#marina sofa set

[pucksandpower]

Mesaytara

Charles Leclerc x Sheikha of Abu Dhabi!Reader

Summary: in which an Emirati princess sets off to make her mark on Formula 1 … and maybe falls in love along the way

You press your face against the glass of the private suite, watching with wide eyes as the mechanics scurry about below, tending to the sleek race cars lined up on the grid. The engines growl and rumble, seeming to shake the very foundations of the brand new Yas Marina Circuit.

“Baba, can we go down and watch them up close?” You ask your father, turning your big eyes up at him imploringly.

As the youngest child and only daughter of the ruler of Abu Dhabi, you know you hold a certain power over him. He dotes on you endlessly, his precious princess over a decade younger than your brothers.

Your father, Sheikh Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan, smiles fondly at your eagerness. “Of course, habibti. Anything for you.”

Despite being the most powerful man in the United Arab Emirates, your father takes your small hand lovingly as you practically drag him from the plush suite. Your entourage of guards and attendants follows at a respectful distance as you make your way down to the pit lane, the roar of the engines growing louder with every step.

Gasps and whispers follow as star-struck crew members realize just who has arrived mere feet from their work stations. They snap into nervous bows and stumble over themselves to clear a path for the Sheikh and his daughter.

But you pay them no mind, your attention utterly transfixed by the brilliant colors and aerodynamic curves of the Formula 1 cars. You’ve never seen anything so sleek and powerful up close. A faint scent of racing fuel and hot rubber hangs in the air, sharp and intoxicating.

“They’re so beautiful,” you murmur reverentially, watching as a pair of Red Bull mechanics roll out the tires for Mark Webber’s car.

Your father chuckles indulgently at your awestruck expression. “That they are, habibti. Works of engineering brilliance.”

A shot rings out from the starting lights, signaling the final minutes before the race begins. The air thrums with rising tension as the crews make their last frantic preparations. The loud thrum of the engines spinning up reverberates in your chest like a beating heart.

Leading you back to the shelter of the suite just before the cars roar out on the formation lap, your father settles into the plush sofa and pats the seat beside him. You immediately scramble up next to him, craning your neck to keep the track in view through the wide glass windows.

And then, they’re off — a streak of blinding color and screeching tires as the crimson Ferraris charge into the first turn. You rise up on your knees, hands pressed against the glass and breath fogging up the surface as you watch them disappear into the distance, chasing one another in a frenzy of motion.

For the next hour and a half, you are utterly enthralled, riveted to every twist and turn of the spectacle unfolding before you. You cheer and gasp with the roiling crowd, celebrating each breathtaking pass and lamenting every spin or collision.

When the checkered flag finally waves, signifying the end of the inaugural Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, you turn to your father with eyes still wide with wonder and admiration.

“Baba,” you breathe, newfound determination shining in your gaze. “I want to do that someday. I want to be a race car driver too.”

The rest of the assembled Emiratis in the suite freeze, shooting covert glances at one another uneasily. For a daughter, even a beloved princess, to harbor such ambitions is nearly unheard of in your culture. The thought of a young woman taking up such a masculine, dangerous sport is immediately dismissible.

But your father only smiles down at you warmly, cupping one calloused hand around your small cheek. “If it is Allah’s will for you, my daughter, then who am I to stand in your way?”

Around the suite, brows raise in shock and disapproval at the ease with which the Sheikh entertains your fanciful dream. You are too young to recognize the raised eyebrows and muttered whispers for what they are.

All you know is the pure joy that blossoms in your heart at your father’s blessing. You throw your arms around his broad chest, squeezing him tightly.

“Did you see them, Baba?” You gush excitedly in his ear. “How they danced through those turns? How bravely they raced and fought for every position? I’ve never seen anything like it!”

His chest rumbles with a low chuckle, cradling you against him in a fierce embrace. “I saw indeed, habibti. And perhaps no one else in our family has the same firelight in their spirit to take on such a challenge as you.”

You pull back with a radiant smile, total adoration shining up at him. At eight years old, you are still young enough to see your father as an all-powerful, all-knowing figure put on earth solely to make your dreams a reality.

The thought that he may ever deny you anything, even something as far-fetched as becoming a professional race car driver, is simply unthinkable. This is a man who rules a nation, who commands wealth and resources beyond your comprehension — and he has just promised to make your heart’s desire come true.

Still, your brow furrows slightly as the first traces of dubiousness creep into your shining eyes. “But Baba … I’m a girl. Will they even let me race?”

The Sheikh laughs again, deep and booming, causing the other attendants in the room to jump slightly at the unexpected outburst from their normally stoic monarch.

“And who is to say what any they will allow?” He counters, wagging one finger at you firmly. “If this is what you wish to do, we will move mountains to make it so. Even the most powerful dunes bow to the will of the lords who rule them.”

You giggle at his metaphor, picturing the undulating desert sands moving like ocean waves at his command. Your laugh fades as your expression turns pensive once more.

“But … I’ve never even sat in one of those cars, Baba,” you confess, chewing your lower lip anxiously. “What if I’m not brave enough? Or quick enough? What if I’m … not good enough?”

The very notion that anything or anyone could ever deny his daughter is clearly laughable to the Sheikh. He leans in close until he is staring into your eyes intently.

“Not good enough?” He asks, cradling your face in his hands. “You are the daughter of my heart, habibti. You were born of bravery and fire. There is no challenge in this life you cannot master if you desire it so.”

His words chase away any lingering doubt like the rising sun burning away the morning mist. You nod vigorously, fresh determination shining in your eyes.

“Then I’ll do it, Baba. I’ll work and train and become the quickest, bravest driver who ever lived! You’ll see!”

Your father’s warm chuckle is one of pure paternal pride and adoration. He presses a weathered kiss to your forehead, crinkling his nose at you playfully.

“If it is written, my daughter … then I have no doubt you shall, Inshallah.”

***

The mid-morning sun blazes over the sweeping dunes as the convoy of gleaming white Land Cruisers rolls up to the private family compound in Al Ain. After spending the night at one of the royal residences deep in the desert, you are returning to the main palace to celebrate your 15th birthday with the rest of the family.

As the lead SUV crunches to a stop on the grandiose circular driveway, you can’t help but notice an enormous object taking up a significant portion of the motor court. It is covered with an impeccably smooth red tarp, the color so rich it seems to glow against the bright sand like a magnificent mirage.

“What’s that?” You whisper to your brother Hassan, eyes wide with girlish curiosity as you peer through the tinted windows.

Hassan merely shrugs, already looking bored by whatever grand spectacle your father no doubt has planned this time. As the eldest son and heir apparent, he has long grown accustomed to the lavish trappings and surprises that come with being part of the Emirati ruling family.

You, on the other hand, still thrill at every indulgent display of your father’s affection — and his obvious efforts to make this birthday one you’ll never forget.

The minute your door is opened by a waiting attendant, you are scrambling to get out and get a closer look at the mysterious shape lurking beneath the tarp. Your towering bodyguards swiftly fall into step behind you, eyes sharp for any potential threat as they follow your darting form across the gleaming tile courtyard.

“Baba!” You call out excitedly, slowing your pace only when you draw up to the tarp-covered shape. “What is it? What’s under here?”

As the Sheikh emerges from the inner courtyard doors, chuckling heartily at your youthful enthusiasm, you notice the crowd of grinning spectators gathered behind him. A pride of aunts, uncles, and cousins spill out from within, all waiting with barely contained glee to bear witness to your reaction.

“Patience, habibti,” he chides you playfully, though his own eyes are twinkling with poorly masked mirth. Your father lives for these moments — any opportunity to shower his only daughter with grand gestures and lavish surprises. “The unveiling comes first.”

You practically vibrate with anticipation as your father accepts a simple push remote from one of his attendants. He casts you one more indulgent smile, then thumbs the button dramatically. There is an agonizing beat of total silence before the heavy tarp begins its slow mechanical slide to the ground.

When its contents are finally revealed, your jaw drops open in a shocked ‘O.’ There, squatting low and sleek before you like a panther ready to pounce, is the unmistakable profile of a Formula 1 car. But not just any car ...

“No ...” you breathe, pressing one hand to your mouth as you recognize every curve and angle, every slashing line of the striking Ferrari red livery. “It … it can’t be...”

“The F2002,” your father announces grandly, gazing at the vehicle with obvious pride. “The very same one that Michael Schumacher drove to his fifth World Championship that year. I had heard the team was auctioning it off to make way for their museum refurbishment … so I put in a special request.”

You stumble forward, hands outstretched to reverently trace the contours of the car as if to assure yourself it is real. Your fingertips glide over the sinuous sidepod, feeling the raised ridges of the sponsor’s decals and the rough nubs of leather on the steering wheel. You can scarcely believe you’re running your hands over the very car that dominated the 2002 season.

“Baba ...” you barely have the breath to vocalize your stunned gratitude. Any other girl may have been delighted by clothes or jewelry for a 15th birthday. But this … this is beyond your wildest dreams.

Your father steps up beside you, wrapping one strong arm around your shoulders as you continue gaping at the car in awe. He leans in close, his words meant for your ears alone.

“Do you remember what I told you that first day at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, habibti?” His voice is solemn but warm with parental affection. “That if this was your true desire — to race, to pour your spirit into this challenge — that I would move mountains to allow it?”

You nod numbly, still half-convinced you are dreaming even as the heavy scent of racing fuel and hot metal seems to fill your senses. Your eyes trace hungrily over every aerodynamic seam and vent carved into the car’s bodywork.

“So much has changed in the years since that day,” your father continues, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “The world shifts in ways we can never foresee, carrying us all along in its currents whether we resist or not.”

You tear your gaze away from the car to glance up at him questioningly. His expression has turned peculiarly intense, the solemnity in his face aging him beyond his years.

“But there is one force more powerful than any empire or nation, habibti. More resolute than any passing storms that batter our traditions.” He leans in close, searching your eyes as if to impart something profoundly meaningful. “And that is the immortal strength of a father’s love for his child.”

The simplicity of the statement, the effortless way it encapsulates every indulgence and surprise of your young life, steals what little breath remains in your lungs. You simply gape at him, scarcely daring to blink as he cups your face in his calloused palms.

“So no, my daughter,” he murmurs, holding your gaze firmly with his own. “I will not deny you this. Your desires and dreams are my own. If you wish to race, if you burn to chase this path … you will do so with my eternal pride and blessing at your back.”

You feel tears prickling the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of his vow. At fifteen you are still young enough for his words to anoint you with purpose and conviction. Your destiny feels as immovable as the highest dunes in that moment, your path clearly illuminated by his will alone.

As if to echo his promise, your father nods over your shoulder towards the gathered crowd. You glance back to find your extended family arrayed in a loose semicircle, hushed and watchful as if awaiting some pronouncement. Among their numbers, you recognize several prominent local racers and federation officials who have clearly been summoned here as witnesses.

“Which is why ...” your father continues, raising his voice to carry across the courtyard. “I have already taken the liberty of entering you in next year’s inaugural Formula 4 UAE Championship.”

A ripple of gasps and muttering races through the crowd at his words. You can see disapproving glances exchanged between the elders and officials, expressions ranging from skeptical to outright incredulous.

But your eyes only widen further, mouth falling open in shock as the implications of what your father has decreed wash over you. He said the words so casually, as if securing your entry to the first-ever national Formula 4 series was as simple as booking a dinner reservation.

“The … the F4?” You manage to croak out, still utterly blindsided by the revelation. “You mean … I’ll be racing in single seaters?”

A fresh murmur of disbelief rises from the crowd at your stunned reaction. Out of the corner of your eye, you see several uncles shaking their heads in disbelief, while your aunts look politely appalled. Even your stone-faced bodyguards shift uncomfortably at your father’s flagrant disregard for propriety.

But the Sheikh only frowns at them all, appearing affronted that they would dare doubt his word. When he speaks again, his tone brooks no argument — this is a decree from the ruler of the nation himself, not a mere family disagreement.

“For too long, many have clung to outdated traditions that would see my daughter’s ambitions rendered invisible,” he declares, seeming to grow in stature as he takes in their skeptical faces one by one. “We have chosen to view her gender as an obstacle to overcome, rather than a divine gift to be nurtured!”

You watch, stunned and a little afraid, as your father’s impassioned words seem to pull the disapproving gazes towards him like a lit torch drawing moths to the flame. You have never seen your normally reserved father so heated, so emboldened to make this public defense of your dreams.

“Which is why I say enough!” He sweeps one hand through the air, brushing aside generations of ingrained patriarchal norms like a tuft of desert sand. “My daughter burns with the spirit of a million wildfire hawks! And if you would deny her the right to chase her own destiny, you deny the winds that stir this very land itself!”

A hush falls over the assembled crowd, none daring to rebut the Sheikh’s sudden impassioned rhetoric. You can only gape at your father, utterly transfixed, drinking in his protective roar.

“From this day forward,” he declares, turning his fiery gaze back down to you. “My daughter will race for more than just herself. She will drive for every daughter in this family — in this nation — who has ever had her dreams dimmed simply for being born female. She carries the weight of a thousand ancestors’ ambitions on her back!”

His words seem to electrify the very air surrounding you. You can feel their power, their reckless conviction washing over you like a sandstorm flaying away all the self-doubt and uncertainty in its path.

When he gathers you into his embrace, you cling to him with everything you have. Tears stream openly down your cheeks, heedless of the audience bearing witness to this seismic shift in the ancient social order.

“You will race, habibti,” your father rumbles fiercely into your hair, squeezing you so tightly. “Not just because I wish it, but because it is your destiny written in the stars themselves. The path may be difficult, the challenges ahead more than you can fathom … but you will never walk it alone.”

You nod wordlessly against his chest, blinking back tears of overwhelming gratitude and purpose. In this moment, he does not merely feel like your indulgent father �� he is the very sun burning away the last vestiges of doubt, ensuring your course is forever set towards glory.

When you finally pull back, your eyes shine with fresh determination and unflinching resolve. You turn to face the silent, gaping crowd with your chin raised defiantly, every bit the born warrior princes making her stand.

“I will race,” you declare, pitching your voice to carry to the furthest reaches of the courtyard. “And I will win.”

A shocked beat of silence hangs over the assembly. And then, incredibly, it is your dear brother Hassan who steps forward first, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Of course you will, you spoiled brat,” he proclaims with a snort of laughter. “Knowing our father, you’ll probably end up with one of Lewis Hamilton’s cars next.”

The tension shatters in a wave of startled chuckles from the onlookers. You shoot your brother a watery smile, silently thanking him for being the first to signal his acceptance of the path your father has set out for you.

As the rest of the gathered officials and elders slowly begin to nod and murmur in acknowledgment, you feel a profound sense of peace and conviction settle over your heart. You need no longer dream and wish and hope — everything has been set into glorious, undeniable motion.

When you turn back to the gleaming Ferrari sitting before you, it no longer seems like an impossible fantasy, but a key to a future burning brighter than the desert sun itself. You move towards it without hesitation, climbing up into the body-hugging carbon seat until you are cocooned within its sleek lines.

Wrapping your fingers around the sculpted steering wheel, you can practically feel its power and purpose thrumming through you like an electric current of pure adrenaline. This is where you belong — raw ambition harnessed within a technological marvel. You are a falcon poised for flight, wings outstretched to conquer the horizon, gender be damned.

You glance up through the curved windscreen to find your father watching you with naked pride shining in his eyes. He catches your gaze and offers a single, solemn nod of acknowledgment. His little princess, once an innocent dreamer … now preparing to become a pioneer for a new era.

You nod back, inhaling the rich scent of clinging burnt rubber and drinking in the intoxicating promise of everything to come.

You are chasing more than just some fanciful passion. You will prove to the world that no ambition is too lofty, no dream too bold, for you to conquer.

***

The sleek Aston Martin DBX glides silently through the entrance tunnel and into the team’s gleaming new headquarters in Silverstone. As the muscular crossover comes to a stop in the bright, airy courtyard, a familiar thrill of anticipation sparks to life in your chest.

This gleaming complex of glass, steel and green technology has become more than just the workplace of your racing heroes over the past year. With the news of Aston Martin’s sudden sponsorship woes, it has taken on a tantalizing new significance — the potential launching pad for your own Formula 1 dream.

You shoot your father an excited glance as the driver opens your door, but the Sheikh remains impassive behind his amber-tinted aviators. Now in his late 60s, Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan has grown only more inscrutable and steely with age and power.

To the casual observer, he would appear utterly unruffled, preparing to stride into a meeting that could alter the course of the Formula 1 landscape. You, however, have spent a lifetime studying the nuanced ridge of his jawline, the reserved set of those broad shoulders, and can sense the focused intensity burning behind his courteous facade.

This is far more than just a meeting for the ruler of Abu Dhabi and chairman of International Holding Company, one of the largest conglomerates in not only the Emirates but the world. This is the potential culmination of a promise made to his only daughter nearly 15 years ago — a vow to move heaven and earth to ensure her dreams were realized.

You follow half a step behind your father and his retinue of advisors as they cross the courtyard, resisting the urge to gawk openly at the team motorhomes and formidable industrial build of the main factory. Despite spending your early years mired in the European junior formulae, this exalted world of Formula 1 still manages to set your heart pounding with equal parts reverence and ambition.

A sleek black sedan is idling in the VIP parking section, dispatched to collect the final party in your impending negotiation. As you slow your approach, the driver emerges and moves to hold open the rear door with an obsequious bow.

“Son of a bitch kept us waiting,” comes the droll observation from the tall, lanky figure emerging from the sedan’s depths.

Lawrence Stroll, Canadian billionaire, business magnate, and majority owner of the Aston Martin Formula 1 team, appraises your group through those same inscrutable tinted lenses favored by all men of profound power and means. At his side is the rather more bookish form of team principal Mike Krack, eyes already politely averted as he waits for the Sheikh’s lead.

You can’t resist a tiny, adrenaline-tinged thrill at the sight of them both. These are the men who hold the keys to the kingdom you’ve spent your life battering against — the exalted realm of Formula 1. You’ve spent countless nights watching their team’s racing green cars arc and pivot through Yas Marina’s turns, dreaming of the day you might join their ranks.

Now that tantalizing possibility hovers before you, dangled by the generous purse-strings of your family’s staggeringly deep pockets. For in the wake of Aramco’s high-profile defection as Aston Martin’s title sponsor, a Goliath-sized vacuum has opened — one which your father’s IHC conglomerate is uniquely positioned to fill.

For a price, of course.

“Ahmed,” Lawrence greets your father with a curt nod, making no effort to mask his impatience or indifference to decorum. “I’ll cut right to it — what’s your ask here? 25% share in the team? 35? Just name your number so we can get this whole-”

“Actually, Lawrence,” your father interrupts him, sliding off his sunglasses to reveal that piercing gaze that has cowed entire global cabinets into obedience. “I have no interest in an ownership stake. Not in this particular venture.”

The Canadian billionaire pulls up short, clearly thrown by the unexpected rebuff of his assumption. He glances towards his team principal, who can only offer a minute shrug, before turning back to your father with one arched brow.

“Well then … enlighten me,” he prompts with just a hint of renewed interest flickering in those beady eyes. “If not an ownership play, then what’s your angle here?”

Your heart leaps into your throat as your father responds, his words carefully measured but leaving no shred of ambiguity in their intent.

“My desires are rather more … specific. More personal.” Your father casts a meaningful glance in your direction. “As I’m sure you’ve both realized by now, I have a rather more vested interest in the world of Formula 1 beyond mere business or expense portfolios.”

He turns back to Lawrence and Mike, expression inscrutable once more.

“I want a seat for my daughter. On your team.”

The stunned silence that follows is perhaps the loudest absence of sound you’ve ever experienced. Even the distant whirr of machinery from the factory seems to grind to a halt as the two men process your father’s audacious declaration.

You watch them closely, studying their reactions with rapt fascination. With a single conversational grenade, your father has lobbed your ambitions squarely into their laps in a way that cannot be ignored or dismissed as idle fanciful musings. This is a directive from one of the wealthiest sovereign individuals on earth, stressed through the undeniable weight of his tone and body language.

For a few charged seconds, all you can hear is the thundering of your own pulse in your ears.

Then, surprisingly, it is Mike Krack who finds his voice first. The diminutive Luxembourger clears his throat, exchanging a poorly masked look of disbelief with the still dumbstruck Lawrence Stroll.

“With … all due respect, Your Highness,” he begins carefully, as if testing the tensile strength of rice paper with each word. “While I cannot challenge your ambitions for your daughter, a Formula 1 seat is simply not something that can be … appointed through sponsorship alone.”

He pauses again, seeming to hesitate under the level stare of your father. You realize his reaction stems not from any doubts about your abilities - the team principal doesn’t even know you from any other young hopeful dreaming of the F1 grid. His concern is far more fundamental, stemming from the very nature of your gender in this male-dominated world.

“There hasn’t been a female driver on the grid since the 90s and even that was short lived. For good reason — the physical and mental demands are … immense. No offense intended, but perhaps a personal sponsorship targeted towards the F1 Academy or something similar would be-”

“That won’t be necessary,” your father cuts him off with a curt wave of his hand. “My daughter’s credentials should speak for themselves, if you care to review them. She’s competed in — and won — both the Formula 3 and Formula 2 championships over the past four years. I assure you, she is more than prepared to handle the same mental and physical rigors as her male counterparts.”

Silence falls again as Krack and a visibly skeptical Lawrence clearly reassess their earlier assumptions. You feel their analytical gazes washing over you, weighing and measuring as if they can somehow gauge your skills and fortitude based on outward appearances alone.

When Lawrence speaks again, there is a newfound edge of pragmatism in his tone.

“Sure, that’s all well and good on the junior level,” he allows with a slight nod. “Won’t be the first time a hotshot comes up thinking they’re Senna reincarnated only to completely bottle it on the big stage. Happens all the damn time.”

He holds up one hand as your father’s brow furrows dangerously. “But say we do entertain this … suggestion of yours. That still leaves the rather prominent problem of having an open seat to slot her into. In case you haven’t heard, we already signed our team for next year. Only got two cars, last I checked.”

A thin, vindicated smile curves your father’s lips. For all his bluster, the Canadian team owner has just delivered the perfect entry point to reveal his true bargaining chip.

“About that,” the Sheikh murmurs, casting a sidelong glance towards Krack. “I have it on good authority that Aston Martin will, in fact, have a rather convenient vacancy opening up on their driver roster very soon.”

Mike Krack’s expression shutters instantly at the tung-in-cheek reference, no doubt recognizing the inside information that could only have come from one of his own drivers or personnel leaking like a sieve. His eyes slide momentarily toward Lawrence in wordless apology.

Your father doesn’t miss a beat, pressing his advantage with the casual confidence of a man who has spent a lifetime wielding power and influence as deftly as others use voice tonality.

“Fernando Alonso’s impending retirement may well be the worst kept secret in the paddock, no?” He arches one eloquent brow at the increasingly chagrined team principal. “A Delta Topco investor of mine happened to mention the championship-winning Spaniard has been snapping up quite an impressive Swiss real estate portfolio as of late ...”

The comment hangs engulfed in awkward silence as even Lawrence seems slightly taken aback by your father’s easy name-dropping of proprietary team intel. You realize with a start that this is a glimpse into the upper realms of global power and business dealing you’ve only ever witnessed from the outside — the effortless ability to command knowledge and find out even the most classified information with just a few strategically-placed calls or leanings of influence.

It’s Krack who finally capitulates first, clearing his throat again as he darts a helpless glance towards the team owner. “Clearly … this exit has been, ah, on the team’s radar for some time. We’ve been exploring our options, but-”

“But you haven’t had to make it official yet, yes yes of course,” your father interjects, waving off the rest of his explanation with an airy flick of his wrist. “Which brings us back to the matter at hand.”

He pins them both with a pointed look, any trace of ambiguity evaporating from the scorching intensity of his gaze.

“Gentlemen, I will get straight to the point — Aston Martin requires a new title sponsor to remain financially solvent and competitive on the Formula 1 grid. International Holding Company has the resources and reach to provide that sponsorship, effectively in perpetuity if need be.”

His mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile, though there is no warmth in the expression whatsoever. This is a businessman reveling in checkmate before the final stroke is even delivered.

“All I require in exchange is one of the seats that will be so … conveniently vacated.”

A heavy silence falls over the courtyard once more. You watch Lawrence and Mike exchange another loaded glance, wrestling with the realization that your father seems to hold all the leverage in this particular negotiation. The cool confidence radiating from the Sheikh suggests he is more than comfortable walking away from this deal if they prove … unreasonable.

Finally, Lawrence seems to decide upon the path of least resistance. The corners of the Canadian billionaire’s mouth tug downwards in displeasure, but he offers a curt nod of acceptance.

“You’re twisting one hell of a knife, I’ll give you that, Ahmed,” he mutters, clearly taking no joy in the literal quid pro quo being forced upon Aston Martin’s future solvency. “Okay, fine. We agree to your … terms, shall we say. One seat on the grid for the 2025 season in exchange for IHC’s sponsorship.”

Both men turn their assessing gazes towards you once again. There is no missing the skepticism and doubt burning behind their studied neutrality. They have clearly accepted your presence on the team as nothing more than a necessary evil to be endured in exchange for the monetary incentive.

There will be no welcoming embraces or admiring back-slaps from these two men hardened by decades in the cutthroat world of business and motorsport politics. You are a costly contractual obligation to them at this point, one they have no emotional investment in whatsoever.

There is only one way to change that. Only one path to earn their acknowledgement and respect.

You lock eyes with Stroll and then Krack in turn. When you finally find your voice, it comes out low and thrumming with absolute conviction.

“I will earn my place on that grid. And any doubts you may have now will be extinguished when I take that Aston across the finish line first.”

It’s a bold statement, perhaps even arrogant from an unproven rookie. But it has been woven into the very fabric of who you are over a decade and a half of sacrifice, discipline, and unwavering paternal support. You are a daughter forged from renewed sands by the sheer force of your father’s will into a warrior princess.

Doubt is no longer a luxury you can entertain, now that your dream looms so close at hand.

Your father casts you a faint, proud smile — the only outward sign he will permit of his profound approval and respect for the woman you have become. His eyes glitter with razor-sharp ambition.

“My daughter speaks true,” he declares, turning back to Lawrence and Krack with a challenging arch of his brow. “But of course … I expect you’ll both prefer to judge her for yourselves on the track.”

Lawrence’s perfunctory nod is perhaps a touch more intrigued now, a glimmer of renewed interest flickering behind those impassive eyes. For the first time, he seems to be assessing you as an actual person and athlete rather than some implausible imposition. A sliver of doubt appears to prick at the stony edge of his demeanor.

Mike Krack simply inclines his head in acquiescence, the perfect picture of professional decorum regardless of his personal misgivings. Smart money would place him as one of the individuals funneling inside information about Alonso’s moves to your father’s sources. He is clearly not about to push his luck any further by voicing unnecessary dissent or challenge.

“Very well then,” your father concludes with an air of finality, turning towards Lawrence with an expectant look. “Shall we go ahead and make this official?”

The billionaire businessmen meet in the center of the small gathering, squaring off like two prize fighters preparing for the bell. You watch with bated breath, heart thundering in your chest, as they size one another up for the final moments of the negotiation.

Then, in one smooth motion, they clasp hands and exchange a firm shake — sealing your life’s ambition into ironclad reality. A barely perceptible nod of understanding passes between them, an acknowledgment that despite all the complexities and nuances, there is now a deal on the table that benefits them all.

Your father has successfully leveraged every ounce of his wealth, power, and influence to deliver on his decade’s old promise to you. The seat, the sponsorship … everything has been set into motion.

The only thing left is for you to drive.

***

“Are they seriously going to make us do this?”

Lance Stroll’s voice carries a distinct whine as he hunches lower on the leather couch, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the small crew setting up lights and cameras around the Aston Martin hospitality unit. His lanky frame is dressed down in team-issued sweats, tousled hair lopped into that carefully cultivated ‘I woke up like this’ aesthetic he seems to spend hours perfecting.

You shoot your new teammate a sidelong glance, arching one sculpted brow at his apparent distress. Despite being the owner’s son and growing up immersed in the utmost privilege, Lance still seems to find novel ways to broadcast his discomfort with the fame and exposure that comes with being an F1 driver.

“What, you’ve never had to film some cringey sponsor vid or team propaganda before?” You tease him lightly, unable to resist needling him a bit. There’s a certain giddy thrill at realizing you now share an equal standing with Lance on this global stage — though you still frequently have to remind yourself of that fact.

Lance shifts again, slouching further into the plush cushions with a frown. You watch his finely-boned features scrunch up petulantly, and can’t quite resist rolling your eyes.

“I mean, yeah, of course I have,” he mumbles, suddenly finding great interest in inspecting his nails. “But those were always pre-scripted or completely faked, y’know? This just seems so ...”

