded attention.

But Mick never forgot.

He wrote letters.

Handwritten, not typed.

Long letters, filled with messy scribbles and little doodles in the margins. Sometimes they were about races, about pressure, about how strange it felt to be in his father’s seat. Sometimes they were just memories—*remember this? remember when we snuck into the kart garage at night? remember how you cried when I crashed at Lausitzring and you thought I died?*

There was always warmth in his words. Always softness.

Even when Arthur didn’t write back right away, Mick understood. He always had.

“*When you get here,*” Mick wrote once, “*we’ll race side by side. Just like we planned, okay? Don’t rush. I’ll wait.*”

That was Mick.

Kind. Unshaken. Loyal.

He smiled for the cameras, but in the quiet, he still remembered the boy who was afraid of thunder and only stopped crying when he held his hand. The boy who called him his best friend when he had no one else. The boy who believed in him first.

Arthur missed him more than he could say.

Sometimes, when the paddock felt cold and the pressure weighed too much, he’d find one of those old letters and read it again.

Mick was far.
But never distant.
And never gone.

Mick was unlike any living being Arthur had ever met.

He wasn’t just kind—he *embodied* it, like it pulsed through his veins. There was a quiet grace to him, something gentle and unwavering, like the way the sun still rises even on stormy days. He was warm, not just in how he spoke, but in how he *was*. His presence made rooms feel safer. Calmer.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

Mick was soft-spoken, always careful with his words, like they carried weight—like he *knew* words could both heal and harm, and he only ever meant to heal. There was something in his eyes, too. Not sharp. Not distant. They were observant, yes—*calculating*, in the way someone has to be in this world to survive—but never cold. Never cruel. Not like Charles’s.

No, Mick’s eyes didn’t harden the way Charles’s often did. There was no judgment in them. Just understanding. Deep, quiet understanding. Like he saw straight through you, flaws and all, and loved you anyway.

Arthur loved him for it.

He loved him in ways he didn’t always understand—ways that made his chest ache and his throat tighten. It wasn’t just about friendship anymore. It hadn't been for a long time. There was something sacred about Mick to him. Something rare.

Mick *knew* when Arthur was struggling without needing to be told. He knew when to give space, and when to pull him back in with a soft smile and a quiet, “Come here.”

When Arthur’s world felt too heavy, Mick was the one who made it light again.

He had this strange, beautiful way of *believing* in people—truly believing—and maybe that’s what Arthur cherished most. Because Mick believed in *him*. Even when Arthur didn't.

And that kind of love—the patient, quiet, steadfast kind—wasn’t something Arthur ever expected to find.

But he did. In Mick.

Arthur hated thunderstorms.

Not in the childish way most people grew out of—but in the deep, bone-chilling way that lingered long after the first crack of thunder. He was fourteen, supposedly “grown,” racing in karting leagues across Europe. By then, he should’ve been braver. Or at least, that’s what everyone kept telling him.

But thunder made his chest tighten. Lightning made his hands tremble. And when the storms came, he always felt small. Powerless.

That night at the karting camp in Genk, the skies had turned black with little warning. The rain came down in sheets, rattling the windows of the small dorm they were staying in. The thunder wasn’t distant—it was *angry*, cracking the sky open like it was breaking something apart.

Arthur sat on the floor beside his bed, legs pulled tightly to his chest, trying not to cry.

The door creaked open quietly, and there was Mick, barefoot and calm, hair messy from sleep.

“Arthur?” he asked gently.

Arthur didn’t answer.

But Mick didn’t press. He just stepped in, soft-footed, and sat beside him on the floor without a word. For a long moment, they didn’t speak. Another rumble cracked through the sky. Arthur flinched.

Mick noticed, of course.

“Do you want me to tell you something stupid?” he asked, tilting his head.

Arthur gave a weak nod.

“I used to think thunder was God bowling,” Mick said, cracking a small smile. “And lightning was when he got a strike.”

Arthur laughed—barely. Just a little breath of air. “That’s so dumb.”

“I know,” Mick grinned. “But it helped. Want me to stay until it passes?”

Arthur hesitated, then gave a tiny nod, his voice barely audible. “Please.”

Mick didn’t say anything more. He just stayed. Warm. Present. Like the thunder didn’t bother him at all.

They sat like that—shoulders touching, legs crossed, the storm still wild outside.

Arthur didn't forget that night.

Because it wasn’t just that Mick comforted him.

It was that Mick never laughed at him. Never made him feel ashamed. Never told him to “man up.” He just *understood*, like always.

And Arthur would remember that feeling for the rest of his life.

At first, to Mick, Arthur was just a brother.

The way you look out for someone younger, a little more fragile, a little more unsure of the world. Arthur was soft, in a way Mick had always felt protective of. That kind of softness didn’t survive long in racing—Mick knew that—but Arthur held onto it anyway. Like something holy.

Mick was older by a year and a half, but it always felt like more. He’d been through more, seen more. There was something unshakeable about him, something that made Arthur gravitate toward him like a second sun. When they were young, it was simple. Innocent. Two boys stuck at the same tracks, in the same brutal world, clinging to each other because no one else really understood.

But it changed.

Slowly. Almost painfully slow. Like a candle that took years to burn down. It wasn’t overnight. Not even in a summer. But sometime between the long midnight conversations, between the hugs that lasted a second too long, and the way Arthur lit up when Mick smiled at him—something shifted.

Mick started noticing things.

The way Arthur’s voice got quiet when he was worried. The nervous habit he had of tugging his sleeves over his hands. The fierce way he defended people he loved, even when it put him in trouble.

Arthur wasn’t just “like a brother” anymore.

He was *Arthur*—raw, bright, and so breakable that Mick sometimes felt like his hands would never be steady enough to hold him properly. He tried to bury it. To rationalize it. He told himself Arthur didn’t see him that way.

But Arthur did.

God, he did.

He’d loved Mick for what felt like forever. Quietly. Desperately. He just never said it. Maybe because he didn’t know how. Maybe because they both lived in a world where loving like that—soft, slow, real—was too vulnerable, too fragile, too risky.

But they loved each other.

Definitely. Absolutely. Unquestionably.

It just hadn’t been spoken yet. Not out loud.

Not *yet*.

Mick was doing rather decent in Formula One—not winning races, not setting the world on fire, but proving himself, slowly. Quietly. Like he always did. The kind of driver who didn’t force greatness but earned it one lap at a time. He was steady. Grounded. Ferrari liked that. The media liked him too, which helped. He was “Michael Schumacher’s son,” but he didn’t act like it. He carried the name with grace, never arrogance.

Arthur, meanwhile, was drowning.

Formula Two wasn’t kind to boys like him. It ate them alive and spat them out. He wasn’t the fastest, not always. Sponsors were slipping through his fingers. Management was breathing down his neck. The Leclerc name brought pressure, not mercy. It got worse every season. His confidence was brittle—he hid it with a smile and nods in press conferences, but it was breaking.

There was a moment—barely anyone noticed—when the team quietly started hinting he might be better off back in GT3. A demotion, even if no one used the word.

It almost happened.

He’d nearly packed his bags.

The worst part wasn’t the shame. It was the thought of leaving Mick behind. That stupid, aching thought that he might never catch up to him. That Mick would move on—grow, race, win—and Arthur would just be the name people remembered from F2 standings. Just a footnote to his brother’s legacy, and now to Mick’s too.

He didn’t tell Mick any of that.

Not in full.

But Mick *knew*.

And that knowledge stuck like a thorn in Mick’s chest.

Mick felt absolutely sorry for him—but not in the way Arthur thought. Not in the cold, distant, condescending way others did. Not like the team bosses who lowered their voices when they spoke about Arthur’s potential, or the commentators who softened their tone when talking about his results, like he was already fading. Mick *hurt* for him. Because he *loved* him.

But Arthur couldn’t see that.

Not anymore.

By now, pity was the one thing he couldn’t bear. It clung to him like oil. He was drowning in it, and even Mick’s kindness started to sting. Arthur grew colder. Not cruel, not sharp—but quiet in a way that said *don’t speak to me like I’m broken.*

He couldn’t handle Mick looking at him like that—with those gentle eyes, full of warmth. He mistook it for sympathy.

He mistook *love* for sympathy.

And that broke Mick’s heart even more.

Because he could see Arthur slipping away, smile by smile, word by word. He wanted to reach out, to hold him still, to say *“It’s not pity. It’s you. I love you.”* But it never came out like that.

Instead, Mick just stayed. Wrote letters. Showed up. Gave him space, while quietly refusing to leave.

And Arthur?

Arthur didn’t know what he needed more—

To be alone, or to be held so tightly it might finally put him back together.

Arthur had never really been good with emotions—his own, or anyone else’s. He bottled everything up in neat, quiet silences. Smiles when he was breaking. Shrugs when he wanted to scream. He’d grown up beneath the shadow of a family that demanded excellence but didn’t quite know how to cradle softness. Charles was the storm; Arthur had always been the calm after it. Quiet, uncertain, easy to overlook. Easy to hurt, too.

But not to Mick.

Mick could read him like a book.

He always had.

Arthur could sit there, stiff and unbothered, arms crossed, eyes on the floor, saying *“I’m fine.”* And Mick would know he wasn’t. He’d know it from the twitch in his jaw, the hollow in his voice, the way he gripped the sleeve of his hoodie just a bit too tightly.

