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Charles squints at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen, but not pressing anything. The grainy concert footage is paused — mid-encore, strobe lights bleeding red and gold, the crowd a blur of swaying bodies.
It’s a fan’s shaky video. Some girl’s high-pitched scream echoes through the speakers: “MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST LOOKED AT ME-” before she gets drowned out by the next beat drop. Red Bull, the band, not the energy drink company, is finishing their biggest song. Max’s voice rasps like velvet dragged across asphalt. It’s all very cinematic.
But Charles can’t look at Max. Can’t even hear the song, really.
His eyes are fixed on the left side of the frame. On the couple.
Carlos. And Lando.
Frozen in a too-close hug. Carlos’s hand low on Lando’s back. Lando’s mouth moving against Carlos’s ear. Carlos grinning like he’s just won a fucking Nobel. They look happy. Like they’re somewhere warm. Somewhere private.
But they’re not. They’re in the front row. Of a stadium. In Madrid.
Charles’ living room, thousands of kilometers away, feels suddenly too small.
He rewinds it again. Watches the moment the camera pans just enough. Just a few seconds. Long enough. Too long.
He plays it one more time. Just to be sure he’s not hallucinating. Just to double-check.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
The glass in his hand clinks against the marble countertop. He doesn’t remember filling it. Doesn’t remember pouring the rosé either. It’s Carlos’s favorite. Bought it out of habit, apparently.
His phone lights up beside him. A text from Arthur.
you okay?
Another from Joris.
don’t look at the video. we’ll talk tmrw.
Too late.
Then the group chat starts pinging. First Andrea, then Pierre, then Lorenzo. All variations of the same sentiment:
pls call us.
i’m so sorry char.
fuck. fuck. FUCK.
Charles stares at the screen. The text bubbles blur. His heart beats somewhere behind his throat.
He replays it one last time. This time, it doesn’t freeze. He lets it roll.
Carlos doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t hesitate. Just leans in, presses his face against Lando’s neck like he’s done it a thousand times. The crowd screams louder. Fireworks explode above the stage.
Somewhere, Max is singing about love being a battlefield or some shit.
Charles turns off the TV.
He doesn’t cry. He just … sits.
***
The front door slams open thirty-seven minutes later.
“Charles, baby, I can explain-”
“Don’t call me that.”
Carlos freezes halfway into the living room. His jaw clenches. His hair’s still wet from a shower, his shirt half-tucked like he dressed in a panic. He must’ve come straight from the jet.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “Just … just let me talk, yeah?”
Charles crosses his arms. His voice is eerily steady. “Were you ever even in Geneva?”
“I-” Carlos licks his lips. “Yes. I was. I flew to Madrid afterward.”
“For business.”
“Yes.”
“And the business involved tongue in Lando Norris’s ear?”
Carlos flinches. “It’s not like that.”
“You were supposed to be at a board meeting. Not front-row at a Red Bull concert with your Chief People Officer rubbing your back like you’re his fucking soulmate!”
“You don’t know what happened-”
Charles laughs — sharp and humorless. “I saw what happened. So did the entire internet.”
Carlos opens his mouth. Then closes it. Like he’s finally realizing there’s no salvaging this moment.
Charles doesn’t move. “You didn’t even tell me you were back.”
“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”
“Wow.” Charles throws his arms up. “So you cheat, you lie, and somehow I’m the one who should be making you feel comfortable?”
“I didn’t mean to lie-”
“Were you going to tell me at all?”
Carlos hesitates.
“Wow,” Charles repeats. “You weren’t.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Carlos says, stepping closer.
“Oh, fuck off,” Charles snaps. “You didn’t want to get caught. That’s not the same thing.”
Carlos drags a hand through his hair. “Lando and I … it just happened. It wasn’t planned.”
“It never is, right?”
“We’ve been … talking. A lot. It started when things with us got hard.”
Charles’ face goes blank. “When did things get hard, Carlos? Was it when I supported your company for five years? Was it when I gave up my own job to move to Zurich with you? Was it when I got you the Santander deal through Lorenzo? When, exactly, did I become such a burden you had to start sleeping with your employee?”
“I didn’t sleep with him!”
“Oh, congratulations. You only dry-humped him in public! So much better.”
Carlos’s eyes flicker with something — shame? Regret? Exhaustion?
Whatever it is, Charles doesn’t want to see it.
“I should’ve told you,” Carlos mutters.
“You think?”
“I was going to … I just didn’t know how.”
“You say that like we’re teenagers. We’re married.”
Carlos exhales. “I know.”
“I took vows.”
“I know.”
Charles’ voice wobbles, finally, for the first time. “I meant them.”
Carlos is silent.
The quiet is too loud.
Finally, Carlos says, “We haven’t been happy in a long time, Charles.”
Charles blinks. The room tilts slightly, like the words were a shove to the chest.
“You haven’t,” he whispers. “Don’t speak for me.”
“I didn’t mean it like that-”
“I would’ve fought for us,” Charles says, stepping back. “You didn’t even try.”
“I didn’t know how.”