“Menial? Frivolous?” You arch a taunting brow at him. “For the son of a billionaire businessman and an actual princess?”

He blinks, thrown briefly off-guard as you remind him of your own lofty status with a wry grin. It’s still a novel concept for him to process, you can tell — the idea of an Arab woman of royal lineage daring to enter the same playing field, to consider herself an equal.

Good. It will make savoring his skepticism all the more satisfying when you blow past him on the circuit.

“Just don’t get too used to all this, alright?” He rallies, regaining some of his trademark swagger as he jerks his chin towards the ever-growing gaggle of team personnel crowding the lounge area. “We’re still teammates and all, but on the track … well, may the best nepo baby win.”

You laugh at his attempt at posturing, gentling nudging his foot with your own in an uncharacteristically playful gesture. “Don’t worry, Lancelot, I’ll go easy on you,” you tease. “Baba always did say to respect one’s elders, after all.”

Lance’s indignant sputter of outrage at your jibe is mercifully cut off by the arrival of one of the producers, a slim woman in stylish athleisure attire adorned with Aston Martin’s iconic green cues. She claps her hands together with a bubbly smile.

“Hiya, names Chelsea, nice to meet you both!” She chirps in a distinctly American accent, utterly unbothered by the two pairs of eyes swiveling to size her up with varying levels of dulled enthusiasm.

“We’re going to keep things pretty simple for this one — just a quick, low-stakes game to help get you guys on camera and build some pre-season hype on the socials, yeah?” Chelsea continues brightly, gesturing for her crew to finish setting up the lighting and cameras.

“Ooo, a game?” You perk up instantly, intrigued. As a lifelong academic overachiever, any type of challenge or opportunity to demonstrate your brain muscle still manages to activate the synapses of childish glee. “I do love a bit of friendly competition ...”

“Not if it’s going to be anything too taxing, I hope,” Lance drawls with an exaggerated yawn. He mimes checking an invisible watch on his bare wrist. “Do we at least get snack breaks? This jet lag is a killer and I need to keep my strength up ...”

You can’t resist rolling your eyes again as Chelsea laughs politely, clearly recognizing his pampered shtick for what it is. She pauses to check her notes on a tablet before continuing.

“Well, good news for you then — your mental fortitude won’t be too strained today. We’re going to keep things pretty light. We’ll just have some common, everyday items for you two to identify and guess the purchase prices. Easy peasy! More variety show games than trigonometry.”

Chelsea grins, unaware of the subtle way the blood seems to drain from your teammate’s face. You blink once, digesting her words, before a bemused smile finds its way across your own lips.

“Wait … they’re actually going to ask us to identify grocery prices and things?” You shake your head in disbelief. “No, this has to just be a wind-up, right? Even in this economy, there’s no way the team can be serious about-”

“Unfortunately, we are painfully earnest on this one, kids,” Another voice pipes up, accompanied by the familiar cadence of an East London accent.

Jack, a senior member of the Aston team’s creative division, slouches against the doorway to the lounge with his customary smirk already in place. Clearly this was his brainchild — a casual hazing ritual for the team’s most privilege-addled members.

“See, the blokes upstairs figure since you two grew up way closer to hedge fund managers than grocery checkout queues … could be a bit of a laugh, yeah?” He jerks his chin towards you both with a conspiratorial wink. “Just a bit of fun for the fans, have a go at seein’ how the young rich kids guess costs of plebeian things like bananas and bread loaves. Been a hit with the other teams, gets good traction on social, all innocent fun and whatnot.”

“Told you it would be taxing ...” Lance grumbles under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if staving off the first twinges of a migraine.

You, however, find yourself rather intrigued by Jack’s premise. It does seem a fairly innocuous way to let the fans peek behind the curtain at the lives of their favorite drivers, to which you and Lance represent the extreme ends of wealth disparity.

More than that, however, some tiny kernel of competitive ego has taken root in your chest, issuing a silent challenge. What better way to prove you are more well-rounded and less out-of-touch than the reputation that clearly precedes you both?

Let Lance play into the indolent, affluent caricature that paints all of F1’s rising stars in broad strokes. You, however, were raised under a rather different philosophy ...

“You know what, I think this sounds rather amusing,” you announce with a demure shrug of your shoulders, catching Lance’s incredulous stare head-on. “Should be … illuminating.”

From his spot by the door, Jack lets out a dry cackle of amusement. Chelsea, bless her, maintains her gracious professionalism despite sensing the rising undercurrents of upper-crust posturing between the two of you.

“Brilliant, that’s the spirit!” She cuts in brightly, clapping her hands together again. “Everyone just follow my lead, we’ll start off nice and easy ...”

Within a few minutes, the cameras are rolling, framing the two of you seated opposite one another on the couch. A small table sits between you, ready to display the variety of day-to-day items you’ll be asked to examine and appraise.

At Chelsea’s behest, a production assistant brings out a single, slightly bruised banana and places it on the table with an audible thunk. You instantly feel Lance’s gaze swivel in your direction, doubtlessly already anticipating whatever absurd denomination you’re about to slap on the unremarkable piece of fruit.

“Alright, then we’re live starting in 3 … 2 ...” Chelsea narrates before cueing the two of you with a brilliant smile and a wink. “Welcome back everyone, today we’ve got Lance and our newest driver Y/N here to play a little guessing game for us!”

She gestures grandly towards the table, injecting her effervescent delivery with just the right mix of playful condescension.

“First item up — something anyone can find at their local shops or markets. A nice, appealing banana. Question is … what would our two racers be willing to pay for such a humble thing? Off the lot, so to speak. Y/N, love? What do you reckon this banana would cost?”

You swallow back the first, instinctive answer that comes to mind — that it likely doesn’t cost anything, seeing as fresh produce is always plucked from your family’s private orchards and greenhouses at a moment’s notice. Instead, you force yourself to consider the question from the perspective of a supposed commoner, out doing their weekly shopping.

“Well ...” You begin slowly, chin cradled in one hand as you lean forward to examine the fruit. “I suppose bananas don’t seem terribly expensive, do they? Just a bit of potassium and carbs, good for starting the day strong and beating any energy troughs during exercise ...”

Chelsea nods encouragingly, hanging on your every word in that canned, just-over-dramatized manner of most TV personalities. Across from you, Lance is already pinching his nose again, eyes squeezed shut as if preparing himself for the inevitable bomb you’re about to drop.

With a decisive nod, you fix your eyes directly on the camera and proclaim, “Ten euros for a single banana seems perfectly reasonable in this economic climate, no?”

The silence that falls over the lounge is damn near deafening. You watch Chelsea’s overly-rehearsed presenter mask slip for just a moment, features contorting into naked shock. Even Jack the producer lapses into a rare moment of speechlessness, mouth hanging open in slack-jawed disbelief.

At your side, Lance finally breaks, collapsing forward as his frame is wracked with deep, abdominal convulsions of laughter.

“Sweet merciful …" He finally manages to gasp out between ragged gasps. Long, spindly fingers clutch at his stomach as tears of mirth stream down his reddened cheeks. “Ten … fucking … euros! For a banana?”

Any residual thoughts you may have had about defying expectations and proving your economic awareness swiftly crumble to dust amidst the howls of laughter. You gape at your teammate, feeling your cheeks flaming with a mix of confusion and growing embarrassment as the reality of your inflated estimate crashes over you.

“Well … it’s … it’s not THAT outrageous, is it?” You sputter in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. “I’d just assumed, with the import tariffs and global agricultural strife we’ve seen as of late-”

“Stop, stop! Just … stop ...” Lance wheezes, waving his hands in surrender before you can dig the hole any deeper. “I can’t … I actually can’t breathe right now.”

“For the record, love,” Jack pipes up from his doorway perch. “Stores don’t even charge ten euros for a bunch of bananas, let alone one lousy nanner.”

The production assistant responsible for presenting the fruit chimes in with a faint “20 pence, last I checked,” sending Lance into another spiral of unbridled cackles.

Just like that, any delusion of cultured cosmopolitan grace you may have carried has been utterly incinerated. You are as transparently affluent as the rest of them assumed, your upbringing and lifestyle so sequestered from normalcy that even the simple prices of supermarket produce have become alien concepts.

And the realization that you are still young, still so new to this entire experience, hits you with sobering impact. For so long, you had believed your decade and a half of single-minded pursuit had prepared you for seamlessly joining the elite ranks of your new career.

But one ill-fated guess at a banana’s cost was all it took to remind you that, in many ways, the learning curve you face goes far beyond simply whipping a turbo-hybrid around a few iconic circuits.

As Chelsea scrambles to regain control of the taping and cycle in a new item, Lance leans over with the last dregs of laughter still shuddering his lean frame.

“You’re totally gonna get us roasted online for this, you know?” He murmurs, lips quirked in that devilish smirk you’re already becoming accustomed to. “Maybe we should schedule a field trip to, y’know … go grocery shopping or something? Little crash course before the damage gets too widespread?”

Despite his smarmy delivery, you recognize the extended olive branch for what it is — an acknowledgment that you’re both very much still kids stumbling into a world of intense scrutiny and maturity. A reminder that you’re on the same team, for better or worse.

So you shoot him a wry grin in return, squaring your shoulders as Chelsea presents the next mundane item with a theatrical flourish.

“Oh, I have a feeling the roasting you speak of has only just begun, Lancelot,” you proclaim with an arch of one challenging brow. “But if prices shock me so thoroughly … what’s your excuse going to be?”

His widening smirk is all the response you require. Teammates or not, this is still a competition on and off the track.

An education, regardless of how humbling, is about to be had.

***

The media center in Melbourne’s Albert Park is a churning sea of humanity when you arrive. Journalists from every corner of the globe jostle for position, clutching voice recorders and branded lanyards as they await the start of the season’s first official press conference.

Despite the pandemonium, an anticipatory hush falls over the assembled scribes when you are led to the makeshift stage alongside Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, George Russell, and Oscar Piastri. The five of you settle into the leather chairs arrayed in a semicircle, blinking furiously under the brilliant TV lights as you ready yourselves for the onslaught of questions.

Your heart pounds in your ears, palms suddenly slick with nervous perspiration as you fight to maintain an aura of calm composure. Though you’ve been groomed practically since birth to carry yourself with regal poise, this is an entirely new arena you find yourself in. One where pedigreed lineage and family legacy afford no protection or leg up.

This is the world where you will either rise or fall based purely on your own deeds behind the wheel and words under fire. No longer will a dismissive wave of your father’s hand send underlings scattering — here, you will have to forge your own path, earn every scrap of credibility and respect.

The thought is at once thrilling and utterly terrifying.

You do your best to focus as the opening preambles and formalities commence, nodding politely when your name is announced along with your Aston Martin team affiliation. A small, fiercely proud smile tugs at your lips as the FIA moderator rattles off your accomplishments in the junior formulae.

Multiple feeder series championships across Europe and Asia, becoming the first Arab woman to compete in the FIA single-seater ladder. A true pioneer transcending societal norms and expectations.

This is your chance to let that very accomplishment shine on its own merits. An opportunity to prove you belong here through your own grit and talent, free from the protective umbrella provided by your family name and wealth.

The first question, mercifully, comes from a fellow Emirati news outlet. The young man politely identifies himself and his publication before addressing you.

“Your Highness, as the first woman from our part of the world to ascend to this level of motorsport, what does this achievement mean for you? How important is it to serve as an inspiration for other young Arab women and girls with big dreams?”

You exhale slowly, offering the man a grateful smile at the respectful phrasing. This is the type of insightful perspective you’d been hoping to discuss — the gravity of overcoming generations of patriarchal norms, the significance of inspiring an entire culture to see women as strong and capable.

“Well, it is an immense honor and privilege to hopefully be paving the way for other young women, both in my region and all around the globe,” you begin, falling easily into the poised cadence you’ve honed since childhood.

“This was a dream I was fortunate enough to have the support system to chase from a very young age, despite the conventions of my culture. I know there are countless other girls out there with the same fire, the same ambitions, who have been discouraged or dismissed simply for being born female. If my example can shine a light on a new way forward, can help uplift even one other person to take up the mantle and fight for their passions … then every obstacle I faced along the way will have been worth it.”

A smattering of polite applause ripples across the room and you incline your head graciously, relieved to have navigated one of these public inquisitions so smoothly on the first go. Perhaps this won’t prove as daunting as you feared, after all.

The next few questions are mercifully innocuous as well — standard inquiries about dealing with the pressures of F1, relationships with teammates and engineers, your personal driving style and technical strengths. Child’s play for someone with your extensively cultivated presence before the media cameras.

You are settling into a contented, borderline cocky rhythm when the tone of the press conference takes an abrupt turn.

“Your Highness,” a gravelly voice suddenly rings out, immediately catching your attention as one of the gruffer correspondents gestures for the mic with poorly disguised impatience. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably as every head swivels in his direction. “Given your … background, and the societal norms you’ve admittedly had to overcome, does it give you any pause that women’s bodies may simply not be able to handle the extraordinary G-forces and physicality required to pilot one of these beasts around a track for hours at a time?”

The silence that falls across the media room is positively deafening. You can sense the other drivers beside you tensing, no doubt steeling themselves for the oncoming wreckage they can see barreling down the line.

For your part, you simply blink once, twice — allowing the weight of the man’s insinuation to fully descend like an iron shroud and smother you from every side. Any joviality or adrenaline from the earlier back-and-forth evaporates in a searing wave of incredulous rage.

Before you can so much as draw breath to respond, however, the reporter has already pressed on with the ruthless zeal of a jackal going for the kill.

“Furthermore, with all the perceived advantages provided to you by your … esteemed heritage ...” He sneers the words with no small hint of derision. “How can we be certain you aren’t simply some vanity pet project for your father to amuse himself with? That this isn’t merely an attempt by Emirati royalty to assert itself in yet another arena in a flamboyant display of ego and excess?”

Dead silence. Not even the sound of a pen scratching or camera shutter cutting across the vacuum of noise as the entire room seems to be holding its collective breath.

You can feel your heart pounding once more, though this time it thunders in furious sync with the scorching rapids of your own rising temper. How dare this absolute jackass reduce your life’s work and sacrifice to some sexist, patronizing narrative about Daddy writing checks?

“How dare you ...” you begin in a low, menacing tone — only to be smoothly interrupted by the one voice you’d never expect.

“Oh, on the contrary,” Charles Leclerc speaks up from your right, smooth and controlled until now. “How can any of us be so fortunate?”

Every head pivots to regard the Ferrari driver, astounded by his interjection on your behalf. Up until now, Leclerc has maintained his signature cool, borderline impassive demeanor during interviews and pressers.

But now the Monegasque racer leans forward, forearms resting on the table as he fixes the hapless reporter with a look of genuine, cutting disdain.

“Here we have the first woman to race in F1 in decades, shattering years of patriarchal norms to achieve her lifelong ambition on the single most demanding stage of our sport,” he continues in a deliberate, measured tone. “And your very first instinct is to make tired, sexist implications about the frailty of her gender and body? And then to have the audacity to insult her even further by suggesting she couldn’t possibly be here on her own merits?”

Leclerc pauses, allowing his stinging rebuke to hang in the air. You glance around to see the matching expressions of discomfort and secondhand embarrassment painted on the features of your fellow drivers.

“For someone meant to be among the world’s most informed observers of our sport, your remarks are about as offensively misguided and stunted as I could possibly imagine,” Charles finishes with an unmistakable air of finality, folding his arms across his chest. He looks utterly disgusted, but there is an undercurrent of protective ice in his voice that raises the tiny hairs on your arms.

Before the flailing reporter can attempt to concoct some garbled justification for his outrageously inappropriate line of questioning, another voice pipes up — this one bearing the bright, airy lilt of an American accent.

“So, Y/N,” the younger woman interjects, clearly hoping to spare you all any further ugliness, “To pivot away from all that noise for a second … what was your initial reaction when it was announced you had secured the Aston seat? Did you do, like a big celebration or anything?”

You blink a few times, as if rebooting from Leclerc’s unexpected defense. When your mind finally reconnects, you offer the American reporter a grateful smile and a pointed glance towards Charles before speaking.

“You know, we didn’t go too over-the-top or anything,” you reply, welcoming the chance to shift to a fresh topic and get this presser back on track. “I’ll save that for the podium come race day.”

A smattering of relieved laughter ripples through the room, the tension level lowering incrementally as the debacle proceeds. You catch Charles’ subtle nod of acknowledgment across the table, his jaw marginally less taut now that the conversation has regained its footing.

From there, the presser proceeds relatively smoothly — more questions about favorite circuits and tactical approaches for the season, obligatory banter about inter-team rivalries and the usual window dressing. All through it, you feel a profound sense of gratitude for Leclerc’s willingness to essentially co-sign on your abilities and condemn the subversive misogyny lurking in that reporter’s pointed questions.

By the time the closing remarks and thank yous commence, you’ve already made up your mind to seek Charles out on your own to voice your appreciation and admiration.

You are among the first to rise and exit the media bullpen, practically speed-walking around the side of the building in hopes of catching Leclerc before he can retreat into Ferrari’s impenetrable bubble of flunkies and handlers.

“Charles! Hey, Charles — wait up a sec!”

The lean figure pauses and turns as you trot up, tilting his head inquisitively as you draw up short just in front of him.

“Sorry, hope you don’t mind me ambushing you like this,” you begin, barely suppressing the warm flush already creeping into your cheeks under his focused attention. “I just wanted to say … thank you for that. In there, I mean. What you said — how you handled that asshole’s ignorance before I could even begin responding.”

Charles’ expression flits momentarily through surprise before settling into its customary affable warmth. “Oh, that? Don’t mention it, Y/N. God knows we’ve all had to deal with our fair share of insufferable pricks on the media circuit at one point or another.”

He shrugs, as if his public solidarity with a fellow competitor were the most trivial, obvious hill to plant himself on. You feel a sudden swell of respect and admiration for the Ferrari star rise within you.

“Besides,” he continues with a casual, “How could I not defend the up-and-coming driver who gets to experience insane misogyny and ridiculous societal restraints while also knowing what it’s like to eat gold flake sundaes daily?” He shoots you a playful wink, dimples creasing his cheeks. “The duality of a princess is a heavy burden indeed ...”

You let out a peal of laughter, genuinely caught off-guard by the cheeky charm behind the dig at your privileged lineage. Far from offense, you find his irreverent humor utterly refreshing in the face of excessive nobility.

“It is a tragic affliction, I must admit,” you retort, placing one hand over your heart in mock solemnity. “But one I shall bear with dignity and poise. For my people.”

Your laughter fades into a more pensive expression, honeyed eyes finding his in an unspoken exchange of sincere emotions.

“But truly, Charles, thank you. I meant what I said in there — about wanting to inspire other women to fight for their dreams. To have someone like you leap to defend those ambitions right out of the gate … it means more than you can possibly know.”

He regards you with a speculative sort of new interest for a stretched moment before nodding slowly.

“I meant what I said too, Y/N,” he replies, utterly sincere. “If having to dress down a few assholes in public is what it takes to further that inspiration … well, that’s a pretty easy charge for me to take up.”

A fresh surge of resolve and determination irons out your features into that same unmovable resolve you inherited from your father. In that instant, you see the man Charles will hopefully become — a true legend and respected custodian of the sport, unwavering in his principles.

“Regardless, I’d love to find some way to properly thank you once we get back to Monaco,” you venture, wondering how far you can stretch this newfound rapport with the Ferrari star. “Maybe I could take you out for dinner or something next week? My treat, obviously.”

A faint flicker of surprise ghosts across Charles’ expression before that patented dimpled half-smile returns.

“Monaco? Oh, I’d love to, but I’m actually not sure if-”

He trails off, shaking his head in a rueful sort of resignation.

“Ah, merde — what I mean is that I just got word this morning that my flight back has been canceled due to some raised travel advisory or other. Classic airline nonsense.”

Your brows wing upwards as your sharp mind cycles immediately to the obvious solution.

“Well, in that case, why don’t you just come back on my plane?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can properly consider the context of your own casual statement. Leclerc blinks — Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he processes your incredibly nonchalant reference to having your own personal aircraft.

“... your plane?” He echoes, a new glint entering his stare as he studies you with fresh gravity.

You wave one hand in a dismissive little flourish, your practiced regal upbringing suddenly very apparent in the effortless hauteur radiating from you.

“Well of course, Charles — you didn’t think I flew commercial, did you?” Your nose wrinkles in feigned distaste as you grin up at him. “No, no — my family maintains a full fleet. I’m scheduled to return to Monaco via the 747 after the weekend wraps.”

Now it is the Ferrari star’s turn to look utterly gobsmacked, any veneer of media-trained poise utterly dissolving at your casual reference to owning a jumbo jet as if it were something as trivial as a sedan or motorcycle. His eyes bore into you with sudden intensity, as if seeing you in an entirely new light.

You can practically see the mental math exploding across his expression — the private security details, the designer casualwear on your lithe frame, the stunning and no doubt priceless jewelry glittering at your throat and wrists. All the tell-tale signs of absurd, eighth-continent-money levels of wealth.

And here you are, acting as if maintaining your own plane is just another given amenity ...

“Wait ...” he begins slowly, still processing the full scope of what you’ve so dismissively unveiled. “You’re telling me you have an actual, like … a 747 just sitting around that you use to fly wherever the hell you want?”

You blink owlishly up at him, momentarily bewildered by the sheer shock on his face. Surely the finer nuances of just how rich your family is couldn’t have escaped him completely up to now, could it?

So you simply shrug, offering him a playful smirk in a bid to diffuse any perceived arrogance or condescension on your part.

“More or less, yes,” you confirm breezily, pointedly ignoring his incredulity. “So what say you, Monsieur Leclerc? Shall we share a ride back to the riviera? I promise the in-flight movies are decent, at least.”

For a long moment, Charles can only stare at you, astounded at the bottomless depths of absurdity that is your birthright and lineage. Just when you think he may have simply short-circuited into a vegetative state, however, his mouth abruptly curves upwards into a devilish grin of epiphany.

“You know what?” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelieving amusement. “In that case, you’re on. A nice flight back to Monaco sounds … perfect for a little post-race pick-me-up.”

You can’t help but smirk triumphantly as Charles extends one hand, which you accept in a firm shake.

Some rigid societal expectations among the royalty and aristocracy may be slow to evolve, but others? They’ve prepared you for the political game that is Formula 1.

***

The late afternoon sunlight slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Monaco apartment, casting warm geometric patterns across the plush marble tile. You lie draped over one of the oversized couches, aimlessly scrolling on your phone in a rare moment of quiet downtime.

Or rather, you’re hanging completely upside down on the couch, bare feet kicked up over the back cushions as you flick through a few inane social media feeds. The blood is just starting to rush towards your head in an oddly calming wash when the soft snick of the entryway lock disengaging catches your attention.

“Mon amour?” Charles’ familiar, lightly-accented voice rings out from the foyer. “You home?”

“In here!” You call back, not bothering to right yourself as your boyfriend’s lean silhouette appears in the archway, shrugging out of his leather jacket.

He spots your inverted form sprawled across the sitting area and shakes his head with a bemused chuckle, all tousled chestnut curls and devilish dimples.

“Must you always hang about like an overgrown cat?” He chides playfully, moving to settle onto the adjacent sofa. Even after nearly five months of dating, Charles still seems perpetually amused by your tendency to shirk regal posture and poise whenever afforded the opportunity. “Is gravity simply too much effort for royalty these days … "

“Your mockery wounds my very soul, kind sir,” you drone in a monotone false-lament, never breaking eye contact with the Ferrari star as your arms dangle limply towards the floor. “Should I have the servants fetch you a fainting couch to make up for my uncouth posture?”

Charles snorts, watching you with undisguised affection as he stretches out on the other sofa. “And they say chivalry is dead ...”

One callused hand comes up to gently brush an errant lock of hair away from your face, fingers trailing across your cheek in a simple caress. After so many months of sneaking heated looks across press conference panels and fielding ruthless speculation over your rumored involvement, moments like this still spark a bewildered sort of giddy thrill within you.

Here is Il Predestinato himself, someone blessed with every imaginable advantage — talent, wealth, fame, charisma. Yet it is you, the comparative newcomer raised worlds away, who seems to hold his singular focus even in the quiet stillness.

“Is this some new fitness fad the rest of us ignorant plebeians should be made aware of?” Charles inquires after a pregnant pause, arching one brow at your upended state.

He knows you too well by now, you muse — knows how prone you are to defying expectation or traditional high society conventions whenever the mood strikes. So rather than offer any excuse or justification, you simply shrug airily.

“Just experimenting with different … perspectives for the time being,” you retort, sticking your tongue out at him and reveling in the simple, teasing intimacy of the moment. “The world tends to look rather different when you turn everything on its head.”

“Isn’t that the truth ...” Charles hums, shifting ever-so-slightly closer before changing tacts. “Well, on that note … I’ve found myself with a rather unique perspective to share this evening.”

Your interest is instantly piqued, head lolling to one side as you regard the Ferrari star with renewed focus. One hand leaves its resting place on your abdomen, fingers wiggling inquisitively.

“Oh? Do tell, Monsieur Leclerc ...”

Charles chuckles again, low and genuine, before his emerald gaze turns pointedly opaque. Even now, after sharing countless impromptu evenings watching mind melting reality television and indulgent private vacations, he still retains the ability to utterly captivate your attention.

“Well, this particular news is rather more ...” He pauses for dramatic effect, pursing those perpetually kiss-plumped lips as if savoring the impending reveal. "... interesting.”

You exhale a petulant little huff, fighting the urge to stick your foot in his face or throw one of the decorative cushions at him.

“Charles, if this is meant to build suspense over you finally buying that fancy vacuum you won’t shut up about, I swear by the — mmph!”

Your playful griping is cut off as Charles suddenly lunges across the short distance separating your couches, capturing your lips in a fierce, silencing kiss. You squirm slightly at the abrupt shift in dynamics, the world seeming to spin and right itself as muscular forearms slide beneath you to gather you up into his lap.

By the time he finally pulls back, leaving you both breathless and slightly disheveled, you find yourself settled firmly in Charles’ sturdy embrace. Two sets of lidded eyes glaze over one another, reveling in the familiar intoxicating rush of chemistry.

“Easy there, mon ange,” he murmurs once you’ve both caught your respective breaths, one palm smoothing up and down your spine in an idle caress. “I promise this is a rather more agreeable surprise than debating vacuums.”

You watch, bemused, as his free hand dips into the inner pocket of his hoodie, withdrawing a familiar red envelope sealed with the unmistakable prancing horse emblem of Ferrari. Your heart rate instantly kicks up another notch at the mere sight of it, that infernal curiosity burning hotter than ever.

“The team initially planned to hand this off through proper channels,” Charles continues, expression inscrutable as he toys with the envelope, thumb tracing its embossed crest. “But given the … personal opportunity it presented, I thought it only appropriate to circumvent protocol this once.”

With that, he extends the envelope towards you, a silent offer for you to take up whatever life-altering missive lies within. You swallow hard against the sudden lump of anticipation welling in your throat, looking from the envelope, to Charles, and back again.

“What … what is this?” You croak, hating how fragile and uncertain your voice sounds.

Charles’ smile is soft as warm brandy, suffused with unguarded affection and pride. A pride not for himself, but for the very caliber of opportunity before you.

“For you,” he murmurs simply. “For your boundless determination to achieve in the face of adversity. This is the ultimate reward for outrunning not just your competitors, but the very expectations of an entire sport.”

The breath leaves your body in a dizzying rush as sudden realization crystallizes in your mind. How many nights have the two of you stayed up into the wee hours, idly discussing dream teams and potential openings across the grid? Debating which partnerships could provide the optimal platform for success?

This envelope bears no stamp or mailing address. But its rich, unmistakable crimson design and gleaming logo render such mundane addressing unnecessary. There is only one organization with the status to deliver their most sensitive communications in such an iconic manner.

With trembling hands, you accept the envelope, taking care not to smudge or crinkle its embossed insignia as you turn it over. Slowly, reverentially, you peel open the wax seal and slide out the sheaf of papers tucked within, eyes hungrily scanning the blocky sans-serif text:

SUBJECT: Ferrari Driver Offer, 2026 Season

Your breath catches in your throat, the words seeming to blur in a shimmering haze as hot tears instantly prick the corners of your eyes.

This isn’t merely a summons from Scuderia Ferrari. This isn’t a polite inquiry or negotiation tactic meant to bolster future value or status.

This is a formal contract, stamped with all the hallmarks of managerial approval ...

An invitation to join the most legendary name in all of motorsport as one of its drivers.

You shake your head in stunned disbelief, hardly daring to blink as your scrutinize every word, every assurance and term of agreement laid out in stark black ink.

It’s there, immaculate and absolute — a seat beside Charles for the 2026 season, to be finalized pending your confirmation and the exit of one former world champion.