It was eerie, sometimes. The way Mick just *knew.*

But that was Mick’s gift—like his father, he had a magnetism that pulled people in. Not because he demanded attention, but because he *listened.* Because he *saw* people. Really saw them. Not just their names or records or public smiles, but the broken things beneath—the aching parts.

And with Arthur, he never pushed. Never pried. Just waited.

And when Arthur was ready—when the dam cracked and the words finally came spilling out—it was always Mick who was there to catch them.

Arthur hated how easily Mick made him *feel.*
But god, he loved him for it too.

Two years passed. Quietly, bitterly, and with too many words left unsaid.

Mick and Arthur grew their separate ways—*supposedly.* They drifted, they changed, and most painfully, they argued. Not over important things. No, those they left buried beneath the surface like sunken treasure. Instead, they fought over stupid, throwaway things. Training routines. Simulator hours. A snide comment in a press interview.

Small things. Things that should have never mattered.

But they did.

Because underneath all of it, under the cold shoulders and the dry replies, was a history too fragile to name. A bond too sacred to admit was breaking. They’d been *everything* to each other once. Best friends. Constants. Safe places.

And now?

Now, it was just radio silence. The kind that stretches too long to be accidental.

Arthur hated how much he missed him. How much it still hurt. But pride—*God,* pride was a cruel thing. He didn’t reach out. Mick didn’t either. Maybe neither of them knew how anymore.

But late at night, when Arthur lay in hotel beds far from home, scrolling back through old messages or staring at the empty “Mick” contact on his phone, he’d wonder if it was too late.

If Mick had let go first.
If he was the only one still holding on.

Chapter Text

Arthur sat alone in the small hotel room, the curtains drawn against the early morning light, though the room felt far too bright anyway. The papers on the desk were all unread, the laptop still closed. He had a rhythm to his mornings now, one that no longer included Mick. Coffee. Shower. Suit up. Head to the track. Repeat. The steps were mechanical, like he’d rehearsed them in a dream he didn’t want to remember.

And yet, in the quiet between the ticks of the clock, Arthur felt the hollow ache of absence. He reached for his phone again, as if it might magically bring Mick back. But the screen was empty—messages unsent, calls unanswered. He knew Mick was out there somewhere, just as he always had been, but that reality felt like a cruel joke.

The paddock was noisy that day. Engines revving, tires squealing, radio chatter cracking through the air like static electricity. Arthur forced himself into the flow, but every laugh, every confident shout from the other drivers, felt like it underscored his isolation. He could move through the motions, compete, even place decently, but the victories felt hollow. Mick wasn’t there to share the small triumphs anymore. He wasn’t there to smile quietly when Arthur got it right, or to shake his head affectionately when he didn’t.

During lunch, Arthur found a quiet corner by the garage, notebook in hand, and began writing. Not letters. Not reports. Just thoughts. Scribbles he’d never send. Memories of karting tracks and stolen afternoons, of lightning storms that scared him and of Mick sitting beside him anyway, letting him lean into the fear until it passed. He wrote until his hand cramped and the page was a mess of words and half-drawn doodles—reminders of what had been, and what he still wanted to hold onto.

A message buzzed on his phone. He froze. Heart hammering, he snatched it up.

“Don’t forget your helmet. You’re better than you think. —M.”

Arthur’s chest twisted. Relief, panic, hope, shame—they all collided at once. Mick. Somehow, even at a distance, Mick still reached him. Still believed in him. Still carried him in ways no one else could.

He didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t. Pride and fear tangled in his throat, and he set the phone back down, staring at the blank wall. But he read it again, slowly. Better than you think. Those four words felt like lifelines thrown across miles and time. He pressed them into memory like a talisman.

The afternoon practice felt different. Engines roared, tires burned rubber against asphalt, but Arthur wasn’t chasing results today. He was chasing rhythm. He let himself feel the track, the corners, the way the car responded when he moved gently, precisely, not forcefully. He imagined Mick beside him, ghost-like, a presence he couldn’t see but could feel. For the first time in a long time, the fear receded—not completely, but just enough to let him breathe.

By the end of the day, sweat-streaked and exhausted, Arthur sat on the pit wall, watching the sun melt into the horizon. The orange light touched everything softly, forgivingly. And in that light, for a brief moment, the distance between them didn’t matter. Mick was there. Not in person, but in the spaces that mattered most—the corners of his mind, the quiet places in his chest where no one else could reach.

Arthur didn’t know how long he would carry this ache. Didn’t know if he’d ever be able to bridge the gap the years and pride had created. But he did know one thing: Mick had never left him. Not really. And that was something worth racing back to, someday, somehow.

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Mick sat in the cockpit, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, the engine thrumming beneath him like a heartbeat. The sun was bright on the horizon, bouncing off the polished red car, the prancing horse emblem glinting sharply. Around him, the pit lane hummed with life: engineers shouting data, mechanics scurrying to adjust tires and fuel, the subtle, tense choreography of a team that demanded perfection.

He was good at this. He had to be. Ferrari expected nothing less. Every lap, every turn, every shift of gear was calculated, precise. Charles was there, sitting tall in the other seat, the kind of teammate you either thrived alongside or crumbled against. Mick thrived. He moved in rhythm with the car, with the team, with the race itself. Smooth. Controlled. Unflappable.

And yet… even here, amidst the roar and the heat and the adulation, Mick’s mind drifted.

He thought about Arthur. Always. Not in a distracted way—he could still drive, still race—but in a quiet, persistent corner of his thoughts. He imagined Arthur in his own car, tires screeching, heart hammering, trying to keep the rhythm, trying to hold onto the fragile confidence Mick knew his friend sometimes doubted. He remembered the letters, the small notes that Arthur never sent but sometimes hinted at, the brief glimpses of worry behind his calm façade.

Mick adjusted his visor and shook the thought slightly. He couldn’t dwell. Not here. Not now. Not when Charles expected him to be flawless, to perform like the son of Michael Schumacher, to move like a shadow on the track, precise and steady. And he was all of that. Everything Charles wanted.

Charles was in his ear now. Calm, sharp, efficient. “Sector times are improving. Keep your line through turn nine. Don’t overdrive.”

Mick nodded. Yes, he knew. He didn’t need to be told. He always knew. The difference between him and Charles wasn’t skill—it was patience. Control. Rhythm. Mick could wait, watch, measure, and then strike. Every corner, every lap, every pit stop—he was in command.

But once the session was over, when the cameras left and the crowds dispersed, the control slipped. That was when the quiet hit. The moments when the adrenaline faded and the world narrowed to just him and the memory of Arthur’s small, nervous hands, the way he’d fidget with his sleeves, the way he’d smile too politely when he was scared or frustrated.

Mick reached for his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. He knew Arthur hadn’t replied to the last letter yet. Maybe he never would. Maybe he thought Mick was pitying him. That thought hurt more than any criticism from a teammate, more than the weight of the Schumacher name, more than the endless media expectations.

He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another. Paused. Erased. Finally, he left it unsent. Not tonight. Not yet. He had learned over the years that pushing too hard, forcing things—they only broke. So he waited. Always waited. Always patient.

Because he knew. He had always known. Arthur needed to come to him in his own time. And when he did, Mick would be there. Always.

He looked up at the sunset, red and gold streaking across the horizon, and imagined Arthur seeing it too, somewhere in a small hotel room, somewhere far away. Mick smiled faintly. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe soon.

He didn’t need to rush. He just… waited.

And he always would.

Mick walked through the Ferrari paddock, helmet tucked under one arm, his race suit immaculate, body moving with the precision of someone trained to perfection. Cameras flashed, engineers barked updates, and Charles caught his eye with a brief nod—a silent acknowledgment that they were in sync. On the surface, he was everything Ferrari needed: focused, precise, untouchable.

But beneath the polished exterior, Mick was always calculating. He had learned from his father that life wasn’t just about speed on a track—it was about control off it too. Michael had risen from the streets of Hürth, built his empire from nothing, and passed down more than a name to his son. Mick carried strategy, discipline, patience, and a quiet ruthlessness he rarely let anyone see.

Charles was his partner in public, his ally in racing. Together, they made a force that Ferrari valued—and no one questioned the subtle, unspoken ways they supported each other. Deals whispered in garages, arrangements that helped the team flourish, small favors that ensured they stayed untouchable in a sport that thrived on chaos. And Mick navigated it all, seamlessly.

Arthur, though… Arthur was a ghost in this world now. Their paths no longer intersected, not directly. Mick didn’t need to speak to him to keep him in mind. He thought of Arthur quietly, a constant presence at the edges of his mind: the boy with soft hands and sharp instincts, the friend who had been more than a brother once, the one who could never truly be part of this world of speed, power, and shadows.

Mick had letters, yes—but he had learned restraint. He knew Arthur’s pride, his fear, his fragile confidence. He wouldn’t push. Not here, not now. Mick could wait, as he always did.

And he had other things to manage. The empire his father had left wasn’t just a legend whispered in the streets of Germany—it was alive, sprawling, and dangerous. Contracts, debts, alliances that teetered between legality and menace. Mick had to balance it all while keeping the world at Ferrari believing he was just another driver, just Michael Schumacher’s son, nothing more.

It was exhausting. And it was lonely.

Charles was aware of some things—enough to keep Mick’s position secure—but Mick trusted no one fully. Not even him. In racing, in business, in life, you could only count on yourself.

Still, despite everything, Mick couldn’t shake the thought of Arthur. Even in this life, surrounded by speed and money and subtle violence, the memory of the boy who had laughed at thunderstorms, who had clung to him when the world seemed too big, was always there. It was soft, yes, almost painfully tender—but it reminded him why he stayed human at all.

