#ever after high next chapter

[silverthelovebug]

Recent art dump. I don’t. I don’t know.

[silverthelovebug]

FINALLY.

Haii !!! Hello !!! Me !!! I do !!!!!! There’s like 5 fans of them in total I’ve seen …

My excuse to drop a bunch of pics of them ,,

(When I say a bunch, I mean only 2. They don’t. They don’t have that much screen time together.)

I DID MAKE A FANKID FOR THEM THOUGH !!!

Her name is Maple Hatter and she’s about as kooky as you can get from a Mad Hatter and a Child-Eating Witch :3

She has a pet dormouse named Matcha and and !!!

She’s dating Raven’s kid, Indigo. :3

anyone else ship Ginger and Maddie or will I have to stand alone on this hill

[fantasticalchaos]

The First Thronecoming

Chapter 4: Absence of Leave

Summary: “There is plot” the narrator whispers, typing up this chapter. “More specifically, side-plot!” In which, at the dead of night, there is something else going on in the background. A call for a peculiar leave of absence. But for what? [Crossposted on AO3, Inspired by SayuriCorner’s TWST x EAH AU & LovelyLlama’s Thronecoming Headcanons]

A/N: Sorry for not posting Chapter 4 in the usual format I do here on Tumblr! I was busy crossposting these works onto here cause 1) in case AO3 crashes (which it did) and 2) because enjoyment on other platforms!

P.S: (09/15/24) THE AO3 IS DOWN AGAIN!!! AND I FORGOT TO POST THIS ONE LOL! Also I had to reuse the version that I saved in docs since the website is down 😅

EDIT: WTF ITS BACK WHEN I POSTED LMAOOO 😂

⬅️ Ch. 3 | AO3 | Ch. 5 ➡️

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[Location: Headmaster Office]

Even late at the dead of night, the elegant beauty of the Headmaster’s Office never fails to impress those in there. The flickering glow waving off the candles and chandelier. The paintings of the Great Seven smiling proudly in their shining splendour and glory. Not even a speck of dust can be found at all here from the top to bottom!

{Such elegance indeed! How befitting for a headmaster of such a prestigious academy!}

“What do you two mean that you are having a break for the next few weeks?!”

And there is the Headmaster with his hands raising in the sky. Crowley blubbers inelegantly through his sobs. Tears swelling and spilling onto his desk. A smooth wooden desk, now dampened by tears.

{Very unfitting his appearance and status as a Headmaster…}

“Why would two members of my dear, respectable staff want to leave?”

Sitting across his desk, is an elderly sorceress and a middle aged man. The elderly sorceress leans over and grumpily says to her colleague. Her cerulean blue eyes narrowed as she watches her crying supervisor.

“I knew we should’ve cursed him or better yet ditched when we had the time, Giles.”

“Now, now Baba Yaga,” the man whispers back gently, placing a hand on hers. “He’s a friend of mine, let me handle this.”

Baba Yaga rolls her eyes, but leans back in her chair. She lets him go at talking sense to the blubbering crow-man. Giles had a point; he and Crowley were long time friends. How far that friendship has surely been taken to the level where Giles is confident in dealing with this crow’s antics. Truly, Giles has the patience of a saint!

Giles turns to Crowley. The latter was touching up his tears with a handkerchief in his hand.

{Where in Ever After did he got that handkerchief?!}

I have no idea either Brooke! 🤷‍♀️

“It’s just a few days Dire, we won’t be gone for that long.” He reasons, tilting his glasses up in one hand. Giles places his other arm on the crying crow-man’s cloak. He gives a quick shoulder rub as his friend glances back up.

“But why?” The crow-man sniffles. Dabbing the last of the few teardrops with his handkerchief, he brings down his hand. “What could possibly be the reason for such a sudden, and long absence?”

{Okay, at this point this is starting to look like a parent consoling a child who’s about to go to work! Or on a business trip… Something along those lines.}

“Well, that is a little more complicated to explain….” Giles rubs the back of his neck. A slight nervous chuckle fell out. “We might as well show you for ourselves; Baba Yaga, the invites.”

He turns to Baba Yaga, who nods promptly.

Baba Yaga places 2 pieces of scrolls onto Crowley’s desk. The Headmaster tilts his head. Even with the upper half of his face obscured by his corvid skull-like mask, his neon yellow eyes glowed with anticipation.

Passing them over the table, the Headmaster picks up one of the scrolls. Indeed, there was a small attachment having both of the formers’ names (separately) on them. The scrolls, embalmed with a stamp in the shade of magenta. Upon the stamp, an etched logo of a mini key against a lock in the shape of a heart.

Unrolling both - one with his hand and the other with magic - the scrolls unwrapped themselves. Inside, the contents were as presentable as it was before. The handwriting, written so pristine and legible in its curves. Their strokes are sharp and to the point. There is even a small illustration of the same logo drawn and painted. Almost, just almost, this rivals that of the style of the Sea Witch.

“But of course, the Sea Witch does it better!” thought Crowley.

Headmaster Crowley began to read.

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

To the addressed, Greetings! If you have received this message, you are royally invited to join as a newly appointed member to the Council of Ever After.

The Council of Ever After is founded as a community organisation filled with many fairytale representatives since the exile of the former Queen of the White Kingdom, Snow White.

Our mission is to explore beyond our destinies with new ideas in order to bring more life and freedom to everyone. In order to do this, we royally invite other fairytales such as yourself to help provide us with your enlightenment and wisdom. Moreover, we intend to reverse the damage of the original big bad destiny ideologies created and enforced by Milton Grimm and his associates.

We are well-aware that this will take time out of your schedule. Additionally, your newfound position will also require you to make more than one trip as well as stay longer in Ever After to fulfil your duties. Nevertheless, we have faith in you and your abilities!

Your attendance is fairy mandatory. Our first meeting with you will commence on XX/XX. The meeting will take place in the former Ever After High. Precisely at 8AM, so don’t be late when the bell strikes 8.

Fairest Regards,

Council of Ever After 🩷

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

Everything went still for a moment.

It was peaceful. Agonizingly peaceful. All eyes were on Crowley, awaiting the verdict of these invitations. Crowley’s beady eyes blinked through his mask. His head bobbing slightly up and down the scroll a few times. Slowly, he pulls away the scroll, letting it rest neatly onto the table.

“I see…” He muses at last. His talon nails touch and tapped underneath his chin. “The Council of Ever After.. ”

So Ever After has a council to represent themselves now, huh? Not a king! Not a queen! Nor a group contained that of royal blood! A whole community of different tales ruling together!

Crowley remembered on the news that day! The day when King White (husband and Prince Charming to Snow White) refused the offer of ascension since the dethronement (and divorce) of his wife. After seeing what his daughter endured, he believes that they need to rest elsewhere.

Somewhere far far away from home. Additionally, he believes that it’s also his time to reflect on his distant relationship with Apple. Perhaps, by using this time, he could try to catch up and make time with one another. Just like old times once upon a time! For Apple’s sake!

{It was a giant field day for the news back home too, I’ll tell you that much!}

Oh shoot… I can’t imagine how chaotic narrating all of that was like.

{Yeah, and… I’m not supposed to say this here, but… There was also some high tea going around kingdoms about King White.}

Oooh~! What kind of tea?

{That he lack the skills in kingdom management compared to Snow. More speci-fair-ally, the more political and economical aspects of ruling a kingdom. At best, he can look the part, but not act it! There was more to the glitz and glamour towards managing a kingdom in of itself!}

…Oh my gosh. That’s huge!

{I know right?! A total major fairy-fail!

Anyways… The number of royalty that lives in the Ever After World is big, but not too common. Surely, there would have been a royal family willing to take charge in the former kingdom. Or at least siege an opportunity to form an alliance for a kingdom or two to share.

Instead, many tales decided to help one another in ruling. Ranging from those of royalty, to the lowly commonfolk and peasantry. Humans to fairies to mythical creatures that live out in the Enchanted Forest! All different classes, in rank and in species. Working altogether!}

And yet, only one thought racked through the crow-man’s brain.

“Oh Sevens, why can’t my students be more like this?” Crowley’s mind ponders, massaging his forehead. Quivering mentally like a parent lamenting over their own children and their shenanigans.

Even before the flourish of transfers, the NRC kids were a stubborn bunch. They snark at best, and argue or even throw hands at worst. Whenever they join hands and unite, there’s often something to gain for their own interests. Just a simple, personal matter that would benefit them.

Yes, there are a few students who are exceptions to this. Even the Prefect and their tanuki-cat he allowed were in charge (though mainly the former) of rounding up the troublemakers!

And yet, with all of these factors combine, there is high brewing of trouble! He can’t seem to figure out why nor how he can do more…

His students… Oh, his poor students.

{Oh the irony…}

The sweet irony…

Dire’s eyes looking over to Giles and Baba Yaga. Both eyes staring at him. One expectantly. The other impatiently.

“Well?”

“Well… as your benevolent headmaster, I suppose you two can go back to Ever After to fulfil your council duties.” He decreed, “Consider this jury duty! After all, you two were chosen for a reason.”

Sighs of relief came.

“Thank you so much, Dire!”

“Thank you Crowley!”

“Ah, by the way,” Crowley interrupted, “Did you two have signed-“

Plop!

“Already done it.” Baba Yaga stated matter of fact, slamming down pieces of paper onto his desk. “We already wrote our leave request a while ago. I brought an extra copy in case you forgot…”

An offended gasp came from Crowley, his talons touching his chest. How dare?!?

“Of course I didn’t forget! I am a very busy headmaster!” He defended with such emotion in his voice. Surprisingly, the most emotion since his outburst at the beginning. “What makes you think—”

Spritz of water flew onto and over his face.

“AH!”

He stands up from his seat. His talon-hands flare up and out. As he wipes off the excess water that went on his mask and outfit, Giles snaps his head to Baba Yaga. In her hand, is a spray bottle filled at the brim with water.

“Baba Yaga.” Giles placed his arms on his sides.

“What?” She defends herself, bringing her spray bottle closer to her. Her grip on the handle, on the other hand, remains set. “He was asking for it!”

Giles pinches his nose, tiredly sighing before getting up from his chair.

”It’s just plain water! He’ll live!”

“Doesn’t matter; Come on, and help me.”

With a begrudging sigh, she complied. She flew over and grabbed a towel and helped clean up the mess. Unwillingly. The mess that is not only on their boss, but also on his desk. And on the floor.

{Don’t forget his crocodile tears from earlier!}

Oh shoot, almost forgot about that! Thanks Brooke!

{Anytime!}

“So, I’m assuming that is everything?” Crowley asks, patting down the last spill on him. Both of which the two nod.

With a nonchalant wave in his hand, Crowley continued. “That will be all then! You both are dismissed.”

“Finally,” Baba Yaga blurts out loud. Not any hint of shame in her voice. The stool she is sitting on, turns away from her colleagues and towards the door.

Whatever it is telekinesis, magic, or some fairytale magical force that levitates her stool, it pulls the elderly lady up and away. As she enters the hallway, leaving the two behind. Not too far to hear, she makes a slight comment.

“Thought this meeting would never end.”

With the two left in the room, Giles coughs into his fist he made to get rid of the awkwardness. The tension in air, if you will.

“Oh, don’t mind her,” Giles rubs the back of his neck. His eyes downcast onto his shoes. “She means well, I’m sure.”

A curt nod from his friend came.

“Always having something good to say about others, isn’t it Giles.” Crowley complimented.

In his mind, however, another older man forms. That man is draped in a deep blue, one like the night sky devoid of light. A stern expression, one that lacked Giles’s warmth and whimsy. The golden eyes of the crown narrows.

Under his breath, he scoffed, “ Even to those who don't deserve it…”

“Indeed, Dire. You know me so well!” Giles said, unaware of his friend’s muttered quip. He waves a hand, his eyes shifting from his sneakers to the purple carpet.

“What can I say, I’m so kind after all!” Crowley puffs his chest out with a wide grin. His sense of pride swelling once again from such a compliment. His shoulders faltered as he heard his friend yawn.

“Well, it’s getting late!” Giles brushes a part of his hair away. Another heavy yawn escapes his mouth. He turns around, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dire!”

The sneakers padded through the carpet as Giles made his way to the doors. His hand lays itself onto the handle. In a quick swipe, he pulls the door handle.

The door opens.

. . .

..

.

“Giles.”

Giles stops. His feet a moment away from passing the door. He lifts his head over to Crowley. There was no smile on the latter’s face and tone. As if the joy was snuffed out of Crowley. Just a straight-lipped face looked unreadable. He almost feels like a different person entirely.

Hands gripping tight to his staff. Eyes studying Giles form intently from head to toe. Dire said, his face poised, “You and Baba Yaga be safe out there. It is an important job after all.”

The tone, calm and even. Yet at the same time, heavy. An anchor within an otherwise normal farewell. Almost too normal. Not many times does the Headmaster drop the dramatics.

This is one of those times.

And yet… Giles gives out a smile. A small, yet knowing smile underneath his greying beard.

“We will, Dire. No need to worry about us!” Was what came out of Giles as he turned away. With a wave, he added, “Farewell!”

The door shuts, and all is quiet once more. The invites and documents, being Crowley’s only company left. The headmaster sighs, sitting back down at his table.

“Goodbye Giles.”

Glancing out, pass through the painted frames and through the window. The night, clear and shimmering with dots and stars. All sparking at the moon, a waxing crescent with the rest obscured by darkness.

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

[Later that night…]

Ring! Ring! Ring!

A grumble echoes as a figure arises from his bed. Their fluffy cat once rolled up like a cinnamon roll, now stirred up and awake. Lights illuminating the once dark room. They watched as their owner left their shared resting spot. Not wanting to be left out, the latter hops off and tails after them.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

The figure walks over to the ringing phone. When they reached it, they stopped in their tracks. The ringing continues ceaselessly, prompting the figure to massage their forehead.

“Great Seven… What time is it? Who would be calling at this forsaken hour?”

“Meow.”

Feeling one of their legs being wrapped in soft fur, they look down to see their cat purring up at them. The figure smiles a bit, feeling a sense of comfort and strength to deal with this minor setback.

Kneeling down, they picked up their cat in their arms. Cradling them as they took a deep breath. Their emotional support companion. They picked up the phone, bringing it to their face.

“Hello—”

“Why, good evening Trien!” Cheerful greetings phase on through the phone. Trien sighs at the voice. “How are you doing on this beautiful night?”

“Crowley, you better have a good reason for calling me late at night.”

On the other end of the phone, Crowley stilled. Sweat spilling from his forehead as he fiddles with his white collar.

“Ah, yes! I have an utmost reason to call you!”

“Tell me then, Dire.”

“…”

“Tell me, what could it possibly be to talk about at this ungodly hour?”