Lewis Hamilton’s retirement.

The news had broken last month over the Ferrari driver’s surprise announcement that he would be exiting Formula 1 at the conclusion of the 2025 calendar year. Just one championship shy of his stated goal of eclipsing Michael Schumacher’s record for most drivers’ titles, the British superstar shocked the sporting world by revealing he was finally ready to step away from the cockpit and move on to other endeavors.

Speculation had run rampant, of course, over who within the sport’s glittering ranks of young up-and-comers had the talent and mettle to fill such an impossible void. You’d jokingly thrown about a host of names whenever the discussion arose with Charles, more content to fantasize and daydream rather than entertain any serious expectations.

Yet here it lies in your hands, in unblemished print. Proof that you’ve smashed through yet another carbon fiber-coated glass ceiling specifically by shattering every limitation placed upon your ambitions.

You glance up to find Charles gauging your reaction with a tender intensity akin to a besotted schoolboy, as if readying himself to sweep you off your feet all over again should you swoon from the news. Suddenly his every gesture from the moment he walked through your front door this evening makes perfect sense — the dramatics, the playful banter, and maddening evasiveness.

This was his way of showing you he’d listened, absorbed every idle comment or perceived slight you’d ever murmured over the proving grounds of your respective talents. That he saw and cherished every spark of hunger in your honeyed gaze, evident in your determination to continue defying odds not only as a woman — but as a pioneer hoping to be immortalized within motorsport.

The tears spill over at last, streaking unchecked down your cheeks as a tremulous laugh bubbles up unbidden from your chest. You lift one hand to shakily wipe at the dampness, willing yourself not to become an incoherent, hiccuping mess on the precipice of such a monumental achievement.

“I … I don’t even...” You begin, shaking your head slowly. For once, the woman raised to carry herself with poise and dignity in any station finds herself utterly bereft of words.

Charles merely watches and waits, soft sleeve brushing away the fresh tears tracking across your cheeks before cradling your jaw in one warm palm. Those mesmerizing eyes bore into yours with aching sincerity, seeing straight through you down to the deliriously euphoric riot of emotions swirling in your chest.

“Ferrari recognizes your spirit, your passion for this life, because it is the same fire that has forever stoked the heart of the Scuderia,” he murmurs, thumb smoothing an idle arc over the plump swell of your lower lip.

“They chose you not because you are a symbol — a pretty flag for them to rally under and wave as some achievement in name only. They see you as the next tireless warrior to pour their full belief into achieving victory.” A soft, affectionate breath of laughter escapes him, warm and adoring. “Which I know for a fact is the only ambition you’ve ever given a single damn about.”

You release a watery giggle at that, nodding in fervent agreement as you reach up to cradle the back of his neck, anchoring yourself in the tender solidity of his touch. Weeks and months of dogged speculation over prospects and vacancies, endlessly weighing the potential upshots and pitfalls of every career trajectory before you ...

… and here it waits, bold and singular as the sun itself — your chance to immortalize yourself among the hallowed ranks of Formula 1 royalty.

“You were made for this, mon cœur,” Charles continues, fingers trailing down the side of your neck in a gentle graze. “Your spirit, your sheer determination to shatter every obstacle placed in your way — Ferrari sees that fire blazing in you. It’s why they want you.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against your own as his lips curve into a devastatingly handsome smile, dimples peeking through.

“And not because of any family name or billions or royal pedigree you carry … but precisely because of how hard you’ve fought to strip all that away on the track. To make your own name and legacy that matters.”

The words strike you like the sweetest, most poignant arrow straight through your heart. And isn’t that what you’ve craved since the earliest dawning flickers of your obsession with this beautiful, brutal sport — recognition and triumph earned purely on your own merits?

You are no longer a Sheikha first, racing driver second. You are Y/N Y/L/N, Scuderia Ferrari driver in the making.

Before you can even find the words to respond — and what words could ever suffice at a moment like this — you are surging forward to capture Charles’ plush mouth with your own. The contract flutters forgotten to the floor as you pour every ounce of exhilarated gratitude and ardor into the fevered kiss, hands mapping the broad sloping planes of his shoulders and back with trembling urgency.

Charles responds in kind, all velvet heat and insistent possession as his arms sweep you impossibly closer, fingers tangling in the loose curtain of your hair. You allow yourself to succumb fully to the dizzying euphoria of his passion and the all-encompassing ambition now flowering in your breast unfurled, crashing over you in intoxicating waves.

This is no mere contract, no insignificant changing of pitlane scenery. This is the definitive moment where you have eclipsed every last shadow of self-doubt and exceeded even the lofty expectations bequeathed to you since girlhood.

You will become a legend.

Only when the need for air finally parts you does the fervent heat of the moment ebb enough for rational thought to pierce the moonlit haze of emotion. Your lips are swollen and tingling, senses heightened to every whisper and shift of muscle under Charles’ shirt as his chest expands in deep, measured breaths.

When you finally find the strength to lift your gaze and meet his hooded stare, he is the one rendered momentarily speechless by the intensity and elation blazing in your expression. Something he sees reflected back at him now from the woman nestled so securely in his arms.

“Oh, mon amour ...” Charles rasps at last, a sinfully indulgent smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He shakes his head as if beholding some ascending deity, utterly transfixed.

“This is only the beginning ...”

***

The camera flashes turn the plush Ferrari hospitality suite into a makeshift photo studio. You try not to blink as the bright lights sparkle off the deep red lipstick you’re wearing.

“Okay, bellissima, one more,” the photographer calls out. You tilt your head slightly and smile wide. Charles squeezes your hand. The shutter clicks.

“Perfetto! I think we got it,” the photographer says, lowering his camera with a grin. “Grazie mille, you two.”

“Thank you,” you reply in your lightly accented English. Charles plants a kiss on your cheek, leaving the faintest imprint of his lips in lightly tinted lip balm on your skin. The makeup artist rushes over to touch it up before the next part of the shoot.

This is your first joint promotional event as Ferrari’s new driver pairing for 2026. Well, sort of new — Charles is a proven superstar entering his seventh season with the team. You, on the other hand, are the fresh face and the source of international intrigue.

“Next up, we’re filming a little Q&A section,” the producer explains, adjusting his headset. “Just a fun, casual way for the fans to get to know you both better before the season starts.”

You and Charles take your seats, situating yourselves comfortably on the curved scarlet sofa. An array of cameras surrounds you on robotic arms, remotely controlled to capture every angle.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the producer calls out from behind the lights. An energetic young woman with a microphone appears on camera, greeting you both enthusiastically.

“Bonjour Charles, Salaam Y/N! So great to have Ferrari’s exciting new line-up with us today. Let’s get to know you guys a little better — there are notecards with rapid-fire questions right here and you just banter away, okay?”

Charles leans forward, grabbing a stack of notecards from the table beside him. “Here’s an easy one to start — who is the most famous person in your contacts?”

“Mine is Seb, of course! Sebastian Vettel. Used to be my teammate, now he’s basically a world-famous hermit.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Oh come on, you can do better than that.”

“Your turn then, Your Highness,” Charles counters with a teasing lilt. “Who’s the biggest celebrity in that royal contacts list of yours?”

You tap a manicured fingernail against your plump lips, pretending to ponder the question. In truth, you know exactly who it is, and Charles is going to be stunned. A sly grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Does my father count?”

Charles barks out a laugh. “I don’t think so, Y/N. Pick someone a bit more … interesting.”

“Oh? You want interesting?” You tease, unable to resist dragging this out. “How about … Taylor Swift?”

Whatever Charles was expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. His eyes go comically wide, jaw dropping slightly. “You … Taylor Swift? As in, the international popstar?”

“The one and only,” you confirm with a serene nod.

“How in the world do you have Taylor Swift’s phone number?” He sputters.

You shrug, admiring the gemstone-encrusted rings glittering on your fingers. “It was my 18th birthday party. Baba knew how much I loved her music, so he got her to perform.”

“He got … your father got Taylor Swift … to perform at your birthday?” Charles is still gaping at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Well yes, what else would you expect?” You laugh at his dumbfounded expression. “It wasn’t that big a deal, habibi.”

Charles opens his mouth, then closes it, seemingly at a loss for words. You lean over the side of the couch, draping one hand over the armrest as you gaze up at him with false innocence.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

“I …” he finally manages. “Y/N, you never cease to amaze me.”

“Is that so?” You bat your eyelashes coyly. “Good thing you’re stuck with me then.”

Charles shakes his head in disbelief, but his expression melts into a fond one, dimples showing as he grins down at you.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, mon amour.”

You sit up slightly at the pet name, spoken so tenderly. That warm, bubbly feeling fills your chest like always when Charles looks at you like that — like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, trying to ignore the blush you can feel heating your cheeks. “Ask another question before I get too distracted by that irresistible smile of yours.”

Charles chuckles darkly. “Oh, trust me. I’m very distracting.”

You giggle at his faux arrogance. “Very distracting indeed. Now come on, ask me something good.”

He glances down at the cards again. “Let’s see … what’s the most extravagant gift you’ve ever received?”

You don’t even have to think about that one. “My baby.”

There’s a pause, then- “Did you just refer to me as a gift?”

“Not you,” you laugh. “My gorgeous F2002.”

Recognition dawns on Charles’ face as he remembers your long tangents about the iconic race car. “Ah, of course. Your prized possession.”

“It was a present for my 15th birthday,” you explain, unable to keep the pride from your voice. “From Baba. I nearly fainted when I saw it.”

“I’ll bet,” Charles murmurs. “She’s a beauty, that’s for sure.”

“That she is,” you agree softly. Your eyes linger on Charles, watching the way the harsh factory lights play against the sculpted lines of his face, catching in his dark eyes. Beautiful, just like your car.

You tear your eyes away before you get too carried away, clearing your throat. “Next question?”

Charles blinks, seeming to shake himself from his own reverie before consulting the cards again. His brow furrows slightly as he reads the next one.

“Well this is … certainly a question.” He looks up at you with mild bewilderment. “What’s the most embarrassing thing your family has ever done?”

You grimace slightly at that. Your parents certainly haven’t been immune to embarrassing their only daughter over the years. After a moment’s hesitation, you launch into the story.

“Okay, so when I was sixteen, I had this dreadful crush on one of Baba’s racehorse jockeys …”

Charles listens attentively, dimples showing again as you regale the tale of your young lovesick self hopelessly pining after the older, objectively very attractive jockey. How your parents, in their infinite wisdom and total lack of subtlety, had gotten it into their heads that the best way to cheer you up over your unrequited crush was to invite said jockey over for a family dinner at the palace ...

“... and of course, in front of this painstakingly handsome man, my parents could not resist mercilessly teasing and embarrassing me the entire night!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, but you’re laughing too at the ridiculousness of the memory. “I thought I would simply perish from mortification right there at the table.”

“No, no, no,” Charles shakes his head, grinning widely. “Please, tell me more about how devilishly handsome this jockey was.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you snort, reaching out to shove his shoulder lightly. But you oblige him anyway. “Okay, fine, you want details? He was … oh, I don’t know, maybe 6 feet tall, tanned and muscular from all that riding, perfectly tousled dark hair-”

“Tousled dark hair, hmm?” Charles arches an eyebrow at you, smile turning sly. “Should I be jealous?”

“Oh hush, that was years ago,” you wave a hand dismissively. “Though I suppose if we want to talk about petty jealousies and crushes …”

When he seems confused, you smirk up at him mischievously.

“Word on the street is a certain Monegasque driver had quite the thing for Valentino Rossi back in the day.”

It’s Charles’ turn to snort at that, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re one to talk. Everyone knows how obsessed you were with Fernando Alonso for years.”

“I was a child!” You protest with dignity, trying not to laugh. “It was an innocent celebrity crush and nothing more.”

“Uh huh, sure,” he teases. “Which is why you still have that massive lifesize poster of him in your bedroom at the palace-”

“How do you know about that?” You halt him, utterly mortified all over again. Your face flames scarlet as Charles dissolves into helpless laughter beside you.

“I’m only joking, ma belle,” he finally gasps out. “I’ve never seen this supposed poster.” Charles reaches out, looping an arm around your waist to pull you snug against his side. You go easily, butting your forehead lightly against his shoulder with a huff.

“You’re the worst, you know that?”

“And yet, you keep me around,” he murmurs warmly. His fingers trace idle patterns against your hip, making you shiver. “Something about me must be tolerable.”

You tilt your head back to meet his intense gaze, your lips curving despite yourself.

“I suppose you’ll do,” you murmur. Then you lean up on your tiptoes to press your mouth against his.

Charles melts into the soft, lingering kiss, the arm around your waist tightening to bring you even closer against him. This close, you can feel the lean muscle and warmth of his body, your own tingling with awareness. One of his hands slips into your hair, cradling the back of your head and angling your lips for better access.

A quiet noise of pleasure escapes your throat as the kiss deepens, growing more heated. You part your lips eagerly to grant his questing tongue entrance, tasting the hint of coffee and addictive scent that always makes your head spin dizzily. His other hand smoothes down your side, over the dip of your waist and the curve of your hip, burning through the thin fabric of your team polo-

“Ahem … aaaand cut! Fantastic you two, that’s a wrap on this portion,” the director says, his amused tone breaking the trance. “Why don’t we take a short break before setting up for next segment?”

Cheeks flushed, you and Charles reluctantly pull apart, remembering there’s a whole bustle of crew surrounding you at the moment. Tucking a glossy lock of hair behind your ear, you lean in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear.

“Raincheck on that kiss, habibi? I have a few more surprises in store for you later.” You graze his earlobe with your teeth, delighting in the way his breath catches. “If you think we already know everything about each other … you haven’t seen anything yet.”

With a saucy wink, you extract yourself from his embrace and saunter off to refresh your makeup, leaving your dazed boyfriend gaping after your retreating form.

***

Two Years Later

You wake with a start to the sound of your alarm blaring at 4:38 am. Groaning, you reach over to silence it, blinking blearily in the dark. It’s the start of another day of fasting for Ramadan — the first your now husband will be participating in to support you.

A soft snore comes from beside you and you can’t help but smile fondly. There he is, heartthrob of Formula 1 fans everywhere, drool trailing down his chin onto the 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcase. How attractive.

“Charles,” you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. “Time to wake up for suhoor.”

He merely grunts and rolls over, pulling the covers up over his head. You sigh in exasperation. For an elite professional athlete, he can be stubborn as a mule when it comes to early mornings.

Giving up for now, you slip out of bed and pad across the plush carpet of your sprawling bedroom quarters in the palace. You flick on the ornate brass lamps, bathing the room in a warm glow that glints off the gold accents everywhere.

A jaw-cracking yawn escapes you as you make your way over to the bathroom, hoping a splash of cool water on your face will help wake you. Your bare feet slap against the intricate tile mosaics as you go.

“What time is it?” A sleepy voice calls out behind you.

“Early,” you call back. “We have forty minutes before the fast begins.”

You emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, slightly more alert, to find Charles blinking confusedly around the room, mussed hair sticking up every which way. He looks utterly lost without his morning coffee.

“Come along, habibi,” you say, grabbing his hand and tugging him out of bed with a grunt. “Let’s go see what the kitchen staff has prepared.”

Charles just nods obediently, Ferrari red pajama pants hanging low on his hips in a way that makes your cheeks flush. Even barely conscious, he’s unfairly good-looking.

The two of you make your way down the torch-lit hallways of the palace toward the private dining room reserved for the royal family members. You can’t resist threading your fingers through his and giving his hand a squeeze.

“I’m proud of you for doing this,” you murmur. “It means everything to me.”

Charles halts, tugging you into his arms. His embrace is warm and comforting and familiar. You let your eyes drift shut as he brushes his lips across your forehead.

“Of course,” he rumbles in that delicious accent of his. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”

A throat clears behind you and you jump apart, heat flooding your cheeks. Whirling around, you spot your father regarding you sternly, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

“Good mor-er, night? Apologies, Charles,” he says gruffly. “I’m still getting used to this schedule.”

Charles gives a awkward little bow. “No need to apologize, Your Highness.”

You roll your eyes fondly at the two most important men in your life. For cultures on opposite sides of the world, sometimes they’re more alike than either would admit.

“Have you two eaten yet?” Your father continues. “The cooks have prepared a feast as usual.”

Shaking your head, you tug Charles’s hand to follow as you make your way into the lavish dining room. It’s deserted at this hour save for the kitchen staff milling about, setting out enormous platters of food.

Arabian coffee in delicate gemmed cups. Chickpea stew and crisp flatbreads fresh from the tandoor oven. Heaping mounds of creamy balaleet vermicelli sweetened with rosewater and cardamom. Succulent medjool dates and purees of every fruit imaginable to kick off the fast as healthfully as possible. It all smells utterly divine and makes your mouth water.

You glance sidelong at Charles to see him staring around with an utterly gobsmacked look. His adorably bewildered expression makes you stifle a giggle — you always forget this is the first time he’s experiencing the elaborate palace rituals.

“Dig in,” your father says gruffly, already loading up his plate.

And dig in you do, shoveling food into your mouths as quickly as your etiquette training will allow. All too soon, the muezzin’s call to prayer rings out over the grounds, signaling the official start of the day’s fasting.

You sit back with a contented sigh, hands resting atop your pleasantly full belly. Beside you, Charles looks pleasantly stuffed as well in that gorgeous way where his shirt rides up just a hint. The old you might’ve flushed scarlet and averted your eyes like a proper modest lady. This emboldened you lets your gaze linger ...

“Enjoying the sights?” Your father’s wry voice cuts through your daze.

You startle, snapping your attention back to see his eyes twinkling with amusement. Of course the man misses nothing when it comes to his only daughter. The tips of your ears burn.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he continues, rising to his feet. “I have matters of state to attend to as usual despite the hour. Do try to behave, you two.”

You open your mouth to protest the teasing, indignant, but he silences you with a look and a raised brow. With great restraint, you merely nod instead. Soon as the door swings shut behind him, you blow out an exasperated breath, rolling your eyes heavenward.

“I love him dearly,” you start. “But sometimes-”

Whatever sarcastic rejoinder you were going to make dies on your lips when you catch sight of Charles again. He’s leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out before him, looking utterly at ease amid the heart of Arabian luxury. A tiny, fond smile plays about his lips.

“What?” You ask self-consciously.

“Nothing,” he says at once, shaking his head. “I just … you look beautiful here. Content. Like you were born to it.”

It’s your turn to blink in surprise at the unexpected compliment. Of course you were raised amid affluence and trained in regal bearing from birth. And yet ...

“Flatterer,” you say at last, trying to brush off the warm curl of pleasure blooming in your chest.

Charles sits up straight, expression turning earnest in that intense way of his that never fails to rob you of breath.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “You’re so at home here. The way your face lights up at all the little traditions, how you banter with your father like you rule the place …” His eyes roam over you adoringly. “You’re magnificent.”

Your cheeks heat furiously, but you can’t look away, caught in his smoldering gaze. How is it possible for this man to make you feel so flustered and treasured after all this time? He reaches across to take your hand, calloused fingers stroking over your knuckles.

“Thank you,” you whisper at last. “For doing this with me. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“Of course,” Charles echoes his earlier sentiment simply.

There’s a brief, electrically charged moment where you’re both just gazing at each other like nobody else exists. And then … a low rumbling growl shatters the stillness. You blink as Charles flushes bright red.

“I, ah, seem to be hungry again already with the early schedule,” he admits sheepishly.

You throw back your head with a peal of laughter, loud and unbridled and utterly unconcerned with propriety for once. Leave it to your man to break the tension in the most delightfully awkward way. “Easy there, habibi. You’ll need to save room for iftar later tonight.”

Realizing you’ve caught him looking undignified, Charles has the good grace to look a bit sheepish. “You’re right, mon ange. Got a bit carried away with my last chance to eat for awhile.” He licks his lips slowly, watching you with heated eyes. “I’ll be counting the seconds until I can taste you agai-”

“Charles, not during fasting hours!” You cut him off with a scandalized giggle, heat flooding your cheeks at his shameless innuendo. Even after all this time, he can still fluster you with a single heated look.

He just throws back his head with a full-throated laugh, utterly unrepentant.

You shake your head at his antics, trying in vain to suppress your grin. “Incorrigible,” you mutter fondly.

Leaning back in your chair, you settle in to watch him contently. Heat simmers low in your belly, anticipating the moment you can finally break your fast tonight and enjoy some … dessert.

The little eight-year-old girl attending her first race could never have imagined that this would be her life one day. Alhamdulillah for the blessings that Allah saw to bestow upon you. With your husband by your side and the ink drying on a long-term contract with Ferrari, you have everything you could have asked for.

[gingerlee-holds]

Tinkering Hearts

This is a birthday fic for @cxra-melty! It's a Splatoon tword fic about lesbians lesbianing all over the place lmao- DISCLAIMER: i have never played splatoon nor do i know anything about it so if i get something wrong, lemme know!!

Word Count: 2,028 Reading Time: about 8 minutes Warnings: none that i can think of!! enjoy!!

The evening was Marina's favorite time of day since it's among the few times in Inkopolis when it's quiet. All the little critters settled down to sleep, but the sun still bathed the earth. Warm streams of light flowed into her studio, seemingly transforming the rather plain skyrise apartment into the inky aftermath of a turf war, awash with vibrant oranges, pinks, and yellows. The scent of grease that usually filled the studio was, at her girlfriend's strongly worded request, replaced mainly by a citrusy aroma, courtesy of an air freshener of her own design.

Marina Ida leaned back in her desk chair, smiling as she set down her screwdriver. Wiping her hands on her apron, the mechanically adept Octoling sighed in contentment at seeing her new invention: a speaker with a 23% longer battery life, petitioned by her girlfriend for her characteristically prolonged singing sessions in the shower. Marina's personal speaker, her 'precious baby,' sat on a bookcase next to the door, playing her mellow vaporwave beats while she worked. Swiveling slightly in her chair, she gazed out the large windows of her tinkering studio. She had always counted herself incredibly lucky to live in an apartment like this one, with a tremendously gorgeous view of the sunset. 

'It's so pretty,' Marina thought to herself. 'The setting sun gives the undersides of those clouds a beautiful pink color, like cotton candy. Like bubble gum. Like…' She suddenly looked down, feeling her face warm up a bit. 'Like Pearl.'

Marina heard a loud groan from her girlfriend, Pearl Houzuki, as if on cue. Turning again in her chair, she smiled at the mess of a girl crashed on her couch, lounging, as she often did, to periodically pester Marina while she worked. Today, though, Pearl had kept mostly silent as she lay on the sofa, idly kicking her feet behind her as she played on her phone, the nightcore blaring from her headphones only barely audible from across the room. However, the Inkling was face-down on the cushions, shamefully holding up her phone as she removed her headphones.

"'s dead," Pearl mumbled, making the Octoling smile fondly. 

"Well, I did recommend you bring a charger in with you a few-" Marina stopped her 'told you so' when she broke into giggles at the sight of the death glare her girlfriend gave in reply. The pouting Pearl huffed and rolled over onto her back, staring at the ceiling as Marina returned to her desk. Her next project was to begin right away, so without wasting any time, she opened her drawer and pulled out the sketches for a marginally more efficient Splattershot. 

It took less than a minute for Pearl to become restless. 

"I'm boreddd…" she grumbled. 

Marina chuckled. "Go charge your phone, then, silly squid. I also have those graphic novels you like somewhere on the shelf." She gestured vaguely toward one of her bookshelves without looking away from her work. As she focused back on the task before her, she failed to hear her girlfriend slowly rise from the sofa and sneak across the room, muffled by her fuzzy socks and the carpeted floor. Just as Marina put the tip of her pencil to the page, a rapid, simultaneous poke to each side elicited a squeaky yelp, making her hand shoot back to protect herself.

The Octoling whirled around, trying her best to glare at her adorable girlfriend's smug smirk, unable to suppress the smile on her face. 

"There is one rule in this studio! One! I know you can count to one!" Vainly trying to sound authoritative, Marina ended up sputtering out her warning. She accidentally drew a sharp, dark line across her page with her pencil.

Pearl giggled and innocently rocked on her heels. "You know I'm garbage at math. But hey, you can't blame me! Golden hour makes your skin look even prettier than normal! I was just checking that you were real and not some sort of hologram!"

The clever Inkling's flirt had its intended effect: Marina lost her entire train of thought as her face heated up like an overclocked CPU without a cooling fan. Instead of playfully scolding Pearl about the sacred 'No Shenanigans' rule of her tinkering studio, Marina hid her face behind her tentacles and let out what she intended to be a growl but became a flustered whine. Pearl waited patiently for her girlfriend to regain her composure, smiling from ear to ear.

"Y-you know that I haven't been able to build one of those yet-!" It was a lazy rebuttal born from her genuine vexation with holographic devices.

Pearl hummed, tapping her chin. "Well, you can never be too sure! I'm not worried, though, cuz I have a surefire method of proving you're my Marina~!" At that, she teasingly wiggled her fingers at the poor Octoling. "My little Marina is deathly ticklish~!"

Pearl's 'little' Marina leaped to her feet with a squeak, standing two full heads taller than her girlfriend. A determined expression entirely replaced her flustered countenance. "G-glass houses, babe! I know for a fact that you, of all people, shouldn't be throwing out accusations of ticklishness since you're a walking tickle spot!"

The smaller girl stammered, her cheeks turning as pink as the tips of her tentacles. "B-bullshit!" 

"Ooo, strong words from such a wittle Squid~! Are you gonna pout me to death~? Or do I have to ticklEEEK-!" Marina's cocky taunting was interrupted by about 100 pounds of Inkling suddenly slamming into her torso, almost bringing the tinkerer to the ground. Thankfully for her knees, Marina managed to get turned about, letting herself be pushed across the room and onto the couch by her growling girlfriend.

"You," Pearl huffed, now that she pinned the Octoling, "deserve every friggin' second of what you're about to get!" 

Before Marina could reply, a wave of giggly laughter poured out from her lungs as Pearl began scribbling up and down her sides. "NohOhoHO!!" was all she could get out as Pearl's nimble fingers skittered and poked each inch of skin from her hip to her ribs. 

"If anything," the Inkling said over her girlfriend's laughter, "this is your fault! I mean, for such a clever girl, it's awfully silly to keep one of your most ticklish spots so exposed like this~! Not that I'm complaining, though - makes it sooooo much easier for me to tickle the shit outta you!"

“ShuUHuHUhUT UhuHUHUHUP!!!” Marina cackled, kicking her feet. She brought one arm over her eyes while the other wrestled with Pearl's surprisingly agile hands. 

"Oh, believe me, I've been shut up for the past few hours! Gotta get this energy out somehow!"

Marina bucked, desperately trying to squirm out of reach or pry her girlfriend off, but Pearl was stuck to her like a mussel, mercilessly exploiting the Octoling's ticklishness. 

"PleHEhEHehheASe!!! PeHEhEhehHEARL, IhihhIhI’M BEHEEHEHEGGING!!” Marina threw her head back when Pearl began drilling her fingers into her hips. Her pleas, however, made Pearl slow down her tickling just enough for Marina to launch her counterattack.

Marina's hands shot down past Pearl's, landing on her thighs in one swift motion. The Inkling's eyes widened with shock for a moment before she was sent into peals of ticklish gleeful laughter from Marina's squeezes. She fell onto her back, hugging herself around the middle. The tinkerer took her chance, pulling herself upward to continue her onslaught. 

The mellow vaporwave from her speaker was drowned out by a different sort of music, which Marina enjoyed far more: the snorts and hiccups of her beloved bratty squid when her thighs were squeezed. Pearl waved her arms around like an inflatable tube man, giving Marina access to her underarms. Scribbling in each underarm, Marina had successfully invented liquid cuteness.

Nevertheless, despite her thrashing around like a fish on land and babbling through her hiccupy laughter, Pearl had concocted the perfect scheme. When Marina stopped for a moment to readjust her position, Pearl leaped upward and wrapped her arms around Marina's torso, planting her face in her girlfriend's exposed belly. Paying no heed to the panicky warnings, the smaller girl deposited a big, wriggly raspberry, transforming the tall attacker back into a cackling girl, unable to hold back the mountain of melodic laughter. Pearl, determined to get revenge and with her competitive streak shining bright, resolved to continue raspberrying Marina's belly button until the latter had no more laughter left in her. However, true to form, she made one vital miscalculation: she hadn't removed her girlfriend's hands from under her arms. 

She was immediately aware of this flaw in her plan before delivering a second attack when Marina resumed wiggling her fingers. The small Inkling squealed through her raspberry, which did less to dampen its ticklishness than Marina had hoped. Both now were squealing and laughing, both because of the tickles and the ridiculousness of the situation.