He returned to his car, sliding into the seat, feeling the familiar hum of the engine beneath him. Every shift, every corner, every heartbeat was a reminder: he was in control. He could manage this life, the legacy, the empire, the sport. He could navigate the shadows and the lights.

But Arthur… that was the one thing Mick couldn’t control.

And maybe he didn’t want to.

Because somewhere, across Europe, in a small hotel room or on some distant track, Arthur was alive. Fragile, stubborn, brilliant Arthur. And no matter how far apart their worlds had become, Mick’s loyalty, his care, his love—that wasn’t going anywhere.

He glanced at Charles, watching the data on the tablet. Ferrari had expectations. History had expectations. And Mick… well, Mick had always been good at meeting them. Just as long as he could hold onto the few things that mattered to him—even if no one else knew.

Arthur was one of them.

Arthur – Formula Two, Italy

The paddock was colder than usual that morning, the sun struggling to push through heavy clouds. Arthur’s gloves felt tight on his hands, like they were trying to strangle him from the inside. The car sat on the grid, pristine and polished, while he felt brittle, fraying at the edges.

Every lap today felt like a test he was failing. Every turn, every shift, every braking point that wasn’t perfect made the voice in his head louder. You’re not good enough. You’re not fast enough. You’re always behind.

And he was.

He tried to force focus, telling himself the numbers mattered, the telemetry mattered, that the team depended on him. But it all blurred into the same gray haze. Lap after lap, the gap to the leaders widened. Sponsorship meetings, emails from managers hinting at “options” elsewhere, a subtle suggestion that F2 might no longer be the right place for him—all of it pressed down like lead in his chest.

He remembered Mick, somewhere far away, smiling at a podium, wearing red. The thought didn’t help. It burned. Mick was supposed to be cheering him on—but he wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here for months. The distance between them stretched wider with every failed lap, every minor mistake, every overlooked opportunity.

By the time the session ended, Arthur’s shoulders were tight, hands trembling, and the car felt like a coffin. He didn’t speak to anyone. He packed his things, avoiding the glances of engineers and teammates, retreating to the quiet of his hotel room.

The room was empty, sterile. The glow of his phone screen was the only warmth. A letter from Mick—a few days old—rested there, unread. He knew Mick was still watching. Still caring. But that care had begun to sting. Pity disguised as love, he thought bitterly. He didn’t want pity. He wanted the strength to be good on his own.

Arthur pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window, watching the clouds drift. Somewhere, Mick was racing. Somewhere, he was winning. And Arthur… he was here, still spinning wheels that weren’t catching.

Mick – Ferrari, Le Diamant de la Nuit, Monaco, Monte Carlo

Mick nursed a whiskey, the amber liquid reflecting the dim light of the bar. One of many Leclerc-owned establishments, it had the familiar hush of wealth, of power, of whispered deals. Charles sat across from him, the corners of his mouth tight in thought, his hands folded over a glass of bourbon. Ferrari politics, sponsorship entanglements, the constant pressure of keeping the Scuderia not just competitive but untouchable—it all sprawled between them like a map of obligations and threats.

“We need to consider the next contract round carefully,” Charles said, voice low, measured. “Sponsorships are shifting. If we misstep, the board won’t forgive. And the fans… well, they don’t forget anything.”

Mick swirled his glass, thinking about the parallel game he played every day. The press saw only the calm, composed Ferrari driver. No one outside this room knew about the other empire, the deals that kept their leverage alive in the shadows. “I know,” he said. “We’ll manage. It’s just… timing. Politics and optics. We can’t rush.”

Charles nodded, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been doing well. But don’t let your focus slip. Ferrari isn’t just a team. It’s a legacy. Our competitors would kill to exploit even a fraction of weakness.”

Mick smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve learned patience. Timing. Observation. We play the long game. Always have.”

Charles leaned back, gesturing toward the bustling bar outside. “And yet… sometimes the long game feels endless.”

Mick didn’t answer immediately. He thought of Arthur—the boy he had grown up with, the one whose absence was a constant ache, whose struggles he couldn’t fix from here. He thought of the letters he wrote but didn’t send, the quiet ways he held on while the world forced them apart. His thumb brushed the edge of his glass.

“The important thing,” he said finally, voice low, deliberate, “is that no matter what happens, we stay in control. Always in control. On the track, off the track… everywhere. Just like we always have.”

Charles raised an eyebrow but said nothing, satisfied for now. Mick drained the rest of his whiskey. Outside, the night shimmered over Monaco, the same moon reflected on the Mediterranean as it would later reflect on Arthur’s empty hotel window.

Charles leaned back, the dim light catching the sharp planes of his face. Handsome. Imposing. Majestic—the kind of presence that made people instinctively defer, even when they didn’t want to. Mick had always noticed it, even before he understood how dangerous the charm could be.

“Arthur’s becoming… a problem,” Charles said casually, swirling the glass in his hand. “F2 results. Public image. Sponsors whispering. You know what I mean.”

Mick’s jaw tightened. He knew exactly what Charles meant. “I know he’s struggling,” Mick said. “But he’s still finding his rhythm. He—”

Charles cut him off with a dismissive wave. “No. He’s ridiculous. He’s fragile. He’ll never handle pressure. You see it, don’t you? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. The Leclerc name doesn’t protect him forever.”

Mick remained quiet, scanning Charles’s face, trying to read the edge behind the smooth voice. Charles wasn’t just being critical—he was testing him. Pushing. Prodding. Like a master chess player moving pieces he knew were expendable.

“I think… maybe you should speak to him,” Charles continued, leaning forward, eyes glittering. “Apply a little pressure. Motivate him. Make him understand that talent is nothing without discipline. With guidance… he could be useful. Without it… he’s a liability.”

Mick’s chest tightened. Speak to Arthur? Apply pressure? He could almost hear Arthur’s soft voice, his nervous laugh, the way he flinched at criticism. How could he, Mick Schumacher—the boy who had once held Arthur’s hand through thunderstorms—now be the instrument of pressure? The thought made his stomach twist.

Charles noticed the hesitation, smiled faintly. Not kind. Cold. Calculating. “You’re loyal, yes? Loyal to Ferrari, yes? And to the Leclercs? Good. That loyalty… that’s why I trust you to handle this. It’s for the greater good. Everything else—your feelings, your history—they don’t matter here. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Mick said quietly, though his teeth were clenched.

“Good.” Charles’s eyes glinted, sharp as a knife. “I want Arthur performing—or at least responding. Otherwise… we’ll have to consider other arrangements. And you don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”

Mick swallowed, the weight of the unspoken threat settling into his chest. Of course he didn’t want it on his conscience. Mick knew better than to argue. Not with Charles. Not with someone who saw the world as a board of pawns and pieces, with himself always on top.

Charles drained the rest of his bourbon, satisfied with the silence. “Do your job, Mick. I know you can. You’ve always been smart enough to see the angles. Don’t disappoint me.”

Mick nodded again, though inside, every instinct screamed against it. He knew Arthur’s pride. Knew his fragility. Knew that forcing him—manipulating him—would hurt him, maybe break him. But Charles had made it clear: this wasn’t about Arthur. This was about Ferrari. About the Leclerc empire. About power.

And Mick… Mick had always been good at obeying orders, at walking the tightrope between loyalty and conscience. But this… this felt different.

He left the bar with a quiet exhale, stepping into the warm night of Monaco. The city glittered around him, lights reflecting off the water, music pulsing from other bars and clubs. And somewhere, in the shadows of his mind, he imagined Arthur. Struggling. Frustrated. Beautiful, stubborn Arthur, who deserved kindness, not pressure.

Mick knew he had a choice. He could follow Charles’s instructions. Apply the pressure. Push Arthur to perform—or crumble.

Or… he could find another way.

He knows he can.

Chapter Text

The call came in the middle of a hotel meeting with his F2 manager. A simple, sharp message:

“Charles Leclerc… gone. Shot. Dead. —Sources.”

Arthur froze. The words didn’t land immediately. His chest tightened, pulse hammering like he’d been hit squarely in the ribs. Dead? No. That wasn’t possible. Not Charles. Not anyone like him.

But the room seemed to spin. The air thickened. Every detail of the past—the hours spent with Mick and Charles at the bar, the whispered conversations, the pressure, the politics—suddenly became a shadow that stretched longer than he’d ever seen.

Arthur tried to call Mick, but the line was busy. Or maybe he dialed the wrong number. Maybe Mick wasn’t even awake yet. Panic rose in his chest, raw and choking.

He left the hotel, walking the streets in a daze. The European city felt impossibly bright and loud, and every face in the crowd seemed to blur into a thousand questions he couldn’t answer. Charles—gone? Just like that? The empire, the Ferrari influence, the subtle strings that tied everything together… gone.

For days, that was all he could think about. The press had picked it up, rumors swirling that Oscar Piastri had orchestrated it, that a small accident in the shadowy underworld had claimed one of the most influential figures in motorsport. Arthur didn’t know what to believe. Every detail contradicted another. Every message left him more uncertain.

And yet, even in the chaos, a small, stubborn part of him refused to panic completely. Because if Charles was really gone… then someone had to step in. Someone had to hold the pieces together. And Arthur—battered, struggling, barely keeping his confidence afloat—felt the weight of that possibility pressing down on him.