Perhaps the Headmaster realised that maybe… Just maybe totally this wasn’t a good time to tell Trien about the increased workload for the next coming days….

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⬅️ Prev | Next ➡️

A/N: And that’s the last of the current chapters I have crossposted here! I’m so glad I have these here when the crash happened lol

I’ll be continuing on my writing the next chapter, so please be patient until the next one comes out! Thank you for reading! Until next time!

[thelilylav]

The Scent of Roses: Aesthetic

~

A brief dump from my Pinterest board for this fic in chronological order for the story (some of the references haven't happened yet but oh boy are they coming up!)

[rebelcharmings]

Apple White is beyond excited for her first year at Hogwarts. But invasive questions and certain thoughts keep dampening her mood.

[stormcloudsandshadows]

No one:

Me at 230 am: hm…… Nedzu.

[gumjester]

Milton examines the Storybook.

[gremlinshatephilosophers]

Writing update! Here’s a snippet of the last chapter (how many fics will I bring up the leather shirt incident in, only time will tell)

It’s 99% done now, just have to finish the ending of chapter 15 and do some edits throughout.

[jasontoddiefor]

Yeah sure we’ve all binged a long fic, but have you ever read a WIP and followed someone’s life?

Tidbits of information - (“I graduated today!”) - and small joys (“It’s my birthday!”) and you get to be there to say “This chapter made me cry, happy birthday, thank you for gifting us this”.

I remember reading this fic of someone at the end of high school, older than me then. They seemed infinitely wise, spoke of their future career and getting into the college they wanted. I remember them posting on days they felt like nothing could bring them down - and on days the whole world did and it’s the aftermath of a hospital visit. Cancer, I think it was, their father. I got to the end of the story, I know their father was fine, but also they got to finish their WIP. I graduated three years later than them, still dutifully wrote thank you notes in every comment. I wonder if they remember me, or just the collective of people reading the story as it updates.

Four years ago I was into my first year of university, my first year of figuring out being out in public spaces. I made excuses as to why my name didn’t match my paperwork and read a fic on the train, the same five chapters over and over again for the next years as I thought the story abandoned. It updated this week after such a long hiatus, I left another thank you comment.

There’s an author I love, they update their stories like a clockwork. When they don’t, I check their blog, just to see if their doing alright, not because I feel like they owe me, just to ensure whether I better get out my laptop to write that really detailed university level essay chapter analysis to get them smiling when their day sucked.

And then, once, when I was 17, I read a fic that hadn’t updated in over a decade. I wasn’t even in primary school when it started posting. On the last chapter, I left a comment that, in retrospect, was horribly rambly and most likely full of grammar mistakes. The author replied and though I couldn’t see their face, I thought of them crying. They were married now, had children, and hadn’t thought about this fic in years. They went through their files again, found another half written chapter and an outline. I got two new chapters to read that year.

And then, recently, someone told me they got back into writing original fiction because of my comments. I get to read nearly weekly chapters.

I love binge reading a finished fic, but nothing is ever going to top the feeling of anticipation of waiting for a chapter, the pure joy when someone tells you I was done with this, but you made me think of it again, so this is for you.

Anyway, I think we should romanticize reading WIPs more, growing up alongside the authors writing the stories we love.

[queenkatluv]

I Am Leaving LAE

Hey everyone, I have an important announcement to share.

After much thought and consideration, I’ve made the incredibly difficult decision to step away from Lunar and Earth Show. This means that in the coming days, I will no longer be part of LAE as a channel lead, and this will be my final time as Earth on the show.

This was not an easy choice—it’s honestly heartbreaking for me. I’ve poured so much love, time, and effort into this show, from writing and managing to recording and shaping it into what it is today. LAE has been such a huge part of my life, and leaving it behind is one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make.

Unfortunately, my schedule has become overwhelming, and I simply no longer have the time or energy to keep up with the demands of creating content at the level LAE requires. For the sake of my mental health and overall well-being, I need to step away and give myself the space to breathe. As much as this pains me, I know deep down it’s the right decision—not just for me, but for you, the fans, who deserve consistent, high-quality content.

That being said, LAE is not ending—it’s moving in a new direction, and while I can’t speak to all the changes ahead, I sincerely hope you’ll continue to support what comes next.

This isn’t a full goodbye either! I will still be voicing Earth, Dazzle, Miku, and many other characters on The Eclipse and Puppet Show and The Sun and Moon Show, so you’ll still hear and see me around. I’m not disappearing—I’m just shifting focus.

I am beyond grateful for this incredible community. Seeing LAE grow to 129,000 subscribers and witnessing the love and support from all of you has meant the world to me. Thank you for being part of this journey, for your encouragement, and for making this experience so special.

I hope you’ll continue supporting LAE in its new chapter, and I hope you’ll stick with me as I move forward into mine.

Thank you all, truly. This isn’t the end—just a new beginning. 💙

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 9: November 2023 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

Part 1 of November, Part 2 will follow.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/PitLanePrincess: Isabelle Leclerc is the ultimate fashion inspiration for people who actually have to get dressed for work. A thread on why she’s the best follow if you want outfits that are stylish and wearable. 🧵⬇️

@/PitLanePrincess: Love the WAGs who serve high fashion, but let’s be real—I am not showing up to a Monday meeting in a full Mugler catsuit. Isabelle? She gives you real outfits. Blazer, midi skirt, chic top = effortless. 

@/PitLanePrincess: She mixes high and low so well, but the best part? She actually responds when people ask where things are from.

@/PitLanePrincess: She genuinely answers people??? I messaged her once about a bag, fully expecting nothing, and she just. Replied. Like a normal person.

@/PitLanePrincess: I swear she could afford to wear designer head-to-toe, but she chooses to mix H&M, Mango, and Zara with her Max Mara coats and Chanel flats. It’s aspirational but still possible.

@/PitLanePrincess: She rewears things!!! Some of these girls wear a $6K dress once and never again. Meanwhile, Isabelle’s been styling the same Max Mara coat for three years and making it look fresh.

@/PitLanePrincess: Also, she actually wears realistic shoes?? No five-inch stilettos, just sleek boots or comfy-yet-chic heels..

@/workwearqueen: If I ever ran into her in real life, I just know she’d be so sweet. Like, I could compliment her outfit, and she’d compliment mine back.

@/GridGossip: Some of these WAGs are giving editorial fantasy, which I love, but Isabelle is the one actually giving wearable inspiration.

@/everydayelevated: Isabelle Leclerc, if you see this, just know we appreciate you 🫶💖

***

The first time, Isabelle didn’t even think about it.

Max’s grey sweater—the one he practically lived in—had a hole in the sleeve. She watched him tug at the fraying threads absentmindedly, completely unaware of how worn it looked, how it sagged off his frame like it had given up.

So the next time she was out, she picked up a new one. Nothing dramatic. Same color. Same softness. Just... better. Better fabric. Better fit. Something that looked like him, only a little more cared for.

When she handed him the small box later that night, she hesitated—half-expecting him to shrug it off or barely notice.

"Your old one was falling apart," she said quickly, when he raised an eyebrow at the offering.

Max lifted the sweater out, turning it over in his hands. Then, with typical nonchalance, he peeled off the old one right there in the living room and tugged the new one on.

Isabelle watched carefully as he moved, adjusting the sleeves, testing the stretch.

After a moment, he nodded, satisfied. "Yeah. This is nice."

She exhaled, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. He didn’t realize it, but that was all the encouragement she needed.

After that, it started happening more and more.

A pair of jeans—no longer skin tight but a more relaxed fit that flattered his strong thighs… A new jacket—light, practical, something he would actually wear but wouldn’t make her wince when she saw it in photos.

She was careful. Isabelle never pushed, never tried to change how he dresses. Max liked simple, comfortable clothes, and she respected that. 

 She just made sure those things fit properly. Looked effortless instead of careless.

She told herself she wasn’t interfering.

She really meant to believe that.

But then Max walked into the living room one afternoon wearing an ancient Red Bull polo—wrinkled, slightly faded from too many washes—paired with sagging sweatpants that looked like they might give out at any moment.

Isabelle, mid-scroll on her phone, just... stopped.

Stared.

"Max, mon amour," she said carefully, setting her phone down. "Do you actually like that shirt?"

He looked down, frowning as if only now realizing what he was wearing. "Uh... yeah?"

"Are you sure?"

His frown deepened. "...Should I not?"

She sighed, standing up and crossing the room, smoothing down the skewed collar. "It's fine," she lied, fingers lingering longer than necessary. "But... you’re a world champion. You could look like it off-track too."

Max raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Are you saying I dress badly?"

Isabelle paused, choosing her words with painstaking care. "I’m saying... you have potential."

Max squinted at her, crossing his arms. "I wear what’s comfortable."

"I know," she said patiently. "But comfort and style aren’t enemies. You can have both."

Max narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Are you planning something?"

"No," she said, way too quickly.

Which was how, the very next day, she dragged him into a high-end boutique in Monaco.

Max resisted, obviously. He grumbled when she handed him a proper button-down. Scoffed at the tailored jacket she picked out. Refused—loudly—the first two pairs of trousers she suggested.

It took a fair amount of coaxing—and maybe a few well-placed kisses—to get him into the fitting room.

But when he stepped out...

Isabelle knew.

She folded her arms across her chest and smirked as Max caught sight of himself in the mirror and visibly paused.

The sharp lines of the jacket, the way the button-down skimmed his frame, the clean, simple look that made him seem even more confident, even more himself—it was all there, clear as day.

"Huh," Max said, tilting his head.

"Huh," Isabelle echoed, smug.

Max frowned at his reflection, pulling at the jacket slightly, testing the fit. His mouth twitched—like he hated to admit it—but even he couldn’t deny what he saw.

"Alright," he muttered. "Maybe you have a point."

Isabelle beamed, grabbing another item off the rack with a glint in her eye.

"Good," she said, already handing it to him.  "Because we’re just getting started."

***

Max learned pretty quickly that shopping with Isabelle wasn’t a quick in-and-out mission.

It was a strategic operation. A full-scale reorganization of his wardrobe. And apparently, his entire life.

At first, he protested. Loudly.

“I don’t need that many clothes,” he grumbled as she held up yet another impeccably tailored jacket, inspecting it with that critical little tilt of her head.

“Yes, you do,” Isabelle said without even looking at him. “You can’t wear Red Bull merch everywhere, Max.”

“I literally can,” he pointed out.

She gave him a look—the kind that somehow managed to say you absolute idiot without her even opening her mouth.

“And you shouldn’t,” she said sweetly.

He groaned, but he took the jacket from her anyway, grumbling under his breath as he did.

By the time they left the boutique, Max was carrying more bags than he had ever carried in his life.

 He looked like a particularly fashionable pack mule.

He kept muttering about "overkill" and "consumerism," but every time they passed a shop window, he caught himself glancing sideways—checking the fit of his new coat, adjusting the collar just slightly. He thought Isabelle didn’t notice.

She noticed.

She just didn’t say anything. Smugness was a reward best delayed.

That night, Max thought the ordeal was over.

It wasn’t.

Isabelle helped him “put everything away”—which, he quickly realized, meant completely dismantling his existing wardrobe.

At first, she just meant to hang the new things up neatly. Then she opened the closet.

And froze.

"This is a disaster," she said, hands on her hips.

Max, lying sprawled across the bed and scrolling through his phone, barely glanced up.  "It’s fine."

"It’s not fine," Isabelle said, already pulling out a hoodie that looked like it had been through a minor war.

Within minutes, there were piles everywhere—keep, donate, burn immediately—and Max could only watch as his closet was systematically conquered.

When she was finally done, the place looked... Organized. Manageable. Almost stylish.

Max sat up, surveying the damage. "Wow," he deadpanned. "It’s like I live here and yet I have no control over my own belongings."

Isabelle smirked, smoothing out a freshly hung blazer like a queen surveying her kingdom. "You don’t," she said, utterly unapologetic. "I do now."

Max shook his head but didn’t argue.

Instead, he stayed right where he was, watching her fold a few sweaters with that little furrow of concentration she always got when she was focused.

A thought crossed his mind, and he grinned.

"You’re enjoying this," he accused.

She shrugged, not even pretending to deny it. "I like making sure you look good."

Max swung his legs off the bed, stood, and crossed the room to wrap his arms around her from behind.

"I already do look good," he teased, resting his chin on her shoulder, feeling her laugh vibrate against him.

She hummed, pretending to think it over. "Hmm. You look better now."

Max laughed, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. "Fine. You win."

Isabelle turned in his arms, smiling up at him like she knew exactly how thoroughly she had just triumphed.

"You’ll thank me later," she promised.

And he did.

When he walked into the paddock a few days later—wearing a properly fitted shirt, no skinny jeans, no wrinkled team hoodie in sight—he caught the double takes.

The subtle stares. The media whispers. Even a few casual compliments from people who usually didn’t say a word to him about anything off-track.

Max just smirked, tugging his new jacket straight as he passed by.

Yeah.

Isabelle was right.

Again.

And maybe—maybe—he didn’t mind at all.

***

Instagram Post: @/f1hq

Comments: 

@/LightsOutMemez: Forget the championship. The biggest win of the season is whoever got Max out of those cursed skinny jeans.

↳@/PaddockSpy: Max Verstappen in an outfit that actually fits him… we are witnessing history.

↳@/ChecoMode: You’re telling me Max Verstappen had style potential this whole time and we never knew???

@/GridGossip: I don’t know what’s more shocking—the fact that Max won again or the fact that he did it while dressed like an actual style icon.

@/YukiFanClub: The only logical explanation is that Max’s girlfriend run interference. No man just wakes up one day and decides to dress better ON HIS OWN.

↳@/WAGWatch: Whoever picked this outfit, we thank you for your service.

↳@/RedBullChaos: This is definitely the work of a woman. And we love her for it.

↳@/PaddockSpy: I don’t know who’s responsible for Max Verstappen’s wardrobe glow-up, but I hope they’re having a great day.

@/ChecoP1: Max Verstappen’s biggest flex isn’t his trophies. It’s the fact that he now has functional drip.

↳@/MaxAndCats33: If he posts a mirror selfie in this outfit with his CATS, I’m actually going to lose my mind.

@/RedBullChaos: This is definitely the work of a woman. And we love her for it.

@/PaddockSpy: I don’t know who’s responsible for Max Verstappen’s wardrobe glow-up, but I hope they’re having a great day.

@/SoftLaunchDetective: First, he dresses better. Next, he starts smiling more. Before you know it, he’s dropping a blurry hand pic on his story.

↳@/DRSDrama: If this man posts one artsy Instagram story of his hand intertwined with someone else’s, I’m DONE.

@/FIAFits: The fact that it took this long for Max to upgrade his wardrobe tells me that he fought this change for MONTHS.

@/DTSTherapist: This is like when a man gets a haircut after years of looking the same and suddenly everyone realizes he’s actually attractive.