The two were locked in a stubborn tickle war of attrition: could Pearl withstand the curious wiggling fingers in her underarms before Marina inevitably gave in to her raspberries? Regardless of the outcome, Pearl was happy to finally have her girlfriend to herself after not being given any attention for so long. As silly as it seemed to be jealous of a toolbox, she felt pleased to finally have all of Marina's focus exclusively on her. She'd never admit it out loud, of course, but Pearl was more than happy to lose this battle if it meant spending more time with her favorite Octoling.

As it happens, the winner of the tickle war would not be determined that day, as a particularly devious raspberry to her side sent Marina rolling off the couch and onto the soft carpet, dragging a hiccupy Pearl down with her. The two girls squealed with delight as they landed, their legs getting tangled together in the confusion. Slowly, the laughter died down, and the two pairs of eyes opened to look into each other. Their faces melted with fondness, wobbly lovestruck smiles replacing helplessly plastered grins. As they gazed into each other's eyes, arms wrapped around each other, legs intertwined, and so close… It was poetry worthy of Sappho herself.

Pearl broke the silence first. "You oughta be more playful. It's fun to see you like this."

"What, you mean it's fun to see me all disheveled and a mess?" 

The Inkling giggled, nodding. "Yep! I don't see you so unraveled often, so it's always a fun gift to witness!"

Marina's smile widened slightly before she shyly said, "Then feel free to unravel me as much as you'd like, babe."

Led by the profoundly influential force whose origin lies beyond scientific scrutiny and which has always guided the hearts of two lovers throughout countless millennia, the two cephalopods pressed themselves closer and stole a sweet, blissful kiss. When they finally pulled apart, the sun had sunk under the horizon, swapping vibrant oranges with soft purples as the stars began to appear above.

"Welp," Pearl said after a moment, "can't sleep on the floor." With that, she untangled herself and stood, picking up the surprisingly lightweight Octoling from the floor and plopping her onto the couch.

Marina giggled. "The couch isn't much better for your back, y'know-"

"Shush, genius, or else I'll make you shush." Pearl poked her girlfriend one last time as she sat beside her, forcing the tinkerer to concede.

With that, the two relaxed into the cushions, holding hands. Unable to prop her head on Marina's shoulder, Pearl nestled into her bicep, making the taller girl coo silently and wrap her other arm around the Inkling. 

Yawning, Pearl said, "Can we, like, go to a karaoke bar or something tomorrow?"

Sighing fondly, Marina nodded. "We'll make it a date."

Pearl giggled victoriously. “Just us, right? You’re not gonna bring an Allen wrench or something?”

“Why on earth would I bring an Allen wrench with me on a date?”

“Not sure, but if anyone were to, it would be you.”

After a few seconds to consider, Marina nodded. “You’re probably right. No tools, I promise.”

So, with the gentle accompaniment of Marina's speaker, the two lovebirds drifted off to sleep, smiling all the while. 

[racingliners]

hiiiiiiii, 11 + sewis :D

hi!!!!!!! this was literally the first thing that popped into my head so I just ran with it, I hope you like it! 💚

sewis + "This must be a mistake" - send me a prompt!

Lewis returned to his apartment building just before eleven. He’d intentionally slept in, deciding to do his early morning jog at mid-morning instead. Monaco weather was more temperate in October so he would get away with it without suffering too much, unlike in the summer where he would have to make a stop to dip in the sea to cool off.

He smiled at the concierge on duty and was halfway over to the lift when the concierge called out to Lewis, stopping him in his tracks.

“Pardon me Monsieur Hamilton, these came for you while you were out.” The concierge delicately lifted a bouquet of flowers from under his desk. It wasn’t ostentatiously massive, but it wasn’t small either, whoever sent it clearly went to some kind of trouble.

“For me, are you sure?” Lewis even pointed at himself just to make sure there wasn’t another Lewis Hamilton in the building that was due a bouquet of flowers.

“Oui, I know the florist in Nice they came from.”

“Alright then,” Lewis went over to the desk, as he accepted the flowers he asked if there was anything else, and the concierge just shook his head. “Thanks, have a good day.”

“And you!” Lewis strolled over to the lift with the flowers nestled in the crook of his elbow and he pressed the polished gold button for his floor. Thankfully for his sake no one else stepped in along the way up or was in the corridor when Lewis exited the lift and walked the few short paces to his door.

The apartment was empty thanks to Angela offering to take Roscoe and Coco for a walk round the marina, so Lewis bolted the safety chain and went into the kitchen to look for a vase. It took him five cupboards to find one, clear glass shaped in a perfect cylinder that he half-filled with cold water from the kitchen sink.

He assumed the flowers were from Mercedes, a small token of their congratulations on his sixth championship win. And it made sense for them to get a florist in Nice to deliver flowers to Lewis as opposed to him getting them at the factory leaving Lewis to worry about the logistics of getting a bouquet through the French-Monaco border.

The flowers had been wrapped in brown paper as opposed to plastic and was tied together with a small red bow. Lewis didn’t know much about flowers but he recognised the blush pink peonies and light purple dahlias as he gently put the bouquet in the vase, small white and blue flowers filled out the rest of the bouquet alongside some greenery. It was too beautiful to be left in the kitchen, so Lewis carried the vase through to the living room and set it down on the coffee table, and he picked the white card off the plastic clip to read it.

Congratulations on your sixth world title

Call me when you get these

Seb x

Lewis almost dropped the small white card and fell backwards onto the sofa, but somehow he both stayed upright and kept a hold of the small white card.

“This has to be a mistake.” He muttered to himself as he examined the writing more closely. He read it another three or four times, each time feeling more convinced that the handwriting could only have been Sebastian’s.

So why did he sign the card off with a kiss?

Lewis frantically looked around for his phone, only for it to still be in his pocket. He quickly found Seb in his contacts and pressed the green dial button, pressing his phone firmly against his ear.

With each passing ring Lewis’ heart started to beat faster and faster, to the point he was worried it would fly out of his chest and land somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea.

The flowers didn’t make any sense. Seb had sought out Lewis in the paddock in Austin to say congratulations with a bright smile and a hug as warm as the midday sun, so why did he feel a need to send them? Lewis had unknowingly started pacing by the time Seb picked up.

“Lewis!” It didn’t feel right, but Lewis could swear that Sebastian sounded nervous. “Hi.”

“Hey man,” Lewis tried his best to sound like nothing in the world was bothering him, even though he was still clinging into the small card for dear life. “Listen um, this might sound a bit weird but…” He paused to briefly glance over at the flowers. Whoever they were from, they were beautiful. “Did you…” Lewis could feel beads of sweat start to form on the back of his neck, he’d never felt so ridiculous in all his life. “Did you have flowers sent to my apartment?” The words flew out of his mouth so fast it almost didn’t sound like a proper sentence.

“Yes, I did.” Yet somehow Seb managed to make sense of them. “If you hate them I can go back to the florist and ask for something different.” Lewis could hear the forced smile in Sebastian’s voice, he hated it.

“They’re gorgeous Seb.” He said softly, as his legs finally gave way and he sat down on the edge of the sofa. “You wrote on the card to call you when I got them, so…”

Where did you begin when the man you had fought so hard for the championship twelve months ago had sent flowers for another championship win a year later.

“I’m in Nice.” Seb said quietly, like it was a secret meant just for them both.

“Why?” None of the past ten minutes made any sense to Lewis whatsoever.

“Because I couldn’t just turn up unannounced with flowers without explaining myself.”

“Why would you have to explain yourself?” Lewis’ brow was furrowed so tightly it was starting to hurt. He heard Sebastian take a deep breath on the other end of the line.

“I talked myself into telling you slowly, first the flowers, then the phone call, then…” He paused for so long Lewis was briefly terrified that Seb had hung up, and that Lewis would either have to wait until Brazil to speak to Sebastian or corner him in Switzerland to find out what on Earth was going on.

“Then what? Seb?”

“I…” Sebastian’s voice cracked completely in two. “I love you, Lewis.”

With the concentration Lewis needed to keep a hold of his phone, the card that had came with the flowers slowly fluttered to the ground. He watched it delicately land, and felt sad when the side with Seb’s handwriting was now face down away from view.

“You don’t need to say anything, you don’t even have to talk to me again if that’s what you want. I just…” Seb let out a long shaky breath. “I just wanted to let you know.”

Lewis’s back fell against the sofa, forcing a small puff of air from his lungs.

“You love me?”

“Yes.”

“Like…” Suddenly almost every word in the English language had evaporated from Lewis’ head. What did you say, when the guy you’d spent years racing against suddenly said they were in love with you?

“Like I want to do everything in the world with you, and more.” Seb’s voice wasn’t just dripping with sincerity, but something even deeper.

As Lewis sat dumfounded on the sofa, he didn’t think about the practicalities of what this meant, or that he should have started packing by now. He wondered, for the first time, what it would be like to kiss Seb.

And he realised very quickly that he really wanted to find out.

“Get over here then.”

On the other end of the line, he heard a relieved sigh and Sebastian’s trademark grin in his voice.

“I’ll be twenty minutes.”

[sunnyie-eve]

2 | Appreciate

Series: Devoted Friend

Paring: (Benedict Bridgerton x Original Female Character Featherington!)

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: none

| MASTERLIST |

The next day when all the gentleman showed up most were there for Marina and Paisley. Penelope knew how much her sister hated this day, a lot more than yesterday. Having to act interested in all the men while her parents watched her closely.

"Darling, why have you not told any of the gentleman you are interested? Miss Thompson has had more suitors show up for her than you." Her mother gives her a look.

"Mama, shouldn't you be happy then for Miss Thompson? You have someone under your care who is doing better than Miss Bridgerton." Paisley gets up from the sofa leaving the room.

"Young lady!" Paisley ignores her mother.

As soon as Paisley steps outside she comes face to face with Lord Augustus holding flowers, "Just the lady I wanted to see." He holds out the flowers for her.

"They're lovely, thank you." She takes them from him.

"Miss Featherington, I was wondering if you would like to-," He gets cut off as Benedict rushes over across the street.

"Miss Featherington, are you ready for our lunch? I had arrangements made for us to have a lovely lunch in the park." He smiles at her then a Lord Augustus.

"I was just heading over to meet you but Lord Augustus showed up." She plays along with him even though she was still annoyed with him from last night.

"My apologies Miss Featherington, Mr. Bridgerton. Maybe we can chat another time." Lord Augustus leaves the two alone.

As soon as he was gone she drops the flowers stomping on them making Benedict laugh at her, "Oh shut up." She tells him.

"Are you still upset with me?" He asks her.

"I am actually so yes." She huffs.

"I'm sorry about how it came out. I know it's unfair because you are held to a higher standard than I am." He apologizes to her, "I didn't mean to upset you, Lili."

Paisley's heart skips a beat hearing him call her the nickname he gave her, he hasn't used in years, "Thank you, Benny."

Now it was his turn for his heart to skip a beat since she hadn't called him that in many years as well. She was the only person who has ever called him that, "Do you want your join me for lunch just incase he shows back up?" He asks her.

"I would appreciate that very much." She takes his arm.

Being a Bridgerton, Benedict had no troubles actually having a lunch set up in the park for the two of them to enjoy. Most of the time their conversations were about making fun of others and family members just having a good laugh here and there.

"When did you know you didn't care for marriage unlike most?" He asks as she watches a bird in the tree above them.

"When I fully realized I'd be trapped. Thought of just popping babies being my only reason to a man to satisfy him. Remember I said last night I want to have children with someone I truly love. It's hard to find such a thing. And until I can find that I don't care for marriage." She tells him, "Why don't you care at the moment?"

"Like you I haven't found the same thing you want to find." He says then starts to chuckle, "I remember when you were ten you pretend to run away from your own fake wedding because you didn't love the man you were marrying."

"Oh yes, I was in love with another." She laughs remembering it.

"Is he still around secretly? I haven't heard of him in many many years."

"Actually yes, that's why I keep turning all these suitors away. They should take a hint my heart belongs to someone else." She laughs more.

"They really should. Your love must appreciate that I save you at times from others then?" He gets up from the table since she was.

"Oh he very much appreciates you." She walks around and he follows her.

In a few feet Benedict notices a dip in the grass and tries to warn her but she ends up falling from it anyways making him laugh at how she fell. "Oh is this funny?" She asks on the ground as he was cracking up. Paisley notices the little mud puddle next to her so she puts her hand out to him, "Well, help a lady up!"

"I'm sorry." He puts his hand out so she takes his pulling him down into the mud then laughs at him.

"Oh, so this is funny to you?" He asks as she keeps going. "Alright then..." He throws mud at her.

Paisley's jaw drops looking at the mud on her chest as Benedict chuckles at her face. Not knowing what to feel or say she grabs a handful of mud throwing it at his chest now. Benedict laughs doing the same throwing it at her but it hits her face.

"Benedict!" Paisley wipes her face then smears it on his face as others around them watch the two. And one of the people that saw them was Anthony on his horse.

"What are you two doing?" He rides up to them so they stop to look up at him.

"He started it." Paisley says as Anthony gets off his horse to help her up while his brother gets up on his own.

"Please, you pulled me into the mud first." Benedict looks over at her.

"And you let me trip first." She snaps her head towards him.

"Oh stop behaving like children. We must return home so you both can clean up." Anthony tells the two.

"Well, he did start it." She mumbles as Anthony picks her up setting her on his horse.

"And I believe that Paze, I know how my brother is." He says as he walks beside her on the horse with his brother.

Benedict goes to speak but Anthony tells him to keep quiet. When arriving to their houses, Paisley goes with the brothers to avoid any suitors at her place. "What in the heavens happened to you two?" Violet sees Benedict and Paisley.

"It was her/his fault." They both tell her at the same time as Eloise walks into the room seeing the two and starts to laugh.

"Eloise, take Paisley to clean up while your brother does the same." Violet says so Paisley goes with Eloise and her maid while Benedict goes off to clean up as well.

Violet looks at her oldest son, "I saw them both playing in mud at the park." He tells her.

"I wish they both weren't so blind towards each other."

"It's going to take a miracle for them since they are so stubborn. But then again I know Paisley could do better than my own brother." Antony adds.

Violet shakes her, "Must you get in the way for your sister and Paisley at finding love?"

"I'm doing what's best for them. Paisley is a good dear friend of mine and I have also viewed her as a sister too. She has no brothers and she's the oldest in her family. So I decided to act as older brother for her."

While Paisley was washing up, Eloise sat in the room with her asking her what happened while she was out with Benedict. "El, I've already told you what happened. Why must you keep asking?" Paisley looks over at her.

"Do you have feelings for Benedict? Like romantic ones?"

Paisley starts to laugh at the younger girl, "Indeed, I do not. He's a really good friend to me, and I deeply appreciate that from him. And I get the same pleasure from Anthony and Colin as well. They are the brothers I wish I had."

"You said you can read men like a book... What do read about Benedict?"

"He yearns for something he doesn't entirely know yet." Paisley tells her.

"I wish I had your talents at reading people, and being so confident." Eloise sighs.

"I know, Benedict told me you inspired to be like me."

"You have to teach me your ways." She begs her.

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Back to December

Pairings: Colin Bridgerton + Penelope Featherington

Summary: After they get engaged, Penelope calls it off two days before their wedding.

Masterlist | Albums | Speak Now Album

Because the last time you saw me, is still burned in the back of your mind. You gave me roses and I left them there to die.

After their… moment in Colin’s carriage, they were set to get married. Colin felt like he was floating on a cloud.

But then she called it off…

Two days before the wedding.

Colin felt worse now than when Marina’s deception was revealed. How he once felt for Marina and how he feels for his Pen are two different emotions. Marina was a schoolboy crush that obviously went too far. But Pen, his darling Pen. He could definitely imagine the children and the rest of their lives together.

But she arrived at Number Five, two days before their wedding and called the whole thing off.

“Colin, I think we both can agree that all of this has gone too far.”

He had been laying in bed since she said this.

The morning of what would have been their wedding, there was a knock on his chamber door.

“Colin? Dearest?” Violet came into her son’s chamber, seeing him almost curled in half on his bed. “Oh, my darling,” she cooed, taking the edge of her dress in hand and hurrying her way over to Colin’s side.

Colin let out a soft sniffle, looking up through tear-filled eyes. “Mama.”

Violet sighed and ran one hand along the top of his head. “Colin…”

“What is it about me, which made her change her mind?”

Violet looked out of the window, in the direction of the Featherington House.

She was going to find out.

“Lady Bridgerton!” The Featherington’s butler bowed, looking up at her surprised to see her. “Whatever are you doing here?” He looked over his shoulder

“I would like to speak to Miss Penelope,” she said, stepping in. No matter how much their butler said – she would speak to Colin’s (former?) fiancée.

Their butler hurried ahead of her, throwing himself into the Featherington’s drawing room (most likely to speak to Portia).

“Portia.”

“Violet,” Portia Featherington stood up, giving Violet a somewhat polite smile.

They were silent as they stared each other down. “May I speak with Penelope?”

But, not even a moment later, in walked a somewhat exhausted Penelope – who now looked very surprised to see the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton in her mother’s drawing room.

“Ah! Penelope, just the young woman I was waiting for,” Violet turned around to smile at the young lady she always saw so much of herself in. “Portia, would you mind taking a step outside? I would like to speak to Penelope on her own.”

Portia stuttered but shuffled herself out of the room.

“Penelope, I presume you know why I am here.”

“I do,” she said quietly, taking a few steps and sat down on one of the sofas.

Violet followed her, sitting down next to the redhead. “Penelope, dearest. Why?”

Penelope sighed. “I just want Colin to find the woman he loves with all his heart, that he isn’t marrying out of obligation…”

“Penelope, he does love you, he has told me himself. Why would he be marrying you out of obligation?” Violet asked. Penelope’s eyes widened as she realised what she had just said. “Penelope?”

“It does not matter anymore. Colin and I will not be marrying.”

Violet reached out to hold Penelope’s hand in hers. “Penelope. Whatever has happened between you and Eloise-”

“No! This has nothing to do with Eloise.”

Violet looked at her possible second daughter-in-law with a very confused look on her face. “If this isn’t to do with Eloise, and I presume nothing to do with Anthony?” Violet now knows what went down between her eldest son and Simon Basset. When Penelope nods, Violet sinks into her spot for a second. “What is the matter?”

Penelope looks down at her fingers, which had started to play with themselves in her lap. She looked over towards to door, trying to figure out if her mother was listening in on the other side. “There are two things,” she said quietly, Violet noticed that Penelope wanted this to be more of a secret, so she shuffled a little bit closer. “Well… the reason Eloise and I are still not speaking to each other, is because… I am Lady Whistledown. It’s me.”

Violet’s eyes widened, the woman she once thought has old and evil, is sweet and demure Penelope Featherington. “Penelope!” She gasped, looking over her shoulder to see if Portia Featherington would come storming back in. “The Queen has placed a bounty on your head!” She exclaims quietly.

“I know!”

“Is this why you believe you cannot marry Colin?”

And I go back to December all the time, it turns out freedom ain’t free nothing but missing you. Wishing I’d realised what I had when you were mine. I got back to December, turn around and make it alright. I go back to December all the time.

Somehow Violet was able to convince Penelope to come over to Number Five to speak to Colin.

"Will you come and call in about an hour?" She asks, standing up from her spot, still holding Penelope's hands (which caused the young lady to be pulled up).

"Of course," Penelope agreed, nodding her head.

Violet sighed, reaching over and wrapping her arms around Penelope.

A knock on his door, alert him to someone was now back outside wanting to speak to him. But he doesn't want to speak to anyone. It was supposed to be the happiest day of his life - marrying his Pen. His Penelope Featherington.

The door gently pushed open. "Colin?" His mother, again.

"I don't want to speak to anyone, Mother," Colin tells her.

"Penelope will be calling in an hour, I would get dressed."

Colin sat up, looking over at his mother. Penelope? Most likely she was going to call on Eloise. He laid back down.

"Colin, she's coming to see you."

An hour later, Colin was washed, shaved and dressed- he had a few minutes to spare before Penelope arrived.

He was standing by his father's chair, fiddling with his fingers and pacing a little.

"Will you calm down, brother!" Anthony said as he walked into the drawing room, sitting next to his wife.

"Anthony, leave him alone," Kate said to her husband, raising a single eyebrow at him.

Humboldt opened the door. "Miss Featherington, my lady."

In walked Penelope, wearing a green dress with her hair hung down her back in ringlets.

"Pen," Colin says quietly.

Violet gets up from her seat. "Maybe we should leave them alone for a moment."

"Mother," Anthony muttered, getting up from his seat to share whispers with his mother.

"Now, Anthony," were her words, as she nearly pushed her eldest son out of the door. "I'll be waiting just outside the door," she pointed at the for a second and then shut the door behind her.

Colin and Penelope stared at each other for a moment, as Penelope fiddled with her fingers and Colin moved his hands from being clasped in front and then behind him.

"Good day, Colin."

"Hello, Penelope."

They were silent again.

"Why did you call off the wedding?" Colin asked, crinkling his eyebrows.

Penelope let out a sigh and took a seat on one of the many empty sofas. "Because I believe that you should be able to marry to the woman you truly loved."

"If we had gotten married today, I would have."

Penelope looked up at Colin. "You truly believe this?"

"You don't believe me?" Penelope shook her head, then shrugged her shoulders. "Penelope, I love you."

She continued to stare at him as her eyes widened. "You do?"

"Of course I do. If anything, I think I always have."

[splattales]

((Not sure how many of you are following the Queenie/Eelrune fluff since it's kinda side-story, but as a diehard fan I wrote a little fic a few months back and I want to share it here. Got the go-ahead from @grandpa-cephalopods - since I was experimenting with perspectives too. ))

((It's set before the human rocketship stuff happens, but apart from that it's pretty self-explanatory mushy stuff lol. Under the cut.))

Coughs and Sneezes

It was Eelrune’s day off. Her plans for a family visit had been cancelled due to transport issues, leaving her without much to do. She’d had a shower and watered her garden but was now struggling to find another means of occupying herself. She could read, or watch TV, or even try to study—but none of it felt particularly appealing. Something to drink, perhaps? That could waste about … five minutes…

After making herself some tea, she sat on the sofa to think. It was quiet. Things had been quiet for the past week and a half. Queenie hadn’t been visiting the clinic lately. She usually showed up every other day after work—Eelrune always finished much later. But recently, the human hadn’t shown up at all. Or called, or texted. Perhaps she was busy, but Eelrune had been contemplating the possibility that her friend had simply lost interest. After what she’d shared of her life; the little she did in her free time … it was highly possible Queenie found her boring.

Eelrune glanced at her shellphone. She could initiate a call herself, but knowing someone as talkative as Queenie, if she’d wanted to chat they’d be on the phone already. Then again …  the human was prone to stumbling into dangerous incidents. What if something had happened to her?

Before Eelrune could begin wording her message, the phone rang. Startled, she answered at once, barely registering the caller ID—but it was someone she knew. “Hello?”

“Oh, Eelrune—” The high-pitched, teary warble of a voice reminded the nurse of Marina’s first visit to the clinic, where she’d burst through the door crying like Queenie had died. “It’s Queenie, she—”

“Has something happened?”

“Well—sort—kind of? I know you don’t know everything about human illnesses, but T’s phone is engaged, I don’t know who else to ask, I really need your help…”

“Okay, try to calm down. What’s the problem?”

Marina took a long, whimpering inhale, trying to control herself. “Ohhh… She says it’s fine, but you know how she downplays stuff all the time. She’s really sick, she only gets out of bed to throw up, she keeps sneezing and snuffling, and she can’t stand up for long…”

“That certainly doesn’t sound good…” Eelrune considered where she left the human handbook. This didn’t seem like a situation where she’d have to operate, but the details on human anatomy and bodily functions might help with a diagnosis. While it seemed like Marina was overreacting, it had been worrying enough that Queenie had kept this to herself. “I’ll come over and see what I can do. Where do you live?”

Silence fell on the other end at Marina’s pause. Not a snivel could be heard. As Eelrune was about to ask again, the octoling finally said, “I’ll meet you at Grizzco Industries and we’ll go from there.”

Once she’d collected her things, Eelrune set off to meet Marina. She hadn’t picked up much, most of the useful equipment was at the clinic, but the handbook and a purse-full of medicine would be enough until she could determine which to use.

Grizzco Industries wasn’t hard to reach, but the octoling wasn’t prompt about appearing, and it was an unpleasant place to stand around. When Marina finally did arrive, Eelrune was losing her patience, but she held her temper for the fretting girl. Besides, she’d used the time to revise human anatomy. It had some surprising similarities to other species.

“Sorry, I … got lost,” Marina mumbled. “I can find my way back, though. For sure. We can’t take too long.”

Eelrune nodded. “Lead the way.”

Marina seemed certain of her lead, though some of her turns felt a bit directionless, making it clear to Eelrune why she’d become lost. Eventually, though, they arrived at the outskirts of Splatsville, where a large lone caravan stood.

“Here we are.” Marina gestured before stepping closer.

“Where—the caravan?” Eelrune’s eyes darted around. “You both live here?”

“Yeah,” Marina confirmed, not registering the confusion in her voice as they started up the entrance. “It’s real close to the dig site I work at, so it’s a pretty great location – can you make the step? There aren’t too many, but it’s the only way in, so…”

Inhaling deeply, Eelrune tried to focus on the matter at hand. “Yes, not to worry.”

Once inside, it was clear they’d entered the kitchen. It was a lot tidier than the eel was expecting; clean kitchen surfaces and a neat dining table for one. There was another room leading to the right, but Marina seemed more interested in the one on the left.

“Queenie, I’m baaaack…” She motioned for Eelrune to stay put for now. “How are you feeling?”

A response drifted from within the room, nasally and pathetic. “Awful. Did you get me the tea I asked for?”

“Yes—and something better.” This time, Marina motioned for Eelrune to come through instead.

The moment she laid eyes on Queenie, a look of pure horror graced the human’s visage, and she pulled the covers of her bed up to her face. Her hair was unkempt, the bed itself was strewn with tissues, and there was a (mercifully empty) bucket next to the side-table.

“No, don’t look at me—!” Queenie squirmed, curling her legs up beneath the covers. “Marina, why did you bring her? Seeing me like this … it’s just a cold, I don’t need medical attention. Now she knows what squalor we live in!”

The octoling didn’t take this very well, and her concern flared into anger. “You can sleep outside if you want! I didn’t have to get you anything, or anyone, but I was worried about you! Shows me!” She stormed out into the kitchen, and Eelrune was left to deal with the situation.

“Well, it’s nice to see you too,” she huffed, sliding further into the room. “Marina said you’d been throwing up, and that sounds worse than a cold to me.”

“I’ll be fine, I prom—prom—hatchoo!” Queenie’s condition made this entirely unconvincing. “I’ll get better within a week on my own.”

“You might be right, but I’ve been asked to make sure.” Eelrune tightened her grip on her handbag. “I also brought a decongestant and some painkillers, but I’d like to make a diagnosis before I risk giving you any medicine.”

“Alright, fine. What do you want to do to me?”

“I’d like to take your temperature, listen to your breathing, and look at the inside of your mouth. There’s not much I can do without equipment…”

Queenie glowered at the floor, reluctantly lowering her blanket shield. “Do what you must, but I don’t like the sound of that last one.”

“I don’t have any tongue depressors on-hand, so you might escape it.” She didn’t have a sterilized thermometer either, so she placed her hand on Queenie’s forehead instead. It was warm. Humans were hot-blooded, but not THAT warm. “I think it’s safe to say you have a fever.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Queenie muttered. “How are you going to listen to my lungs without a stethoscope?”

Eelrune gave her a look, barely stopping herself from saying ‘How do you think?’ by maintaining her bedside manner. “I’ll put my head on your chest. The stethoscope’s purpose would be to amplify that sound.”

“You—you’ll—” Queenie was flushed already, but now she looked hotter. “Ohhh, hurry up then...” She took a sharp intake of breath as Eelrune rested her head against her.

“Exhale slowly, please.”

Queenie tried to do as she was told but was interrupted by her own cough. “Ugh… I hate having you see me like this.”

“Oh, please. I met you in a much more compromising situation.”

“At least that was spontaneous and dramatic.”

Eelrune rolled her eyes. Queenie’s pride always came from an unusual perspective. Maybe it was a human culture thing. “Yes, well … I can’t listen when you talk to me, so take another breath.”

This time, Queenie managed to subdue her cough. She shut her eyes, savouring some unspoken feeling as Eelrune listened.

The nurse soon lifted her head, adjusting her hair-tails. “It doesn’t sound like you have much liquid in there, which is better for you than it would be for seafolk.”

“I don’t like how you said much instead of any.”

“Well … your breathing is laboured. But it could be far worse. I can safely confirm that you’re not dying, as Miss Marina feared.”

Queenie pouted. “I told you I was fine.”

“That’s the problem—you’re not fine, either.” Eelrune folded her arms. “Is it true you’ve been throwing up? Can you stand for me? Can you walk?”