He didn’t know it yet, but for the world of the Piastri empire, for months to come, Charles would truly be considered dead. Every deal, every power move, every whispered conversation would assume his absence. And every move Arthur made—or didn’t make—would be watched, calculated, judged.

Arthur felt small. Fragile. And yet… the thought that someone had tried to pull the strings so violently—so publicly—stirred something inside him. Anger. Determination. A faint spark of courage that he had almost forgotten he possessed.

And through it all, he thought of Mick. Not Charles. Not the politics. Mick. Because if anyone could navigate this chaos… it was him.

 

Mick’s phone buzzed in his pocket, a message from an unknown number. He didn’t flinch. He knew before even opening it. Charles was alive. Not dead. Not gone.

The message contained coordinates. A single line of text beneath it:

“Urgent care. No one knows but you. –L.”

Lorenzo. Mick didn’t need to guess why he was the one getting this. He was closest to Charles, sharpest at reading both the Ferrari politics and the hidden empire. And unlike Arthur, Mick had the composure to act without panicking.

He slipped out of his hotel in Monaco under the cover of early morning shadows, leaving Ferrari’s glittering streets behind. The roads blurred beneath him, engine humming, mind calculating every risk. The world of racing, the world of crime, the world of loyalty—all collided here. Mick was used to walking the edge. He had been trained for it. But this… this felt sharper, colder, more urgent than anything on a track.

He arrived at a small, inconspicuous clinic on the outskirts of a city he didn’t immediately recognize. Security was tight, subtle. A single guard at the door, but he didn’t flinch. Mick knew the code, knew the way the Piastri network worked, knew how to slip through without alerting anyone who didn’t need to know.

Charles was lying on a narrow hospital bed in a private room, tubes and monitors surrounding him. The man looked fragile, almost like a ghost of his former self. But he was alive. Critically injured, yes—but alive. And that was enough.

Mick exhaled slowly. Relief surged, mingled with frustration. The empire, the politics, the F1 world… none of it mattered if Charles didn’t survive. Mick had spent years learning strategy, patience, discipline—but this was raw, personal. This was survival.

“Sir,” Lorenzo said quietly from the doorway, watching Mick’s expression. “Security’s tight. No one knows but us.”

“I know,” Mick replied. He stepped closer, letting his gaze linger on Charles. Not with pity. Not with fear. But with determination. He would protect him. Always.

Charles stirred slightly, eyes fluttering open. He looked at Mick with a faint, weak smile. “You… always show up, don’t you?”

Mick nodded. “Always. Just like I said I would.”

He didn’t mention Arthur. Not now. Arthur’s struggles in F2, the distance, the pride—it all had to wait. Charles came first. For now, Mick had one mission: keep him alive, keep him hidden, keep the empire intact in secret, and make sure no one—not Oscar, not the Piastri network—knew that Charles still breathed.

Mick stepped back slightly, assessing the room, the security, the timing. Ferrari still expected him to race. The empire still expected him to maneuver silently. But Mick had learned long ago how to balance all of it.

And he would. Always.

Charles’s life depended on it.

 

[Mick – Private Meeting, Leclerc Empire Offices]

Mick sat across from Arthur in one of the quieter offices of the Leclerc empire, far away from the lights of the paddock and the press. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and old leather—a kind of quiet authority that Arthur seemed unequipped to inhabit.

He didn’t waste time on small talk. Not today. Not when Charles was critically injured and the empire needed stability.

“Arthur,” Mick began, voice measured, sharp, “you need to understand something. Right now, with Charles… everything falls on someone. You, me, or someone else.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at the papers scattered between them—ledgers, contracts, emails flagged for urgency. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, the same nervous habit Mick had noticed years ago.

“I—” Arthur started, but Mick cut him off with a sharp shake of his head.

“No. Stop. Don’t pretend you know what you’re doing. Because you don’t. You’ve never been taught. You’ve never trained for this. You’ve been nothing but a liability in Charles’s eyes for a reason.”

Arthur flinched. The words stung—not just because they were true, but because they came from Mick, the one person who had once believed in him unconditionally.

“I—I can learn,” Arthur said quietly, eyes darting to the floor. “I can manage—if I just have some guidance.”

Mick leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “Guidance? Arthur, this isn’t a race you can win with a few lessons. This is an empire. Contracts, power plays, loyalty, threats—everything has consequences. One wrong move and people die, or worse—they take what’s ours. And Charles… he trusted you with nothing because he knew you wouldn’t survive the weight.”

Arthur’s chest tightened. He had always known Charles saw him as soft, incapable, someone to be protected—or ignored. But hearing it from Mick, the one who had been his anchor through every storm, hit differently.

“So don’t make me regret even involving you here,” Mick continued, voice hardening. “I’m not your mentor anymore. I’m your partner—for now. You follow instructions, you ask questions when you don’t know, and you don’t pretend you’re ready for something you’re not. Because if you fail, it’s not just your pride that suffers. It’s everything Charles built. And right now, everything depends on us keeping it together.”

Arthur nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat. He hated that Mick was right. Hated that he was so unprepared. But Mick’s gaze softened just a fraction, just enough to remind him that this wasn’t entirely a condemnation.

“You’ll survive this,” Mick said, quieter now. “But only if you stop pretending you’re ready and start listening. No more mistakes. No more hiding behind excuses.”

Arthur exhaled, nodding again, the weight of the empire pressing down on him for the first time in his life.

Mick stood, straightening his suit. “We don’t have the luxury of delay. Charles isn’t dead, but he’s not coming back to guide you. So either you step up, or you step aside. Your choice.”

Arthur didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The reality of how much he didn’t know—and how fragile everything had become—settled like a stone in his chest.

Mick gave him a long look, half-frustration, half-protection, then turned and left the room.

Arthur remained behind, staring at the scattered papers, realizing that for the first time, he wasn’t just a Leclerc in name. He had responsibilities now. Responsibilities he wasn’t prepared for. And someone he trusted—someone he had always relied on—wasn’t going to hold his hand this time.

Mick – Ferrari Headquarters, Monaco

The room smelled of leather and engine oil, the sharp tang of carbon fiber lingering in the air. Mick sat at a corner desk in the Ferrari paddock office, laptop open, headset in place. On the surface, he was just another driver reviewing telemetry, checking strategy. But beneath it, he was managing the empire. Contracts, debts, alliances, subtle threats—all moving through his fingers like strings on a well-tuned instrument.

A call came in from one of the Leclerc empire managers. Mick answered casually, nodding as he listened.

“Yes, I understand,” he said, voice calm, controlled. “No one outside needs to know. Handle it discreetly. I’ll manage the rest when I return to Monaco.”

He hung up and exhaled slowly. Ferrari expected perfection, public composure, race wins. The empire demanded discretion, strategy, and vigilance. Mick had learned long ago how to be both places at once. How to balance loyalty, duty, and personal feelings without letting anyone see the cracks.

And yet… a part of him ached for Arthur. Not for the empire—Arthur wasn’t equipped for that—but for the boy who had once been his constant, his anchor.

[Arthur – Bureau d'empire des Leclerc's - Monte Carlo, Monaco]

Arthur stared at the mountain of documents on his desk, the emails stacked in the inbox, the phone blinking with urgent messages. His hands shook slightly as he scrolled, trying to understand contracts he’d never been taught to read, trying to grasp alliances he’d never been shown to navigate.

It was hopeless.

He felt genuinely pathetic. Not in a fleeting, sad way—this was deep, bone-deep. He had never been practical. He had never been strategic. Politics had always been foreign to him, something to admire from afar or let others handle. And now, faced with the sudden vacuum of power, he realized he was utterly useless.

He wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t capable. He was just… Arthur.

A pang of guilt hit him. Mick would be handling everything behind the scenes, coordinating the empire, keeping the chaos at bay, while he… he could barely manage a single phone call without panic. The contrast burned like acid. Mick—calm, precise, lethal in his competence. And Arthur… fumbling, soft, inadequate.

He had no guide, no mentor, no one to teach him the intricacies of real power. Charles had purposefully left him out of it, deeming him a liability. And now the weight of that decision pressed down on him like a stone he couldn’t shift.

Arthur slumped in his chair, head in his hands. He hated the feeling. Hated that Mick, somewhere far away, was likely coordinating solutions he could never dream of handling on his own. Hated that he was still just Arthur—the soft, gentle boy, ill-equipped for the world he’d been thrust into.

And yet… even in that despair, a flicker of resolve remained. If Mick could manage everything from hundreds of miles away, maybe… maybe Arthur could at least survive. Maybe he could start small. Learn. Watch. Not fail completely.

But for now, he was painfully aware of the truth he had always known: he had never been good with politics. Never good at practical matters. He was just Arthur.

And sometimes, that simply wasn’t enough.

--------------------------------------------------------------------
The first thing Arthur noticed when Charles’s eyes flickered open was the weight of his presence. Not commanding, not furious—just… sharp. A predator fully awake after months of being incapacitated. The monitors beeped softly, machines whispering life back into the empire’s center.

Charles turned his head slowly, blinking against the sterile lights. “Arthur,” he croaked, voice rough from disuse. “I need… something from you.”

Arthur’s heart jumped. Finally. He had expected orders about the empire, business, contracts, strategy—anything to test if he’d learned while Charles had been unconscious. He straightened immediately, ready to take instruction.

“Anything, sir,” he said, careful, obedient.

Charles’s eyes narrowed—not critically, not with disdain—but with the focused patience of someone who had survived everything and expected precision. “A letter. Just… one letter. You’ll write it. For me.”