↳@/SoftLaunchAnon: Max Verstappen having a wardrobe evolution was not on my 2023 bingo card.

@/PaddockFashion: Okay but the best part is that it’s still so Max. Just… upgraded.

↳@/OversteerStyle: It’s like someone took his usual wardrobe and just refined it a little. No drastic changes, just subtle improvements.

↳@/TireDegTrends: He’s still wearing jeans, just… normal-fitting ones. And the shirt? Still casual, but suddenly it works.

↳@/StyleUnderCut: This is the equivalent of adding a subtle aero upgrade that shaves off two tenths per lap.

↳@/WAGWatch: Whoever did this didn’t erase Max’s essence, they just polished it. A true masterclass.

@/DriveToSurviveChaos: Netflix better not cut this from the next season. This is important.

***

The first thing Lewis Hamilton noticed when he walked into the paddock was not the weather, or the press, or even his own team's busy chatter.

It was Max Verstappen.

Specifically, Max Verstappen looking... polished.

Lewis actually stopped mid-step, doing a blatant double-take.

Max wasn't wearing the usual crumpled team polo and horrendous skinny jeans combo he seemed genetically programmed for. No. Today, Max was wearing dark, well-fitted jeans, a simple but perfectly tailored black jacket over a clean, crisp white t-shirt. His hair looked like it had seen a brush in the last 24 hours. His trainers were still comfortable, yes—but new. Coordinated.

Lewis stared at him like he was an alien.

"Am I in the wrong paddock?" Lewis muttered under his breath.

George Russell sidled up next to him, carrying a coffee, and followed his gaze.

He whistled low under his breath. "Well, well, well. Look who discovered fashion."

Lewis shook his head slowly. "No, I'm serious. What happened. Who is that."

Max caught sight of them then, gave a casual nod, utterly unfazed.

George narrowed his eyes, studying him.

"I mean... he's still Max," George said. "Just upgraded."

Lewis blinked, stunned. "I didn't even know he owned a jacket without a sponsor logo on it."

"Maybe," George said, taking a slow sip of his coffee, "maybe it's the girlfriend effect."

Lewis turned to him. "The what?"

George shrugged, completely serious. "You get a girlfriend who actually cares about what you look like, and suddenly—" He gestured vaguely at Max. "—that happens."

Lewis frowned. "He’s had girlfriends before."

George grinned. "Yeah, but he’s never dressed like he wanted to impress anyone before."

Lewis squinted, suspicious. "Do we even know if he has a girlfriend?"

George raised an eyebrow. "Do you think he picked that jacket out himself?"

Lewis opened his mouth. Closed it. "...Good point."

Meanwhile, Max strolled past them, earbuds in, calm as anything. No logos, no oversized hoodie, no worn-out sweatpants. Just effortless, unsettling effort.

Lewis watched him go, still frowning.

"I don’t like it," he muttered.

George laughed. "You’re just mad because he’s pulling it off."

Lewis huffed. "I’m mad because now I have to outdress Max Verstappen. And that was never supposed to happen."

George clapped him on the back, grinning. "Welcome to the new world order, mate."

As Max disappeared into the Red Bull hospitality, several team members turned to watch him too, murmuring quietly.

Because when even Max Verstappen starts dressing suspiciously well... You know something’s up.

***

Daniel Ricciardo was minding his own business—sort of—lounging near the espresso machine, casually watching the paddock buzz by, when Max walked in.

Daniel did a casual glance up—and promptly choked on his coffee.

Because there was Max.  Wearing tailored jeans. A clean, fitted jacket. A proper, ironed t-shirt. Looking... put together in a way that was frankly illegal.

Daniel slammed his cup down, pointed at him dramatically across the hospitality lounge. "You. Stop."

Max paused mid-stride, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "What?"

Daniel stood up, hands on his hips. "You can't just waltz in here looking like a Zara model on casual Friday and act like nothing happened."

Max gave a tiny, infuriating smirk. "I can and I did."

"No, no, no." Daniel waved a hand wildly. "You look suspiciously… functional. Coordinated. You match, Max."

Max just shrugged like it was no big deal. "Maybe I learned."

Daniel squinted at him. "No," he said. "Someone taught you."

Max gave him a pointedly neutral look.

And that’s when Daniel grinned.

 Like the world's most annoying lightbulb had gone off over his head.

He practically cackled as he leaned in.

 "YOUR GIRLFRIEND."

Max said nothing. Not a word.

 Which was exactly how Daniel knew he was right.

"You absolute simp," Daniel whispered, giddy. "You let her overhaul your entire wardrobe."

Max rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the tiny flicker of a smile.

Daniel clasped a hand over his heart. "God, I love love."

"Shut up," Max muttered, but there was no heat in it.

Daniel leaned back, arms crossed, studying him. "So what’s next, mate? Weekly skincare routines? Matching Christmas jumpers?"

Max gave him a long-suffering look. "If you tell anyone—"

Daniel grinned wider. "Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me." He paused, then added gleefully, "Mostly because everyone else already suspects something."

Max groaned.

Daniel beamed. "Can’t wait for you to show up next race weekend in proper loafers and a linen shirt. Monaco chic."

Max muttered something in Dutch under his breath that was probably deeply unflattering.

Daniel just slung an arm around his shoulder anyway, still laughing.

"You," Daniel said fondly, "are so whipped, and it’s beautiful."

Max shoved him off, but he was smiling—real, relaxed, the way he only was when he let his guard down completely.

***

The room was too quiet when she entered the meeting in the evening.

Isabelle felt it the moment she stepped in—like walking into a room where someone had just been talking about you. That sticky tension. The abrupt silence. The way no one met her eye.

She sat down, opened her laptop, and waited.

The project lead began reviewing the concept pitch. It was hers. Her layout. Her color palette. Her vendor list. But her name? Nowhere on the slides.

No credit. No mention.

Léa was presenting it like it had fallen from the sky.

And no one blinked.

Isabelle closed her laptop.

Slowly. Deliberately.

“Interesting,” she said, her voice smooth. “I must’ve blacked out while watching someone else design my project.”

Léa blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

The room stilled.

For a moment, Isabelle said nothing else. Just looked at them. Really looked—at the two junior designers who’d whispered and sabotaged, at the project manager who let it happen, at the senior designer who'd praised her ideas only to present them as someone else's.

“You’ve all been treating me like I don’t belong here since the day I started,” she said, calm and clear. “At first I thought it was because I was new. Then I thought maybe it was because of my last name. But now I understand—it’s because you’re afraid of me.”

Léa scoffed. “Afraid? Please.”

Isabelle turned to her. “Yes. Afraid. Because you’ve seen what I can do. You’ve seen how good I am. And instead of rising to meet me, you’ve spent months trying to cut me down.”

She stood. Quiet. Unshakable.

“You tried to twist my success into nepotism. You told people I only got clients because of who my brother is.” She paused. “You do realize I designed Max Verstappen’s penthouse, right? I didn’t just walk through it and fluff pillows. I created it. Every material. Every layout. Every detail. Because he trusted me. Not the Leclerc name. Me.”

No one moved.

“And the irony?” Isabelle continued, voice like silk on steel. “You thought I wouldn’t fight back. Because I’m quiet. Because I’m kind. Because I don’t yell or gossip or throw people under the bus.”

She tilted her head, smile sharp.

“You mistook my silence for weakness. That was your first mistake.”

A long pause.

Then she picked up her laptop, her bag, and her portfolio binder.

“I’m resigning effective immediately,” she said. “I refuse to spend another second giving my talent to people who try to tear me down instead of rising up themselves.”

She walked toward the door, paused, and turned back.

“One more thing,” she added, eyes narrowing. “The next time you decide to steal someone’s work, you might want to make sure they’re not ten times the designer you are.”

Then she left.

No one stopped her.

***

Team Redline Stream – Transcript

(Stream already in progress. Max is mid-race, casually chatting with the guys and chat.)

Max: "Yeah, I’m alone tonight. Again. My girlfriend’s still at work."

Luke Crane: "Is she ever not at work?"

Max: (Sighs.) "Rarely. I keep telling her it’s too much, but she says she’s fine."

Chris Lulham: "Classic."

Chat:

The way Max sounds so fed up"She says she’s fine" <- she is absolutely not fineBro is one bad day away from staging a full interventionTell her we said QUITHe’s about to unionize her workplace himself

(Max continues driving, glancing off-screen every so often. His focus flickers.)

(A door opens in the background. Max immediately looks up.)

Max: "Oh, you’re home." (Pauses.) "It’s almost midnight."

(A short silence. Max’s expression shifts.)

Max: "You haven’t eaten yet?" (His eyes narrow.) "Why? What do you mean you forgot?"

Chris: "Uh-oh."

Luke: "It’s happening."

Chat:

MOTHER HEN VERSTAPPEN HAS LOGGED INRIP to her but Max is about to lecture her for 20 minutesSomewhere, Jos is crying because Max turned into his momRed Bull gives you wings, but Max gives you forced meals

Max: (Grumbling in Dutch.) "You work all day and don’t eat? That’s not okay." (Pauses, then scoffs.) "No, I don’t care if you’re ‘not hungry.’ You’re eating something."

Chris: "Do you even know how to cook?"

Max: (Flatly.) "I know how to order food, Chris."

Gianni Vecchio: "Yeah, she’s doomed."

(Max is still focused on the conversation off-screen, visibly exasperated. Then, suddenly, he freezes mid-turn, his entire body going still.)

Max: "...Wait. What?"

(Silence. His mouth opens slightly, then closes. He blinks.)

Max: "You quit your job?"

Chris: "OH?"

Gianni: "HELLO?"

Chat:

SHE DID WHAT NOWMAX IS BUFFERINGDID WE MANIFEST THIS????Homie forgot how to drive for a second

Max: (Still staring off-screen, jaw slightly slack.) "Wait, like—actually? You actually quit?"

(A few beats of silence. Then, suddenly, Max exhales and leans back in his chair, shaking his head with a smirk.)

Max: "Finally."

Gianni: "Finally?"

Max: (Grinning now.) "Yes, finally! I’ve been telling her for months to leave. They treated her like shit."

Chris: "You sound happier about this than she probably is."

Max: "Because she deserves better. I told her that place wasn’t good enough for her." (Pauses, then softer.) "They should’ve known better than to treat her like that."

Chat:

MAX VERSTAPPEN, NUMBER ONE SUPPORTER

"Finally" LMFAO bro has been WAITING

He’s so relieved omg

Someone check on her ex-boss, they just felt a chill

Bro went from shocked to proud so fast

Red Bull Racing HR is shaking rn

I need a Max Verstappen in my life

Max: (Still grinning, shaking his head.) "So what now?" (Pauses, listening.) "Yeah? Taking time off? Good. You need it."

(His tone softens slightly, his expression fond. Chat goes feral.)

Chris: "So no more insane work hours?"

Max: (Smirks.) "Nope. Now it’s just insane hours listening to me talk about my simulator settings."

Chat:

She quit her job and he’s acting like he won his fourth titleMax really went "welcome to unemployment, babe"Bro is GLOWINGSupportive boyfriend era is PEAKING

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

📌 @/F1TeaSpill: MAX VERSTAPPEN ON STREAM JUST CASUALLY DROPPED THAT HIS GIRLFRIEND QUIT HER JOB AND WENT "FINALLY." BRO HAS BEEN WAITING FOR THIS MOMENT 😭😭

↳ @/RacingGirlie: THE WAY HE WAS SO READY WITH THAT RESPONSE LMFAO 💀 ↳ @/TireDegradationStan: He forgot how to drive for a second. The shock was REAL.

@/GridGossip: Max Verstappen finding out his girlfriend quit her job and IMMEDIATELY going: ✅ "Finally." ✅ "They treated you like shit." ✅ "You deserve better."

Boyfriend of the YEAR.

↳ @/MonacoMafia: Bro is celebrating her resignation more than his championships 😭 ↳ @/DR3nation: She quit her job and he’s THRIVING ↳ @/RedBullSimps: The way he went from SHOCKED to RELIEVED in under five seconds

@/F1GirlfriendsAnonymous: Not Max Verstappen exposing himself as the softest, most supportive boyfriend alive. He really said: 🔹 "You deserve better." 🔹 "If they don’t respect you, don’t waste your time there." 🔹 "Take time off, you deserve it."

And y’all still think he’s cold???

↳ @/DutchLion44: THE WAY HE WAS SO SINCERE ABOUT IT 🥺 ↳ @/​​OversteerOverlord: This man went from "I have no emotions" to "I will support my girlfriend unconditionally" real fast

@/FormulaLover: "NO MORE LATE NIGHTS AT WORK?" "NO, JUST LATE NIGHTS LISTENING TO ME COMPLAIN ABOUT SIMULATOR SETTINGS."

MAX PLS 😭

↳ @/PitStopPrincess: Her old boss just felt a chill down their spine ↳ @/DannyRicFave: Soft!Max is the best Max. I don’t make the rules.

@/PaddockChaos: How much do you bet that Max has been trying to convince his girlfriend to be his full-time trophy wife for MONTHS and she just wasn’t having it 💀

↳ @/RedBullRacingWife: "Finally." <- That was a man who has been campaigning for this moment ↳ @/GridTeaSpill: You KNOW he’s been like "you don’t need to work, just stay home, I’ll buy you whatever you want" and she’s been like "absolutely not" 💀💀 ↳ @/OvertakeAddict: Mans was celebrating her quitting before SHE even processed it 💀

@/MonacoMafia: MAX WAS SO READY FOR THIS MOMENT 😭 "Finally" <- that’s not just relief, that’s VICTORY.

↳ @/DutchLion44: He’s been battling corporate capitalism on her behalf for MONTHS ↳ @/PaddockGossip: He really wanted her to be living that soft life and she was like "Nah, I have a job" 😂 ↳ @/RaceStrategyFails: Man had a 10-step plan for her retirement and she foiled it by having ambition

@/F1TinfoilHat: Max Verstappen trying to turn his girlfriend into a trophy wife and failing is so funny to me. Like you just KNOW he was pulling out all the stops. 🚗 "You can have any car you want." 🏠 "Live anywhere you want." 💍 "You don’t need to work, just be with me." And she really went, "No, I have emails to answer."

↳ @/RB20Fan: She quit her job and he was the happiest person in the room 😭 ↳ @/F1MemesDaily: Plot twist: She’s about to find another job and he’s gonna LOSE IT 💀

@/LightsOutMax: Max Verstappen has won three world championships, dominated the grid, and still lost to his girlfriend’s corporate job.