Trying to prove her point, Queenie struggled out from underneath the sheets and emerged from the bed, holding her hands out to steady herself. She teetered, attempting to set one foot forward, all with a defiant look on her face.

Eelrune put her arms out to catch her when she inevitably fell forward. “That settles it. I think you should stay in bed and rest.”

Queenie clung to her, hiding her face in her shoulder. She shook slightly, and Eelrune felt the fabric of her clothes dampen, but the human didn’t make a sound.

She patted her on the back. “I’m trying to help because I want you to get better. I’m not trying to hold anything over you—everyone gets sick.”

“Please can I have the medicine you brought now?” Queenie’s voice was much meeker than it had been.

“I’d like to give you it – but I have one more question to ask. Have you had our medicine before? I wouldn’t want to cause further complications by giving you something that wasn’t designed for your species’ intake.”

“Well, nothing else I’ve had has killed me yet … I’ll have a look at the packaging though, for your sake.”

“For my sake…?” Eelrune helped Queenie back into the bed, where the human sat up and grasped onto the blankets. She didn’t elaborate at this confusion and was still sulking. Before Eelrune could prompt her further, Marina re-entered with a tea-tray. It seemed she’d let off some steam with the kettle, her concern greater than any offense she’d taken. There were two cups.

“I’ve brought your tea.” She offered the tray to Queenie, who silently took one. Marina turned to Eelrune. “Sorry, I didn’t ask if you wanted one, but I made some anyway. If you want, there’s some sugar in the kitchen.”

“Oh—thank you.” The eel slid her cup off the tray, placing it on the bedside table. She watched as Marina tucked the tray under her arm. “Aren’t you having any?”

“Mine’s in the kitchen. I don’t really want to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing in here. Um, how’s it going?”

“I was just about to give Queenie something for her sickness. She should be alright, as long as she keeps resting and drinks plenty.”

“That’s a relief…” Marina rubbed at her brow. “Anyway, I’ll leave you be.”

Eelrune passed over the decongestant she’d taken out of her handbag. “You can’t take both medicines at the same time. But do make sure this hasn’t got anything toxic to humans…”

“I’m familiar with most medicinal components, I assure you,” Queenie reassured her as she studied the packaging, taking a quick sip of tea with her other hand. She thought it best not to mention her poison studies again. “This should be fine.” A pause. “Thank you.”

As Queenie took the medicine with her tea, Eelrune dipped out to put sugar in hers, mostly unnoticed. On her return, she rolled a chair over from Marina’s desk at the back of the room and sat at the bedside.

“I’m not much to look at right now,” Queenie grumbled, blowing on her tea.

“I assumed you’d want some company. But I can go—”

“Don’t go,” Queenie sighed. She put her tea aside. “Let me be plain with you, Runey.”

The tip of Eelrune’s tail twitched at the nickname, but she turned her head away in a demure manner. “I’m listening.”

“I am quite guarded with my emotions. Preserving my ego is … excruciatingly important to me.” She stopped to raise a tissue to her nose, sneezing before she continued. “As such, I find myself unpractised with expressing how I feel. About people, about my passions—I am often at war with myself, and as a result, I tend to put my foot in my mouth...”

Eelrune didn’t think that sounded healthy, exactly, but she left room for Queenie to continue.

“Which brings me to what I’m trying to say now. You … are very dear to me. You’ve done a lot for me, and I enjoy my time in your company.” The human fought her nerves, swallowing. “So … please don’t ever think I want you to leave, or that I’d want to leave you, er, ‘high and dry’. If I’ve been acting strange, it’s because…” Well, she didn’t have to admit the whole truth. “I’m struggling between long-dead social expectations and being a good friend.”

Hearing that Queenie had finished, Eelrune exhaled a long sigh. The human’s hand was flopped on the bedsheets, and she took it gently. She probably couldn’t catch it, but she’d definitely be washing her own hands later...  “I understand. Well—more accurately, I understand what you’re trying to say. Your situation is practically unheard of. A fish out of water, if you’ll pardon the expression.” She looked down. “That must come with a lot to learn. Not just about Splatsville, but about yourself. I had a taste of that when I first moved here, but for you, well…” Eelrune looked up again to see how Queenie was reacting.

The human was regarding her with intense interest, patiently waiting for her to continue, so she did.

“It’s not surprising that you’d feel overwhelmed—nor will things magically fit into place.” She squeezed her hand, hoping to reassure her. “But if you want me here, then I’ll stay. I want you to get better.”

Queenie’s mouth half-opened, but she seemed to think better of whatever she was going to say. Eventually, she asked, “Is that because you’re a nurse, or because you’re my friend?”

“Well, take your pick.” Eelrune drew her hand back, reaching for her tea. “Because I’m both. But I didn’t come all the way here on my day off just because some patient of mine had the flu.”

The edges of Queenie’s mouth curled upward for the first time that day. It was weak, but the smile was there. “So … tell me what gossip I’ve missed while I’ve been sick in bed.”

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

How Jorge Zalszupin Redefined Brazilian Modernism

THE POLISH BRAZILIAN designer and architect Jorge Zalszupin hated the beach, but he loved the beach house he built in 1972 for his family. Set back from the Atlantic coast in Guarujá, a resort town 40 miles southeast of São Paulo, the 2,842-square-foot white concrete dwelling looks like a block of bleached coral pulled from the ocean. The front door opens onto a spiral staircase that leads to a pair of bedrooms and a lofted lounge; below, the walls of a sunken living room curve up to a sculptural ceiling. A built-in couch wraps around a bell-shaped fireplace, its crescent hearth like an open mouth. Shielded from the Brazilian sun that his wife, a homemaker named Annette, and two daughters adored, Zalszupin would spend entire weekends listening to Chet Baker and Brahms, bent over mounds of clay that he formed into models for chairs and sofas — the furniture that had won him acclaim by the end of the 1950s — and for houses that were, until recently, far less known.

Born in 1922 into a family of middle-class Jews in Warsaw — Jorge was originally Jerzy — Zalszupin narrowly escaped the Nazi invasion of the city, fleeing across the border in 1940 at 18. While many refugees continued onward to Palestine and from there to England, he found shelter with his father and sister in Bucharest, Romania, where he earned his architecture degree, not arriving in Brazil until after the war. “My father always told me that the Guarujá house was a womb,” says Veronica Zalszupin, 69, his older daughter. “Comfort was the whole point. He wanted to feel protected.” Set down among neocolonial cottages, Brutalist bunkers and postwar glass boxes, Zalszupin’s beach house, which is now occupied by his younger daughter, Marina, 66, was the earliest of 10 or so sculptural projects, most of them painted white, that the architect created until the late 1980s. (He retired in 1992.) Together, they represent a joyful, if inadvertent, rejoinder to the Modernist dogmas that have defined Brazilian design for nearly a century: In a country known for the futuristic curves of Oscar Niemeyer and the soaring concrete masses of Paulo Mendes da Rocha, Zalszupin’s houses are clear outliers — organic and earthbound, personal and impossible to replicate.

Continue reading.

[liiilyevans]

Because I dropped your hand while dancing Left you out there standing Crestfallen on the landing Champagne problems

Or, Astoria accidently shreds things when she's unwell. (A big thanks to the @cruelsummer-ficfest mods for the luck of getting this song as a follow up to my last fic!)

Read on AO3

The last place Astoria wanted to be was on a boat in the middle of the Gulf of Venice with a pretentious group of snobs. The things she did for her sister. She adjusted her dark sunglasses as she glanced around at all the boats in the marina. The wind whipped salt into her face, and Astoria fanned herself trying to cool down. How was she supposed to find Blaise’s boat among all these monstrosities? 

Annoyed, she continued down the dock, her heels clicking loudly against the wood. If one thing could be said for Astoria Greengrass, it was that she had an outfit for every occasion, which was the only good thing that her mother had taught her. Today she wore high waisted white pants with a white bow tied around her waist and a bodysuit with orange flowers and spaghetti straps that tied into neat bows on her shoulders. The heels weren’t practical — at all — but she wanted these motherfuckers to know she was coming. 

She stopped in the middle of the dock again, huffing as she searched for the Zabini boat. Surely, it was as ostentatious as Blaise was. Then she spotted it farther down, the Serafina, named for his mother. One of the bigger boats in the harbor, the Serafina had three decks. The back of the first allowing access to the boat and hosting two sets of stairs that led to the second deck. There was also a shaded outdoor sitting area, located under the second-floor deck. Astoria could see polyester couches and lounge chairs, all bolted down no doubt. On the second deck, there was a crescent sofa with a table in the center. The top deck was a replica of the second deck, but with more lounge chairs, for when Pansy wanted to tan most likely. 

Astoria hoped she burned and looked like a beet root on her wedding day. 

As she marched up the boat ramp, she heard the conversation on the boat quiet down, then Theodore Nott’s head was poking over the railing. His brows were furrowed in confusion until he spotted her. He grinned. Astoria hid her own smile as she waltzed onto the deck. 

The first thing she saw was the astonished face of Pansy Parkinson. Since school, she had let her hair grow out to her shoulders, though that hadn’t helped to disguise her hooded eyes. Draco Malfoy was there as well, his blonde hair shining so brightly it nearly blinded her. Daph had mentioned he’d be here. Like Pansy, he looked none too pleased to see her, his eyes narrowed slightly. The only person who looked remotely happy right now was Theo as he leaned against the railing a smirk in place. 

“Lovely day for an outing,” Astoria commented as she strode past them toward the inside of the boat. 

Pansy finally found her voice. “What are you doing here?” 

Spinning on her heel, Astoria whipped her glasses off, anger eddying through her. The gall of these people never ceased to amaze her. Marching back to Pansy, she pointed the tip of her sunglasses in the older girl’s face. “You had the nerve to ask my sister to be in your wedding when you’re marrying her ex-boyfriend, and I will be damned if I’m going to sit back and watch you rub that in her face.” 

When she finished, Pansy was sputtering loudly. Satisfied, Astoria placed her glasses back on her face. She turned around and spotted Draco, his mouth agape, and Theo, his hand covering his mouth, no doubt hiding his laugh. 

Just as she was about to walk away again, Pansy hissed, “Where is your sister anyway?” 

Daphne wasn’t here yet then. Good. Best to put everyone in their places before she got here and became embarrassed by Astoria’s behavior. “She’s on her way.” 

With that, she turned and marched toward the inside of the boat, intending to find her sister’s room and have a nap before she had to deal with these imbeciles again. 

#

It was going to be a very long weekend, and not even the alcohol could numb the sea of sharp smiles and barbed words. The only thing the alcohol managed to do was dull the headache that Astoria had gotten from listening to Pansy drone on about her honeymoon plans — a trip to Bora Bora apparently. Astoria would have been content to remain in Daphne’s room if Theo hadn’t coaxed her out with the promise of food. That was clearly a mistake. At least Theo was keeping her entertained with his facial expressions as Pansy prattled on. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who thought the bride was ridiculous. 

Though she tried to stop herself, she couldn’t help sneaking glances at Draco. He was sitting across from her, his foot resting atop his opposite knee. She’d never admit it to anyone, but he looked nice in his light yellow shorts and blue and white checkered button-down. The sleeves weren’t rolled up, unlike Theo’s, and the cuffs buttoned. Odd considering it was a warm night. Pansy and her other bridesmaid, Tracey Davis, were standing next to Draco’s chair chatting away. If the way Draco was quickly sipping his wine was any indication, he was not enjoying the Bora Bora conversation either. 

They hadn’t spoken since their conversation at the Goyle ball a few months ago. Astoria never thought she’d be so intrigued by Draco Malfoy, but she was and she wanted to talk to him. However, he avoided her at all costs. Like right now, he wouldn’t even look at her, despite the fact that she’d been glancing over at him all night. 

“Are you trying to melt the side of his head with your eyes?” Theo asked quietly, taking a sip of his wine. 

Astoria sent him an annoyed look. “No, I’m not.” 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered. 

Carefully crossing her legs, Astoria leaned toward Theo. “Tell me something.” 

“I thought you didn’t gossip,” he said. 

Astoria took another sip of her wine, ignoring the jab. “Why is Draco Malfoy being so quiet? He’s barely said two words all evening.” 

“He’s terribly in love with the bride and doesn’t know how to tell her,” Theo said seriously. She might have believed him if his lips didn’t twitch upwards in a smirk. His sense of humor had always been her favorite thing about him. When they were young, Theo would say the most ridiculous things with the most serious face, and Astoria had always found it hilarious. 

“Really,” she said. “Be serious.” 

Theo shrugged. “Maybe he’s afraid you’re going to bite his head off.” 

“Why would I do that?” 

“Because you almost took Pansy’s head off this afternoon?” 

Astoria couldn’t stop the smile that took form on her face. Pansy deserved every thorn she tossed in her side and more. Who in their right mind asked their fiancé’s ex to be in their wedding? Then again, who wanted their ex-boyfriend in their wedding? 

Apparently, an insecure Pansy Parkinson. 

To Draco’s credit, Astoria wasn’t sure that he and Pansy had even really dated. She had only heard rumors from Daphne that they had been together in their sixth year only for it to deteriorate in their seventh year. The rumors might have been just that — rumors — but Astoria didn’t really believe that considering how lecherous Pansy was. If that were the case, Draco seemed very unbothered by the whole affair, quietly sipping his wine and avoiding Astoria’s gaze. 

“Astoria, Pansy told me you’d be here.” 

Astoria glanced toward the edge of the boat and saw that the groom was finally making his appearance, his silhouette standing out harshly against the star flecked sky. Blaise Zabini was, by all standards, beautiful. He had the perfect facial structure, everything annoyingly symmetrical. Deep brown eyes sat perfectly in his face, and his nose was flat and sat just the right distance away from his mouth, which was constantly smirking. His dark skin stood out beautifully against the stars. But he had the personality of a viper and that completely ruined all his beauty. 

Blaise came to stand in front of her chair, then leaned his hand on the arm, trademark smirk in place. “How is your sister?” 

He knew better than to ask, the bastard. The arrogance in his voice coupled with the fact that her sister had yet to arrive caused Astoria’s ire to rush to the surface quicker than usual. Instead of answering, she stood up, making sure to press the tip of her heel into the top of Blaise’s shoe. His eyes widened as his breath hissed out through his teeth. Astoria didn’t move her foot until she was standing completely. 

“I think you should worry about yourself,” she said. “It looks like you’ve hurt your foot.” With that, she breezed past him, leaving a gaping Pansy and Tracey in her wake. After grabbing a bottle of Dom Pérignon off the drinks table, Astoria climbed the stairs to the second deck and didn’t stop until she’d reached the third and final deck. Finally, some peace and quiet to get rid of this headache. 

She sat down on the round table, not bothering with propriety. Raising the bottle to her lips, she took a long swig that her mother would have killed her for before flopping back on the table. The stars were beautiful tonight. She could see Ursa Major and Minor, and Cepheus and Cassiopeia next to him. She often wondered what it was like to be a star burning so bright that the whole world noticed you for a short time, knowing that one day soon all your fire would be gone and your light extinguished. Sometimes, she wondered if it was similar to how she felt. 

Quickly, she took another swig of champagne, trying to force her headache out of existence. After two more gulps, she realized that wasn’t working and sat up. Big mistake. The world started to spin. She closed her eyes, breathing in the salt of the ocean and feeling a light breeze brush against her skin. The sound of giggles reached her ears carried by the splashing of the ocean. Pansy and Tracey must have gotten over her outburst quickly, though she had no doubt that Blaise’s foot was still aching. That made her smile. 

A sudden feeling of loneliness swept over her as she listened to the waves crash against the boat. Though Theo might prefer her to everyone here, he wasn’t about to go out of his way to spend time with her. He was all about keeping his head down and surviving, like he had in the war. Where was Daphne? If she were here, they’d be silently communicating through shared looks, a secret language they had developed as children. Instead, she was stuck with a bunch of heinous idiots, one indifferent friend, and a mute pariah. 

Astoria kicked off her heels, messaging the arch of her foot. It was a shame the only way she could make herself taller was with heels. They were bloody useful weapons though. Taking another large sip of Dom Pérignon, she stared out over the faint lights of the marina. Her head was still pounding, and the alcohol couldn’t seem to chase it away. She spotted a man several boats down pulling his shirt off. As she took another swig from the bottle, she continued to watch him. A woman joined him on the deck of his boat wearing some long coverup. The man slid his arms around her into the coverup and, what was he doing? They weren’t planning to do something scandalous out in public, were they? 

Astoria was nosy as fuck, so she stood up quickly, only wobbling a little, much to her pride and astonishment, and climbed up onto the couch that was bolted into the deck next to the railing. The man had definitely grabbed her ass under that coverup. Squinting, Astoria leaned forward, her hand resting on the back of the couch for stability. She couldn’t see his other hand, but it had to be doing something as well. Faintly, she heard someone yelling Theo’s name, but she couldn’t be bothered with the menaces below right now. She thought she could make out the outline of the man’s hand sliding up the front of the girl’s cover up. Theo called her name; from rather close by, too, which was odd. Astoria chose to ignore him. The man was whispering to the woman now, no doubt muttering all sorts of obscenities. 

“Astoria!” 

She straightened up and turned to see what the ruckus was about. If Blaise was causing trouble again, she was going to take her high heel and ram it through his jugular. But it was only Theo approaching her slowly, both his hands in the air. Behind him standing near the stairs was Draco Malfoy, looking adorably rumbled by the wind, his grey eyes flicking between her and the railing. 

“Tori,” Theo said softly. “Come down from there, please.” 

Astoria glanced down at the couch then over the railing at the calm sea below. 

She sent Theo an annoyed look. “I’m not suicidal.” 

“No,” he agreed. “But you are very drunk.” 

Astoria rolled her eyes. As she was about to answer, she heard her name called from somewhere below. Glancing over the railing, she saw her sister on the boat ramp, her eyes blown wide as she stared up at her. Well, it was about fucking time. 

“Astoria!” Daphne called. “What are you doing here?”

Astoria held up the Dom Pérignon. “Drinking champagne.”

“Wh-” Daphne cut herself off and rested her head on her fingertips. “Nevermind. Just stay there. I’m coming up.” 

She turned back around to watch Theo and Draco watch her. They were both still clearly concerned, and Theo was biting his lip, a nervous tell of his. Astoria simply took another long drag from the bottle, which Draco didn’t seem to appreciate at all judging by the way he crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. Holding eye contact with him, Astoria continued to drink from the bottle until her lungs were burning. His eyes were like needles dragging across her skin, and that thrilled her; anything to focus on other than the pounding in her head. 

Daphne appeared then, pushing past Draco, not a hair out of place. Her sister was always perfect like that, with her blonde hair pulled back into a slick ponytail and not a flyaway to be found. Her looks were in such contrast with Astoria’s, the dark to Daphne’s light. Her sister stepped past Theo and offered her a hand. 

“Will you please come down from there?” she asked. 

Astoria shrugged, ignored her hand, and jumped down, wobbling only a little. She was quite proud of that. 

“What took you so long to get here?” she asked. Without her heels on, she was reminded of how short she actually was. Theo and Draco would both tower over her if she stood close to them, and Daphne was a good three inches taller than her. 

“Mum wanted me to do some errands today,” Daphne said. “What in the world are you doing here?” 

“I wasn’t leaving you with these people for a week,” she said, gesturing towards Draco and the bottom deck. 

He looked highly offended. 

Daphne dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, Astoria.” 

Astoria simply patted her on the arm before marching toward the stairs. All this excitement had made her tired. As she passed Draco, he glared daggers into her back. 

#

“I love you,” Daphne said, but Astoria could hear the exasperation in her voice. 

Her only response was to retch loudly into the toilet. If Blaise heard her, she would never live this down. Wiping her mouth, she gulped down air that smelled like cleaner and vinegar. After a few moments nausea free, Astoria gently braced her hands on the toilet bowl. She felt Daphne’s warm hands grasp her elbow and guide her to her feet. The sharp sound of water hitting the porcelain sink did nothing to lessen the raging sea in Astoria’s head. She cupped her hands under the cool water and splashed some on her face. The freshness and chill of the water was a nice contrast to the ache behind her temples. When she looked up, her eyes were rimmed in purple and bloodshot; looked like today was going to require a lot of concealer. Her skin was pale, too, like she’d stolen powder from an Inferi. 

“What are you doing here, Astoria?” Daphne asked. Looking through the mirror, Astoria could see that her sister had her arms crossed over her chest and her blue eyes fixed on her brown ones. Never a good sign. 

“I told you last night,” she croaked. “I’m not leaving you here with people who clearly like to see you suffer.”

“I can take care of myself, Astoria.”

She loved her sister, but no, she couldn’t — not when it came to her feelings. As much as Daph hated to admit it, Blaise leaving her for Pansy still bothered her, which Astoria was well aware of, and she was sure that Pansy knew that, too. 

“Why are you even in this wedding then?” she asked, her brown eyes studying her sister’s bright blue ones through the mirror. Daphne broke first, dropping her gaze and wrapping her arms around herself. Astoria always had the stronger will of the two of them. 

“Daddy and Mr. Parkinson are close,” Daphne muttered. “You know that-”

Astoria spun around, ignoring the nausea that hit her like a Reductor Curse. “I love Daddy but fuck him.” She grabbed her sister’s hands. Nothing mattered more when her sister was upset, not even her father. Astoria would hold the sea back to stop her sister’s tears. “Let’s get off this boat and find some nice villa to piss off to for the rest of the weekend. We’ll drink mimosas and find cute Muggles to show us the city.” 

Daphne gently untangled her hands from Astoria’s, shaking her pretty blonde head. “I can’t, Astoria. I said I was going to be in this wedding, and I meant it.” Daph blew out a breath. “I know Pansy meant the invitation to be a bridesmaid as an insult, but I want to prove to everyone that I can handle this without breaking.” 

Astoria shook her head. It was cruel, but she didn’t know if Daphne could do that. She wasn’t going to let her crumble alone though. 

“Alright. If you want to stay, we’ll stay.” 

#

Astoria needed two seconds where she didn’t have to listen to the high-pitched squeal of Pansy Parkinson or see the smug smirk that would slither across Blaise’s face whenever his eyes slid to Daphne. If she hadn’t walked out of that restaurant a few minutes ago, she would have flown across the table and punched Blaise right in the windpipe. They’d gone to a high-class restaurant near the end of the marina, and those two had been insufferable all night. Daphne was holding up admirably, but Astoria had to fight the urge to fling her steak knife at them to shut them up. So, she’d stepped out for some air and to make sure that her concealer and foundation were still holding up. 

Digging in her clutch, she found her plastic bag of Mary Jane and hemp paper inside it. Quickly, she rolled herself a joint. She supposed she looked rather scandalous; that was certainly what her mother would say. In her pretty blue halter dress with the back cut out of it, balloon sleeves hiding her arms, and a skirt that barely hit her mid-thigh, rolling a joint of marijuana. How unseemly. With a snort, she put the joint in her mouth and lit it. At least her headache was gone today; no more pounding behind her eyes making her feel like her brain was going to be washed out of her head. 

“What are you doing, Greengrass?” 

Astoria’s head whipped around, a loose strand of hair smacking her face as Draco made his way towards her. He looked as finely dressed as he always did, in a white button down, brown slacks, and a black jacket, which wasn’t a bad idea as there was a chill coming off the water tonight. His hair wasn’t slicked back today, instead resting softly against his forehead. He looked halfway normal, and not like pureblood royalty. 

Astoria took a long drag before answering. “I can’t be in there right now.” 

Draco glanced behind him. They were a good distance away from the restaurant, not that Astoria would have minded if anyone heard her. They already knew she detested them. She took that moment to study Draco. He seemed relaxed, no bunched muscles or nervously glancing away from her. It was unlikely that he’d put their previous conversation behind him — Astoria certainly hadn’t — but he seemed willing to let that go for tonight. When he turned back around, Astoria was still staring, and her own eyes caught his grey ones. If she squinted, she could make out little specs of blue. He seemed peeved that he’d caught her staring, but Astoria just took another drag from her joint, holding eye contact the whole time. 

“So why did you come out here?” she finally asked. 

“Your sister wanted to make sure you were ok,” he said, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. 

“And she sent you?”

“I volunteered.” 

Astoria raised an eyebrow at that, and Draco only offered a shrug in response. When he stepped closer to her, Astoria held her ground, but he just walked to her side and rested his forearms on the railing. His gaze was fixed on the water, and he didn’t seem to be in a very talkative mood. That was alright. Astoria was sure she’d be able to coax a reaction out of him. 

“Are you just going to babysit me?” she asked. 

Draco sent her an annoyed look out of the corner of his eye. “No.” 

She took another drag of her joint before offering it to him. His eyes ran up and down her body suspiciously. That was fine. Astoria would be suspicious, too. She didn’t give things away for free, and the Mary Jane was her way of worming more of the truth from him. If alcohol persuaded him to open up before, surely this would mellow him out enough for her to wheedle more information out of him. 

Who knew she would be so interested in Draco Malfoy’s past? 

Finally, he took the joint from her, their fingertips brushing, and took a drag. Astoria let him keep it as she turned to lean against the railing too, close enough that their elbows brushed. After he took another hit, Draco offered the cigarette back to her. Gently, Astoria took it, rolling it between her fingertips. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how intimate sharing a cigarette was. His lips had just been wrapped around this hemp paper and if she took another drag, that would mean that, in some abstract way, their lips had touched. It was conflicting. She didn’t want to touch Draco Malfoy’s mouth, but the thought wasn’t wholly unpleasant either. Trying to decipher her emotions could be so confusing. 

So, Astoria took another drag, letting the smoke sting her lungs and relaxation sweep through her body when she exhaled. 

“Why are you here?” she asked when she finished her cigarette. 

Draco gave her an incredulous look. “I’m in the wedding.” 

“No, I meant, why are you in the wedding?” 

Astoria couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to be involved in Blaise and Pansy’s wedding, yet here they all were. 

“Because Blaise asked me to be?” Draco said it like a question. His eyes ran over her again, and Astoria shivered. 

“But he’s marrying your . . .” She glanced up and down at him. “What is Pansy to you exactly?” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Pansy was my occasional distraction from the real world. That’s all.” 

“So, you had sex with her to divert your mind from having to kill your headmaster? How original.” 

Draco’s head whipped toward her, and she thought he might berate her — tell her she was callous and cruel. Instead, he just let his eyes run over her, like he couldn’t believe that she’d said something so harsh. She expected some biting remark, was spoiling for one actually, but he was quiet, offering only a slight shake of his head. Then he pushed off the railing. 

“Let’s take a walk, Greengrass.” 

Astoria looked back at the restaurant. “But my sister-”

“Your sister can handle herself for a few hours,” Draco said. “But if you’d rather stay.” Then he shrugged and started toward the marina. 

Biting her lip, Astoria tried to decide whether to follow him or not. Daphne was certainly capable of holding off the vipers in that restaurant for a few hours, and she had Theo, who though he wouldn’t get involved, would offer her sympathy. There would be no one to siphon their poisonous words off Daphne. However, her sister made a point of telling her often throughout today that Astoria needn’t have come here in the first place, that she was capable of handling these snakes. She glanced at her watch. In the end, the temptation of Draco Malfoy proved to be too much. 

Hastily, Astoria bustled after him, careful not to catch her high heels in the cracks between the boards. When she reached his side, he didn’t stop or offer her any words, just kept walking along the dock. In moments where her feet ached from her heels, she remembered why she hated being short so much. It didn’t help that Draco was several inches taller than her and his stride much longer. Finally, they stopped near the end of the marina where there were very few boats docked. 

Astoria raised an eyebrow. “Is this where you lure young women to brutally murder them?” 

Draco scoffed. “Do you think about being brutally murdered often, Greengrass?” 

“Only the normal amount.” She stepped closer to him. “And you can call me Astoria. I did share my marijuana with you, after all.” 

He looked away from her, out toward the ocean, and what looked like a genuine smile swept over his face.

Astoria was entranced. 

“Alright. Astoria.” 

His eyes slid back to her as her name tumbled from his lips. Something fluttered softly in her chest for a brief moment. Before now, she hadn’t realized how beautiful his eyes were, how intricate the grays and blues were. It was mesmerizing. The fluttering was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving Astoria staring embarrassingly into the depths of Draco’s eyes. Nimbly, she reached down and pulled her high heels off. 

“What are you doing?” Draco asked. 

Astoria didn’t answer, simply dropped her shoes on the dock and then sat down on the edge of it. The waves were gently tapping against the wood, almost like a drumbeat. Though slightly chilly, the water had no bite to it. Astoria kicked some water away from her, fighting back the urge to giggle. She doubted Draco had ever done anything so simple as stick his feet in the ocean before. 

“Are you just going to stand there?” she asked. 

He huffed. “What is the point of this?” 