Arthur blinked. “A… letter?”

“Yes. To Mr. Piastri,” Charles rasped. “Greeting him. Politely. Ask him… while he takes my shares, don’t neglect my dog.”

Arthur froze.

“Your… dog?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes. Leo,” Charles said, nodding toward the small golden dachshund curled at the foot of the hospital bed. His tone was sharp, but calm—impossibly calm. “Good dog. Loyal. More loyal than half the people in my life. Make sure he is cared for. That’s it. That’s the letter. Nothing more.”

Arthur blinked again, trying to process the simplicity of it. Here was a man who had built an empire, survived bullets, corruption, politics, the violent undertow of both the F1 world and the hidden empire… and his first request after waking was about his dog. A small golden dachshund named Leo.

He swallowed, smiled weakly. “Of course, Charles... I’ll… write it. Carefully.”

Charles nodded once, eyes closing for a moment, exhausted but satisfied. “Good. I trust you. Don’t screw it up.”

Arthur’s fingers hovered over the paper, feeling the absurdity and gravity at the same time. A simple letter. One line. Yet in its quiet, ridiculous way, it carried a mountain of responsibility. Not for business, not for empire deals—but for trust. For Charles’s confidence in him, however small it might seem.

As he began to write, he realized something strange: in the chaos of politics, power, and human treachery, sometimes the smallest acts mattered the most. Sometimes, loyalty was measured not in boardroom moves or racing victories, but in the quiet care of a dog, and in the precision of a single line on a page.

Chapter Text

---

Mick – Maranello, Ferrari Headquarters

The corridors of the Ferrari HQ buzzed with the usual tension of both a race week and something less visible—the pulse of the empire beneath the surface. Mick had learned to listen between the sounds of engines and briefings, to hear the whispers that mattered.

It was one of the junior men—a nervous mechanic who doubled as an errand-runner for the other side—who brought him the absurdity.

“Boss,” the young man muttered, keeping his voice low, “uh, I thought you’d want to know… Mr. Charles asked Arthur to, uh… write a letter.”

Mick looked up from the folder he’d been reviewing. “A letter?” he asked slowly.

“Yes, sir. To Mr. Piastri.” The man swallowed. “He said… it was about his dog. He wanted Piastri to take care of him.”

Mick stared for a moment, waiting for the punchline that didn’t come. His jaw tightened slightly. “That’s it? That’s what he wanted Arthur to write?”

“Yes, sir. Word for word, I think. ‘Whilst you take my shares to my company, please don’t neglect my dog, Leo.’”

Mick leaned back in his chair, silent for a long moment. The Ferrari office was clean and modern—nothing like the places where the Leclerc empire usually operated—but it felt just as suffocating now.

Charles. Always unpredictable. Always dramatic.

Mick exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple. He respected Charles—deeply, in fact—but sometimes, his way of thinking frustrated him beyond measure. The man could build an empire, destroy another in a week, but he chose to make his grand comeback about a dachshund.

And Arthur… Arthur was probably sitting somewhere right now, writing that stupid letter with the same seriousness he’d use to sign a treaty.

Mick muttered to himself, half amused, half irritated. “Christ, Charles… you could’ve at least asked for something useful.”

Still, there was something undeniably human in it. Maybe that was what got under Mick’s skin the most—Charles didn’t act like the empire’s leader anymore. He acted like a man with nothing left to prove, and that unnerved Mick. Because power without purpose was dangerous.

He glanced toward the glass walls of his office, where engineers moved about—oblivious to the darker dealings that took place behind Ferrari’s prestige.

Arthur was a liability. Everyone knew it. And now that Charles was barely recovering, someone had to make sure the business didn’t collapse under soft hands.

That someone was Mick.

He reached for his phone, opening a secure line. “Keep an eye on Arthur,” he ordered the man on the other end. “If he starts trying to make decisions, shut him down quietly. I’ll handle things from Maranello until Charles gets back on his feet.”

He hung up and leaned back again, watching the reflection of his own tired face in the glass.

Ferrari might be winning on the track, but in the shadows, it was always a war of egos and secrets. And Mick Schumacher—son of the great Michael—was done being just a driver. He was the one actually keeping the empire alive.

Even if that meant tolerating Charles’s ridiculous affection for a golden dachshund named Leo.

 

---

Arthur – Leclerc Estate, Monte Carlo, Monaco.

Arthur sat by the window of the estate library, the late sunlight filtering through the heavy drapes, coloring the room in burnt gold. His notebook lay open on his knees — the one Charles had made him keep “for practice.” For scripting, for refinement. He told himself that meant something. That Charles had trusted him with words — and maybe, one day, something more.

He was halfway through drafting another polite reply on behalf of his brother when Leo jumped onto the couch beside him, the little dachshund curling up against his leg. Arthur smiled faintly, absent-mindedly scratching the dog’s head.

“Guess it’s just you and me again, hm?” he murmured. Leo’s tail wagged twice.

He wanted to believe Charles saw something in him. That the letter — silly as it was — had been a small sign of trust. But somewhere deep down, he knew the truth.

Charles never treated him like a brother.

Never as an equal.

Arthur had grown up in the shadow of an older brother who thought himself untouchable. Charles didn’t just lead — he ruled. His confidence was beyond arrogance, and Arthur… Arthur had spent his whole life mistaking that for greatness.

Every word, every order Charles gave, carried that divine certainty that made people bend. It was hypnotic. Dangerous. And Arthur was too soft-hearted, too loyal, to see how small he looked beside that kind of ego.

But Mick… Mick was different.

Mick was the only one who didn’t bow his head. The only one who ever challenged Charles’s so-called godhood. Arthur had overheard their clashes before — quiet, controlled arguments that dripped with tension. Charles’s voice cold and cutting, Mick’s sharp but measured.

Once, Arthur had walked in on one of those exchanges.

“You can’t keep treating your brother like a servant, Charles,” Mick had said, voice low but seething.
“He’s not my servant,” Charles had replied simply, smiling without warmth. “He’s my brother. That’s worse.”

 

Arthur hadn’t forgotten that. He never would.

And yet here he was, still defending Charles to himself. Still trying to live up to an impossible standard.

He turned a page in his notebook, staring at his messy handwriting — the only tangible proof that Charles ever acknowledged him.

Maybe one day Charles would look at him and actually see him. Not as an obligation. Not as dead weight. But as a Leclerc in his own right.

The sound of footsteps in the hall pulled him from his thoughts. One of Mick’s men, discreetly dressed, paused by the door.

“Mr. Leclerc,” the man said carefully. “Mr. Schumacher asked me to tell you he’s handling the… management for now. Until Mr. Charles is fully recovered.”

Arthur blinked, trying to mask the sting in his chest. “Oh. I see.”

The man nodded once and left.

Arthur stared at the closed door for a long time before letting out a quiet laugh. It wasn’t bitter, not yet. Just tired.

Even now, even after everything, he still believed he was of use.

He looked down at Leo again, whispering softly, “Maybe you’re the only one who doesn’t think I’m useless, eh, Leo?” The little dog yawned and rested his head on Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur smiled, forcing his voice light. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep writing the letters.”

Even if no one ever read them.

Why would anyone want to read them anyways?

 

---

The Leclerc estate was quieter than Mick had ever heard it. Too quiet.

He’d visited countless times over the years — board meetings, dinners, empire briefings masquerading as family affairs — but now, with Charles confined to a dimly lit room, the house had an eerie calm.

The blinds were half drawn, keeping the light soft. It was for Charles’s sake, though light no longer mattered much.

Charles sat in an armchair near the fireplace, his eyes unfocused — pale green, but dull now, glassy and still. His cane rested against the chair. His movements were slow, but deliberate. He had always been deliberate, even now, when the world he once controlled had gone dark.

Arthur was nearby, reading softly from a document — one of Charles’s dictated notes, full of clipped phrases and sharp observations that didn’t sound much like recovery. More like control.

Mick stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching them. Watching Arthur’s nervous hands fidget with the paper. Watching Charles tilt his head, impatient with even the slightest hesitation.

“Read it properly,” Charles said quietly. “You sound like a frightened schoolboy.”

Arthur swallowed. “Sorry. I—”

“Again,” Charles ordered.

That was enough.

Mick stepped forward. “That’s enough, Charles.”

Arthur startled, turning to him. “Mick—”

But Mick’s eyes were locked on Charles. The same sharpness that made him a force on the track burned through now. “He’s helping you. You don’t get to talk to him like that.”

Charles smiled faintly, that same infuriating, knowing smirk that once charmed the entire paddock. “Ah. The moral compass of Maranello,” he said softly. “Always here to protect the weak.”

“I’m here,” Mick said evenly, “because someone needs to tell you when you’re being cruel.”

Charles tilted his head. “Cruel? No. I’m efficient. I’m demanding. I expect competence.” His voice stayed calm, but it cut like a blade. “Arthur is lucky I still involve him at all.”

Arthur flinched at that, though he tried to hide it.

Mick’s jaw tightened. He took a step closer. “You’re blind, Charles — not broken. Don’t act like you’re the only one suffering. Arthur’s been here every day. Reading for you. Writing for you. Holding this entire house together while you sit here pretending you’re still a god.”

Charles’s fingers twitched against the armrest. He turned his head slightly toward Mick’s voice, expression unreadable. “Careful, Schumacher. You forget who you’re speaking to.”