↳ @/SoftMaxFan: The way he’s been fighting for MONTHS and she was just like "No ❤️" ↳ @/PaddockPrincess: Bro was ready to pay her a salary just to stay home and she STILL refused 💀💀 ↳ @/F1Spill: "Finally." <- that was not just relief, that was a mission accomplished moment

@/RedBullGirlie: I need someone to ask Max in an interview if he ever tried to get his girlfriend to be a full-time trophy wife because I know he did

↳ @/PaddockClown: He absolutely pitched it like a Red Bull contract ↳ @/​​RB20Fanatic: "I can provide you with a top-tier environment, all the resources you need, and a long-term vision for the future." ↳ @/DR3Memes: Drive to Survive voice "And in that moment, Max Verstappen realized… he was not winning this one."

@/FrontRowF1: I don’t even think Max was mad that she worked. He was mad that they treated her badly. Boyfriend of the Year tbh.

↳ @/RB19Stans: Yeah, his first reaction after shock was pure rage at her old job 😭 ↳ @/F1Himbos: He was 100% ready to go to war with that company ↳ @/Lap1Drama: He’s been FUMING about how they treated her and now he won

@/F1Takes: Max Verstappen was sitting there on stream like:

👀 "Wait, you quit?" 😳 "You actually quit?" 😌 "Finally." 😤 "They treated you like shit anyway."

Sir, have you been campaigning for this???

↳ @/PitLaneGossip: Bro had an entire strategy in place. He’s been pushing this agenda for MONTHS. ↳ @/RB19Forever: His immediate relief tells me he lost sleep over this job more than SHE did 💀 ↳ @/MonacoMadness: Man heard "I quit" and didn’t even process it before celebrating

@/SoftVerstappen: Max really thought his biggest opponent was Lewis Hamilton when in reality it was his girlfriend’s work ethic

↳ @/PaddockTea: Man has three world titles and 0 influence over her career choices 😂 ↳ @/DR3Fanatic: She’s out there being an independent woman and he’s just like please let me fund your life↳ @/GridGossip: I fully believe he has pitched the trophy wife life at least once and got rejected immediately

@/MaxForPresident: Max celebrating his girlfriend quitting like it’s his own career milestone is so FUNNY to me

↳ @/PodiumPredictions: She said "I quit" and he unlocked a new level of happiness↳ @/SoftTyresOnly: The way he’s genuinely delighted while she’s probably still processing it 💀 ↳ @/MonacoMafia: If she gets a new job he might actually riot

@/LandoStan33: Max Verstappen is a billionaire and his girlfriend still refused to quit her job for OVER A YEAR. Queen behavior.

↳ @/OvertakeObsessed: She refused to be a WAG full-time and he just had to deal with it

@/MonacoMadness: Max: "They don’t respect you. Just quit." Her: "I like working." Couldn’t have been me. You think I’d rather be working than living the dream as a rich man’s problem?

↳ @/Lap1Drama: Imagine saying NO to Max Verstappen telling you to never work again ↳ @/PodiumPredictions: The way I would’ve handed in my resignation the second he hinted at it↳ @/F1TeaSpill: Why suffer at a 9-5 when you could be a full-time F1 WAG???

@/MidfieldMess: I respect Max’s girlfriend for standing her ground but personally? I would have been at home in silk pajamas with a cat by now.

↳ @/RB20Memes: If my man said, "Quit your job, I’ll take care of you," I’d be gone in 0.2 seconds.↳ ↳ @/DR3Laughs: Max’s girlfriend WORKED while he was literally BEGGING her to relax. I COULD NEVER.

↳ @/RB19Tactics: I’d be in Pilates class at 10 AM on a Tuesday living my best life ↳ @​​/SoftMaxFan: She really CHOSE to work when she could’ve been a full-time rich girlfriend.↳ @/OvertakeGuru: RESPECT TO HER but I would’ve folded immediately.

@/GridGossip: Max Verstappen’s girlfriend really QUIT HER JOB on her own terms, months after he told her to, and not because he’s a billionaire but because she finally decided she was done.

SHE REALLY DOES NOT CARE ABOUT HIS MONEY.

↳ @/SoftVerstappen: This is actually insane. ↳ @​​RB19Defense: Girl had a multi-millionaire boyfriend BEGGING her to quit and she STILL waited. ↳ @/LightsOutRB: She worked herself into the ground because she didn’t want to rely on him??? Couldn’t be me.

***

At first, Isabelle seemed fine.

She took a shower, scarfed down a sandwich…and then she just sat on the couch, staring at nothing. 

“So… how does it feel to be unemployed?”

Isabelle turned to face him with a breezy smile. “Great. Amazing, actually. I should’ve done it sooner.”

Max folded his arms across his chest, not buying it for a second. "Uh-huh."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What?"

"You’re saying that like someone who is definitely not fine," Max said.

She rolled her eyes. "I just don’t see the point in dwelling on it."

"Okay. But not dwelling isn’t the same as being fine."

She laughed, short and sharp. "Max, I quit a job that was making me miserable. I did the right thing."

"Yeah," Max agreed easily. "But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel weird."

He could see the argument forming on her face—the automatic instinct to insist she was fine, she was strong, she could handle anything.

But then she hesitated.

Her mouth opened like she was about to say something else—something defensive, probably—but instead, her face crumpled.

 And just like that, she was crying.

“Oh, Schatje.” Max pulled her into his arms without hesitation.

"I don’t know why I’m crying," Isabelle mumbled against his shirt, voice thick with tears.

"Because it’s a big change," Max said quietly, rubbing slow circles over her back. "Because you worked hard for that job, even if it sucked. Because you’re human, and this stuff is hard."

She sniffled against him. "I feel stupid."

"You’re not stupid," he said firmly, dropping a kiss into her hair. "You’re figuring it out. That’s brave."

She exhaled shakily, the tension in her shoulders finally starting to unravel. "I don’t even know where to start."

Max grinned. “Well, in the meantime, you can always be my trophy wife.”

That earned a wet, incredulous laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You know, live a life of luxury. Lounge around, spend my money—”

“I’m not going to be your trophy wife.”

“Why not? You’d be great at it.”

“I like working,” she shot back, slipping out of his embrace just enough to glare at him.

Max smirked. “Yeah, but you also like expensive pastries, and being my trophy wife means you can have as many as you want.”

She groaned, wiping at her face. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, still crying all over me,” Max teased, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Isabelle huffed. “Fine. I’ll be your trophy wife for a week. Just to try it.”

“Deal,” Max said easily. “I’ll even buy you a designer handbag.”

She laughed again, finally looking a little more like herself. “You are ridiculous.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1Spotted: Y’all, Max Verstappen just walked into Chanel Monaco, and I’ve never seen a man more determined in my life.

@/SoftCompound: What’s the vibe? Casual browsing or “I know exactly what I want” levels of confidence?

@/F1Spotted: He walked in, went straight to the handbags, and told the SA, “I need something classic. Not too flashy. She prefers gold hardware.”

@​​/F1Tea: NOT “she prefers gold hardware” ??? Who is SHE???

@/GridGossip: That is a man DEEPLY in love.

@/F1Spotted: The SA showed him a couple of options, and he just went, “That one. I’ll take it.” No hesitation. No second thoughts.

@/RBR_obsessed: Not even checking the price tag 💀💀💀

@/EngineModeYES: The way he’s spending like a man who never wants her to work again.

@/McLarenMemeLord: “She likes gold hardware” AND “I’ll take it” in the same shopping trip… pray for this man, he’s down catastrophically.

@/OversteerFanatic: Do we think this is a “Congrats on quitting your terrible job” gift or a “Please let me keep funding your lifestyle” gift?

@/TyreDegSzn: He’s doubling down on the trophy wife agenda.

@/PadelAndPitStops: Next thing we know, she’ll be posting one of those soft-focus Insta stories of the bag with the caption: “spoiled 💚”

@/F1Spotted: He left with the biggest grin, holding the Chanel bag like it was a trophy.

@/Multi21Pls: He has 3 WDCs but THIS is his greatest achievement.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle:  I did a thing.

Emilie: Oh god.

Emilie: What kind of “thing”?

Emilie: Like... a normal person thing? Or a you thing?

Isabelle:  I quit my job.

Emilie: ...you WHAT

Isabelle:  I gave notice yesterday.

Isabelle:  Well, technically I handed in my resignation with zero notice.

Isabelle:  So... I guess I just quit.

Emilie: ISABELLE

Isabelle: I know.

Emilie: YOU QUIT Emilie: LIKE Emilie: YOU’RE FREE?

Isabelle: Apparently.

Emilie: Belle. Emilie:  BELLE.Emilie: THIS IS A MOMENT.

Isabelle: I’m half proud, half panicking.

Emilie: That’s valid. Emilie: But mostly: GOOD FOR YOU. Emilie: You’ve been miserable for months. This is overdue.

Isabelle: I just kept thinking I could fix it.

Emilie: You are not a human Band-Aid. Emilie: You do not have to patch up dysfunctional men in button-down shirts.

Isabelle: That’s a very specific burn.

Emilie: It’s targeted and deserved. Emilie: Also: I’m proud of you. Emilie: And I’m taking you out for champagne and carbs.

Isabelle: I don’t know if I want to celebrate or cry in a corner.

Emilie: We’ll do both. 

Isabelle: ...Okay. Isabelle: I could be convinced.

Emilie: I’m ordering us dessert too. You’re unemployed and hot, it’s a new era.

Isabelle: Thank you. I think?

Emilie: You’re welcome. I love you. I’m proud of you. And I swear to god if you try to go back I will physically block the door.

Isabelle: Noted 😅

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: What have you DONE to my friend.

Emilie: Miss “I’m fine,” Miss “It’s not that bad,” Miss “Maybe if I just do a little more…”

Emilie: She QUIT.

Emilie: HER. JOB.

Emilie: No backup plan. No exit strategy. Just mic drop and walk out.

Max: Yeah. Fantastic, right? Good for her.

Emilie: GOOD???

Emilie: MAX.

Emilie: SHE ACTUALLY STOOD UP FOR HERSELF AND WALKED OUT.

Emilie: Don’t “good for her” me!!

Emilie: I mean yes—good for her, but also

Emilie:​​ who are you

Emilie: and what have you done to the girl who used to apologize to printers when they jammed

Max: I didn’t do anything 🤷‍♂️

Max: She decided on her own.

Max: She deserved better.

Max: She knows that now.

Emilie: You’ve been boyfriend-ing too well

Emilie: She’s out here setting boundaries and reclaiming her peace like a whole queen

Emilie: And I’m just watching it happen like ????

Max: So you’re saying I’m a good influence?

Emilie: I’m saying you’re terrifying

Emilie: She’s turning down nonsense and choosing herself

Emilie: Do you even understand the level of personal growth we’re dealing with?

Max: She deserves it.

Emilie: Yeah. She really does.

Emilie: Also if you hurt her I will throw a stiletto at you. Custom Louboutins. It’ll be personal.

Max: Fair.

***

Isabelle wasn’t even sure why she had let Emilie drag her out shopping today. She didn’t need anything. She barely ever bought anything for herself—at least, nothing extravagant. 

She liked nice things…but she had never been hung up on brands, and she much preferred pieces that didn’t make her look like a walking billboard advertisement for a luxury brand. 

(Though she did quite like the absolutely gorgeous Chanel Flap Bag that Max had presented her with a few days ago. He had kept that ridiculous promise of buying her a handbag and she had been too amused to call him out on it.)

“You know, now that you’ve officially quit your job, we need to celebrate,” Emilie said as they strolled into Hermès.

Oh, right, now she remembered. Namely that she had quit her job literally days ago and was now officially unemployed. 

Isabelle sighed. “This is the celebration,” she said drily. This and the boozy brunch they had had before going shopping. 

“No, no, you buying something is the actual act of celebration.”

“I am not buying another handbag.”

Emilie gave her a flat look. “That’s what you said last time.”

“Yes, and I meant it,” Isabelle shot back. “Max literally bought me a Chanel bag the other day.”

Emilie stopped in her tracks. “He bought you a Chanel bag?”

Isabelle shifted awkwardly. “…Yes.”

“Like, you mentioned it in passing, and he surprised you later? Or was this a ‘we walked into the store, and he casually dropped his credit card’ kind of situation?”

Isabelle sighed, rubbing her temples. “It was a joke.”

“A Chanel bag was a joke?”

“I told him I’d be his trophy wife for a week.”

Emilie looked at her like she’d grown three heads. “And his response was to buy you a Chanel bag?”

“…Yes?” Isabelle said weakly.

Emilie grabbed her by the shoulders. “Isabelle. Your boyfriend is so far gone for you, I don’t think he even remembers what normal human relationships look like.”

Isabelle grimaced, thinking back to that black credit card that was tucked into the back of her wallet. “Can we move on?”

“No. Because you just quit your job, you’re technically unemployed, and your extremely rich, extremely besotted boyfriend is throwing designer bags at you. You are living the trophy wife dream.”

“I am not his trophy wife.”

“I mean, technically, no. But spiritually? You are this close.” Emilie held her fingers an inch apart, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Before Isabelle could protest, a well-dressed sales associate approached with a warm smile. “Miss Leclerc, lovely to see you again.”

Emilie, distracted by a nearby display of silk scarves, barely noticed. “We’d love to see that Kelly bag in black—oh, and maybe the taupe as well.”

The sales associate nodded. “Of course. Mr. Verstappen has his account on file for your purchases.”

Silence.

Emilie’s head snapped up so fast Isabelle was surprised she didn’t give herself whiplash.

“I’m sorry. What did you just say?” Emilie asked, her voice an octave higher than usual.

The associate remained composed. “Mr. Verstappen has set up a standing account for Miss Leclerc. She’s free to make any purchases at her convenience.”

Emilie turned to Isabelle so slowly and so dramatically that Isabelle knew she was never going to hear the end of this.

“Isabelle.” Emilie’s voice was deadly serious. “Are you telling me that Max—your Max—has a shopping account set up for you at Hermès? And you weren’t even going to mention it?”

Isabelle’s face burned. “I— I didn’t think it was important?”

Emilie clutched her own chest like she was on the verge of fainting. “Not important? Isabelle. Your boyfriend is Max Verstappen. He has a personal account at Hermès for you. That means you can walk in here at any time, pick whatever you want, and they just charge it to him?”

The sales associate, clearly trained to deal with these types of reactions, simply nodded. “That is correct.”

Emilie turned back to Isabelle, looking utterly scandalized. “And you don’t use it?”

“I— well, no,” Isabelle admitted, feeling like she was digging herself into a deeper hole. “I don’t need anything.”

Emilie dramatically staggered backward. “I’m sorry. You’re telling me that you could have been out here living your best trophy wife life, and you haven’t been?”

Isabelle groaned. “I knew I shouldn’t have come today.”

Emilie turned back to the associate with a blinding smile. “Yes, please. Bring out everything.” Then, lowering her voice, she added, “And maybe a glass of champagne for me because I need to process the fact that my best friend is living in an actual fairy tale.”