“There isn’t a point,” she said, looking up at him. He was studying her as if she were some exotic sea urchin. “It’s just for fun.” 

Turning away from him, she began to undo the twist her hair was in. As it fell below her shoulders, she heard Draco exhaling sharply and the sound of shoes scraping the dock. He sat down next to her, and Astoria didn’t say a word as she shook her hair out, the curls justling around her face. When he dropped his bare feet into the water, Draco hissed and she nudged him with her foot, the water eddying around them. 

“Do not splash me,” he warned darkly. 

Astoria couldn’t help it; she laughed. “You can’t say that and then expect me not to do it.” 

He glared at her. “If you splash me, I will shove you off this dock.”

“How very ungentlemanly of you,” she gasped, pressing her hand to her chest. 

“I never claimed to be a gentleman.” 

“I think your mother would be scandalized by that statement.” 

“You don’t know my mother.” 

“No, but I know mine, and I imagine they’re a lot alike with their standards of how one should behave in society.” 

She kicked the water then, thoughts of her mother causing anger to swirl in her like a monsoon. Her mother’s feelings for her were complicated, Astoria knew, because of her father and his insistence they try to have one more child after Daphne. Though the Greengrasses were hoping for a boy, that child had been Astoria. Her father had accepted his losses and, by all accounts, groomed her to be his heir and run the Greengrass estate when he was gone, surpassing Daphne completely. Her mother was not forgiving. She had never wanted Astoria and turned her nose up at her younger daughter whenever she got the chance with disparaging comments that cut Astoria like the winds of a gale. She shivered as she thought about it. 

“Here.” Out of the corner of her eye, Astoria watched Draco shrug out of his coat. He refused to look at her as he did so, and as he offered his coat, Astoria saw why. With his sleeves rolled up, his Dark Mark was on full display, the skull’s mouth open and the snake winding across his inner forearm. It was a dull grey color, not at all like the vivid black that Astoria had been told it was before the war. It looked like a simple tattoo now. Albeit an ugly one. 

Gently, she took the coat from his outstretched hand, careful not to brush his fingers again. When she pulled it on, she was enveloped by the scent of oak and vanilla. It was still warm, and Astoria was reminded that she had once again inadvertently touched Draco. The thought sent yet another rush through her chest, just as quick and strong as before. 

“Thank you,” she said, trying her best not to look at his mark. “Did you know that Pansy wanted her bridesmaids and Blaise’s groomsmen to alternate in hair color? Blonde, brunette, blonde, brunette.” 

Draco snorted. “As usual, Pansy got what she wanted.” 

“That’s why Daphne said she was in the wedding. Because of color coordination.” 

He still hadn’t looked at her, so Astoria pulled her eyes from his face. It was another clear night out and the stars were shining just as brightly as the night before, burning ever brighter towards their ends. She could see Cygnus and Cepheus. Ursa Minor was directly above them, and Ursa Major to the left of Minor. 

“I can see you,” Astoria said. 

“What?” Draco was finally looking at her again, confusion once again swimming across his face. 

Astoria pointed to the sky and the constellation he was named for, resting just above Ursa Minor. While he studied the stars, Astoria took the time to study him. He almost looked approachable, with his platinum blonde hair tousled by the wind and his sleeves rolled up. Eyes drawn to his forearm, Astoria couldn’t stop herself from studying it as well. When he first took the Dark Mark, it must have been so intricate. Even though it was faded, she could still make out some of those details, the chips in the skull, the scales of the snake. Unable to help herself, Astoria leaned closer to Draco. He jerked slightly, his brows rising high on his forehead. 

“What are you doing?” he demanded. 

“I’m not going to push you in,” she teased. 

When her fingers found his forearm, he sucked in a breath. 

“Does it hurt?” she asked as her fingers traced the outline of the mark. 

“No,” he breathed. “Not anymore.” 

“So, it’s like a scar?” 

“It’s more than a scar.” 

She thought he might pull away from her then, but he didn’t. Just stared at her. They were sharing the same breath as she continued to trace the outline, moving past the skull and onto the snake. The skin wasn’t raised like she expected. Instead, it was soft and smooth. Then goosebumps were rising under her fingers, and a smile tugged at Astoria’s lips. 

“Are you cold?” she asked. 

“What?” he said, his breath fanning against her face. 

“You’ve got goosebumps.” 

He did pull away from her then, mouth pressing into a thin line. Fine, then. Astoria looked back at the calm ocean, kicking her feet softly. Silence suited her just fine, and she had a feeling it would erode Draco’s will long before hers. She was right. 

“Most people are afraid or angry when they see it,” he whispered. Most likely why he’d kept it covered this weekend. 

“It’s going to take a lot more than a drawing of a snake to scare me, Draco.” And she meant that. She had never liked fear tactics, and this was no exception. If Voldemort was determined to use that mark to instill fear in people, then Astoria was determined to look at it and feel nothing at all. 

“We should go,” Draco finally said. He tugged his feet out of the water and stood up, leaving his trousers rolled up to his knees. “The others will be looking for us, especially your sister.” 

“They probably think I’ve strangled you,” Astoria said mildly. 

When he offered her his hand to stand, Astoria took it, his palm warm and rough against her own. The callouses weren’t extensive, but they were noticeable; probably earned from flying a broom if she had to guess. Without her heels, Astoria could just see over Draco’s shoulder. Merlin, it was annoying how everyone was taller than her. 

“Here,” she said, starting to take his coat off.

“Keep it,” he said. His eyes ran over her, and Astoria swore she saw them darken. “You’ll need it more than me.” 

She tucked the smell of oak and vanilla tighter around her. “Alright.” 

#

The wedding had gone off without a hitch, much to Astoria’s dismay. Her sister looked beautiful despite the ugly sage dress that Pansy had forced her into. Daphne always had that elegant grace about her, even when she was dressed in unflattering clothing. Astoria, on the other hand, had wanted to wear black, but Daphne had been horrified at the thought. So, she’d settled on a fitted silver number that would allow her to brood at the back of the party unnoticed while she nursed yet another headache. If her parents weren’t in attendance, she would have rested her sweaty glass of champagne against her forehead in hopes of some relief. As it was, the alcohol was doing very little to numb her. 

The chair next to her scraped against the floor, and she saw Draco taking a seat next to her, looking as put together as always in his own wedding attire. 

“Greengrass,” he said. 

“Astoria,” she gently corrected him.

“Astoria,” he said. It was soft, like the sea caressing the beach at low tide. It sent a chill up her spine though she refused to admit it. Instead, she took another sip of champagne. 

“Has the new Mrs. Zabini finally let you free of your groomsmen responsibilities?” 

Draco shrugged. “I’m sure she’ll want us for something later. Your sister was over by the dance floor a moment ago.” 

Astoria snorted. “My sister is probably heading for the bar, so the next time you see her, she’ll be tripping over her own feet.”

And honestly, good for her. She’d put up with Pansy’s bullshit for two straight days. She deserved the best cabernet that the Zabinis had. 

The music overtook them, Astoria trying hard to ignore her headache and Draco sitting silently next to her. She realized that she had an ally now, someone to sit in dark corners with and pass the time during the pureblood social season. It might have been the only positive outcome from this weekend. 

“Would you like to dance?” 

Astoria’s head whipped toward Draco. His grey eyes were intent, and his bottom lip was sucked between his teeth. Surely, she’d heard wrong. No one ever wanted to dance with her during these events. That was always Daphne’s place, the center of attention waltzing around the ballroom floor. Her place had always been in the corner, with her outspokenness and her ‘radical’ opinions. 

“What?” she said. 

“I thought you might like the opportunity to walk off some of the alcohol you’ve consumed.” He was leaning back in his chair now and picking at his nails. “Unless you think you’re too drunk to keep up.”

“I can keep up.” Astoria sat her glass on the table roughly. “And I am not drunk.” 

She stood up, wobbling only slightly, and noticed the hint of a smirk on Draco’s face. Annoyance washed over her. Snatching his left hand, she marched toward the dance floor, trying to ignore the tempestuous heat in her stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol she’d consumed. When they reached the dance floor, Astoria turned to face Draco and noticed the mischief rippling through his grey eyes for the first time. Her breath rushed from her lungs as he slid his hand around her shoulder and stepped entirely too close to her body. 

They were going to be talked about after tonight if he wasn’t careful. Her, the social outcast of their high society who sat in dark corners brooding, and him, the formerly perfect pureblood prince who had fallen from grace when his master had been defeated. The old cynics would be relentless, but Astoria couldn’t bring herself to care as the warmth from Draco’s hand swept into her back. Another shiver ran through her. 

It was easy to fall into the waltz, muscle memory taking over from the torturous lessons her mother had put her through. Her instructor had carried a cane and would often whack her arms when they slumped from exhaustion. Draco was a good partner, easily guiding her through the steps with gentle pressure from his hands. 

Dancing with him was surprisingly intimate. Theo had asked her to dance once or twice, and it had never felt like this. Perhaps, she’d had too much alcohol after all. As Astoria tried to ignore the heat that burned her skin, Draco guided her easily around the floor, never once bringing her close to the other couple. It should have been freeing — trusting herself completely to another person — but it only left more room for Astoria to focus on the insistent ache in her skull. It was a heady mix, the warmth from Draco causing her stomach to roil and the ache in her head. 

When the song ended, they separated and clapped for the band along with the other guests. Silently, Draco offered his hand with the arch of a brow. The thunder in Astoria’s head had turned to a full-on gale that was threatening to drown her. She rested her palm in his, delighting in the slight roughness of his hand. This was a dangerous tempest. 

“Why did you ask me to dance?” she said because if she stayed silent for a moment longer, she was going to combust from the storm inside herself. 

Draco furrowed his brow. “Because I wanted to.”

“And you always get what you want?” 

His arm tightened around her. “Mostly, yes.” 

It was arrogant and exactly what she thought he would say, but it still pulled a smile from her, as she tried to fight off the nausea that was quickly rising to the surface with her headache. 

When that song ended, Draco and Astoria were near the edge of the dance floor, and he didn’t release his hold on her to clap like he had moments before. Astoria barely noticed, her head feeling like it was about to burst from her skull. 

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked.

“What?” she said, gripping his shoulder a little tighter. 

“About talking to someone about the war?”

She was going to be sick all over his shoes, and the alcohol she’d consumed was going to burn more coming up than it had going down. 

“I need to find my sister,” she mumbled, her other hand finding his shoulder as well to steady herself. 

“What?” he said, his other hand resting gently on her waist. When had he moved them from her shoulders? “I don’t . . . Are you alright, Astoria? You’re very pale.” 

She knew she should have added another layer of foundation this morning. “I need to find my sister,” she said. Gently, she slid her hands down his arms and untangled his fingers from her dress. “I’m . . . so sorry.”

Then, she turned and hurried away from him. She checked the bar first, but only found a slightly buzzed Theo, who raised his glass in salute to her. When she searched the tables, she was unable to find Daphne there either, only the bride and her other bridesmaid gossiping about Diane Carter. Where was she? Hastily, Astoria clicked through the hallway and into the larger dining room of the venue. Daphne wasn’t there either. She forced herself to stop and lean against the wall for a few moments. Deep breaths; otherwise, she’d throw up. 

Exiting the big dining room, she rushed toward the sitting room. There she located her sister talking with Mr. Parkinson. As soon as Daphne saw her, she sat her wine glass on the nearest available surface, panic obvious in her eyes. Astoria found herself being hauled out of the venue by the elbow and into the courtyard of the villa. The fresh air slapped her face, and she took several deep breaths. 

“How long have you been ill, Tori?” Daphne asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“All weekend,” Astoria muttered. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she demanded. “Or go see a Healer? Like a sane person?” 

Astoria squeezed her eyes shut. She would not be sick. She would not be sick. “Because I wasn’t about to leave you in that den of-”

“Forget them, Tori,” Daphne said. “And I can take care of myself. I’ve told you that all weekend, and you’ve suffered all weekend.” When Astoria opened her eyes, she was hit with the tide of her sister’s anger. “And I’m too drunk to Apparate us anywhere, and you can’t Apparate.”

“The hospital is a few blocks down,” Astoria wheezed. “I checked before I Portkeyed in.” 

Daphne huffed in annoyance, and Astoria knew she would have done the same had their positions been reversed. Her sister still wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her out of the venue and towards the hospital though. Daphne always was the better of the both of them. 

#

“Your condition is exceptionally rare, Ms. Greengrass. You’re quite lucky that your sister brought you in when she did. Another few hours and . . .” Healer Bianchi clicked his tongue. “Luckily, we were able to get all of your paperwork from St. Mungo’s transferred to us in time. Merlin knows what we would have done without Healer Holmes’ notes. The case could have been quite dire.” He flipped through his papers. “How long have you had this condition, Ms. Greengrass?” 

Astoria was sitting in a bleak hospital room, her arms crossed and fighting very hard not to throw her glass of water at this Healer’s head. “Since I was five.” 

“Fascinating.” 

Astoria was glad someone found her blood curse fascinating. She certainly did not, nor did she enjoy the constant trips to St. Mungo’s she had to make since she was a child. It had been a week since that dreadful wedding, and Astoria was still stuck in Italy. It was such a shame. The weather was beautiful and Venice was a lovely city and Astoria was stuck in this drab place with a macabre healer. 

“Glad I can keep you entertained,” she snapped. 

Healer Bianchi cleared his throat. “Your blood letting went well. We were able to get out all the contaminated blood, and replace it with new blood, though there was quite a lot of contaminated blood. You really should have come in sooner. You wouldn’t have had to stay in here for a week if you had.” Astoria rolled her eyes. “You’ll be in a bit of pain for a couple weeks, but you take cannabis sativa for that, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“And how is that administered?” 

“I smoke it.” Astoria was pleased when a look of disapproval crossed the Healer’s face. 

“Well, I can make up a potion for you, if you like. Won’t take any time at all.” 

“That won’t be necessary.” 

Healer Bianchi sighed. “Well, you’re free to go then. Just keep up on your treatments and do come in to see a healer if you get any kind of chronic headaches, nausea, or shortness of breath.” 

Finally, the Healer disappeared, and Astoria turned to face Daphne. Her sister’s eyes were narrowed, and her arms were crossed over her chest. Her hair, which was usually styled, sat limply around her shoulders. There were dark circles under her eyes, too.

“I could kill you,” Daphne said. 

“But your life would be so dull without me,” Astoria said. 

“You could have died.” 

Astoria looked away from her. “I’m in danger of dying every day, Daph.”

“And you exasperate it.” 

“I am not living my life beholden to this disease,” she snapped, slamming her fists down onto the bed. Even doing just that zapped her of energy. Astoria took a deep breath. 

“I have a Portkey ready to take us home at three,” Daphne said softly. “Unless you’d rather stay here for a few days.” 

“No,” she said. “Let’s go home.” 

[sa7abnews]

Best French Films - Cinéma Saturday - it's Sink Or Swim!

New Post has been published on https://sa7ab.info/2024/08/06/best-french-films-cinema-saturday-its-sink-or-swim/

Best French Films - Cinéma Saturday - it's Sink Or Swim!

Following the intermission and last week's VE Day post, which you can find here, I was going to recommend some WWII films, but you'll find plenty of suggestions within the Reading Room of resources in that post (after the epic visual bibliography of books!)

This week, it's back to normal. Last time, Cinéma Saturday explored the thoughtful film 'The Truth' starring Juliette Binoche and Catherine Deneuve.

Today we're in France, exploring depression, self-worth, masculinity and having a really good laugh! Yes, Gilles Lellouche's directorial solo debut is Le Grand Bain, a comedy starring many faces you'll know and perhaps some you don't. Read on to find out more…

This week's film is Sink or Swim / Le Grand Bain.

Cast & Crew

Director: Gilles Lellouche Cast: Mathieu Amalric, Benoît Poelvoorde, Virginie Efira, Guillaume Canet, Marina Foïs, Félix Moati, Jean-Hugues Anglade, Leïla Bekhti, Philippe Katerine, Alban Ivanov and Balasingham Thamilchelvan Screenplay: Gilles Lellouche, Ahmed Hamidi and Julien Lambroschini Cinematographer: Laurent Tangy Producer: Alain Attal, Hugo Sélignac Year: 2018 Genre: Comedy Awards & Accolades: Multiple awards nominations worldwide and several wins. César win for Philippe Katerine, Best Actor in a Supporting Role and 9 other nominations. In the Globes de Cristal Awards, the film won Best Director – Comedy and Best Actor for Philippe Katerine.

Nominated in various categories at London Film Week, Magritte Awards (Belgium), Prix Louis Delluc and the Seattle International Film Festival. Winner of the Best Feature Festival Prize at the Victoria Film Festival, Canada.

Synopsis

A group of 40-something guys, all on the verge of a mid-life crisis, decide to form their local pool’s first ever synchronized swimming team – for men. Braving the skepticism and ridicule of those around them and trained by a fallen champion trying to pull herself together, the group set out on an unlikely adventure, and on the way will rediscover a little self-esteem and a lot about themselves and each other.

What I liked about this film

Men in swimming trunks and trying to learn synchronised swimming might not be your first choice of comedy subject, but Lellouche considered this idea for many years and it shows in this enjoyable film. Full of 1980s pop classics, when most of the characters were "young", this film may not have many surprises, but is certainly makes up for any shortcomings in its toe-tapping, root-for-the-team perfection.

Amalric is the depressed father and husband, unable to work and spending his days on the sofa playing games on his phone who comes across an advert for joining a men's synchronised swimming team. This interesting catalyst changes his perspective and connection with others and his character anchors the film. Essentially all the main characters get rounded out with their stories without the film feeling disjointed. Deflty done, the immense team feeling that all these very different people have is what makes this film shine. Realising that a lot of people get together to play a sport, perhaps with absolutely nothing else in common at all, and yet they keep coming back, Lellouche takes this idea and runs with it. As Lellouche explains, 'They aren’t friends, but they share this very specific time in their lives when something is happening that’s bigger than the idea of sports, something like a team spirit and the absence of cynicism.'

From the graceful, slightly surreal man-child character played so brilliantly by Philippe Katerine to the comic nuances of Poelvoorde's doomed pool businessman, there is a rich tapestry of stories, characters and funny, touching or dramatic moments. This exploration behind the swimmers' team facades is that makes the film so engaging – we want to know what happens to the team, but we also care what happens in the lives of the characters too. There is a completely uncynical, almost tender viewpoint and so we look at these moments of ordinary people trying to do something extraordinary with interest. From faded rockstars working in cafeterias to alcoholic relationship problems and everything in-between, the film has some comedy mixed with the moments of the issues the characters face.

The women in this film are really crucial as their actions change the lives of all of the men, so it's excellent that Lellouche chose so well in his casting. Marina Foïs is faultless as the supportive wife wavering in her capacity to put up with the apparently well-meaning comments of her family and who doesn't judge her husband's decision to try synchronised swimming. Her supermarket speech is memorable and perfectly judged. Efira and Bekhti provide an interesting double-arc together. Canet's angry rule-needy character is a change of key amongst the group and ensures we don't feel that everyone gets along easily. Everyone plays it very well and the film takes some very funny storytelling turns for the team and the lives of the coaches and swimmers.

Through it all, we have high hopes for the team..or perhaps no hope whatsoever as we see them train! Nevertheless, the film has some hilarious moments and especially towards the end in the synchronised swimming competition. That alone is worth your time for this film – it's just the sort of feel good, have a laugh and maybe a dance kind of denouement… it might be just the tonic for today's times!

Where to Find It

Available on iTunes/Apple TV in a number of regions.

If you prefer to buy the disc, handy links are provided here – just click on the images. (I'd be so delighted if you could support the blog and podcast by using the links below, at no cost to you.)

US & UK (clicking will show the product in your Amazon region*) DVD

BluRay

France/EU DVD

BluRay

Soundtrack

A beautifully composed soundtrack which adds to the film great deal. There are more songs of the 80s featured in the film…many of which you'll find on the unofficial playlist here on Spotify.

CD

Also available on Spotify:

*Product links might include Affiliate links which mean that you can support the blog and podcast by making a purchase at zero cost to you. Thank you for your support – it's so appreciated.

Have you seen this film? Did you like it? Let me know what you thought by email: hello at francewhereyouare dot com or over on social media.

I love to talk cinema! And when they're closed, I love to talk home cinema.

[bunaavat]

Crafting Your Dream Space: Exploring Customizable Modular Sofas in San Francisco, CA

Are you dreaming of a sofa that adapts to your ever-changing needs and reflects your unique style? Look no further than customizable modular sofas in San Francisco, CA. These versatile and innovative pieces of furniture offer endless possibilities for creating the perfect seating arrangement in your home. Let's delve into why customizable modular sofas are the ultimate solution for San Francisco residents seeking both flexibility and style.

Versatility: One of the standout features of customizable modular sofas is their versatility. Unlike traditional sofas, which come in fixed configurations, modular sofas consist of individual sections or modules that can be rearranged to suit your space and preferences. Whether you're furnishing a compact apartment in Nob Hill or a spacious loft in SoMa, customizable modular sofas allow you to maximize your living area without compromising on comfort or style.

Adaptability: San Francisco's dynamic lifestyle demands furniture that can adapt to various situations, from hosting gatherings with friends to cozy nights in. With customizable modular sofas, you have the freedom to configure your seating arrangement according to the occasion. Need extra seating for guests? Simply add more modules. Want to create a cozy corner for lounging? Rearrange the modules to create the perfect layout. The possibilities are endless, allowing you to transform your space effortlessly.

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[racingliners]

Life In The Fast Lane Chapter 10 - 2023 Race 6: Monaco

Rating: Teen & Up

Warnings: None apply

Pairings: Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s); OFCs & OMCs

Work Tags: Re-write of a previous work; Mentions of IRL current and past F1 figures; Eventual romance; friends to lovers; found family/work family; actual family; racing drivers and their various shenanigans; how to handle pressure (and how not to); with a sprinkling of the power of friendship; tags will be updated as work progresses

Chapter 10/57

Word count: 7.2k

Summary: When times get hard, you need a shoulder or two to lean on

Sunday 28th May – Monaco

Sophie felt warm sunshine all over her face the second she opened the curtains in her hotel room, and took in a deep breath as she could just about pick out fragments of the track peeking through the yachts that were packed in the marina.

She was grateful at least that when she looked up at the sky and saw an almost perfect shade of blue barely scattered with small white clouds, she hadn’t been greeted with a thunderstorm instead. That really would have put her on a downward spiral.

Instead Sophie slowly exhaled, and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and hair. Even with the race set to start at 3pm, Sophie had to be at the track by half past 9 for the final pre-race strategy meeting, and everything else that seemingly made up race day in Formula 1. She had always known that being an F1 driver meant being constantly busy, but there were moments when Sophie had felt like she’d landed on a treadmill set at full speed that had no intention of slowing down.

There was a firm and solid knock at the door which dragged Sophie out of the bathroom. She padded across the soft pale grey carpet and left the chain on the door as she prized it open, only to smile when she saw who was on the other side.

“Oh, hey Mum. One sec” Sophie quickly closed the door so she could undo the gold safety chain and opened the door wide enough to let Mary in. “I thought we were all meeting each other in the restaurant?” Every morning without fail over the race week thus far, Sophie had always met her Mum and Vanessa at the hotel restaurant for breakfast (Richard had occasionally stopped by either before or after eating with his PR and Comms department colleagues).

Mary sighed as Sophie closed the door, and put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders the second she was able to.

“How are you doing sweetheart?” She asked with a slight tilt of the head and wide, kind eyes. It was more than enough to stop the pre-rehearsed answer Sophie had been using with the paddock journalists for most of the weekend.

“I…” She took in a small breath and very quickly exhaled. “…don’t know”

Mary let out a soft hum as she moved one hand from Sophie’s shoulder to brush a thumb back and forth across her daughter’s cheek.

“Do you need me to do your hair?”

“I’ve managed fine so far this year Mum” Sophie said with a small huff, which Mary frowned at.

“I just thought it would be one less thing for you to worry about” Mary said softly, which broke the last of Sophie’s resolve.

“Fine…” Sophie marched into the bathroom to grab her hairbrush and hair bobbles and flopped down on the small beige two-sweater sofa that was in the living room section of her small suite, and once again found her face being bathed in warm sunshine as she positioned herself to be looking out of the large glass sliding doors.

Sophie fiddled with the soft hem of her pyjama top as Mary gently combed her fingers through her dark hair, and even briefly closed her eyes as her Mum started the process of twisting her hair into the French braid she’d always worn during a race weekend ever since she was 8 years old. Then she opened her eyes somewhat abruptly.

“What’s the weather forecast for today?” Sophie asked quickly, not turning her head as she squinted up at the sky.

“Completely dry” Mary said reassuringly.

“No, I mean the temperature” It wasn’t even half past seven, and yet Sophie was sure that the light on her face felt warmer than it should have for the time of day.

“Oh” Mary paused to briefly rest her arms. “I’ll check as soon as I’m done love” Sophie just hummed, and tried her best to focus on her hair being twisted into place, and not how unpleasant the sun had started to feel on her face.

  The sunshine hadn’t faltered in the slightest by the time the drivers walked out for the drivers parade at a few minutes to one. As had very quickly become the norm, Sophie walked out alongside Nico and the pair climbed onto the back of the flatbed truck together and found a spot half-way down. They both gave a small wave to the crowd before resuming their conversation, only for Nathan Watkins and Cristóbal Vasquez to appear somewhat out of the blue.

“Hey guys” Nathan smiled brightly at his fellow drivers, clapping them both on the shoulder. “Good luck today”

“Thanks, same to you” Sophie smiled. “Oh, and congrats on getting engaged Cris” Sophie slightly leaned back to look at the Alpine driver, who’s face split into a wide grin. He had proposed to his long-term girlfriend Laura on Friday, and judging by the Instagram pictures of the two of them on an empty stretch of sand, the whole thing had been quite romantic.

“Thank you” He too gave a small wave to the crowd as the truck slowly pulled away to begin the parade. “How’s your Mum enjoying her first trip to Monte Carlo?”

“Your Mom’s never been here before?!” Nathan exclaimed, unintentionally cutting Sophie off.

“Well, she always ended up being busy with work so…”

“She works at Edinburgh Airport, right?” Cristóbal asked genuinely. And for a very brief moment, Sophie was surprised by the fact she was having a perfectly normal conversation with the 12 time race winner, only for her to remember that it wasn’t the first time the two drivers had spoken. Vasquez had been one of the few that wasn’t bothered by Sophie’s presence on the grid, and even before China, more than a few drivers had warmed to Sophie being around rather quickly. At least to her face, as evidenced by the fact that nothing close to the driver’s briefing incident from Melbourne had happened since.

“Sorry to interrupt your conversation” Lee Howard appeared from Sophie’s left with a cameraman lurking behind him, and the small echo that rang around the circuit told the quartet of drivers that his microphone was live. No one could remember when interviews on the driver’s parade had become the norm, but they certainly weren’t going away any time soon. “I’ll start with you Nico, since it’s almost your home race if you squint, you must be looking forward to today”

“Ah, it feels quite nice actually, my second time here as an F1 driver” Nico smiled as he adjusted his navy and white Alpha Tauri cap. “I think there’s more French flags than there was last year so…” Almost right on cue he spotted a trio of fans on a balcony, all wielding French flags, and Nico beamed as he waved at them. “We’re not quite as fast as these guys,” He paused to gesture to Sophie, Nathan and Cris with a wry smile. “But anything can happen around here so hopefully we’ll have a good race” Nico finished with a small nod, as Lee and the cameraman turned to Sophie.

“Now Sophie, your first Monaco Grand Prix as an F1 driver, you must be very excited”

“Yeah it’s uh…” She deliberately paused to take in a small breath and plaster on a bright smile. “It’s such an honour to drive around a track with so much history, it does feel a bit strange finally being here in a way,” Maybe that was why Sophie hadn’t quite managed to shed her pre-race anxiety all weekend. That after so many years of hoping to get to F1, she didn’t quite know what to do with herself now she was here. “Pace wise we’re not quite where we want to be but hopefully if we keep our heads down we can get some decent points”

Poor Cris put on a brave face when asked how he felt about having to start from the back thanks to an engine penalty, and Nathan grinned at the prospect of going for the race win even though he was starting from third.

“You know it’s been a long time since I’ve won around here so…” While Nathan’s smile was bright, Sophie could see that his eyes were filled with the steely cold determination she saw in so many of her colleagues. Nothing was going to get in-between him and his first win at Monaco since 2017 it seemed. “Hopefully things will fall our way today”

“Well thanks to all four of you, and the very best of luck for today” Lee gave the group of drivers a warm smile before he wondered off to the far end of the flatbed truck, likely to seek out polesitter Marc Pavard. The truck ever so slightly juddered as it began the descent to the Lowes hairpin, and Sophie took a step towards Nico as he wrapped a hand tightly around the nearest stretch of metal railing.