“No,” Mick said quietly. “I remember exactly who I’m speaking to. A man who built an empire on fear and ego and now doesn’t know how to survive without seeing people kneel.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Even Leo, resting by the fireplace, lifted his head as if sensing the tension.

Arthur shifted, voice barely above a whisper. “Mick… please. Don’t.”

But Mick didn’t move. He wasn’t angry, not really. Just… disappointed.

“I’ve respected you for years,” Mick said finally. “But if you can’t see the worth of your own brother — blind or not — maybe you’ve lost more than your sight.”

He turned, leaving the words to hang like smoke in the air.

Arthur watched him go, torn between gratitude and guilt. He didn’t know what hurt more — the way Charles stayed silent, or the faint tremor in his brother’s hand as he reached for his cane, trying to find where the world began again.

For a moment, Charles’s voice was softer. Almost human.

“Arthur,” he murmured. “Where’s Leo?”

Arthur blinked. “He’s right here.”

Charles gave a small nod. “Good. Bring him closer. I can still hear him breathe.”

And Arthur, fragile-hearted as ever, obeyed.
---

It was raining the morning Mick decided to take Arthur with him. Not a soft drizzle — the kind that left a shimmer on glass and road — but a steady, grey downpour that seemed to mirror the state of things.

Oscar Piastri had made his move while Charles was lying in a hospital bed, blind and silent. Fifty-three percent of Leclerc property — assets, shipping rights, warehouses, and more — now belonged to the Piastri empire. Fifty-three percent. It was theft wrapped in legal paperwork, polished signatures, and quiet threats.

And it was on Mick to fix it.

He wasn’t even a Leclerc by blood, but somehow, he’d become the one cleaning up the mess.

Arthur sat in the passenger seat of the black Maserati, tapping his fingers on his knee nervously, though there was something strange in his expression — almost… light. Maybe even happy. Mick noticed it immediately.

“You’re smiling,” he said, glancing at him as they drove through the wet streets of Monaco.

Arthur blinked, embarrassed. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Mick said with a faint grin. “You are.”

Arthur hesitated, looking out the window. “I just… didn’t think you’d actually bring me. Charles never—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Mick softened. “He should’ve. You’re part of this family, whether he likes it or not.”

Arthur gave a small, surprised laugh. “You’re the only one who’s ever said that.”

They drove in silence after that. The kind of silence that didn’t feel heavy — just… unfamiliar.

When they reached the port, Mick led him through the gates of what was left of the Leclerc holdings. It was emptier than Arthur remembered. Most of the containers were gone. Some buildings bore fresh signs — Piastri Group.

Mick exhaled slowly, his breath clouding in the chill. “Half of this was your family’s,” he said. “Now it’s theirs. But there’s still time to take it back.”

Arthur frowned slightly. “How?”

“By learning,” Mick said. “By not being another liability.”

Arthur’s cheeks flushed. “I’m not—”

“I know,” Mick interrupted gently. “I’m not saying you are. But you need to understand how these things work, Arthur. Business. Politics. Deals. The things Charles never bothered to teach you.”

Arthur nodded slowly, watching Mick as he pulled a tablet from his coat and began scrolling through figures — shipping manifests, asset transfers, stock reallocations. It was dizzying.

“This,” Mick said, pointing at a column, “is where Piastri’s company is weak. They bought too fast. Too wide. They’re stretched thin. If we push the right legal angles and pull the smaller subsidiaries back under Leclerc Holdings, we can corner them again within a year.”

Arthur blinked. “You… think I can do that?”

Mick smiled faintly. “I think you can learn.”

Something changed in Arthur’s eyes then — a spark Mick hadn’t seen before. Not confidence exactly, but hope.

For the first time, Arthur was part of something that didn’t involve being humiliated, or shooed away, or left behind. He followed Mick around the docks, asking questions, scribbling notes on a small pad, genuinely trying to understand.

And Mick — patient, calm, methodical — answered every single one.

By the time the rain had stopped, the sky cracking open into a pale sunset, Arthur was still talking, still smiling faintly.

Mick glanced at him as they walked back to the car. “You did good today,” he said.

Arthur looked up, surprised. “I didn’t really do anything.”

“You listened,” Mick said simply. “That’s more than Charles ever did.”

Arthur laughed quietly at that. “You really don’t like him, do you?”

Mick smirked. “I like him. I just don’t worship him.”

They climbed back into the car, the air between them calm, almost warm.

Arthur leaned back in the seat, staring at the skyline. For the first time in months, he felt useful. Maybe even important.

And Mick, for all his frustrations, couldn’t help but feel protective. There was something in Arthur — something unsharpened, soft but real. Something that deserved a chance to grow.

“Next week,” Mick said as they drove off, “I’ll show you how to negotiate.”

Arthur nodded eagerly. “Okay.”

And as the city lights blurred by, Mick found himself smiling too — just a little — because maybe, just maybe, there was hope for the Leclerc empire yet.

---

Bristol, United Kingdom

Bristol had that damp chill that clung to everything — the kind that crept beneath your coat and sat heavy in your chest. The sky was the color of concrete, low and still, and the air outside the riverside café smelled faintly of rain and burnt espresso.

Mick arrived first. Arthur trailed close behind, clutching a folder of documents as if it were a lifeline. He looked out of place in his neatly pressed coat and anxious smile, as though he’d accidentally wandered into a meeting of people who actually knew what they were doing.

Oscar Piastri sat at the corner table, back to the window, composed as ever — polite, clean-cut, and quietly dangerous. He wasn’t dressed like a crime lord, but then again, neither was Charles when he was at his most ruthless. The devil rarely needed to announce himself.

Lando Norris sat beside him, silent. His usual easy grin was gone; he looked almost uncomfortable, eyes darting toward Mick and Arthur as they approached.

Mick didn’t waste time with pleasantries. He pulled out a chair, sat down, and nodded once. “Oscar.”

“Mick,” Oscar greeted smoothly, folding his hands. “And Arthur. How… surprising.”

Arthur blinked, startled by the attention. “Ah — hello.”

Oscar’s lips curved slightly. “You’ve grown since I last saw you. Still following in big brother’s shadow, I see.”

Arthur flinched, but Mick’s calm tone cut through before the jab could land. “We’re not here for the past,” he said. “We’re here to make sure there isn’t another war.”

Oscar leaned back. “War? That depends on what you call war, Schumacher. You of all people should understand the cost of loyalty.”

“I do,” Mick said evenly. “And I also understand the cost of stupidity. I’m not Charles. I don’t plan to play his games. You wanted half the empire, fine. You’ve got your half. But you don’t need to destroy what’s left of theirs to prove a point.”

Lando shifted slightly in his seat, glancing at Oscar, then back down at his untouched drink.

Oscar tilted his head, studying Mick. “You speak like a man who’s tired.”

“I am tired,” Mick said simply. “Tired of blood disguised as business.”

The table fell quiet. The sound of rain tapping against the windows filled the space between them.

Arthur, desperate to contribute, opened his folder and stammered, “W-we, uh, looked at the port transfers in Monaco. There are inconsistencies in your paperwork. If we could just—”

Oscar’s gaze flicked to him, amused but not cruel. “If you could just… what?”

Arthur swallowed hard. “If we could just… negotiate. Reclaim some of the smaller subsidiaries. Not for power, but for balance.”

Lando looked up then — the faintest flicker of something in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe pity.

Oscar smiled thinly. “You sound like an idealist, Arthur. It’s almost sweet.”

Arthur’s hands trembled slightly, but he didn’t back down. “It’s not idealism. It’s survival.”

Mick watched him — quiet pride flickering behind his composed expression. He didn’t interrupt.

After a long pause, Oscar sighed. “You know, Mick, when Charles was still standing, he never would’ve sent his brother to do the talking.”

Mick met his gaze. “That’s because Charles never believed anyone else could speak.”

The tension cracked slightly then, replaced by something quieter. Oscar’s expression softened, just a fraction.

He looked at Arthur again. “Keep the Monaco subsidiaries. For now. But if I find a single contract that crosses into my ports, we’ll have a different kind of conversation.”

Arthur blinked, unsure whether to thank him or not. Mick stood. “Fair enough.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “You really have changed things, Mick. Charles would’ve come with a gun.”

Mick gave a small, humorless smile. “Yeah. And that’s why he’s blind, and I’m not.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Lando’s gaze met Mick’s briefly — silent understanding passing between them. Then Mick turned to Arthur. “Come on. We’re done here.”

They stepped out into the Bristol drizzle, the air cool and clean.

Arthur was quiet for a long while before saying softly, “I think he actually listened to you.”

Mick exhaled, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Yeah. Because for once, I wasn’t trying to win.”

Arthur looked at him, puzzled. “Then what were you trying to do?" Mick smiled faintly. “Keep the peace. Sometimes, that’s harder than war.”

And as they walked down the rain-slicked street, side by side, Arthur realized — maybe this was what real leadership looked like. Not fear. Not power. But the quiet strength to stop the cycle before it began again.
---

Oscar closed the hotel room door behind him with a soft click. Lando was already sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor. Neither of them spoke for a moment — the silence between them wasn’t awkward, just heavy.

Oscar finally exhaled through his nose and loosened his tie. “Mick Schumacher,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “He’s not like Charles.”

Lando hummed, still not looking up. “No one is like Charles.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Oscar said, pacing a little. “He’s… different. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t talk down. It’s almost unsettling, how calm he is. You can tell he’s been cleaning up after Charles’s messes without admitting it.”