The associate merely nodded, disappearing into the back.

Isabelle folded her arms, glaring at Emilie. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being reasonable,” Emilie countered. “Because, let me get this straight—Max put his credit card on file at one of the most expensive boutiques in Monaco for you to use whenever you want, and you never told me?”

Isabelle groaned, covering her face. “I don’t even use it! I’ve never—”

Emilie held up a hand. “No, no, this is incredible. You could walk in here and buy, like, five bags, and they’d just say, ‘Of course, Miss Leclerc, Mr. Verstappen has already taken care of it.’”

“I’m not doing that!” Isabelle hissed, mortified.

Emilie smirked. “But you could.”

“Em—”

“No, no, let me have this moment.” Emilie leaned against the counter, shaking her head. “I knew he was obsessed with you, but this? This is next-level. Like, top-tier boyfriend behavior. Do you know how many women would kill for this?”

Isabelle sighed. “I don’t want to take advantage of him.”

Emilie threw up her hands. “You wouldn’t be! You’re his girlfriend! He’s obsessed with you! Have you met Max? If anything, he’s probably annoyed you don’t use it more.”

Emilie turned thoughtful for a moment. “Does he do this at other places too? Like, do you walk into Dior and they just start pulling things for you?”

“I don’t know!” Isabelle whisper-yelled. “I don’t go around testing it!”

“Well, you should,” Emilie said firmly. “Because if my boyfriend was this obscenely rich and obsessed with me, you’d best believe I’d be letting him spoil me on principle.”

Before Isabelle could argue, Emilie’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then cackled. “Oh my God. I’m texting him.”

Isabelle’s eyes widened in horror. “No, do not—”

Too late. Emilie had already typed:

Emilie: Why didn’t you tell me you have a shopping account for Isabelle at Hermès? I just found out and I think I need medical attention.

Seconds later, Max responded.

Max: And?

Emilie turned her phone toward Isabelle with a smug grin. “Look at that. He’s not even fazed.”

Isabelle groaned.

A moment later, another message from Max came through.

Max: She never uses it. Tell her to buy something.

Emilie let out an actual shriek of delight. “I knew it.”

Isabelle covered her face with her hands. “I hate both of you.”

Emilie just smirked, turning back to the sales associate, who had just returned with an armful of options. “Alright, let’s start with the classics.” She turned to Isabelle with a wicked grin. “Because if you don’t pick something, I will.”

Isabelle knew, with absolute certainty, that she had lost this battle, but that didn’t mean she had to go down without a fight.

“I don’t need another bag,” she tried again, crossing her arms as Emilie eagerly surveyed the selection now laid out in front of them. The sales associate had clearly taken Emilie’s enthusiasm as permission to bring out the best pieces—the kind that weren’t just sitting out on the shelves.

Emilie rolled her eyes. “Need? Isabelle, we’re past ‘need.’ This is about principle. Your ridiculously rich boyfriend, who would literally hand you the world if he could, wants you to use his account. And here you are, acting like you don’t deserve it.”

Isabelle shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate Max’s generosity—it was just that… no one had ever really spoiled her before. She had spent so long being overlooked, so long having to sacrifice things for the sake of her family, that being on the receiving end of such thoughtful indulgence felt foreign.

Emilie must have sensed it because her teasing softened into something more gentle. “Hey,” she nudged Isabelle’s arm. “You know Max, right? He’s not the kind of guy who does things halfway. If he put his card on file here, it’s because he wants you to have nice things. Not because he expects anything, not because he’s showing off. Just because he loves you.”

Isabelle exhaled slowly. She did know that. She saw it in the way Max always made sure she ate before he did, in how he paid attention to the little things—how he remembered things about her that even her own family forgot.

Her fingers traced over the soft leather of a cream Verrou bag. It was beautiful. And maybe—just maybe—she could allow herself to accept this part of their relationship.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she looked up at the sales associate. “I’d like this one, please.”

Emilie let out a triumphant squeal. “Finally!”

The associate smiled. “A wonderful choice, Miss Leclerc. We’ll have it wrapped for you shortly.”

Isabelle bit her lip, suddenly feeling a little giddy. It was just a bag. But at the same time… it wasn’t. It was a reminder that, for the first time in her life, she was with someone who didn’t just see her—he cherished her.

As they waited, Emilie picked up her phone and quickly typed something. Isabelle frowned. “What are you doing?”

Emilie smirked. “Updating Max.”

A moment later, his response came through.

Max: Finally.

Isabelle groaned. “You two are a nightmare.”

Emilie grinned. “We’re your nightmare.”

And maybe, just maybe… Isabelle didn’t mind that so much.

***

The sun was warm on her skin as Isabelle let herself be pulled along Avenue de Monte-Carlo, Emilie dragging her from Valentino to Gucci to Miu Miu in a blur of bright storefronts and designer bags.

She should have been tired.

 Instead, she felt a little giddy — her new purchase swinging lightly from her hand, perfect indulgence.

It was a perfect afternoon.

 Until it wasn’t.

Isabelle had always known where she stood in her family. She had learned not to expect invitations, had conditioned herself to not mind when she was left out of things that should have been obvious.

But still—walking into Goyard with Emilie and coming face-to-face with her mother and her brothers’ girlfriends, all out shopping together like some picture-perfect family outing, stung.

They were all standing together, arms full of shopping bags, laughing about something before her mother’s eyes landed on her.

“Oh,” her mother blinked, clearly surprised to see her. “Isabelle.”

Isabelle forced a polite smile. “Maman.” She nodded at the other women. “I didn’t realize you were all going out today.”

The immediate flicker of guilt across her mother’s face told Isabelle everything she needed to know. They hadn’t forgotten to invite her. They just hadn’t thought to include her at all.

“Oh, it was just a last-minute thing,” her mother said quickly, like that made it better. “We thought we’d do a little shopping before lunch.”

A lunch Isabelle wasn’t invited to either, apparently.

Her brothers’ girlfriends, who had always slotted so seamlessly into the family, exchanged glances, clearly uncomfortable. One of them, Charlotte —Lorenzo’s girlfriend—offered a hesitant, “We didn’t think you’d be interested.”

As if Isabelle never had interests. As if she hadn’t spent years watching from the outside, always an afterthought.

Emilie, standing beside her, said nothing. But Isabelle could feel the rage radiating off of her, the way her best friend’s hands had curled into fists.

Isabelle inhaled slowly, pushing back the familiar wave of hurt. She had learned long ago that showing how much this bothered her never got her anywhere. So instead, she kept her voice light, pleasant—graceful in a way they didn’t deserve.

“Well, I hope you’re all having a lovely time,” she said smoothly. “It’s a beautiful day for shopping.”

Her mother smiled, relieved that Isabelle wasn’t making a scene. “Yes, it is. And what about you, ma chérie? Out with a friend?”

“Yes,” Isabelle said simply. “Just enjoying the afternoon.”

She felt Emilie shift beside her, felt the sudden tension in the way her best friend’s grip tightened around her shopping bag.

���Oh, we picked up something special, actually,” Emilie said, voice perfectly even—but Isabelle knew that tone. She was angry.

She held up the unmistakable Hermès bag. Her mother’s gaze flickered to the bag.

“That’s lovely,” she said, her tone still light.

Isabelle just hummed in response. “Well, we won’t keep you.”

And with that, she turned—head held high, posture poised—pulling Emilie along with her.

They were barely out of earshot before Emilie exploded.

“Are you kidding me?”

Isabelle exhaled slowly. “Emilie—”

“No, Belle, no,” Emilie fumed. “They just—what, decided you didn’t even exist today? Like, ‘oh, we’ll just go shopping without Isabelle, she won’t care’?” She scoffed. “And the fact that your mother didn’t even apologize—”

“Em,” Isabelle sighed. “It’s not—”

“Don’t you dare say it’s not a big deal,” Emilie cut in. “Because it is. And I know you. I know it hurts.”

Isabelle swallowed. “I don’t want to think about it.”

Emilie scoffed. “Fine. But you know who would be furious about this?”

Isabelle shot her a look.

Emilie smirked. “Your boyfriend.”

“Em—” she warned.

“Oh, don’t Em me,” Emilie huffed. “You know he’d lose his mind if he found out they just left you out like that.” She paused, then muttered, “Actually, I kind of want to tell him. Just to watch him get all—” She gestured vaguely. “Dutch and possessive and mad.”

Isabelle bit her lip. Because, yeah. Max would be furious.

Emilie turned, eyes blazing. “How are you not furious right now?”

Because she was furious. Because she was hurt. But she had learned—long, long ago—that showing it didn’t make a difference.

So instead, she just smiled faintly. “I have better things to focus on.”

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Just so you know, your girlfriend is too classy for her own good.

Max: ?

Emilie: We just ran into her mother and her brothers’ girlfriends while we were shopping.

Emilie: Guess who wasn’t invited on their little girls’ outing?

Max: Tell me you are kidding. 

Emilie: I wish I was. 

Emilie: They didn’t even try to hide it. Just said it was “last minute”. Charlotte said they didn’t think she’d “be interested”.

Max: Tell her to use the card.

Emilie: What card?

Max: The one in her wallet. Black Card. Behind the receipts she never throws away. My name on the back.  Hers on the front

Emilie: YOU GAVE HER A BLACK CARD???

Max: She never uses it. So tell her to. 

Emilie: i— oh my god

Max: Anything she wants. Anything that makes her feel the way they don’t.

Emilie: You’re insane

Emilie:  I love it

Max: Belle deserves better than scraps. 

Max:  and tell her I said if she doesn’t buy herself something outrageous, I will. 

Emilie: You’re dangerous when you’re emotional. 

Max: No. I’m dangerous when people hurt her

Emilie: Honestly? Same. 

Emilie: Consider it done. 

***

By the time Emilie got back to their café table, her hands were still shaking from how hard she was gripping her phone.

Isabelle barely glanced up from stirring her tea. Too calm. Way too calm for what had just happened.

Emilie stared at her for a moment — at the careful, practiced ease in Isabelle’s movements, at the way she tucked every ounce of hurt so deep inside you might almost miss it.

But Emilie knew her too well.

She could see the small tells. The stiffness in Isabelle’s shoulders. The slight tremor at the corner of her mouth. The way she stirred her tea even though it had long gone cold.

She hated it. Hated how often Isabelle had been forced to wear that mask around the people who should have loved her most. Hated that Isabelle had spent so much of her life being overlooked, sidelined, treated like an afterthought in her own family.

Emilie set her jaw and dropped into the chair across from her.

"We’re using the card," she announced without preamble.

Isabelle blinked up at her, perfectly innocent. "What card?"

Emilie narrowed her eyes. "Don’t play dumb. The card."

Isabelle sighed, setting her spoon down neatly. "I’m not using it, Em."

"You are," Emilie said, practically vibrating with frustration. "Max said you should."

"He always says that," Isabelle muttered, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "He was half-joking when he gave it to me."

Emilie stared at her — this girl she loved like a sister — and felt the white-hot burn of protectiveness flood her chest.

"Belle," she said flatly. "He put your name on a black Amex. That’s not a joke. That’s basically marriage proposal."

Isabelle flushed lightly but lifted her chin, stubborn even in her embarrassment. "It’s for emergencies."

Emilie made a strangled noise. "And what exactly do you call today? Getting iced out of your own family in public counts as an emergency in my book!"

Isabelle shook her head, the corner of her mouth tugging in a small, resigned smile. "Retail therapy doesn’t fix anything."

Emilie leaned in, fire still burning under her ribs. "It fixes your mood," she said fiercely. "And it reminds everyone watching that you’re not some forgotten little sister. You’re the woman whose boyfriend gave her a credit limit bigger than their combined mortgage."

Isabelle gave her a sharp look. "Emilie," she said warningly. “I literally just bought a Hermès bag.”

"And?" Emilie demanded. "You earned it."

Because Isabelle never asked for anything.

 Because Isabelle spent her whole life making herself smaller, quieter, easier — trying not to take up space that no one seemed willing to offer her.

And now?

Now she had someone who saw her, who chose her, and Emilie would be damned if she let Isabelle keep hiding from that.

"I’m just saying," Emilie pressed, voice gentler now, "Max didn’t give you that card because he wanted you to buy him groceries. He gave it to you because he wanted you to know you’re taken care of. No conditions. No strings."

Isabelle’s hands curled slightly around her teacup.

She looked so small in that moment, so heartbreakingly unsure of her own worth, and Emilie’s chest ached.

"Belle..." she said softly. "You deserve to be someone’s priority. And he’s trying to show you that you already are."

Outside, Monte Carlo carried on — laughter, footsteps, the clatter of shop doors swinging open and shut — oblivious to the way Isabelle was holding herself together with sheer force of will.

Finally, Isabelle let out a shaky breath and gave Emilie a small, reluctant smile.

"Maybe just... one thing," she said quietly.

Emilie grinned like she’d just won the Monaco Grand Prix. "One thing now," she said smugly. "Ten things later."

Isabelle laughed — properly, this time — and the sound bubbled up between them, fragile and bright and so achingly beautiful that Emilie almost teared up.

She would burn the whole damn world down to protect that laugh.

"And for the record," Emilie added, gathering her bag with a wink, "if you don’t use it, I will."

"I think that would technically be fraud," Isabelle said, smiling into her tea.

"Semantics," Emilie said breezily. "Let’s go make Max proud."

And for once — just once — Isabelle let herself be pulled to her feet without arguing, letting herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to be loved exactly as she was.

***

The garage buzzed around Max — the usual sounds of a race weekend: drills, chatter, tires being rolled out, pit crew moving like clockwork. He should have been in the zone. Usually, he was.

But not today.

Today, he was angry.

Not the hot, reckless kind of anger that made his hands shake on a steering wheel —

 No, this was quieter. Sharper.

 The kind that sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and cold.

He thought about Isabelle standing there, smiling politely while her own family overlooked her like she was invisible.

He thought about the way she brushed it off, like she didn’t even expect to be seen anymore.

It made him want to punch something.

 Or someone.

Preferably a Leclerc.

He was mid-checking the tire pressures on the sheet when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Max glanced around, making sure no one was watching too closely, then slipped it out quickly.

Notification: American Express: €9.50 spent at Seaside Juicery.

Max stared at it. For a beat too long.

Then, despite himself — despite everything — he smiled.

The smallest, stupidest purchase imaginable.

 Nine euros.

 Smoothie, maybe. A Tea. A little something.

 But she had used it.

She had listened.

He tucked the phone back into his pocket, feeling stupidly giddy, the anger in his chest cracking just a little.

"Something good?" GP asked, wandering over with a tablet tucked under his arm.

Max shrugged, too casual. "She bought something."

GP blinked. "Who?"

"Isabelle. With the card I gave her. Nine euros," Max said, smirking.