“Well, you figured out how to hold Lando’s hand in public, so I think you’re smarter than you let on.”
Carlos sighs, rubbing his temples. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Twist everything. Make me the villain.”
Charles laughs. “You cheated on me. On camera. And you’re mad I’m not handling it with grace?”
“I’m not mad-”
“You are. You’re pissed because I’m not crying. You thought I’d fall apart. That I’d beg you to stay. But guess what?” Charles’ voice is sharp now, rising. “You’re not the love of my life. You’re just the mistake I made in my early twenties!”
Carlos flinches like he’s been slapped.
Good.
“I hope you and Lando are very happy,” Charles says, quieter now. Cold. Clean. “I really do. But if I ever see him at my events again, I swear to God-”
“I’ll talk to him,” Carlos cuts in quickly. “He won’t show.”
“Damn right he won’t.”
They stare at each other for a long, heavy beat.
Finally, Carlos says, “So … that’s it?”
Charles nods. “That’s it.”
“Just like that?”
“Nothing about this was just like that,” Charles says. “You made a hundred choices before that video ever went live. You just thought I’d never find out.”
Carlos swallows. His voice cracks a little. “I did love you.”
“I believe you.”
“Still do, maybe.”
Charles smiles, just barely. “Then you’re an idiot.”
And with that, he turns away. Walks to the door. Opens it wide.
Carlos hesitates in the hallway.
“Can I call you tomorrow?” He asks.
“No.”
“Can I-”
“You can go, Carlos.”
Carlos doesn’t argue. Doesn’t apologize again. Just picks up his coat. Leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him.
Charles leans against it. Closes his eyes. Breathes.
The silence wraps around him like a second skin.
And then-
The fucking app auto-plays the next video.
A clip from the same concert.
Red Bull, on stage. Max Verstappen front and center. Hair sweaty, eyes wild. He’s shirtless now — of course — and he’s belting the bridge of Smoke and Mirrors like it’s gospel.
Charles opens his eyes.
The camera pans to the crowd again.
Carlos isn’t in this one. Neither is Lando.
Just Max. Just the song. Just-
“We were glass, you and I. Beautiful, brittle, and bound to break.”
Charles lets the song play.
The headlines come fast. Faster than the lawyers. Faster than the truth.
Sainz Scandal: CEO Caught in Cheating Scandal at Red Bull Concert
Charles Leclerc Files for Divorce — Sources Say ‘It’s Going to Be Bloody’
Smooth Operation, Rough Fallout
Lando Norris Allegedly Transferred to South American Branch After Affair Leak
They print it all. The kiss. The video. The fact that Carlos was meant to be in Geneva. The plane manifest that said Madrid. The fan footage. The grainy TikToks. The hotel receipts.
Then the lawyers step in.
Charles doesn’t even flinch when they ask for war.
***
“We want the villa in Lake Como,” says Claire, one of his two attorneys. Her hair is long, silver, and terrifying. “And the apartment in Zurich. The ski chalet in Verbier, obviously. But more importantly, we want liquidity.”
Charles stares at his coffee, still wearing yesterday’s hoodie. “What’s liquidity?”
“Cash.”
“Ah.”
“We want at least seven hundred million. Minimum.”
Charles’ head jerks up. “That much?”
Claire nods. “It’s yours by law. You helped build the company, even if not on paper. We’ll argue intellectual contribution. Spousal support. Emotional damages. The judge will eat it up.”
Charles leans back in his chair. “You make me sound like a widow.”
“You’re a betrayed husband. That’s even more marketable.”
The other lawyer, François, taps his pen against a legal pad. “Are you sure you want to file this publicly?”
Charles blinks. “What’s the alternative?”
“Arbitration. Confidential. No media.”
Charles shakes his head. “No. He made a public fool of me. He can live with a public divorce.”
Claire grins. “Perfect. I love vengeance.”
***
Carlos tries to call. A lot.
Charles doesn’t pick up. Not once.
He does, however, answer Arthur one night. Two a.m., sleepless and wide-eyed in bed.
“Hey,” Arthur says gently. “Just checking in. How are you?”
Charles snorts. “Public property.”
Arthur doesn’t laugh. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You warned me about him three years ago.”
“I’m still sorry.”
There’s a pause.
Charles sighs. “I’m tired, Art. I didn’t want this. I wanted a life. I wanted, fuck, I wanted boring.”
“You don’t do boring,” Arthur says. “Even when you try.”
Charles smiles, weak and barely there. “Apparently not.”
***
By the second week, Charles can’t leave his building.
Paparazzi camp outside the lobby like it’s a war zone. Flashes explode like gunfire every time someone opens the front doors. His doorman, Manuel, has started slipping him croissants through the side exit.
“You’re like Princess Diana,” Manuel whispers, handing over a brown paper bag. “But French.”
“Monégasque,” Charles corrects, deadpan.
“Right. You want a body double? My cousin’s the same height.”
“Tempting.”
Still, he doesn’t go out.
Not because of the cameras. Not really.
Because of the silence inside.