Lando gave the smallest smile. “You sound like you respect him.”

“Maybe I do,” Oscar admitted, shrugging. “He’s not stupid. He’s just tired. You can tell. He came there to talk peace, not power.” He paused, then added with a faint smirk, “He even brought Arthur. That says a lot.”

Lando finally looked up at that. “Arthur looked… happy,” he said softly, like it was something fragile.

Oscar’s face softened for a second. “Yeah. Poor guy looked like someone finally remembered he exists.”

There was a small silence again. Lando shifted, resting his chin on his palm. “You think Charles will take the deal?”

Oscar shook his head. “Charles doesn’t take deals. He endures them until he finds a way to reverse them. And now that he’s blind…” He trailed off, catching himself. “He’ll be worse. He’ll want to prove he’s still godlike.”

Lando watched him closely. “You almost sound sorry for him.”

Oscar gave a bitter laugh. “Sorry? No. Just… wary. People like him don’t stay quiet forever. And when they come back, they don’t come back small.”

Lando rose, crossed the short distance to him, and brushed a hand against his arm. “Then what are you gonna do?”

Oscar tilted his head slightly, his usual calmness returning. “Exactly what I always do,” he said evenly. “Stay three steps ahead of the Leclercs. And make sure you never get caught in their orbit.”

Lando’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “You say that,” he murmured, “but I think you almost like the chaos.”

Oscar leaned in and kissed him, quiet but deliberate. “Maybe,” he whispered against his lips, “but only because I know I can control it.”

Down in Monaco, Charles already knew — of course he did. Mick’s quiet diplomacy and Arthur’s naive optimism would not go unnoticed by a man who’d built his entire empire on control.

Chapter Text

By June of 2002, the paddock felt more like a chessboard than a racetrack. Every move had meaning — every smile hid an agenda.

McLaren sat comfortably atop the Constructors’ standings. Oscar was untouchable that season: precise, disciplined, and terrifyingly consistent. His dominance wasn’t loud, but coldly efficient — lap after lap, he delivered perfection. Lando, though trailing by fifty points, was still firmly in the fight, a loyal second that Oscar quietly trusted more than anyone else in the paddock. Together, they looked unbreakable.

Ferrari, however, was an empire in recovery. Mick was the only one truly holding the fort — the quiet heir to chaos, burdened by Charles’s absence and the company’s fractured structure. Every podium he earned was more than a trophy; it was a lifeline for a brand on the verge of imploding. His driving was clean, technical, but there was something raw beneath the surface — the exhaustion of someone trying to prove he wasn’t just managing the ruins left by another man’s ego.

And then there was Arthur.

No one quite knew how Arthur Leclerc ended up in a Ferrari seat. The whispers in the paddock said it was favoritism, desperation, or both. The truth was simpler and sadder — Charles, blind and fuming in his Monaco penthouse, couldn’t bear to see his legacy erased entirely. A few bribes here, a few signatures there, and suddenly the youngest Leclerc was sitting where his brother once had.

Arthur tried to fit the mold, tried to be the Leclerc name. But his first few races were shaky — too cautious in corners, too eager under braking. He was inexperienced, but more than that, he was haunted. Everyone knew he’d only gotten the seat because the team had been bought off, and every time he walked into the garage, he felt the weight of his brother’s ghost pressing down on him.

Mick tried to help. Quietly. Patiently. He gave Arthur data sheets, sat with him after qualifying sessions, explained tire wear and brake bias like he was explaining the world to a younger brother. He didn’t say it aloud, but he saw how alone Arthur was — how much the poor boy still believed he could somehow make Charles proud.

Meanwhile, McLaren was growing stronger by the race. Oscar didn’t gloat — he didn’t need to. Every time he passed a Ferrari on track, it was a silent reminder of who controlled the board now.

But under all that calm, he knew something was brewing. The Leclerc name had always carried a strange gravity — a mix of brilliance, madness, and defiance. Charles might’ve been blind, but he wasn’t gone. And men like that never stayed powerless for long.

---

Charles sat in the dim light of his Monaco penthouse, curtains drawn, the only illumination coming from the soft glow of the monitors lined across the far wall. The sounds of the race hummed faintly from the speakers — the high-pitched wails of engines, the crackle of pit radio chatter — and beside him sat Annabelle de Bascher.

She was quiet, graceful, every movement deliberate — the kind of woman who could blend into the background but command the entire room when she chose to speak. Her accent was sharp and Parisian, her tone measured, as if she were narrating a symphony rather than a race.

« Tour 23. »
Her voice floated across the room.
« Mick Schumacher, deuxième position. Arthur Leclerc… dixième. »

Charles’s jaw tensed. His fingers drummed impatiently against the armrest of his chair.

« Dixième. » he repeated slowly, his accent curling the word into something bitter. “And that’s after Mick gave him data from last week’s setup.”

Annabelle hesitated, eyes flicking toward him before she returned to her notes.
« Arthur manque d’agressivité. Il hésite trop dans les virages rapides. »

“He always hesitates,” Charles muttered. His voice had that restrained fury — quiet but sharp, every syllable cutting through the air. “He’s not built for this. Not like I was. Not like Mick.”

Annabelle shifted slightly, crossing her legs. « Mais il essaie, monsieur. Il conduit proprement. »

“Proprement?” Charles scoffed. “Cleanly gets you nowhere in Formula One. Clean drivers finish in the middle — forgotten.”

He leaned forward slightly, the blind man’s expression unreadable but intense. "You know, Annabelle, sometimes I think Arthur was cursed to believe he mattered. That I made him believe it. But he was never… never meant for this world. Not the racing, not the empire, not mine.”

Annabelle said nothing. She knew better than to interrupt him when he slipped into this quiet self-absorbed cruelty. He always spoke like a monarch betrayed by his own blood — his words carried the weight of both genius and venom.

After a long pause, Charles straightened, his posture regaining that unshakable poise that had always defined him — even now, blind, wounded, half a ghost of who he’d been.

“Tell me again,” he said softly, “how far Mick was from Oscar.” Annabelle scanned the timing sheet.
« Huit secondes. »

A faint smile curled across Charles’s lips. “Eight seconds. Hm. So close, yet never enough. Even he’s beginning to learn that power isn’t in the race — it’s in the control behind it.”

He turned his head slightly toward where Annabelle stood, unseeing but eerily perceptive.
“Remind me to call Mick later. We’ll need to talk about Arthur’s… usefulness.”

Annabelle hesitated again. « Et Arthur? Vous voulez lui parler aussi? » Charles’s smirk deepened, cruel and knowing. "Non. Let Mick do it. He’s better at mercy than I ever was.”

Mick was sitting in his small apartment just above the Ferrari compound in Maranello. The hour was late — past midnight — but he hadn’t gone home yet. A half-finished espresso sat beside a pile of telemetry printouts, and his eyes were fixed blankly on the glowing data, his mind a thousand miles away.

When his phone buzzed, the caller ID was hidden, but the international code gave it away. Monaco.

He sighed softly, rubbing the back of his neck before answering. “Schumacher.”

A pause — then, a woman’s voice, soft, melodic, and unmistakably French, but heavily accented and uncertain.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Schumacher… this is—eh—Mademoiselle de Bascher. I am calling for… Monsieur Leclerc.”

Mick blinked, leaning back in his chair. He’d heard of her. Rumors of a woman who’d become Charles’s “eyes.” He hadn’t expected her to sound so gentle, almost apologetic.

“Oh,” he murmured. “Bonsoir, Annabelle. How… how is he?”

There was a shuffle on the other end, a quiet hesitation. Then, in careful English:
“He is… alive, yes. But very tired. He wants to speak to you, but I… I must translate. You understand?”

“Of course,” Mick said softly. He closed his laptop, bracing himself.

A low, unmistakable voice came through the background, the faintest trace of that sharp Monégasque lilt:
« Dis-lui que je ne suis pas mort, et qu’il me doit des réponses. »

Annabelle hesitated, choosing her words carefully.
“He say… you… owe him answers. And that… he is not dead.”

Mick exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. “I never said you were dead, Charles.”

There was a faint sound — the ghost of a chuckle, cynical and tired. Then more French:
« Il ment encore. Toujours le garçon prudent. »

Annabelle translated faithfully:
“He say… you lie still. Always… the careful boy.”

Mick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell him I’m not lying. I’ve been running his empire, keeping his name out of scandal, and keeping Arthur alive. That’s not lying.”

Annabelle relayed the words, her tone cautious. Charles’s reply came swift, sharp.
« Arthur est un boulet. Un enfant. Il n’a pas la tête pour tout ça. »

Annabelle hesitated.
“He say… Arthur is… a burden. A child. He has no… head for this.”

“I know that,” Mick replied firmly. “But he’s trying. He listens. You don’t see him anymore — not really.”

There was silence on the line. Then Charles’s voice again, quieter this time.
« Et toi, Mick ? Tu vois clair, toi ? »

Annabelle’s translation faltered slightly.
“He ask… ‘And you, Mick? You see clearly?’”

The question lingered, heavy and deliberate. Mick didn’t answer at first. He looked out the window — at the floodlit Ferrari sign glowing red against the dark sky.

Finally, he said, “Sometimes I think I do. Sometimes I think I see too much.”

There was another pause — longer this time. The faint sound of Charles exhaling, perhaps even a trace of regret. Then, abruptly, the line shifted — Charles’s voice hardened again.
« Dis-lui de garder Arthur sous contrôle. Et d’arrêter de jouer les saints. »

Annabelle cleared her throat nervously.
“He say… keep Arthur in line. And stop playing… saint.”