GP laughed under his breath. "Well, congratulations. That's basically free compared to the psychological warfare you went through to get her to accept it."

Max just smiled — that rare, real one that didn’t make it to the cameras.

There was a short pause as the engineers passed by with fresh tire sets, shouting numbers back and forth.

Then Max added, way too casually, "She also bought a Hermes Bag. And she quit her job."

GP turned, full attention on him now. "What?"

"Yeah." Max reached for a bottle of water, twisting the cap off. "Told them to go fuck themselves. Finally."

GP whistled low. "Good for her."

Max shrugged like it was nothing. "She agreed to be my trophy wife for the week while she figures out what she wants to do."

GP choked on his laugh.

"Trophy wife?" he repeated, like he needed clarification.

Max deadpanned, "She makes coffee. Looks pretty. Yells at me to sleep more. Very demanding job."

GP shook his head, grinning. "You’re unbelievable."

Max’s expression softened slightly, the edge still there under it.

"I just want her to have something that’s hers," he said quietly. "Not whatever scraps her family bothers to throw her."

GP studied him for a long beat, then clapped him on the shoulder.

"You’re a pain in the ass, Verstappen," he said, voice light but warm. "But you’re a good one."

Max only shrugged again and grabbed his helmet, fitting it under his arm.

"She deserves better," he said simply. "Always has."

And then he headed toward the car, a little lighter than he'd been an hour ago — a little less furious, and a lot more in love.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Max: I got another card notification

Max: felt very proud

Max: thought maybe you finally bought something for yourself

Isabelle: …it was necessary

Max: €160 on cat toys is necessary??

Isabelle: YES

Isabelle:  They’re enrichment tools. 

Max: They’re getting a better life than I did growing up

Isabelle: They’re very intelligent

Isabelle:  They need stimulation

Max: You bought them a mini velvet couch.

Isabelle: It’s chic and it matches the living room

Max: You’re matching the decor for the cats now??

Isabelle: …a little

Isabelle: You said anything I wanted

Isabelle: I want the cats to live in luxury

Max: I respect the commitment

Max:  Does this mean i’m getting upgraded toys too?

Isabelle: Do you need stimulation enrichment?!

Max: If it comes with you feeding me treats and scratching my head too, yes. 

Isabelle: MAX

Max: 😂

Max: “enrichment tools” she says

Max:  You bought them a miniature sofa!

Isabelle: It matches the living room aesthetic. 

Max: We are officially insane. 

Max:  We have matching furniture with the cats

Isabelle: You say that like it’s a bad thing

Max: It’s not.  I’m obsessed with you and apparently with our spoilt cats too. 

Isabelle: You started this. 

Max: True

Max: I am so proud of my little trophy wife spoiling the cats instead of herself. 

Isabelle: Sassy and Jimmy deserve nice things.

Max: So do you. 

Isabelle:  I’m working on it

Max: You’re perfect and the cats are about to live better than 90% of Monaco. 

Isabelle: As they should

Max: Send me pictures when it arrives

Max: I want to see Sassy sitting on her tiny couch like she owns the penthouse.

[whytheylosttheirminds]

Don't Call Me Kid - Chapter 2

(Rafe Cameron x Reader series, 4.9k words)

series summary: You'd had a crush on Rafe Cameron since you were six years old, but he friend zoned you at every turn. Once shy and insecure, you found new confidence and self-love after high school. When your high school friends go on a reunion beach trip, Rafe finally sees what he lost, but he isn't going to give you up without a fight.

tropes: unrequited crush, glow up, she fell first/he fell harder

content: some angst, eventual fluff, slow burn, tomfoolery and shenanigans, drinking, fem!reader has occasional insecurity and body image issues

⇢ series masterlist

After weeks of all-nighters and cramming for finals, sleeping in on your first morning at the beach house felt incredible. It was only 9:30 when you finally stirred in the comfy bed, but it felt late in the day.

Coming down the stairs in your pjs and slippers, you smiled at the sound of your sister’s voice, joking around with her old friends. Your goal this trip was for her to have a good time, and despite the emotional rollercoaster of seeing Rafe yesterday, at this moment, you were glad you decided to stay. You entered the room to see half the house was awake, though neither Rafe or Tom had made an appearance yet.

“Ladies and gentleman, it’s Kerri Walsh Jennings!” Topper deepened his voice like a sports announcer when you entered the kitchen. The few people who were up all turned to you, playfully bowing and applauding like you were a true Olympian. You grinned and rolled your eyes, surprised at how comfortable you felt with the unprecedented attention.

Topper was at the stove flipping pancakes for everyone’s breakfast, wearing an apron that said “kiss the cook.” As you approached the kitchen island to grab a stool next to your sister, he leaned over, holding the spatula like a microphone.

“So tell us, Kerri, now that you’ve won the gold what will you do next?”

“Well, Top,” you played along. “First, I’m going to get some coffee…then I’m going straight to Disneyland!”

Everyone in the kitchen laughed, making the tips of your ears turn red. No one ever laughed at your jokes in high school, not that you were confident enough to make many. Rafe would tell you sometimes that you were funny, so long as no one was around to hear him admit it.

“Well I can help you with the first part,” Topper said, grabbing a mug and the coffee pot.

“Wow, so domestic of you, Topper,” you teased as he poured your steaming coffee in front of you.

“He’s our house mother,” Carter said, smiling wide at Topper who did a jokey little curtsy motion. Clearly this was a running joke between them.

Topper handed you a plate of pancakes, which Kelce promptly reached over your shoulder to steal. 

“Since when are you such an athlete?” Kelce asked, his mouth already full with your breakfast.

You told them all about your team at school, surprised out of your mind that everyone was actually listening intently.

Rafe woke up groggy and sore, ducking his head as he walked through the basement and made his way up the rickety steps. As he reached for the handle of the door which opened into the kitchen, he smiled at the sound of your voice on the other side. His smile quickly faded when he heard Kelce interrupt you with, “Yeah and you kicked Rafe’s ass, too, made him your bitch.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” 

Every head in the kitchen whipped towards the sound of Rafe’s voice as he emerged, except for yours. You shuffled slightly on your stool and sipped your coffee. Rafe didn’t miss the way you were ignoring him, his eyes grazing quickly over the smoothe skin of your shoulders before redirecting to anything he could find. 

“Cute apron, Top,” he landed on.

“Thanks man,” Topper said, ignoring his mocking tone. “Want some flapjacks?”

“Ew, who calls them flapjacks?” Carter burst out laughing. 

“Well now you don’t get any,” Topper scolded, pulling her plate away from her and handing it to Rafe.

“I don’t want ‘em if Carter’s put her mouth near them,” Rafe mocked. “We don’t know where she’s been.”

“Says the guy who licked the gym floor in seventh grade,” you said quietly.

The entire room came to a halt, everyone surprised at the sound of you joining in on the teasing. No one had actually heard you address Rafe yet. The awkwardness hung in the air, all eyes going wide as they waited to see if the notorious hothead was going to be able to take what he was dishing out. You just picked at your pancakes with your fork and hoped everyone would move on, but Rafe smirked at you, a playful twinkle in his eye.

“That was on a dare,” he defended himself.

When you finally looked up at him, your stomach twisted into a knot as you noticed how cute he looked in his white undershirt and grey sweats, messy bedhead and sleepy eyes. You immediately regretted acknowledging that you remembered something he did so long ago. Now, he was looking at you with something like excitement, smug that you were talking to him, like your big triumph the day before had never happened. 

“Oh, I didn’t remember that part.” It was a lie, you remembered everything he ever said or did.

Rafe’s face dropped at your impassive tone, his brief window of hope that all was forgiven slammed shut.

To your great relief, Tom chose that moment to enter the room, drawing the attention away from you and Rafe. He had apparently been out on a run, and his under armor shirt, wet with sweat, clinged to his form to reveal a sculpted chest below.

“How we doin’ everyone?” His cheery voice boomed. He slapped Topper on the back before giving Kelce a frat bro handshake across the counter. “What do we have here?” He whistled appreciatively at the spread Topper had put out.

As Topper rattled on about the many flavors and shapes of pancakes he could offer, Tom looked over at you with a cheeky smile and mouthed “good morning!” You smiled back with a little wave, butterflies erupting in your stomach at the way he was singling you out. 

After the volleyball game last night, you’d all gone to a seafood restaurant on the water. Tom had chosen the seat next to you, and made extremely pleasant dinner company. He asked you all about yourself, about school and what you were planning for the future. He was a great listener, and you were so glad to have someone to chat normally with without the baggage of your childhood hanging over your head. You hoped the week would hold many more cozy conversations with him.

Unbeknownst to you, Carter was watching as you smiled at him in the kitchen, and so was Rafe. They had very different looks on their face as they realized at the same moment that something was happening between you and Tom.

After Topper and Kelce reclaimed Tom’s attention, talking over each other about their plans to go fishing later, Carter squeezed your elbow and motioned with a nod for you to follow her out onto the patio. 

“Ummm, okay, what was that?” Carter asked with arched eyebrows once you were settled on the patio couch next to her.

“Oh my god I know. I shouldn’t have said anything, do you think everyone will think it’s weird I remember something he did in seventh grade?” You asked worriedly.

Carter scrunched her brows in confusion for a minute before waving you off with her hand. “Oh, no not Rafe, he’s old news. I’m talking about your little moment with Tom!”

“Oh, uh,” you cleared your throat, embarrassed that you were still lingering on Rafe when she clearly wasn’t. “I don’t know, he’s nice.”

“He’s fucking gorgeous is what he is,” she fanned herself theatrically.

“Are you into him?” Your stomach dropped at the thought that she might be interested. In your eyes, Carter always had first pick, and surely if Tom thought she was interested he’d choose her over you in a heartbeat.

“No,” she shook her head. “I’m having too much fun messing with Topper.”

You laughed hard at that, “yeah, I noticed. Are you two back on again?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “You think if I play my cards right I could get him to propose?”

“I think you could probably get him to do just about anything,” you chuckled.

“Okay, then it’s settled, I’ve got Topper and you,” she poked at your side and you swatted her hand away, “will make a move on Tom.”

“I don’t know about ‘make a move,” you took a long sip of your coffee, suddenly anxious.

Carter eyed you curiously, recognizing the insecurity she hoped you had left behind now that things were going so well. She didn’t understand how you still couldn’t see how amazing you are, but she was determined to prove it to you by the end of this trip.

Rafe did his best not to stare at you through the sliding door, but when he heard your melodic laugh float in through the screen, he couldn’t help the way his head snapped toward the sound, wishing desperately that it was him making you laugh like that. You used to laugh at all his jokes, and he’d taken it for granted. The sad thing was, he actually loved hanging out with you. You had a great sense of humor, and he always felt so comfortable when it was just you and him. He knows now he should’ve just called it what it was, been with you in public too. But he had so many eyes on him back then, and he was worried what people would think. Plus, he knew you’d stick by him even if he treated you like shit, and he took advantage of that. He kicked himself mentally, feeling like a Grade A chump while you sat there, looking beautiful in the ocean breeze, smiling through the window at some guy you’d met yesterday.

As he lost himself in his thoughts, Topper noticed him staring at you, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“She looks good, huh?” He asked Rafe.

“What?” Rafe shook his head as if he could erase the thoughts that were plaguing him. “Who?”

“Oh, come on,” Topper nodded towards you and Carter on the deck.

“I dunno,” Rafe tried to play it off. “She looks the same I guess, a little different.”

“Bro,” Topper gave him an incredulous look. “She’s a fucking smokeshow. You’re into her, don’t even try and fool me.”

“If you're so into her, why don’t you go for her?” Rafe snapped at him.

Topper shook his head, “maybe because I’m not the one she was obsessed with for a decade.”

“She wasn’t obsessed with me,” Rafe protested. “We were friends.”

“Right,” Topper said sarcastically. “And I was a number one draft pick. Dude, she was in love with you, everyone knew it.”

Rafe leaned forward on the counter, propped on his elbows, looking down at his uneaten pancakes with a frown. His stomach twisted with guilt. Of course everyone knew, he knew it too. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t use your adoration of him to his advantage from time to time. Okay, all the time. He couldn’t really blame you for still being mad at him, he was a dick. But he liked to think he’d grown some since then, not that you had any reason to give him a chance to prove it.

“I think she’s into your buddy, Dom, or whatever his name is,” Rafe grumbled.

“First of all,” Topper pointed the spatula at him, “you know his name is Tom. And second of all, I love the guy, but he’s got nothing on you. Give me one day, she’ll be back.”

“Don’t do anything weird, man,” Rafe warned, cringing at the thought of what kind of damage an unsupervised Topper could inflict.

“Don’t worry dude, I got it handled,” Topper assured him.

Rafe just chuckled and sipped his coffee, knowing this was a losing battle, “whatever you say, Top.”

The door slid open and you and Carter reentered the kitchen. Tom stood from his place at the little breakfast nook when you walked in, and you were relieved that he ended his conversation with Maddie and Sabrina so abruptly at the sight of you. He smiled down at you before heading into the kitchen to help Topper clean up. Rafe was noticeably not helping, sitting at the counter scrolling on his phone.

“No phones,” Carter said, swiping it from him. 

“Give it,” he held his large hand out to her, jaw ticking with annoyance.

“C’mon Rafe, don’t you want to live in the present?” She badgered.

He tried to grab it quickly, but she lifted it above her head, tossing it to Kelce on the other side of the counter, who tossed it to Topper, and the game of hot potato continued, much to Rafe’s chagrin.

“Y’all are children,” he scowled, sitting back on the stool in defeat.

“Who are you even texting? All your friends are here,” Carter jeered.

“I was looking up directions to the grocery store, seeing as there’s no fucking food in this house besides beer, and apparently pancake mix,” Rafe explained.

“No need,” Topper said. “Tom, Kelce and I are spending the day on the water and we’ll grab some stuff on the way back.”

Carter frowned at the thought of both of your boys being gone the whole day, leaving little to distract you from Rafe. This wouldn’t do.

“No, you can’t go out today, we're having a cookout!” She announced to the room.

“We are?” Kelce scratched his head.

“Yes, we are,” Carter nodded confidently, wrapping her arm around Topper’s waist, which you knew was all it would take to get him to agree. “And mom here is going to grill for us.”

“Oh am I?” Topper asked, eyebrows raised in amusement, not exactly protesting.

“Yes, so someone else will need to go get the food,” Carter continued. You knew her well enough to see that a whole plan was unfolding in her head. “Sissy, why don’t you go?”

“That’s…fine,” you agreed reluctantly, narrowing your eyes at her, trying to figure out her play. “I need someone to go with me though, we’ll need a lot of stuff.”

Carter and Topper smiled in sync, both thinking they’d just come up with the best idea anyone has ever had.

At the same moment that Carter blurted out, “Tom can go with you!” Topper loudly suggested, “Rafe can take you!”