A brief moment of silence fell over the four drivers as they waved to any fans that they saw, and they all took in a small breath as the large truck somehow managed to round the hairpin with ease.

“You know,” Nico spoke quietly as he leaned down to talk to Sophie. “You can give me as much room round here as you want on the first lap”

“Oh no,” A small smile made its way onto Sophie’s face before she chuckled and playfully elbowed her friend in the ribs. “You will not be getting past me that easily”

  “I’ll be proud of you whatever happens today sweetheart, try and enjoy it okay?” Sophie closed her eyes and threw her head back at the warm words from her Dad. No matter how hard her phone was pressed against her ear, it wasn’t going to come close to the reassuring hug she desperately wanted.

“I’ll try” Sophie eventually replied, trying her best to sound optimistic. “How’s Will? Is he starting to feel any better?” As well as being unable to fly out to Monaco because of the workload at the garage, Mark had also found himself on nurse duty when Will had come down with a nasty fever on Friday night.

“Ah he’s on the mend. And keeping the throat lozenge industry afloat”

Sophie let out a soft chuckle in reply. “Tell him I say hi”

“I will love, but you worry about yourself okay?” If anything Sophie was worrying about herself a little too much.

“I love you Dad”

“You too, good luck. I’ll be cheering you on from the sofa. And give my love to Julian”

“I will!” After a quick exchange of goodbyes, Sophie ended the call and crossed her driver room in two paces to put her phone in her backpack. She’d already replied to her manager’s good luck text before calling home, so all that was left to do was to finish getting ready. Already in her fireproofs, Sophie pulled on her race suit with various firm tugs and pulled the zip up all the way to the base of her neck, before she remembered how warm it was outside and quickly undid the zip so the top of her suit hung from her hips.

“You ready yet Soph?” Vanessa called from the other side of the door, and for a few seconds Sophie had completely forgotten her trainer was there. She hurriedly opened the door, and Vanessa looked at her driver for all of two seconds before placing both hands on her shoulders. “Breathe” She said firmly.

“It’s like I’m just…” Sophie paused to bite down on her lip before letting out a small groan. “Waiting for something to go wrong”

“Well that’s your anxiety talking and it’s an idiot” Vanessa scoffed, and pulled Sophie into a tight hug. “Just count the corners, okay?”

“Well, they mainly have names here actually” Sophie frowned, reluctantly stepping out of the hug.

Vanessa affectionately rolled her eyes as she put her hands on her hips. “Whatever works best, I just want you to do it okay”

“Okay” Sophie sighed, and fixed her sunglasses over her eyes, deciding it was time to head for the garage. Richard accompanied both of them on the way, since the distance between the motorhome and garage was much longer than normal.

The sun was now properly beating down on the principality, and by the time Sophie had finally reached the garage she had a few beads of sweat on the back of her neck. And because the temporary garages in Monaco were so small, there wasn’t any room for the air-con units the teams usually brought with them. By the looks of things the mechanics were feeling the heat too.

Sophie quickly looked over to James’ side of garage and saw that he hadn’t arrived yet (he hadn’t spoken to her that much over the course of the weekend, which Sophie had found odd but she tried to think nothing of it) so instead she turned her attention to Mary and Julian who had already made their way over to the garage.

“Good luck today” Julian smiled, and pulled his cousin into a tighter than expected hug. He’d finished in fifth in the F2 feature race that morning, a very respectable outing for a rookie. Sophie happily returned the hug and had barely stepped away before Mary swaddled her daughter tightly in her arms. Sophie wasn’t sure if it was down to that it was the first race of the season her Mum had been to, or because of just how easy it was for a driver to crash around the Monaco circuit.

“I love you so much sweetheart” Mary whispered into Sophie’s hair and kissed the top of her head before finally letting go.

“I love you too” She smiled the first genuine smile she had mustered since the drivers parade as her engineer Chris emerged from the upstairs pit wall, pen and notebook in hand.

“Ready to go?”

“Almost” Sophie replied as she zipped up her race suit. The pair quickly exchanged a brief nod as Chris adjusted his new dark tortoiseshell glasses before going over to talk to Steve at the front of the garage.

Sophie gave her head a small shake, closed her eyes and took in a small breath, and after opening her eyes she fitted her in-ears and pulled on her balaclava. Vanessa was on hand with Sophie’s helmet and HANS device, which Sophie put on in one swift movement. She gave her chin strap a sharp tug, and after giving Mary and Julian’s hands a firm squeeze, she climbed into the car and put on her gloves.

Tommy strapped her in, and even gave Sophie a small thumbs up before moving out of the way so Sophie could plug in her radio cable.

“And radio check 1-2” Chris, still stood next to Steve, spoke into his orange headset.

“Copy, I can hear you” Steve and Chris slightly raised their eyebrows at Sophie’s reply, but didn’t do or say anything more than that.

“Given how warm it is we want to take an extra few minutes to check the car over, sit tight, and I’ll see you on the grid” Chris gave Sophie a thumbs up as he made his way back towards the rear of the garage, likely to oversee all the pre-race checks from the pitwall upstairs.

Sophie took in a deep breath as her mechanics buzzed round her car, all talking to each other through their own headsets that were on a separate radio channel. As she shifted her gaze from Aditya to Luke to Tommy to Steve, she tried to read their body language as a gauge for how her car was. And none of them appeared remotely distressed or anxious. So that was a good thing.

It felt like an age, but Sophie had only been sat waiting for ten minutes before Steve gave the all clear for the car to go to the grid. The procedure was easily ingrained into Sophie’s memory by now – Steve gave the okay, the tyre blankets were taken off, the car lowered, and the tyre blankets laid back on top of the tyres as Steve backed into the pitlane, and gave Sophie the all clear to drive out.

While she knew that it was impossible for the barriers to have been moved overnight so the track had been narrowed, it still felt like they had as Sophie drove up Beau Rivage. And despite deliberately taking her outlap much easier than the previous five races, she found herself braking for Rascasse in the blink of an eye.

Sophie switched off the engine once she had passed through Anthony Noghes and let her mechanics roll the car onto her spot on the starting grid, and all she could think about was how hot it was as she flicked up her visor to let some air into her helmet. When she climbed out of the car and took off her helmet, her first thought of seeing all the people crammed onto the starting grid was that it felt less like the usual sardine tin, and more like a pressure cooker.

“You okay?” Chris walked over from his usual spot next to Steve, and over towards his driver. The sun glinting off his sandy blond hair. Vanessa was stood by the side of the car and watched, slightly concerned, as Sophie ripped off her gloves and helmet.

“Fuck, it’s so hot” Sophie pulled off her balaclava with a tug so sharp she accidentally pulled on a few strands of her hair, and she ever so slightly winced.

“Yeah, it’s about five degrees warmer than what was forecast” Chris explained, also looking at Sophie with a slightly concerned gaze. He and Vanessa let Sophie unzip the top of her race suit, in the hope it was all that she’d need to feel better. It only slightly helped.

“Deep breath” Vanessa instructed, and Sophie did as she was told. Breathing in and out for six seconds. Vanessa looked over at Chris, and give him a small nod before walking away to the side of the track with Sophie’s things.

“How did the car feel?” He asked, sliding one half of his headset back so he could listen to his driver. It was a good question, one that would have definite answer, and it cleared Sophie’s head somewhat.

“Good, same as yesterday,” Sophie paused to take another small breath. “No problems that I could tell”

“Great” Chris smiled and put a hand on his driver’s shoulder. “I will get you through this, okay?”

He had pulled Sophie aside after the team’s post-qualifying debrief the day before, saying that as long as her nerves were to do with the track and not the car or herself, it was normal to be a little bit nervous going into your first Monaco Grand Prix. 2023 was only Chris’ second season of being a senior race engineer, and while today would be his and Sophie’s sixth race working together, they already had a sturdier than solid working relationship. “I’ve got your back”

Sophie just nodded, while she had no idea just where the strange headspace she had found herself in had come from, she did know that she trusted him completely.

“Team Black Knight, right?” Chris held out a clenched fist with a small smile.

“What?” Sophie let out a light laugh as she bumped fists with her engineer.

“Chris Black, Sophie Knightsbridge… I hope you don’t mind me shortening your name”

“When did you come up with that?”

“Doesn’t matter, it made you laugh” Chris looked at Sophie with a somewhat triumphant smile as he led her a few paces away from the car to go over the strategy for the race. “So, it’s probably still going to be a one stop even if it’s warmer than we expected. Though the hypers might deg a bit faster, if that’s the case we might switch to the supers instead of the ultras. What do you think?” Chris’ calm, North London accented voice was almost like a cool breeze in the warm air. Trees lined the left side of the start-finish straight, and where Chris and Sophie had found themselves was under a very decently sized shaded spot.

“That sounds like a good plan” Sophie nodded, already starting to feel the knots in her shoulders ease. “I’ll see how everything feels after the start”

“And you will make it through Saint Devote in one piece” Chris said with a reassuring smile.

“If you say so” Sophie and Chris clapped each other on the shoulder as Vanessa led Sophie back towards the garage for a comfort break, after she’d very quickly told Steve that yes, her car was absolutely fine.

  “Well, here we are, the jewel in the crown of the F1 calendar! Round 6 of the FIA Formula One world championship brings us to Monaco,” Jack beamed from his seat on the furthest right in the thankfully air conditioned commentary booth. “78 laps of the famous Monaco circuit, 19 corners, some of them the most famous in the world, and 20 drivers vying to add one third of motorsport’s triple crown to their CV”

Amy and Simon tried their best to restrain from chuckling at just how their colleague had embellished his opening segment. While Monaco was certainly the most glamourous track on the calendar, the races themselves never quite had the reputation for being the most entertaining.

“And it’s certainly a beautiful day for it, even though the temperature seems to have caught everyone in the paddock by surprise. It’s a pretty scorching 31 Celsius today”

“Well, I think this weather is normal for the French riviera, but you are from Scotland Amy so we’ll let you off” Simon affectionately teased, nudging her with his elbow.

“But, most importantly, will the high track temperatures throw a spanner in the strategists works? Monaco is almost always a one-stop in the dry, and we have the hyper soft, ultra soft and super soft tyres available today, with the vast majority of the grid choosing to start on the pink walled hyper soft tyre”

“And speaking of the grid, here’s how our drivers line up today. Marc Pavard of Mercedes becomes the second ever Monegasque driver to start on pole for his home Grand Prix, Benedikt Schmitz for Red Bull lines up beside him in second, can he get his second win in Monaco today?” Nathan Watkins, Alistair Mitchell, Giovanni Carotti and Audi’s Erik Braun filled the spots from third to sixth. “…And then we have the first of the two McLarens. Sophie Knightsbridge becomes, as she has done at almost every race so far this season, the first woman to contest the Monaco Grand Prix, she lines up in seventh alongside Ferrari’s Teo Martinez. 2018 Monaco winner James Hewitt is in ninth, while Frenchman Nico Dumont rounds out the top ten”

Jack just about managed to get through the second half of the grid without taking a breath, and Amy and Simon took over while Jack took a much needed drink of water.

“Now, we do have a slightly out of sync grid order today, as we can often have in Monaco. Which means some teams like Audi, you could also argue McLaren given their… somewhat rough start to the year, could get a very nice haul of points for the constructors championship today”

“Absolutely,” Amy chimed in, as the global TV feed cut from Schmitz’s Red Bull to Pavard’s Mercedes. “But, as we say many a year, it is so crucial around Monaco to simply get to the finish line. The drivers around you could have reliability problems or even crash out. And that’s why this race is one of the most challenging of the entire season, if your concentration goes for even a second – you’re out of the race”

  Steve gave a nod to the rest of the boys a few seconds before the three minute signal blared across the track, and Sophie’s car was lowered down off the jacks while Tommy, Luke, Jamie and Aditya lay the tyre blankets on top of the pale pink side-walled hypersoft tyres. Not that it felt like the tyres needed their heated blankets given just how harshly the sun was beating down on everyone.

Vanessa was stood as always with a McLaren golf umbrella over the cockpit and holding a small fan in her driver’s direction, as Chris gave his watch a final check and briskly walked over towards his driver. He likely didn’t say must past good luck as he squeezed Sophie’s hand before sprinting over to the small gate in the fence that provided the only access to the circuit from the garages.

The mad dash through it while the drivers made their way round the formation lap always seemed to get worse every year.

As the seconds counted down, Steve gave the second signal for everyone to clear out and ensure that Sophie’s car was in exactly the right place in its grid slot. As number one mechanic, ensuring that they didn’t get a penalty for any kind of pre-race infringement was a big part of his job. While Vanessa and the boys pressed themselves against the fence, Steve crouched down and just about met Sophie’s eyes before she flicked down her dark tinted visor. He gave his driver a small thumbs up, a bright smile, and gently patted the tip of the nose on the number 16 McLaren, before joining his colleagues.

He allowed himself two seconds as he watched Sophie ease her car away on the formation lap to say a small prayer to whatever deity looked after racing drivers (if there even was one) that Sophie would get through her first Monaco Grand Prix in one piece. Then he turned round, took in a deep breath of awfully hot air and waited for Vasquez’s Alpine to drive past before he and everyone else sprinted to the small gate in the fence, and hoped he would make it back to the garage for the start.

  One red light. Two red lights. Three. Four. Five.

Deep breath. Hold the clutch, right foot just hovering over the accelerator pedal and no more.

Just get through turn one. Please just let me get through turn one.

Lights out.

Go.

Given that the run to Saint Devote was so short, Sophie reached her braking point before 8th gear, and quickly flicked back down through the gears as she kept a very close eye on the cars around her. She hoped she didn’t have to worry about James out braking himself behind her.

She just about managed to clip the apex before accelerating up Beau Rivage. The charcoal and red Audi was metres in front of her, and she could just about see Ferrari red and papaya orange in her wing mirrors as she turned left for Massenet, and veered right for Casino. The screen on her wheel still said P7 somewhere. That was good.

Sophie checked off each corner as she went through the first lap. Mirabeau, full 180 lock for the hairpin, sharp right at Portier, into the dark tunnel, flick through the Nouvelle chicane, almost 90 right for Tabac, more flicking the car through Piscine, then Rascasse, Anthony Noghes, and accelerate past the black and neon pit boards that Sophie could hardly read as she sped down the main straight to start lap 2.

“Great first lap Sophie” Chris said over the radio as Sophie sped out of Saint Devote for the second time. “Keep your head down you’ve a long way to go, pace is good so far. Told you you’d make it though in one piece” He very quickly added before Sophie broke for Massenet.

“Yeah, I’ll try to listen to you more often” Chris didn’t give a reply over the radio, but Sophie assumed he allowed himself one small chuckle before turning his attention back to the data screens on the pitwall. Sophie let out a long exhale as she broke for Portier, and pressed back down on the radio button as she entered the tunnel. “Let’s go get some points”

  James didn’t have the privilege of seeing Carotti’s supposed mare of a pit stop when he pitted on lap 19. Damn the exceptionally hot weather for not making his tyres last long enough. His almost melted hyper softs were switched out for the red-walled super softs, and James was away after just over two seconds. There was a chance he would have to stop again given the track temperatures, his engineer Paul had told him on lap 5, but James would let himself worry about that after he’d exited the pits without getting a penalty.

He came out in seventh, and his position didn’t change when Sophie pitted a lap later, as she clearly pulled a brilliantly fast in lap out of nowhere. They were barely half a second apart when Sophie re-joined the track.

“Okay so we have Carotti 3.2 behind. It looks like he has some sort of DRS issue, so watch him in the corners” James and Gio had both started F1 in the same season, so they knew each other as drivers better than most, despite the fact they had never been team mates. Which was why James, and Paul, knew that if Giovanni couldn’t make a pass on the main straight using DRS, he would do everything in his power to overtake him in a corner instead. And it would likely be at the hairpin or Rascasse – they were his two preferred spots.

James confirmed he got the radio message, and hoped that Gio’s DRS problem was so bad that he wouldn’t get anywhere near him to begin with.

  “Safety car! Safety car. Box, box” Sophie had just entered the tunnel when the call came over the radio on lap 64. “It’s going to be very busy in the pitlane so be careful. The incident is at turn one so watch for debris on exit. Lima and Jakobsson are both okay”

“Am I pitting for ultras?” Sophie asked, watching the delta time on her steering wheel.

“Affirm, ultrasoft tyres”

“Is everyone else pitting?”

“Yes, everyone has reported high deg due to the higher than expected track temperatures”

“Copy” Chris’ steady voice had almost been her North Star during the race up until that point. Reminding her to drink, updating her with the gaps to the cars in front and behind (not that James had really been a problem during the race, the gap between them had barely fluctuated past 2.6 seconds for the past twenty laps).

Sophie just about managed to avoid one of the Red Bull’s exiting their pitbox as Sophie swerved into hers. As Chris had told her, every team had taken advantage of the safety car to pit their drivers with fresh tyres that would definitely last until the end. She re-joined the track still in sixth, the sidewalls of her tyres now a bright purple instead of red, and glanced over at an Alpine that had half its front suspension hanging off, and an Alpha Tauri that was sat at the end of a tangle of skid marks, and had a gaping hole in the right sidepod.

The Safety Car period lasted for seven laps while the marshals cleared both the wrecked cars and any remaining debris. Braun was still ahead of Sophie in fifth, and she knew that the restart was the best opportunity she had to get past him, despite the fact he had been surprisingly fast during the race.

And there was the chance that James would try to get past her, but Martin had all but read them the riot act in the pre-race briefing, saying that unless one of them had a mechanical issue they were not allowed to race each other on this occasion – given just how narrow the circuit was.

So Sophie focused entirely on the Audi in front of her, that she managed to stay with at the restart and even through the entirety of the first sector. He’d pulled a gap of around two tenths by the time they got to Portier on what was now lap 72, and Sophie decided that breaking late into the Nouvelle chicane was her best chance at both overtaking him and making it stick.

The golden tinged lights that illuminated the darked tunnel passed by in one long streak as Sophie lined up her car for the pass, and barely half a second after she exited the tunnel and drove back out into bright daylight she just about managed to spot her braking point as her eyes adjusted to the light and pressed her food hard on the brake pedal.

But the car didn’t stop.

She tried again, sifting down through the gears as she sped downhill, and the car still didn’t stop.

Sophie kept her steering wheel straight, knowing the safest option for her and Braun was to go straight across the chicane, and just as she reached it at the third time of trying the car finally slowed with a foul smelling plume of dark smoke.

“Argh! Brakes failed!” She skidded over the chicane, and watched Braun’s Audi, and then James disappear round Tabac as she yelled into her radio to anyone who would listen.

“Rear brake failure” There was a nervous edge to Chris’ normally cool and steady voice. “Can you bring the car back to the pits safely?” Sophie jabbed her thumb down on the pit limiter button and finally exhaled knowing that at least she wouldn’t be able to go above 60kph.

“I think so” Sophie was already driving her car off the racing line, as well as lifting and coasting through the remaining corners of the lap. It felt like it took an age to reach Rascasse, but she turned right into the pitlane, and just about managed to stop the car in the McLaren pitbox, even though she was well long of the painted yellow marks.

Steve looked at the car for all of two seconds before giving the engine off signal. And if it weren’t for all the adrenaline now coursing through her veins Sophie probably would have burst into tears.

She slowly hauled herself out of the cockpit, and was led a few paces away by someone. Sophie didn’t see who as they were behind her and all she could look at was the smoking brakes of her car. Whoever it was spun Sophie round and flicked up her visor before lifting the larger one on their own helmet and she found herself looking into Luke’s very wide and very dark green eyes.

“Are you okay?!” He shouted so Sophie could hear through the padding of her helmet. Though she didn’t know what to say. Eventually, she gave a small and cautious nod, and let herself be led into the garage. Sophie’s hands started working on automatic pilot as she peeled off her gloves, undid the chinstrap on her helmet and lifted it and the HANS device off. She didn’t have time to reach for her balaclava before she found herself in a rather suffocating hug.

“Oh my darling” Mary cradled the back of her daughter’s head with her hand, and for a moment Sophie wondered if she would ever let go.

“I love you” The words flew out of Sophie’s mouth before she realised she’d said them. But it was enough for Mary to lean back and give Sophie a hurried once over.

“I love you too” She planted a very firm kiss on Sophie’s forehead as Chris rushed into the garage from upstairs.

“Are you-”

“I’m fine” Sophie exhaled and pulled off her balaclava, Vanessa had taken Sophie’s helmet right before she got hugged. “I’m sorry, I let you down” The adrenaline was starting to wear off, as Sophie felt the beginnings of a large lump forming in her throat.

“Hey, you didn’t let anyone down” Chris sighed, and pulled his driver into a brief and much gentler hug. “If anyone has to apologise it’s Brembo. There was nothing in the data or telemetry that even implied we were close to a critical failure” He shook his head, and frowned as Steve deemed the car safe enough to wheel back into the garage. “It wasn’t your fault Soph, okay?”

“Okay” She nodded, and tried to swallow any potential tears away as Chris clapped Sophie on the shoulder and went to speak to Steve.

“We can wait for a little bit for you to go to the press pen if you need it” Richard, who had been watching from the back of the garage with Vanessa, Julian and Mary all race, said softly with a hand on his driver’s shoulder. Sophie just nodded again, as she wasn’t sure how long a sentence she would be able to string together, and she let herself be hugged by Julian and Vanessa instead.

Then, to her surprise, Tommy, Luke, Aditya, Jamie and Steve all came over with polite hugs and firm claps on the shoulder as well.

“Sorry Soph”

“You’ll get them next time”

“Don’t worry about it”

“We’re just glad you made it back in one piece”

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Steve dipped his head down so he was looking straight into Sophie’s eyes. His eyes were such a dark shade of brown that they almost looked black, and yet they were always so warm whenever he spoke to her.

“Yeah” Sophie puffed out a small exhale and nodded. “I’m okay now”

  While the sun was still beating down, a soft breeze had started to blow in from the sea by the time Sophie was in the press pen giving her post-race interviews. She pretty much said the same thing over and over, that she was disappointed to have a mechanical failure with just six laps to go. And that no, the team hadn’t seen anything to suggest her rear brakes would fail.

“What’s morale in the team like? It’s your 60th anniversary year, and you only have one podium after six races, when this time last year McLaren had been on the podium at almost every single race” Sophie gulped when the microphone was pushed towards her by the reporter from the Dutch broadcaster.

“It’s uh…” Sophie adjusted her cap while the podium celebrations played on one of the large screens (the top 2 had finished where they started, while Mitchell and Watkins had swapped places at one of the pit stops) and she let out a long sigh. “We know that the car isn’t where we want it. But it doesn’t mean that we aren’t working extremely hard at every single race and back at the factory to move ourselves further up the grid”

“Fundamentally though, isn’t it down to the fact that the team have gotten it wrong when it came to designing the car?”

Sophie always knew from watching a many post-race interview (and being in plenty herself during her career) that journalists were never afraid to pin people down with harsh questions after a bad race. Yet it still left Sophie with a feeling of discomfort in her chest. She saw how hard everyone worked back at Woking. The long shifts away from their families cooped up in offices, staring at computer screens or spent in meetings. And yet all it had been good enough for today was sixth place.

“Well, I know Eoin is certainly much more capable of being Technical Director than I am” Sophie huffed out a nervous laugh, and she felt grateful that she had both Richard by her side, and dark sunglasses over her eyes. “We all know that we’re not meeting the… expected standard of race results for a team like McLaren. But we can either mope about it, or we can work hard to try and fix it. And everyone is working so, so hard to try and put ourselves closer to the front. Like every other team we’re always working on upgrades back at the factory or spending as much time as we can here trying to find the best set up that will get us the most points we can. And we just have to hope that eventually, all that hard work will pay off”

Richard tapped Sophie’s left shoulder blade, their silent signal that she had given a reporter more than enough material to work with. And thankfully, Dutch TV had been Sophie’s last press pen interview. As she left all the other drivers who were lucky enough to finish the race started drifting in with their press officers. Including James, who had inherited Sophie’s sixth place after her retirement.

The two team mates tightly clasped the other’s hand and clapped each other on the shoulder. James waited a second or two longer than normal before he let go.

“Good to see you in one piece” He huffed. While he had let go of Sophie’s hand, he still had a gentle grip of her shoulder. Even through her Nomex fireproofs Sophie could still feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “Are you okay? Coming out of the tunnel is the last place you want your brakes to go”

“Yeah… I’m fine now. I got a nasty fright but…” Sophie trailed off and shrugged her shoulders. “There’s always next year, hopefully” The contract that she had signed back in December had only been for one year, though Sophie hoped that despite her result today, the McLaren board would remember who was responsible for the most recent addition to the team’s trophy cabinet.

“See you in the debrief” James gently squeezed Sophie’s shoulder before following Katie who led him over to the Mexican broadcaster, as Sophie and Richard made their way back to the team motorhome.

She had no idea what to say to her press officer other than sorry. Sorry for giving him more paperwork, sorry for not getting any points (she had at least been trying her best to remember what Chris had said to her about not letting anyone down).

“If I’m ever upset with something you say in an interview, you will very quickly know about it” Richard said as he pocketed his Dictaphone. “And I’m sure Eoin will appreciate you not wanting his job” Eoin, who had been Head of Aerodynamics for the past five years, had unexpectedly found himself promoted to Technical Director not long after testing, as his predecessor had accepted a job offer from Audi. He’d been much more present at race weekends after the flyaway races, in an attempt to try and figure out just how he was going to make the car faster, constantly in the garage at during every session. And he always spoke to James and Sophie, as well as their engineers, to get their opinions on how the car felt.

The message that the team were putting out, was that they were going to fix whatever problems they had together. Not as a bunch of people running around like headless chickens, but as a team.

Sophie just hoped that their efforts would pay off, no matter how long it took.

                                                           * * *

2023 Monaco Grand Prix Classification

1st - Marc Pavard (Mercedes) - 25pts 2nd - Benedikt Schmitz (Red Bull) - 18pts 3rd - Alistair Mitchell (Red Bull) - 15pts 4th - Nathan Watkins (Mercedes) - 12pts 5th - Erik Braun (Audi) - 10pts 6th - James Hewitt (McLaren) - 8pts 7th - Giovanni Carotti (Ferrari) - 6pts 8th - Nico Dumont (AlphaTauri) - 4pts 9th - Aaron Jones (Aston Martin) - 2pts 10th - Cristóbal Vasquez (Alpine) - 1pt 11th - Owen Nichols (Aston Martin) 12th - Tadashi Sato (Haas) 13th - Evan McKinley (Williams) 14th - Leon Bauer (Haas) 15th - Aidan Glover (Williams) 16th - Jan Martens (Audi) RET - Sophie Knightsbridge (McLaren) RET - Antonio Lima (AlphaTauri) RET - Daniel Jakobsson (Alpine) RET - Teo Martinez (Ferrari) Fastest Lap - Benedikt Schmitz (Red Bull) - 1pt

2023 Championship Standings after Round Six

Drivers Standings

1st - Benedikt Schmitz - 110pts 2nd - Giovanni Carotti - 78pts 3rd - Cristóbal Vasquez - 77pts 4th - Nathan Watkins - 68pts 5th - Alistair Mitchell - 57pts (8th - Sophie Knightsbridge - 32pts 9th - James Hewitt - 29pts)

Constructors Standings

1st - Red Bull Racing-Honda - 167pts 2nd - Ferrari - 126pts 3rd - Mercedes AMG - 113pts 4th - Alpine-Renault - 101pts 5th - McLaren-Mercedes - 61pts

[saifurnitureart-blog]

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[improbable-outset]

𝟗:𝟎𝟓 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

TK x AFAB!Reader

Y0ur b0yfriend Masterlist | AO3 | 🅿️laylist

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: SMUT, PIV sex, pet names so no use of Y/N, cunnilingus, kissing. Mentions of pregnancy but reader isn’t pregnant. MINORS DNI!!🔞🔞

𝐀/𝐍: Icl this song inspired me to write my last TK fic too. I just want more domestic fluff with this sweet one :’)

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: An evening spent with TK

It was moments like this where you were thankful for the built in air conditioning in your apartment. The summer Friday night air felt sticky and as you continued to wipe down the kitchen countertop with a dishcloth, you couldn’t help but pause every two seconds to just stand there and indulge in the cold air that was lightly blowing on your face before you continued again. You were preparing to cook dinner tonight so the kitchen was only going to get hotter eventually.

Not too much time has passed before you heard the faint sound of keys jingling outside with the front door opening after. Your partner, TK, made their way inside, removing their shoes and placing them to the side. Before they could say anything to announce their arrival, you were already on your toes to kiss them.

“Late night?” You queried. They did come home a little later than usual.