Mick almost laughed — a low, bitter sound. “I’m not a saint, Charles. I’m just someone who still remembers what humanity feels like.”

He heard no answer. Just silence. Then, Annabelle’s soft voice, hesitant and almost sympathetic:
“He… has end the call.”

Mick stared at the darkened screen for a long moment before setting the phone down, the weight of the conversation sinking into him.

Charles Leclerc was alive — but whatever was left of him was no longer the man Mick once called a friend.

---

Maranello, Italy

The next morning in Maranello, the garage hummed with engines warming and mechanics shouting over radios. Mick leaned against the side of the garage, helmet under his arm, watching Arthur fumble with the telemetry on his console.

He wasn’t angry at Arthur — far from it. But the memory of Charles’s call from the night before still lingered like a bitter taste.

“Arthur,” Mick said, keeping his tone light, “you know Charles has a very particular talent for… reformulating things to make people panic?”

Arthur looked up, blinking, a little confused. “Reformulate…?”

“Yes,” Mick said, running a hand through his hair. “He twists everything. Words, intentions, numbers… Even things that are completely fine suddenly feel like a crisis. He did it to me last night over the phone.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “He… he called you?”

Mick exhaled, trying to keep a calm tone. “Annabelle made the call for him — his time is, uh… limited. But basically, Charles decided that I needed to know Arthur is a burden, and that I should keep you in line. All that, without even saying it directly.”

Arthur froze, gripping the console like it might anchor him. “He… he said I’m a burden?”

“Technically, yes,” Mick said softly. He moved closer, resting a hand lightly on Arthur’s shoulder. “But I’m not mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s just… Charles being Charles.”

Arthur exhaled shakily. “I… I thought maybe he wanted me to do something… to—” He stopped, swallowed, and looked down. “I don’t even know anymore.”

Mick smiled faintly, though there was weariness in his eyes. “That’s exactly it. You don’t need to do anything yet. That’s why I’m here. You don’t see it, but I’ve been running the empire while he was… out of commission. You’re still learning — and that’s fine. I’ll make sure nothing bites you in the back while you figure things out.”

Arthur blinked, a tiny smile forming. “So… you’re not mad at me?”

“Never,” Mick said firmly. “He can be a mess of ego and venom, but you? You’re just Arthur. And that’s exactly why I’ll make sure you survive him.”

Arthur’s relief was quiet but palpable. Mick watched him fidget with his gloves, trying to hide how much that small reassurance mattered.

Mick leaned back slightly, hands crossed. “Honestly… the more I deal with Charles, the more I realize it’s a miracle he’s blind. Not because he doesn’t see, but because he’s… too sharp. Too clever. And he knows exactly how to make people scramble.”

Arthur laughed nervously. “Great. So I’m scrambling before I even start.”

Mick shook his head, amused despite himself. “Nah. You’re not scrambling. You’ve got me. And I promise, I won’t let him break you — not if I can help it.”

Arthur exhaled again, slower this time. He wasn’t used to having someone like Mick fighting for him in the background, and it felt… grounding. Safe.

Mick clapped him on the shoulder lightly. “Now, enough whining. Let’s get you prepped for the track. You’ve got a race to survive today — and we both know Charles will be watching every move.”

Arthur swallowed, nodded, and for the first time that morning, squared his shoulders. Mick was right. It wasn’t about impressing Charles. It was about learning how to survive at all.

---

New Zealand

Thousands of kilometers away from the bright lights of Monaco and the roar of Ferrari engines, New Zealand’s political landscape was quietly stirring.

Liam Lawson, a young and brash figure barely out of his twenties, had emerged seemingly overnight. His face was everywhere — plastered across local news, social media feeds, and radio talk shows. Sharp features, piercing brown eyes, a confidence bordering on arrogance, and a charisma that drew crowds in spite of the controversy surrounding him.

The party he founded wasn’t traditional. Its platform was aggressive, radical in ways that unsettled the older, established politicians. Economic reforms that leaned heavily toward libertarian ideals, a public safety policy that flirted dangerously with authoritarian control, and social stances that both ignited debates and incited outrage.

Inside the headquarters — a converted warehouse in Wellington, buzzing with volunteers and the incessant clack of keyboards — Lawson paced, hands shoved into his pockets. His speech for the coming rally was still in draft form, but he barely needed it. People followed him the way they followed the tide, swept up in his energy.

“Remember,” he told a group of his closest advisors, “we’re not just fighting the system. We are the system now. The old guard is asleep. They don’t see what’s coming. And we will be the ones who shake the foundations.”

One young aide nodded nervously. “Sir… some of your proposals — they’re… extreme. People are already calling them dangerous.”

Lawson grinned, a flash of teeth and unshakable confidence. “Good. That’s exactly the point. Safe doesn’t win. Comfort doesn’t lead. Fear? Fear makes people pay attention. And we need them paying attention.”

Outside the warehouse, banners fluttered in the mild Wellington breeze, slogans painted in bold letters. A new force was rising, one that threatened the complacency of a country used to moderation. And in the back of his mind, Lawson didn’t just want to lead — he wanted to disrupt.

He was young, hungry, and reckless in ways older politicians weren’t. But that recklessness had a method, a cunning that few realized. He had an instinct for reading people, for manipulating their fears, for creating conflict that he could then step into and control.

And as he prepared to make his public debut, the whisper of a headline from overseas — something about a Ferrari heir, a struggling driver named Arthur, and a secretive blind patriarch manipulating events — barely crossed his mind.

Liam Lawson didn’t care about distant Monaco. Not yet. But if someone in Europe had eyes on him, someone like Mick or Charles… he might want to start paying attention.

The storm was only beginning.

Liam Lawson had never been content living in the shadow of his father. Born February 11th, 1972, in Hastings, Hawke’s Bay, he had grown up in a household where the family name carried weight, prestige, and unspoken expectations. Wealth, influence, and connections had been his inheritance — but not freedom.

From an early age, he’d been groomed to step into the family business, to follow carefully mapped-out paths that promised success but little individuality. His father had been a man of precise calculations, of deals done quietly and power wielded subtly, like a blade hidden beneath a velvet glove. Liam had learned quickly — too quickly, perhaps — that obedience came at the cost of his own desires.

By his late teens, he was already chafing against it. While his peers studied law or finance, ready to inherit the next generation of family authority, Liam’s eyes were elsewhere. Politics, public influence, and the audacious act of making people listen — not just obey — fascinated him. It was audacious, brash, and reckless by any traditional measure, but it was the only thing that felt like him.

He was intelligent, resourceful, and aware of how to leverage the wealth and network he had inherited. But unlike his father, who valued order and legacy above all else, Liam craved disruption. He wanted to make his mark on New Zealand, to bend the system to his vision, and, most importantly, to prove that he was more than the son of someone else.

This wasn’t a quiet rebellion. It was a declaration: Liam Lawson would not be defined by inheritance, by expectation, or by anyone else’s idea of what he should become. He would take control of his life — and soon, he would take control of the narrative.

At 29 years old, with sharp instincts and a calculating mind masked by charm and charisma, Liam was finally ready to step out from his father’s shadow. His political party wasn’t just a vehicle for ideology; it was the instrument through which he would remake the world around him — starting in New Zealand, but with ambitions that stretched far beyond its shores.

---

By late 2001, Liam Lawson’s ambitions had begun to stretch beyond New Zealand’s shores. While most saw him as a controversial young politician shaking up his homeland, Liam had already set his eyes on Europe — not just for business, but for influence.

The Piastri empire, still reeling from the shadow of the supposed death of Charles Leclerc and the reshuffling of Ferrari’s internal power, presented a tempting opportunity. Liam knew the empire’s structure well enough to see openings: divisions between factions, loyalty disputes, and a hierarchy that was more brittle than anyone publicly admitted.

He reached out. Carefully. Diplomatically, but with his signature audacity. His initial proposal was ambitious: a cross-continental partnership blending European motorsport investments with New Zealand’s emerging tech and media ventures. A merger that would give Piastri a foothold in new markets — and him influence within the racing world he had only observed from afar.

At first, Piastri wasn’t interested. He listened politely, weighing the risks. Liam’s reputation as a firebrand didn’t help — the empire was built on careful, slow accumulation of power, and here was a young man trying to bulldoze in from the outside.

“He’s… impatient,” Piastri muttered during a private meeting with his advisers. “I can see what he’s proposing, but his temperament is… volatile. Too many moving parts, too many risks.”

Liam, as always, didn’t flinch. He smiled — the kind of calm, calculated smile that could be both charming and infuriating. “I understand your caution,” he said, voice steady, measured. “But the world doesn’t wait for caution, does it? Opportunity doesn’t knock twice. You can wait, or you can act — and those who hesitate are left behind.”

Piastri’s advisers exchanged uneasy glances. Liam’s audacity was infuriating, but his intelligence was undeniable. Even if Piastri didn’t like him, he couldn’t ignore him.

Liam didn’t push further that day. That wasn’t his style. He left the office with polite nods and a handshake, leaving Piastri to stew over the proposal. He knew how to plant a seed and let it grow — let curiosity and fear do the rest.

Meanwhile, across the continent, the European racing world remained unaware of the subtle new influence weaving its way into the power networks that already stretched between Ferrari, the Leclercs, and the Piastris.

And Liam Lawson, young, wealthy, and hungry, was just getting started.