Your lips forming a tight line, you gave them both an exasperated look. Their heads snapped toward each other, eyeing each other suspiciously. Rafe scratched the back of his neck, annoyed at Topper for butting in and hating himself for hoping you’d choose to go with him and not Tom.

Tom, meanwhile, was watching all four of you from the corner of the room, never more confused in his life.

“It’s cool,” he said hesitantly, the awkwardness palpable. “All three of us can go.”

“Fine, but I’m driving,” Rafe stood from his seat. “Can I have my phone back now please?”

He reached his hand to Kelce, who was the last to have it. Kelce panicked, wanting to keep the game going, and tossed it to you. You very nearly dropped it, letting it bounce between your hands but eventually securing it before it fell.

You just looked at it in your hands, then up to Rafe and Tom, searching for any way out of what was sure to be an uncomfortable outing without being rude. You came up with nothing.

“I guess I’ll go get dressed,” you handed Rafe his phone, making Kelce shake his head at you in disappointment.

The hum of the truck’s engine was the only sound in the car for a solid five minutes. You sat in the front seat, Tom having opened your door for you, while Rafe drove. You suddenly couldn’t remember what people do with their hands when they’re not driving. Where the hell do you put your hands? Tom’s voice cut through your internal panic.

“So, uh Rafe, Top says you went to Chapel Hill?” He inquired, sitting forward in the backseat so his head appeared between you and Rafe,

“Still do,” Rafe said curtly.

You looked at Rafe for the first time since pulling out of the beach house driveway. You wanted to ask him why he hadn’t graduated on time, always more invested in his academics than he was, but you were trying to pretend you didn’t care.

“Nice, man,” Tom tried to keep the conversation going. “I applied there, it’s hard to get in.”

“I guess I just hit the books a little harder than you then,” Rafe shrugged.

A scoff escaped you before you had the chance to stifle it. Rafe’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“What was that?” Rafe looked sideways at you for a moment.

“Nothing,” you crossed your arms over your chest.

“No, please share,” he prodded. You couldn’t believe he was copping an attitude with you.

“It’s just, I’m sure your last name had nothing to do with your acceptance,” you quipped.

Rafe’s jaw clenched and you smirked in satisfaction, pleased that you had gotten under his skin. Tom’s eyes flicked between the two of you, trying to decipher the vibe.

You were glad he didn’t try to attempt any further small talk. Once you got to the grocery store, you divided the shopping list three ways and split up to your designated aisles. You filled your cart as fast as you could, eager to get this shopping trip over with.

After checking everything off your list, you rounded the corner of the produce section toward the registers, your cart nearly crashing into Rafe’s. His entire shopping cart was filled with alcohol. You laughed at the sight. 

“What?” Rafe asked defensively.

“What are the rest of us gonna drink?” You smirked.

“Shut up,” he grinned. “It’s not all for me.”

“Okay but where is the stuff you were supposed to get?”

“It’s under there somewhere,” he mused.

“Sure,” you just shook your head with a smile and kept walking towards the register.

“Shit, wait,” Rafe rolled his cart to you and ran back down one of the aisles.

“No don’t worry about me, I got it,” you muttered to yourself bitterly.

You started pushing both carts but Rafe appeared quickly at your side again.

“Got it,” he breathed, adding one more thing to his cart.

It was a case of Redbull. You shifted on your feet uncomfortably, looking down into his cart. Redbull was his drink of choice in high school, you used to buy him one every day and bring it to him after practice, like a puppy fetching the morning paper. Rafe eyed you nervously, your soured expression leading him to believe you remembered just as well as he did. 

“Old habits die hard, huh?” You joked, trying to break the tense moment. 

“Yeah, can’t seem to kick that one,” he replied, relieved that you were the first to acknowledge it.

Tom caught up with you at check-out, his cart actually full of the things he was supposed to get. The three of you unloaded your goods to be rung up by a 16-year-old cashier who could not have been more annoyed that you had chosen his register.

Tom jumped in to help bag the groceries, chatting happily with the bag boy as he assisted. Rafe, however, stood there staring at his phone. 

After you finished emptying your cart, you watched Tom with a smile while he charmed the grocery store staff. Rafe looked up from his screen with a frown, stomach dropping when he saw that you were watching Tom with an affectionate smile.

“Is that everything?” The cashier asked hopefully.

You were about to say "yes" and also maybe "sorry" when Rafe cut you off.

“No wait, these too,” he reached toward the shelf and grabbed your favorite candy, looking at you expectantly as he handed it to the cashier.

“Your favorite,” he explained bashfully at the sight of your furrowed brows.

“Yeah, it is,” you agreed. “Just surprised you remember. Thanks.”

You looked at him for a moment longer than you should, your eyes lingering on each other’s as you shared another silent memory. You felt a twinge of nostalgia that you knew you shouldn’t.

While you and Rafe looked at each other, Tom pulled out his black card and entered it into the machine. Rafe noticed a moment too late and scrambled to pull his wallet from his pocket, fumbling for his credit card.

“Oh no, hey man, I was gonna get it,” Rafe finally pulled out the credit card he was looking for but Tom was already signing the screen with his finger.

“No worries dude,” Tom brushed him off politely. “You can get me back later this week.”

Rafe was the most competitive person you knew, and the richest, surely he wasn’t going to let another guy pay for everything and walk away. He opened his mouth like he was going to argue with Tom, but with a glance back at you he closed it again. Then he carried as many bags to the car as one person could possibly hold, mumbling something like "multiple trips are for pussies." 

Another fifteen minutes of painful silence might just make your head explode, you thought. The second you were back in the truck, the bed overflowing with groceries, you asked Rafe for the aux.

“What are you gonna play?” He sideyed you as he held it just out of reach. You leaned across the console to snatch it from his hands, and he felt pins and needles where your hand had brushed him. He wondered if you realized it was the first time you'd touched each other in four years.

The two of you had always fought over the aux, you’d eventually give in to his pouting and listened to his shitty house mixes and soundcloud rappers.

“Don’t worry about it,” you waved him off with a grin.

Four years ago, you would have been way too nervous to play what you truly wanted to listen to, afraid Rafe wouldn’t think it was cool enough. But now, you pressed play on your go-to playlist with gusto and beamed when your absolute favorite song started booming through his subwoofers. 

Rafe tried to keep his eyes on the road, but he couldn’t stop them from dancing back over to you as you sang along happily to your music. You rolled the window down, letting the humid Florida air raise your hair in a wave around you. You giggled and tried to tame it, eventually giving up and letting it whip around your face.

There was something so light about you. Something joyful and at peace. He placed both hands on the steering wheel, trying to ground himself, jealous of your carefree spirit. Whatever intangible thing you had managed to capture in your years apart, he wanted it. And it hit him like a lightning bolt, a bittersweet truth he had fought for so many years - he wanted you.

One song rolled into the next, and Rafe searched for something to say to keep up the almost-friendly banter you had begun in the store, but before he could come up with anything, Tom sat forward suddenly.

“Oh hey I love this song!” Tom informed you.

“Me too!” You turned to smile at him, and Rafe listened enviously as you and Tom chatted about the many favorite artists you have in common the rest of the way home.

The house was quiet when you returned, everyone either taking their daily hangover nap or down lounging by the beach. Rafe’s hands turned white from once again carrying as many plastic bags as he could. You tried not to laugh, and tried not to notice the way his biceps bulged under his tight t-shirt, but you failed at both.

“Are you laughing at me again?” He raised his eyebrows in amusement, placing the bags on the counter. “What is it this time?”

“Sorry, you’re just so helpful all of a sudden,” you pointed out with a smirk.

“Well bag boy over there wasn’t helping,” he nodded towards the patio, where Tom was taking a phone call.

“He said it’s a work call,” you defended him. “He just got a job in New York apparently, a Wall Street thing.

“Whatever,” Rafe mumbled. What he wanted to say was “since when are you two best friends?” but he had already been fairly gruff with you today and he was trying to refocus on his goal of getting you to like him again.

You and Rafe put the groceries away in silence for a while. You tried to find the right way to approach the question you were dying to ask, failing to convince yourself you didn't care about the answer.

“So,” you started nervously. “You didn’t graduate this year?”

Rafe’s shoulders tensed as he tried to make more room in the pantry.

“Nope,” he said shortly.

“Did you take some time off?”

He was torn between being glad that you were talking to him and mad that this was the topic you’d chosen to break the ice with.

“No, I-uh,” he cleared his throat. “I failed a couple classes my first year so I’m still a few credits behind.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, leaning down to put the ribs for the cookout in the large freezer.

“It’s my own fault,” he shrugged. “I was an idiot back then.”

When you stood from the freezer to grab another rack of ribs, you were surprised to see Rafe standing close, his body looming as he looked down at you.

“I was an idiot before then, too,” he continued, voice low and uncertain.

Everything in your mind went fuzzy as the blood rushed to your face. This was the first time you could smell him, and it familiarity of his scent made you feel like you were being transported back in time. You fought the urge to inhale deeply, greedy for the rush of him filling your senses.

“Before then?” You blinked up at him.

Rafe struggled to find his next words. It took everything in you not to fill in the blanks for him, like you were back in high school slipping him the answers to a test he hadn’t studied for. But this time, you needed him to find the answers all on his own. You swallowed hard, leaving silence for the words he was searching for. 

Before he could find them, Topper and Carter came barreling into the kitchen, mid-argument as always. They stopped short when they saw the scene in front of them. Rafe stepped away from you so quickly you could feel a woosh of wind in his wake. It was eerily reminiscent of your teenage years, Rafe separating himself from you as soon as there was anyone around to see you together.

“Everything okay?” Carter asked tensely, noticing the way your shoulders had fallen.

“Fine,” Rafe said, tossing the rest of the plastic bags in the trash and heading down the stairs to his basement bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

“Damn, you two did good,” Topper said, admiring the cornucopia of food you’d brought back.

“You three,” Carter corrected. “Tom went too.”

She walked up next to you and lowered her voice, a sly smile on her face, “and how did it go with Tom?”

You didn’t match her playful mood, completely preoccupied thinking about the moment you and Rafe had just shared. Was he about to apologize to you? What would you have let him do if your sister and psuedo-brother-in-law had entered the room just a minute later?

“It was fine,” you said distractedly, closing the fridge and heading upstairs to your room.

Carter turned on her heel and looked at Topper with a frown, shocked to find him beaming back at her.

“What are you smiling for?” She snarled.

“Oh nothing, seems like my plan is working is all,” he grinned. “They were standing awfully close when we walked in.”

“Your plan?” She stepped closer to him, arms crossed. “What are you up to Thornton?”

“Just playing a little Cupid,” he smiled proudly.

“Okay well you can go ahead and put down the bow and arrow, because I’ve already got that covered,” she informed him.

“Really?” He asked in surprise. “I thought you hated Rafe.”

“Rafe? Ew, no, I’m talking about Tom, obviously,” she snapped.

“Your sister and Tom? Nahhh, do you not see how she and Rafe have been looking at each other? It’s so obvious,” he scoffed.

“You know what else is obvious? That Rafe’s still a dick and he doesn’t deserve her,” Carter argued.

“He’s actually grown up a lot,” Topper said, surprising Carter with the serious shift in his tone. “He’s been through some stuff, college hasn’t been easy for him. He could use a win.”

Carter considered this, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy the years of bitterness she held for Rafe.

“Well, he had his chance. He had millions of chances with her and he fumbled every one,” she said.

“I know he did, but under it all he’s a good person. And I think good people deserve second chances,” Topper explained.

“Not when they hurt my sister,” she concluded. “I won’t allow it.”

Topper's eyes creased with his smile as he looked down at her, loving her steely look and pursed lips as she put her hands on her hips. 

“You’re still so bossy,” he smiled, sliding closer to her until their chests were nearly touching. “I know we’re supposed to be fighting, but it’s kinda hot.”

He leaned forward to plant a little kiss on her lips, like he’d done a million times before. Carter leaned back, leaving his puckered lips hanging.

“Oh no,” she pushed him back, making him frown. “You don’t get to touch me until you join Team Tom.”

“Nuh-uh! Team Rafe for life baby,” he crossed his arms to match her stance, recovering quickly, more than used to being rejected by her.

She studied him suspiciously, wondering how quickly he’d crack if she actually withheld their inevitable beach trip hook-up. But he didn’t budge, he was as serious about this as she was.

“Fine,” she said. “The game is so on.”

(Chapter 3)

a/n: so tell me... are we Team Tom or Team Rafe?

please note, the taglist for this series is currently closed. For updates, follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifs 💕

[athena-xox]

Ever after high books + links

Link one (most books)

Link two (other books)

EDIT: SINCE THIS IS GETTING ATTENTION AGAIN I IMPLORE EVERYONE TO CHECK MY PINNED POST SINCE THERE IS SO MUCH MORE GOOD RESOURCES!!! (This includes webisode timelines, doll diaries, EAH dictionary, confirmed birthdays and sm more)

The Main Trilogy (& Other Shannon Hale Books)

The Storybook of Legends by Shannon Hale

The Unfairest of Them All by Shannon Hale

A Wonderlandiful World by Shannon Hale

Once Upon a Time by Shannon Hale

The Legend of Shadow High by Shannon Hale

Ever After High School Series

Next Top Villain by Suzanne Selfors

Kiss and Spell by Suzanne Selfors

A Semi Charming Kinda Life by Suzanne Selfors

Fairies Got Talent by Suzanne Selfors

Truth or Hair by Suzanne Selfors

Fairy Tail Ending by Suzanne Selfors

Destiny Do-Over Diary companion books to the school series

General Villainy by Suzanne Selfors

Science & Sorcery by Suzanne Selfors

Hero Training by Suzanne Selfors

Once Upon a Pet

A Princely Present by Suzanne Selfors

Candy Wish Fish by Suzanne Selfors

Trouble with Jackalopes by Suzanne Selfors

Next Top Bird by Suzanne Selfors

Hedgehog’s Hexcellent Adventures by Suzanne Selfors

Horse of a Different Colour by Suzanne Selfors

Once Upon a Twist

When the Clock Strikes Cupid by Lisa Shea

Cerise and the Beast by Lisa Shea

Rosabella and the Three Bears by Perdita Finn

Duchess Lets Down Her Hair by Perdita Finn

The Kitty Mermaid by Perdita Finn

The Secret Diary of

The Secret Diary of Apple White by Heather Alexander

The Secret Diary of Raven Queen by Heather Alexander

Diary of an Evil Queen by Stacia Deutsch

Junior Novels

Dragon Games Stacia Deutsch

Epic Winter by Perdita Finn

Activity books

Yearbook

Royals and Rebels

The Sleepover Spellebration Party Planner by Kirsten Mayer

The Totally Tea-RRIFIC Hat-Tastic Book About YOU

Madeline Hatter’s Guide to Riddlish! A Topsy-Turvy Write-In Book by Elizabelle Castle

The Hat-Tastic Tea Party Planner by Melissa Yu

A Spelltacular Year

Plan Your Destiny

Ever After High Activity Book

Spellbinding Activities

Write Fableous Fairytales

Picture books

Welcome, Baby Dragons by Margaret Green

Let the Dragon Games Begin by Margaret Green

Royally Cool Adventure by Perdita Finn

Meet Crystal Winter by Perdita Finn

Colouring/Sticker books

Thronecoming Reusable Sticker Book by Melissa Yu

A Wonderlandiful Doodle Book by Jeanine Henderson

Draw Dream Create Sketchbook

An Enchanted Pop-Up Sketchbook



Other books

Five Minute Stories by Robert Rudman & Ellie Rose

Class of Classics by Leigh Dragoon & Jessi Sheron

The books that don’t have a link are ones I know exist but I couldn’t find on internet archive/other searching.