“Actually, I wanted to surprise you, love.” You caught a whiff of a familiar aroma and it was then you noticed the paper bag in their hand with the logo of your favourite restaurant. Your heart soared. They placed the bag on the counter top, unpacking the items one by one.

“Oh, sweetheart. I was just about to cook dinner as well,”

“I know. But I got dumplings from that place you love. Take a break tonight,” they showed you the container with the freshly made dumplings inside. Though you’d rather have a home-cooked meal, you could never turn down some quality dumplings that you could never seem to replicate yourself.

“Alright then, how about you pick a movie we can watch? I still need to unpack and store away the groceries I was going to use for the cooking,” you started to place all your ingredients in their allocated area while your partner took the food to the living room and set up the movie. It didn’t take too long for them to pick one before you were both promptly on the sofa with your food on the coffee table. You didn’t always have take-outs, but you were happy you could end the week without the labour of cooking tonight.

The movie rolled on and you both devoured the dumplings along with the other food down to the last bite. The best part was always the fortune cookies at the end, though. You picked up the two cookies from the table and handed one to TK.

“Okay, you read yours out first,” Your voice was full of thrill and you were all giddy like a child. Opening fortune cookies was always exciting, some fortunes were adorable and some were just so cheesy - you never know what to expect. TK broke their cookie and unravelled the paper inside.

They read out the small paper. “Unlearn everything that you aren’t. Relearn everything you are.” You chuckled softly. How corny…

“Alright I’ll do mine now…” you did the same with your cookie and read the paper inside. “You will know it when you see it. It will know you when it sees you.” Yeah. Still corny. The movie continued on, which was coming to an end, but by now neither of you were paying close attention to it.

“So, how was that project going at your job?” TK was the one to break the silence over the TV volume.

“It’s going pretty smoothly so far. By the way, do you remember my colleague, Marina? Well, she’s trying to have a baby.” You replied.

“I hope that goes well for her then.” Marina was the only colleague that seemed to have a lot going on in her life that she just had to share with you, it might be because she was the only one that you actually talked to. But out of everything she had mentioned to you, her conception attempts seemed to be a highlighted topic for some reason. You also seemed to notice the baby shops that you walked past more frequently, glancing at the buggies with the baby bags. Perhaps Marina mentioning a baby awakened something in you.

“Do you think we’ll make good parents?” It was a touchy subject you brought up. You and TK barely even discussed it with each other about building your own family. It’s a lot of sacrifice but worth it when you’re carrying your little one swaddled in a blanket, right?

“I think we’ll handle it pretty well. We do make a good team. But there is only one way of finding out,” You whimpered, your stomach felt tingly all of a sudden. TK was right about you being a good team. You imagined it all, from the moment of the baby's conception, starting off with a blood clot which would soon develop into an embryo that you will nurture for months. Before you know it, you will have a fully developed life form inside you, you’ll be all swollen, glowing and soon bring life into the world. It did sound endearing but there would always be that perpetual dread of doubts hanging over you. Those doubts of not being good enough to raise the little one. How can a bundle of joy be so daunting?

“We don’t have to try anytime soon, we can just stick to ‘practicing’ for now,” It was comforting to hear that. There was no rush with parenthood, you still had a lot of time ahead. Perhaps now you could just enjoy the two of you as a pair. You reread the paper fortune again.

You will know it when you see it.

See what, exactly? Something that would persuade you to believe that parenthood would be the best decision of your life?

You didn’t really believe in these fortunes or predictions. Too superstitious. But as silly it might sound, you felt a sort of connection to this one in particular and it might just relate to your situation. That was in the far back of your mind now that you were crawling closer to your partner, hands running up their thigh. You couldn’t help but admire just how beautifully they were sculptured from the way the sleeves of their shirt were rolled up and how it hugged their body and their hair tied up neatly. Your mood quickly switched from apprehensive to insatiable and you weren’t going to waste this opportunity to sit there all night, when you could savour every physical fibre of them now.

“Hmm…why not now?” You grinned up at them, a smugness beaming behind your teeth.

“What-”

“Let’s practice, right now.” You leaned towards them but stopped yourself a few metres away from their awaiting lips. Even with their half-hooded eyes and relaxed expression, your confidence was quickly replaced with hesitation. “…Only if you want to, I just want to know if you’re okay with-” you were cut off swiftly with their lips, kissing you sensually. There was that hint of the sweet and sour flavour from the food that lingered on their lips as they kissed deeper into you, not that you cared, you probably tasted the same. They pulled away to remove their shirt that they haven’t changed since they came in along with their glasses and placed them on the table and encouraged you to lean back onto one of the sofa’s cushions, seemingly just as eager as you.

“I’ve been waiting all day for this,” you sighed as you spoke, feeling their hands go up your shirt and pulling the cups of your bra down to knead your breast.

“If you’ve been waiting all day, why didn’t you say anything earlier, hm?” Now it was their turn to act sly, with extra suaveness in their voice. On top of that, they had the cheeks to ask when they knew you could barely speak and completely fall apart from their minimal touch.

“Mmfh- as much as I love you TK, oh, I can never turn down those dumplings, shit-!” You felt one of your nipples being pinched and twisted, fucking cutting you off mid-sentence, again. Your breathing became more shallow with low moans in between. They assisted you in removing your t-shirt and unclipped your bra. Now, their mouth latched onto one of your breasts, tongue soft and wet as it traced around your bud and teeth lightly sinking into your silky skin. Your sensitive nerves were tingling and sending shocking waves causing your body to tremble with ecstasy.

They kissed down your form leaving small bite marks like little love letters etched on your body. They have your whole body memorised and know exactly where to focus on, all the curves and edges and your favourite spots to get a reaction out of you. Finally, they reached your crotch and didn’t waste a second to pull your pants off while your panties still remained. You could already feel the dampness of the fabric from how wet you were, you just hoped it wasn’t visible on the other side. Your clothed cunt was now being toyed momentarily with TK’s fingers, rubbing it before completely removing the fabric barrier. You were now laying bare, the cold air from the air conditioner caused goosebumps to erect on your exposed skin now.

Their breath brushed against your throbbing pussy that was aching for attention and to be touched already. They looked up from between your legs giving you a sincere look.

“Can I taste you?” They cooed, rubbing your outer thighs.

“Please, baby.” Love making with TK would always start off slow and almost agonising. They want to make sure that they have your full permission and know how badly you want it. It also turns them on seeing how you plead for them to continue, making them feel wanted.

Their tongue started off with your folds, lapping at your heat and gliding over the surface and just barely touched your clit. Tedious lapping turned to sucking which only made your dripping, sensitive cunt wetter. Your hands laced through their hair and tugged at it as you felt their tongue digging deeper into you which got you squirming and slowly losing your sense of surroundings. You would've jerked and grinded your hips if they didn’t grip your legs to hold you in place. You couldn’t control the noises coming out of your throat as you lost yourself in their lust with blood rushing in your ears and heavy pants filling your senses. Your own body betrayed you when your orgasm came crashing down before you could anticipate it with TK taking it all in and drinking you up with your sweet moans. They moved away from your crotch and ran the back of one of their hands over their mouth to wipe any mess and hovered over you again.

“So beautiful,” they combed their fingers through your scalp and brushed your hair back, now having a full view of your face. You knew you were a complete mess, panting and flustered and yet they still admired you. Probably more now than ever.

“No, you.” You were still still gathering yourself, all breathless from your climax.

“I’m beautiful?” They asked in amusement, raising a brow but still holding onto their irresistible smile. You regained your strength and you couldn’t help but just hold their face, caressing their cheeks and lock eyes with them; a mix of hazel with golden flakes reflecting off their warmth to you.

“Yes, you’re the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen.” You kissed them deeply, tasting yourself from their lips which only intensified as they widened their mouth and their tongues curled into yours but you were too blinded by bliss to care. “If we do have babies, I know they will be just as beautiful,” you murmured in their lips, still continuing your work with your mouths.

You pulled away from the kiss, panting slightly. “Fuck me, please,” you moaned and tugged at their pants.

“That’s the plan, love”

They climbed off of you and removed their pants along with their boxers underneath. Their cock twitched slightly, desperate to be squeezing by your walls. They repositioned themselves and held you close. You could see their cock leaking slightly and throbbing with anticipation as you stroked it a few times, drawing a chuckling from TK. They caved in, you felt every inch being pushed further and every pulse rubbing your inner flesh.

They started their motion with their hips, rolling into yours and thrusting their cock deep inside your womb. They completely enveloped you with their arms gripping your waist and your own wrapped around their neck and your legs around their hips. You both fit each other perfectly and every swift movement was paced evenly. Things would always start off slow, giving you a chance to steady yourself but also to tease you. They absolutely loved to edge you, slowly watching you grow impatient before they pull orgasm after orgasm from you.

You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, huffing soft mewls with each thrust from their cock that was continuously hitting against your hidden sweet spot. They seemed to be just as lost in a haze as you were, completely aroused by how your wet cunt was pulling them back in greedily with each withdrawal.

“So pretty, you always take me so well, sweetheart,”

They dipped their head lower to capture your lips again with theirs. This kiss felt more sloppy - messy almost. They sucked on your lower lips before pulling away this time. They repositioned your legs over their shoulder, allowing them to thrust deeper into you. You wailed in delight from the sudden shock of pleasure. Their thrusts became less rhythmic and more erratic, desperate to chase their peak and fill you up.

You, on the other hand, were only sinking deeper and deeper into the couch. Your vision started to blur from the teary bliss and their movements were starting to sputter, an clear sign that they were close. Through your watery eyes you could still notice the blush that spread across their face from the high blood pressure and rapid rise of body temperature.

You felt them go balls deep with their cock twitching inside you before they finally released. They threw their head back and groaned out your name. Your legs were shaking, still resting on their shoulders with their grip on your ass, holding you in place as they filled you with every jizz ejaculating from their cock.

They collapsed onto, gently not to crush you and blow the air from your lungs from their weight. The room was now filled with your heavy pants along with the air conditioning still humming perpetually, which was now the only thing cooling your heated bodies. They lifted themselves from you, slightly sticky from sweat.

“You alright there? I’ll clean up the table if you want.” they said as they got up to collect the empty boxes from the table. You giggled slightly at the fact that they didn’t bother to put their clothes back on while doing so.

“Thank you, I’ll get the shower ready.” You finally got up as well, moving slowly from the soreness in your body and made your way to the hall.

You turned to look back at the living room, watching TK take the trash away to the joint kitchen and then you looked back at the whole square space. Your mind pictured a baby crawling around under the table and around the couches and toys littered across the floor. Perhaps you would need a bigger place if you were going to have a family.

One day, maybe one day.

[rubysunnday]

it’s a love story

a/n: this is a looonnnggg one, but i enjoyed writing it a lot. Thank you to @gryffindors-weasley who’s stories have inspired this one - if you want more sweet Colin please go read their stories!

words: 3,703

summary: Y/N has loved Colin since they were children but it was one-sided. She was content to stand aside and watch Colin move on without her. Until Marina.

Unrequited love hurt.

It was easy to lose yourself in night-time fantasies of a life with the one person you loved - dreaming of your wedding, your house and the day they confessed their feelings to you.

Y/N had loved Colin ever since she’d been a child. It’d started off as nothing more than platonic love - they’d been best friends since childhood, and they’d stayed close over the years as they both grew up and turned into something that vaguely resembled adults.

She’d never revealed how she felt to him. Y/N didn’t want to tell him and run the risk of ruining their friendship. She simply stood aside and watched him flirt with and at almost every woman in London. It never bothered her - it was how Colin was. He flirted and played around but never settled.

Until Marina.

Y/N hadn’t thought twice about how he flirted at Marina. Admittedly, it had hurt to see how close they’d been at Daphne’s wedding party and how besotted Colin seemed to be with her. But Y/N had just thought Marina was another passing fancy who would be married and vanished after the season ended.

But the garden party changed that.

She hadn’t wanted to go. Ever since Daphne’s wedding she’d been keeping her distance from Colin and the Bridgerton House in general, not wanting to set herself up for anymore heart ache and pain then what she was mentally prepared for.

As her carriage pulled up to the gardens, Y/N felt her hands begin to shake. It was ridiculous how nervous she was - nothing had even happened yet! She was just nervous to see Colin and have to disguise her feelings from him and Marina.

Before the wheels of her carriage had even stopped rolling, Eloise ran over and flung open the door, looking up at Y/N expectantly. Benedict reluctantly chased after his sister after his mother shoved him in Eloise’s vague, general direction.

Eloise squinted up at her, attempting to read Y/N’s mind. “Nope, you’re not running away,” she said, reaching up and grabbing her friends’ hand and practically pulling her out the carriage, sensing Y/N’s desire to be anywhere other than there.

“Oh, Eloise, don’t start,” Y/N complained, barely catching herself on Benedict’s outstretched arm as she missed the step entirely and lost her footing.

“If I have to suffer, you have to suffer,” Eloise replied, almost pouting.

Y/N sighed, still clutching Benedict’s arm as she regained her sense. “Eloise, I don’t want to be here. I can’t cope with... well, that,” she waved a hand in the vague general direction of where Colin was.

“And I can’t cope with my mother doing what she does best,” Eloise shot back, snatching Y/N’s hand and pulling her into the gardens. “Now, come along, dear Y/N.”

Not trusting her friend, Y/N grabbed Benedict’s hand and dragged the man along with her, ignoring his muttered complaints as he reluctantly followed after his sister.

Everything seemed to be going fine. Y/N hovered around Benedict and Anthony, making small talk with the two and strategically avoiding looking at or being in the vicinity of Colin and having to talk to him.

Every time she looked over at him, he was with Marina, smiling dumbly at something she’d said and looking stupidly doe-eyed at her.

Marina hadn’t done anything to Y/N and was probably a lovely person, but she still infuriated Y/N beyond belief for no reason at all. Her mere existence irritated her.

Benedict looked up, having asked Y/N a question that had been met with silence. He noticed her staring at Colin and nudged Y/N’s arm. “Stop staring.”

Y/N blinked and turned her head away from Colin, plucking an invisible thread off the cuff of her dress. “Thanks,” she muttered quietly. She hadn’t realised she’d been noticeably staring.

Despite never saying anything, both Eloise and Benedict - and presumably the rest of the Bridgerton household since neither sibling could keep their mouths shut - knew about Y/N’s unrequited love for Colin.

When they’d been children, Colin and Y/N had gotten ‘married’ in the back garden of Bridgerton House. It’d been a big event involving all the family and the staff and had ultimately ended in the two getting a ‘divorce’ that evening when Colin threw a carrot at Y/N. But it’d been obvious even then how perfect they were for the other.

Y/N looked up as someone gently knocked their knife against their glass. Her heart almost stopped when she realised it was Colin and that Marina was standing next to him looking very pleased.

“May I have everyone’s attention?” Colin asked as silence fell over the gathered party.

Y/N was trying not to think the worse. She could see the confusion on Anthony’s face at what his brother was about to do but Y/N knew, deep down, what was about to happen.

“I would like to make a small but important announcement,” Colin continued, practically beaming. “I have happy news to impart.”

Y/N could hear her heart beating. She knew what was coming. There was nothing else that Colin could say that would make sense and that would make Marina smile so much. She unconsciously reached out her hand and grabbed Anthony’s arm, squeezing it tightly.

“I have asked Miss Marina Thompson to be my wife, and she has accepted.”

Everyone around them gasped in delight. Benedict was smiling, Lady Featherington was beaming, and Anthony looked like he was about to throttle someone.

Y/N felt as if her entire life was falling apart in front of her. She’d lost the one thing that meant everything to her to someone else. Her grip on Anthony’s arm increased and he looked over at her.

“Smile,” Anthony whispered, despite his own surprise and anger. “And go congratulate them.”

It took a moment for Y/N’s mind to realise that Anthony had even spoken. But a moment later she nodded, plastered a smile to her face and approached Colin and Marina with false joy and gratitude despite the fact her heart was breaking apart inside her.

For the rest of the week, Y/N stayed at home. Despite the invitation being extended to her to join the Featherington’s and a few of the Bridgerton’s for dinner, she declined it, unable to bear the pain of seeing Colin and Marina stare lovingly at one another.

The seventh day of hiding dawned annoyingly early and Y/N, who felt as if she hadn’t slept in months, found herself pottering around her house with no purpose in mind.

“Miss Y/L/N.”

Y/N turned around to face her butler. “Yes, Simmons?”

“Miss Eloise Bridgerton is here to see you, ma’am. She’s refusing to leave.”

Y/N sighed and pursed her lips. “Of course, she is,” she muttered. “Where is she?”

Simmons gestured to the lounge and Y/N headed down the corridor towards the room.

“Eloise, I swear -” Y/N cut herself off abruptly at the pained yet excited look on Eloise’s face as the woman ran up to her and all but crashed into her.

“The engagement is off,” Eloise said all at once, her excitement overtaking her need to speak.

Y/N blinked. “I - what is off?”

“Colin and Marina Thompson’s engagement,” Eloise said again, elaborating a little more. Y/N blinked again. “What?”

Eloise grabbed Y/N’s hand and dragged her into the living room, thrusting the latest Lady Whistledown into her hands.

Y/N hadn't read it in the past week - every page being focused on Colin and Marina and how happy Daphne and the duke had seemed. Every description of anything related to love added insult to injury.

She scanned it quickly and stared at the words with wide eyes. The paper fell from her hands as she looked up at Eloise.

“She... she’s pregnant?” Y/N whispered, almost not daring to say it. “What, when, how - I mean, I know how but...”

“I didn’t know how,” Eloise admittedly sheepishly.

Y/N’s head shot up, Colin and Marina forgotten. “How did you not know? You grew up with three older brothers!”

Eloise shrugged. “It just... never came up. Anyway,” she fluttered the piece of paper in font of Y/N’s face, “Colin’s free.”

“Eloise -”

“What? Y/N, there is nothing standing between you and Colin.”

Y/N sighed and slowly sat down on the sofa. “Eloise, your family’s reputation is... in a treacherous position. If I’m seen flinging myself at Colin to try and benefit from this... I’m not that sort of person. Maybe in a few weeks when its all calmed down...”

Eloise looked her friend up and down. She sat down next to her and took her hand. “Okay. I don’t agree with it but, okay.”

Over the next few days, Y/N began spending more time around the Bridgerton’s, visiting their house like she had before Colin’s proposal.

All of the Bridgerton’s, bar Colin, knew why Y/N had vanished for a few days but said nothing of her sudden re-appearance. Y/N put it down to feeling ill - she tried not to fall apart when Colin asked after her with concern in his voice and worry in his eyes.

“I’m fine now,” Y/N told him, smiling. “Just a blip.”

“Good,” Colin replied, matching her smile.

Y/N sipped on her tea, casting her eyes down as she felt her stomach flutter at the sight of his smile - even if it didn’t reach his eyes. “Are you attending the Queen’s garden party tomorrow?” Y/N asked, setting her cup down on its saucer with a soft clink.

Colin nodded. “Daphne and the duke are back in town... so, yes, we’re all going to be attending. Are you...”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” Y/N replied, trying not to smile at the palpable relief that appeared on Colin’s face at her answer.

Despite everything that had happened over the past few days, Colin and Y/N’s relationship hadn’t changed. Yes, Y/N was still longing after someone she would likely never have but she’d missed her best friend too much to sulk in her own misery for much longer.

The day of the Queen’s Garden Party, Y/N joined the Bridgerton’s, walking in with the family, her arm in Colin’s.

“Isn’t this lovely?” Violet asked, smiling as she put her arm around Hyacinth. “All of us together again. And Y/N.”

Y/N laughed. “Thanks, Lady Bridgerton.”

“Yes, it’s lovely indeed. We should tempt scandal more often,” Colin muttered. He grunted lightly as Y/N elbowed him in the stomach. “Ow.”

“Hush,” Y/N replied. She was highly aware of everyone staring at them - a given considering the scandal that Marina had brought down upon the Bridgerton’s.

After a few minutes, and after the Queen had accosted Daphne and the duke, Y/N wandered off from the Bridgerton’s, mingling with the other guests and indulging herself in a glass of lemonade and a biscuit.

“Oh, Miss Y/L/N!”

Y/N closed her eyes at the shrill, grating voice of Cressida Cowper. She was the last person she’d wanted to see let along speak to. Y/N plastered a smile to her face and turned to face Cressida.

“Miss Cowper, how are you?” Y/N asked.

“I’m wonderful, thank you. I just wanted to know what you think you’re doing,” Cressida replied, her tone cheerful but the words sounded and felt forced.

Y/N frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Cressida.”

“Mr Bridgerton - Colin, I mean. You’ve been fawning all over him since the news about Miss Thompson broke -”

“I haven’t been fawning, I’ve been trying to be a good friend,” Y/N replied slowly, her frown deepening.

Cressida waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, but we all know that your ‘friendship’ is a disguise for your unrequited love for Mr Bridgerton.”

The empty glass in Y/N’s hand all most fell to the floor, but she kept a tight grip on it as she looked at Cressida. “Excuse me?”

“Well, it’s well known that you are in love with Colin and that he doesn’t know. And if he did, well, that would be your friendship over, wouldn’t! Perhaps you are even Lady Whistledown and wrote that article on Miss Thompson to have Colin all to yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying here, Cressida -”

“Oh, I’m not implying anything, Y/N,” Cressida replied, smiling slyly. “We both know the truth about your relationship with Colin. I just can’t imagine how hurt he would be if Lady Whistledown turned out to be you. Besides, it’s not like you actually think he could possibly love you? You don’t deserve him.”

“Is everything alright, Y/N?” Colin asked, stepping into the conversation and putting a hand on the small of Y/N’s back.

Y/N turned her head away and, despite the tightness in her throat, swallowed and smiled. “Yes, Miss Cowper was just leaving,” she said firmly.

Cressida all but stamped her foot as she turned and flounced off. Colin watched her go and then turned back to Y/N, frowning in concern. He was no stranger to the stings Cressida and her mother often gave out to the Ton.

“What was that about?” Colin asked. “I didn’t really hear much -”

“Nothing,” Y/N cut in. Colin’s hand was still resting on her back and she could feel the heat of his hand seeping through the light pink silk of her dress. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t just be friends and pretend her feelings didn’t exist when they did.  She took a shaky breath in, clenching her lace gloved hands tightly as they shook. “Excuse me.”

Ignoring Colin’s worried and hurt expression, Y/N stepped away from him and walked off towards the back of the gardens in search for some peace and quiet.

Y/N found a small side garden amongst the hedges and darted into it, kicking the small white picket fence gate shut behind her - forming a very pathetic barrier that Colin could probably climb over.

Cressida had always had the ability to get under her skin. Normally she would simply forget and move on with her day but everything Cressida had said - minus the Lady Whistledown accusation - was true.

She didn’t deserve Colin. That was partly why she’d been so content to let him marry Marina - because she didn’t deserve him. And why would he love her? Compared to Marina and every other women Colin had flirted at or with, she wasn’t much of anything.

“Y/N?”

Y/N closed her eyes at the sound of Colin’s voice, mentally wishing him away. She refused to turn around and face him - she could feel the emotions beginning to win over her and could feel her eyes burning.

“Y/N, what’s wrong? What did Cressida say?” Colin asked, walking up to her and putting a hand on her back where the fabric was nothing more than a sheer covering.

Y/N could feel the heat of his skin and the soft skin of his hand and suddenly wanted him to just go away and never speak to her again because it would make things so much easier.

“Nothing that wasn’t true,” Y/N said softly, a stray tear escaping her eye and dripping on to her cheek. She felt Colin still and knew he’d heard at least some of what Cressida had said. “You heard, didn’t you?” Y/N asked quietly.

Colin didn’t answer for a moment. “I... I heard the last few sentences.”

Y/N laughed humourlessly. “Of course, you did,” she said, her laugh mixing with sobs. She turned around to face her best friend with tears in her eyes.

Colin looked at her, stunned by the broken expression on her face. In the years he’d known her, the only time he’d seen her that broken had been when her mother had passed away and she’d sobbed into his arms all night. “Y/N/N...”

“No,” Y/N stepped to the side, away from Colin’s outstretched hand. “No, I’m sorry.” She inhaled sharply. “I can’t... I can’t do this. I know - I can’t.”

Colin lunged forward and grabbed Y/N’s wrist as she turned to go, yanking her to a halt and forcing her to look at him. “Y/N, wait.”

“What, Colin? So, you can make fun of the fact that I’ve been on love with my best friend since I was sixteen?”

“No, I just... I need an explanation - I need someone to explain because my head is spinning,” Colin replied. “I don’t understand.”

Y/N sniffed, looking down at the grass. “You own my heart, Colin,” she said simply. She looked up. “When I dream of my future it's with you. You are the person I want to spend the rest of my life with - the one I see myself loving until I die.”

Y/N paused, swallowing down the tears that wanted to fall. She had to say this now, to get it over with and make it clear. Even though it was physically hurting her. “And I know you don’t feel the same way so, we can just leave this here. Nothing else has to be said about it. I’ll leave and we don’t have to speak of this again - or even see each other if that’s what you want.”

Colin said nothing. He was too stunned and surprised by the sudden confession and the events of the past few days to form a sentence. Y/N nodded sadly, taking his silence as her answer, and left the gardens.

She tried to hide her tear-stained face and broken heart as she emerged back into the main party. She’d arrived with the Bridgerton’s and had no way of getting home without them. Y/N spotted Anthony near the entrance and quickly made her way over to him, desperate to leave before anyone cornered her or spoke to her.

“Anthony,” Y/N said softly, nudging his arm.

Anthony turned around as the people he had been talking to walked off. It took him all of thirty seconds to take in her teary eyes, her shaking hands and the broken look on her face. “Y/N...”

“I’d like to go home, please,” she said quietly, her voice breaking on the last few words.

Anthony, to his credit, didn’t ask why. He nodded and took her arm, steering her out the garden. He caught Benedict as they passed, the two sharing a quick and quiet conversation. She caught the pitying stare Benedict gave her, the simple action making her tears free fall once again.

The carriage they had arrived in wasn’t waiting out front for them. Anthony looked around for it but saw no sign.

“I’ll be back, are you alright to stay here?”

“I’ll be fine,” Y/N replied, nodding.

Anthony squeezed her shoulder and walked off with a determined stride to find their carriage.

“Y/N!”

Y/N closed her eyes and turned around. “Colin, don’t -”

Colin skidded to a halt in front of Y/N, scattering the pebbles of the driveway with his sudden stop. He was panting, as if he’d ran from the garden to the driveway without stopping.

“Just, listen,” he said, cutting her off. “I... I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say.”

“I know, you don’t like me, it’s fine -”

“Will you,” Colin walked forward until he was inches away from her, “just listen?” He took her gloved hand and held it in his. “I didn’t say anything because you caught me entirely off guard. The past few days have been chaos and I need a moment to think. Because the last thing I expected was you to declare your love to me in a garden on a random Thursday. The truth is, Y/N, is that I have loved you ever since we had our wedding in the gardens of my house.”

Y/N let out a snort of laughter despite her tears. “I thought you didn’t want me,” she said softly, looking up at him. “Why would you? I don’t deserve you -”

“That,” Colin said, putting a hand on Y/N’s cheek and wiping away the tears with the pad of his thumb, “sounds suspiciously like the words of a Cowper. Y/N, I love you. I thought you didn’t want me!”

Y/N laughed tearfully and leant into Colin’s hand, still resting on her cheek. “We’re idiots.”

“That we are,” Colin agreed, nodding. “Y/N... the way I feel when I’m with you... there is nothing on this earth that is comparable. I’ve been waiting my entire life for you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I thought Marina would be the one to make me forget you but every time I looked at her... I thought of you. I thought about how much I want to kiss you -”

“Then kiss me,” Y/N said, her voice not much more than a whisper. “And make it a good one, Colin.”

And suddenly his lips were on hers and there was a hunger and a need as he kissed her. His hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her against his chest. Y/N’s hand went to the back of his head, her fingers combing through his curls. She could feel his heart pounding and could feel the warmth from his skin as his hand moved up her back.

It was years of waiting and pining and wanting the other. Y/N needed Colin like she needed to breathe, and Colin needed Y/N like he needed water to live.

Y/N reluctantly pulled away from Colin, her hand still in his hair. She rested her forehead against his. “I love you.”

Colin rested his forehead on hers. He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again, staring at her. His hand was on her waist and the other one was on the back of her neck, stroking the skin gently. “I love you too.”

“So... are we organising another wedding?”

Y/N dropped her head on to Colin’s shoulder at the sound of Anthony’s voice and groaned loudly.  “Seriously, Anthony?!”

“You two kissed in the driveway,” Anthony pointed out, crossing his arms and attempting to look intimidating despite the stupid grin on his face. “Now, are we going or staying, because I’ve still yet to find our carriage.”

“We can stay,” Y/N replied, her hand entwined with Colin’s. “And when we walk back in there, we’re going to break the Ton.”