If you have any links to these missing books, or books that I don’t have PLEASE lmk. Or if you have higher quality or pdf links (since some of the books are just screenshots of pages that I put together on a doc…)

The last two books in the once upon a twist series don’t exist.. they were cancelled or only a few copies were made (and those who have them aren’t saying anything). But I’m hoping to find them somehow if I have to message perdita finn myself. I believe there are a few chapters up somewhere so I’ll try to compile all that’s available

Any title that is coloured with a link means I don’t have a pdf or full copy yet but I have a preview

Because this is getting so much attention make sure to check my pinned post that has more eah resources!!

There are also diaries that went along with the dolls that you can find on @everafterhigharchive’s page who is also responsible for most of the links here

(Also one of my interconnect libraries has meet Crystal Winter so I’ll upload that onto internet archive + add it on here once it ships)

[v1x3n]

SHOWER TIME ── ripped apart.

♯ PAIRINGS - john price x falsely accused reader x 141

♯ SYNOPSIS - tortured for information by your family and the person you loved, john price. you were harmed for something you hadn't even done, you were framed as the traitor and soon they would find out.

♯ TAGS - angst - nightmare mention, hospital setting, scars, depression, neglect.

─ previous chapter // masterlist // next chapter ─

After being taken to the infirmary, your body had uncontrollably decided to take a long sleep, your dreams full of the terrors your best friends had caused you. Your dreams reminisce on the before, on the time where everything was okay, the time where you had a friend group and your job was going well. But that had to end, didn't it? 

Nothing good could ever happen to you. 

Waking up, you don't even know how long you slept for, you discover your bandages on your body changed. Still bloody but they were fresh material, you were in new clothes - well clothes. Head goes dizzy when you look around the room, taking in everything you could see. The high white walls with no decoration, the window that you could look out from on your so-called bed, the cream curtains that hung but were swept to the side - bringing in bright light from the outdoors. The outdoors, something you hadn't seen in what, a month? You couldn't remember anymore. You felt disoriented, angry yet also sad. You felt every fucking emotion you didnt have time to feel during the attacks, all at once. Eyebrows squeezing together, looking to the side of your sheets, a small wooden chair was placed there. After gulping you peek at the table next to your bed, there was also a sink in the corner. Usual hospital room, tv and two doors, one leading out into the hallways and one to a bathroom. And that was that. 

There was one thing that made your heart furious though, an arrangement of colourful flowers, wrapped in a light pink ribbon sat on the table beside you. Frowning as you peer at the beautiful petals you look away, they ruined you, ruined your body, your life and all they give you is fucking flowers? You knew it was one of them, you had not built that much of a relationship with anyone else and they were your favourite flowers. Only the 141 knew your favourites, cheap fucking way of saying sorry. You hadn't even heard the words come out from any of their mouths yet, fucking pathetic. enraged, angry, furious and irritated were only some of the words you were feeling. 

Soon it had been a week, lay in that stupid fucking room. At Least you had met a few people, you met a few nurses who came by to feed you, check up on you and help your wounds. And you had met a patient in the room next to yours, he was sweet towards you, you never spoke to him though. He did most of the talking, his name was Logan and honestly in the week you had known him for - he was growing on you. He came by everyday, he was very nosy though, very extroverted. Luckily he never demanded answers from you, he always spoke, sometimes you would reply with a shrug or a small nod. You couldn't tell if he had heard about what happened to you though, he never touched you and he was always so gentle, dunno. Maybe he was just nice.

Scars were left all over your form, a healing cut on your cheek that wouldn't take that long to fix - just a very quick and painful stitch up!, your legs just starting to become responsive, rope marks dug in your skin from how tightly they displayed you on that cold pole. 

Drugged up on antibiotics wasn't the best feeling, you had a few infected wounds down your body, the one on your lower womb was ugly. It looked diabolical, but luckily you were on many pills so life is okay! Looking down at your hands, the missing fingers was just another example of the pain the four caused you. 

Just when you were about to spew tears from your tear ducts, a light shadow covered you. When did he come in? 

Your captain sat on the wooden chair beside you, he didn't speak, just looked down at his raggy boots. You were glad he didn't speak, but deep down you kind of wanted him too because this was far too awkward. Glaring down at your lap, you refused to speak to him, just as you tried to turn around the door swings open. The nurse you were closest to walks in and sees the two of you. The obvious tension floods the air, flowing out the open door when Jane starts talking, “morning, honey” she smiles and takes slow steps up to you. 

You dont reply. 

“We need t’ get you into the shower” she mumbles to you, peeling off the sheets that covered your battered body. You were ashamed that the nurse had to physically get you up and take you to the shower but your legs just wouldn't cooperate with you. A twisted and healing ankle paired with weak legs and then on top of that the depression that comes along with all of this summed up too being unable to help yourself up. You couldn't do anything for yourself, they tore you limp by limp and now you weren't the strong soldier you were before. All thanks to them. “Okay” a light voice sounds from you through a sigh, almost whispering, not wanting that fucking man next to you get the pleasure of hearing your voice. Letting the nurse help you get out of the bed, Jane looks down at your form, your skin and your trauma.

“Healing well, hm? Did nurse poppy give you your pills this morning?” Jane asks, tilting your head up gently to take a look at the slight slit on your throat. When the man right next to you was about to end your life.

What is the saying? Each scar tells a story but every story leaves a car. Something like that.

Nodding at the nurse's question makes the corners of her lips twerk up into a small yet genuine smile, “good, now let's get you up, hm?” you could almost feel john's eyes burning into you while the nurse helps you get up, your weak limbs drop as you stand on your feet, jane instantly gripping you and jolting you back up, an arm wrapped around you to help you walk. 

You were thankful for the nurses, obviously they knew what had happened and they were nothing but gentle and sweet with you, they never tried to do anything that would trigger you and knew to check up on you, make sure you were eating, drinking, sleeping and things like brushing your teeth and showering. You felt kind of useless. Not  being able to do anything for yourself but it wasn't exactly your fault though was it? 

Jane took you towards the bathroom and Price still just kind of sat there, in your hospital room - staring at your bed.

“You can do it yourself, yeah?” Jane helps you sit on the lip of the toilet seat, the bathroom was sterile and white. The smell of bleach attacked your nose, you looked at the shower. The shower head pours down water at a fast pace when the woman in front of you turns the knob around, you almost flinch at the sound of the water hitting the shower floor. “C'mon” she mumbles, taking your arm to help you limp into the shower, as soon as the water hits you - you flinch. Taking in an old memory, instantly you back up to the wall, “i-i can't” you shake, gulping down, staring at the dropping water splattering over the floor. Breath picking up as you breathe in harshly, “i cant - i cant” you repeat as if the nurse hadn't heard you, she quickly leans over to grab the sponge that was placed under the shower head, she places it in your hand, “its okay, honey, don't worry.” jane coos while you shake, “you don't gotta, just scrub yourself down outside the shower, you don't have t’ go in if you can't” 

Thank god for this sweet woman. After nodding she leaves you to your own devices.

Taking a glance at the shower and then down at your sponge, you sigh. How could you let yourself become this pathetic. A panic scares you when you hear sounds coming from outside the bathroom door, a deep voice which was so obviously johns then a softer voice which you would only match it to janes.

“Is she okay?” Jane's ears picked up John's voice, still sitting on the wooden chair but he was facing the bathroom door. “You know they dont want you here” she states, walking past him to clean up your sheets. 

“I needed to see them.” All Jane does is sigh, “they can't see you right now, i understand it's hard but it's harder for her” john looks down at his boots, in  defeat. Closing his eyes and biting his tongue, this was hard for him - it was hard for everyone. 

All of the 141 missed you, missed talking to you, seeing you and missed their relationship with you. No one knew how to go about the situation, nobody knew what to do. How to make it right, how to make it the same as before. They all just thought; they didn't know what else to do, they all thought it was you and the signs pointed to you. 

The job is ugly, it's disgusting, that's what it is.but there's nothing they can do about it, it's all a part of the job.

[frmisnow]

ONCE AGAIN, MILAN ! - (nsfw)

summary. what happens when you and jungkook find yourselves once again in milan, this time with no business attached — well a hol' lotta sex for sure!

notes. guysss i changed my mind! there will be a fifth chapter because there is something that i want them to do- a refrence to chp. 2 + they need to get lil cheonsa duh?? ✶𝄞 if y'all are currently reading this, i'm probs already on vacation! so it'll take a minute, regardless, i hope everybody enjoys!!

warnings/includes. non idol! ceo! jungkook x f! employee! reader, smut described/implied multiple times!! (morning sex, very slight voyeurism / heavy flirting in a boutique, NASTY dirty talk) , drabble-ish (idk i just want them to be happy), cheonsa mention (we cheered)

the morning had begun in the best way possible. the bright italian sun on your face, the hotel sheets lightly crumpled, well- and jungkook.

jungkook who had woken you up with gentle kisses starting from your face, moving to your shoulder, all the way to your tits. kissed your sore little thighs too, because "they deserved it" after all the things they've gone through - sure.

he made love to you. moaned how beautiful you were along with some other sweet dirty nothings.

it was the kind of sex that made you feel cherished, worshipped even, as if all of his love was burried solely in his tip and he poured all of it into you, when you both came.

after spending what felt like hours wrapped up in each other, you had finally left the bed, your body still tingling from the morning’s activities. the first spot was a cat café, jungkook had read about it somewhere, thinking of you.

you both had spent a few hours in there, sipping on your respective lattes, playing with the little cats while their tiny paws brush against your legs. jungkook had his polaroid camera out at all times, clicking away.

showed the photos to you, told you how cute you looked, how the kitten in your lap looked just like you. how you both should get little cheonsa just like that.

closely after, you both took your time strolling through the streets, hands intertwined, ending with him pushing you into a high-end boutique. you smiled at his eagerness, it wasn't the first time he spend that black card of his on you.

jungkook handed you a dress, that reminded more of a whisper of fabric rather then a real garment, leaving little to the imagination. but you instantly nodded, that's what you liked about being with him; you didn't feel shy, there was no reason to. not with every single thing jungkook has said about your body this far.

the fitting rooms were large, they felt like rooms by themselves. jungkook sat outside patentily, tapping his legs. when you walked out you could clearly see him trying his absolute best not to reach out his hands, his pupils widening ever so slightly, taking a deep breath to compose himself, "turn around, angel, for me."

you did as he said when done, walking over to take a seat on his thigh while his fingers immediately moved to stroke your thighs, mumbling how pretty you were.

the way you were sitting, so close to him, he could make out your pretty panties peeking under the dress. black lace, with little bows he had gifted to you when you visited that lingerie place a few days ago, thinking of you in that store didn't make his growing buldge any better.

and you most certaintly made it even worse by whispering into his ear, how much you needed him and how wet you've been ever since this morning.

he bit his lip, your body was so painfully close and your skirt only rode up, gently pinching your thigh almost as a light warning, "remember where we are"

following you made a little pout, but mumbled a reluctant 'fine' anyway, making your way back into the fitting room.

next stop was a restaurant, you hadn't even noticed that it had gotten late by this time but jungkook took care of it, as always. how he managed to get a reservation at this place, you didn't quite know but you certaintly weren't complaining. he had pulled your leg over his some time ago, running his hands over the skin, the action innoccent in a way caring, like he was so sorry that you had to walk this whole day even though he had spoiled you shamelessly.

his fingers drew patterns and tiny circles over the skin, his face glowing from what was left of the sun through the large windows.

"i'm so happy" you smile, your fingers moving through his hair lightly.

jungkook's lips curl into a soft smile, just like yours, leaning into your touch, "i'm happy too, angel" his voice low and affectionate, "everday"

the evening went exeptionelly well, he talked you stupid about some of the other things he wanted to do, didn't mention business even once.

you both walked back to the hotel, you liked the city at night and had asked him to walk instead of taking a taxi. he didn't let go of your hand, swinging.

he walked back to the hotel with you, holding your hand tightly, it had been your wish to stroll back, you liked the city at night. it all reminded you of that night but it was different this time, it felt good not having wine in your system.

for once you felt like you actually could love jungkook, without alcohol, without your job, any other factor in your way. you could fuck him freely without having to blame the alcohol for it, after.

love is lust. that's why he pounds you into the large matress, tells you how bad you've been, how greedy you were.

he asked questions, dirty ones, you were way to brain fucked to understand dare to say even answer.

asks how much you'd like it, him filling you up everywhere, in the bathrooms, around his apartment, in the elevator, during your shifts at work, how he'd make you walk around feeling full, feeling dripping and sticky under your skirt.

describes how he'd call you into his office just so he could take you nicely on his desk. have you walk out later, nod to all your colleagues, like a good girl.

you barerly hear him and the words make you moan out are vile things that people only say when they are about to come. how you wanted to marry him, have him around you all times, how much you wanted him every minute.

you thought about how small you'd want the wedding to be, you, him and little kitten cheonsa. and you moan again, like a porn star.

and he responds, gripping your hips tighter, "i'd marry you tomorrow if you asked me to, hell i'd make a baby with you right this second if you wanted."

he let out a grunted string of 'please's though you weren't even sure what he was begging you for. your brain felt so incredibly mushy.

few seconds later, he filled you up, making a mess of you. he instantly reached out to touch your chin gently to look at you, "you okay, princess?"

you managed to nod but he shock his head, "words, i need to hear you, angel" it was a soft order, one you couldn't look away from.

so you reassure him that you are happy and so content, he seems to like your words, smiling. lifting you up and maneuvering you on top of him, still inside of you. his fingers trace over your bare back soothingly as he lights a cigarette with his other hand, just like that night.

and you smiled to yourself because you knew. you knew that this time when you woke up, you wouldn't have to leave, you would be able to look at his sleeping smile as long as you wanted. it was a comforting thought.

— cheonsa means angel.

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[gumjester]

The morning after.