Everywhere he turns, there’s some echo of Carlos. The desk they picked together. The Italian wine glasses they used once and never again. The stupid velvet throw pillows that matched nothing but came as a set.
He used to think their apartment was warm.
Now it feels like an empty film set. All surface. No soul.
***
It takes less than a month.
Carlos caves.
Charles’ lawyers get everything they asked for. Real estate. Investments. The yacht Carlos used for that awful photoshoot with GQ. And the cash. Seven hundred million, neatly wired, like an apology that came with a receipt.
Carlos doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t argue in court. Doesn’t beg.
He just signs.
A clean, easy betrayal. Signed and sealed.
Claire calls to congratulate him. François sends him a fruit basket.
Charles stares at the email confirming the divorce decree and feels absolutely nothing.
No victory. No peace.
Just absence.
***
The statement comes after GQ publishes an op-ed titled:
Charles Leclerc: The Beautiful Boy We Let Bleed
Claire calls him immediately.
“We need a rebuttal. Public. Controlled. Emotional, but polished. You don’t want to look bitter. Just … tragic. Honest.”
“I don’t want to say anything.”
“You have to. Or they’ll keep making you a myth.”
So, three days later, Charles stands behind a podium outside the courthouse, wearing a black suit that doesn’t feel like his.
There are six cameras. Two dozen microphones. An entire street cordoned off.
His publicist hands him a note.
He folds it. Doesn’t use it.
He looks up. Faces them all.
“My name is Charles Leclerc.”
The flashes begin.
“I was married. I loved my husband. I believed in him. I believed in us.”
A murmur rolls through the crowd.
“I found out about the affair the same way you did. Through a video. A fan video. At a concert.”
He swallows. Tightens his fingers on the podium’s edge.
“It was humiliating. But more than that … it was heartbreaking. Because I wasn’t just betrayed by someone I loved — I was erased. Silently. Slowly. Without being told. And that’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
The cameras go quiet. Even the clicking slows.
“I didn’t ask for this spotlight. I didn’t want it. But if being visible means reminding people that dignity matters — that loving someone doesn’t mean letting them shatter you — then fine. I’ll be visible.”
He looks directly into the first camera.
“Divorce isn’t failure. It’s choice. And I choose myself.”
He walks off before they can ask questions.
Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t stumble.
The clip goes viral within twenty minutes.
***
Overnight, Charles becomes a symbol.
#JusticeForCharles trends on Twitter. Dior sends him flowers. Harry Styles reposts the speech on his story with a white heart. Someone starts selling Divorce Isn’t Failure tote bags.
The media calls it “The Leclerc Effect.”
He calls it hell.
***
“You’re so brave,” a woman tells him in line at the pharmacy.
He’s buying shampoo. And magnesium supplements.
He blinks. “Thanks.”
“You inspired me to dump my fiancé,” she continues cheerfully. “I caught him liking feet pics on Reddit.”
Charles stares. “Good for you?”
“Can I get a selfie?”
He takes the photo. Smiles. Walks out before she can ask anything else.
***
It’s the quiet moments that hurt the most.
Like Tuesday at 4 p.m., when he walks past the café where they used to fight about stupid things — curtains, pasta shapes, whether oysters count as a meal.
Or the night he tries to watch Howl’s Moving Castle and realizes halfway through he can’t. It’s their movie. Their Sunday night comfort. Carlos cried every time at the end. Said it reminded him of being understood.
Charles turns it off before Calcifer even lights the hearth.
He eats yogurt standing up in the kitchen instead.
***
Arthur visits one weekend with a six-pack and a tub of lasagna.
“You look thin.”
“I’m independently rich now.”
“That’s not how nutrition works.”
Charles shrugs.
They eat in the living room, legs tangled on the couch. Halfway through his second beer, Arthur says, “You’re allowed to be angry, you know.”
“I am angry.”
“No, you’re sad. And embarrassed. That’s not the same.”
Charles tips his head back against the cushion. “What good does anger do?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You could start by smashing that painting he bought you. The ugly one with the geese.”
“It’s not geese, it’s cranes.”
“Exactly.”
Charles laughs. Just once. “Fine. Maybe I’m a little angry.”
“There he is.”
***
The next week, a journalist calls his publicist.
They want him on the cover of Vanity Fair.
He almost says yes.
Almost.
But then he pictures it — his face airbrushed into a lie. His pain sold as narrative. His heartbreak as high fashion.
“No,” he tells them.
And for the first time in weeks, it feels like a real choice.
***
By the end of month three, things … settle.
The press moves on. Sort of. They still publish blurry photos of him at brunch. Still speculate when he’s seen with anyone male, breathing within three feet of him.
But it’s quieter now.
Less like drowning.
He gets used to being alone again. Used to silence. Used to ordering food for one.
He starts sleeping on the other side of the bed. Not because he wants to, but because he needs to prove he can.
His therapist calls it reclaiming space.
He calls it survival.
***
And yet, some nights, he still replays that moment. That freeze-frame of Carlos and Lando, front-row and euphoric.
Some part of him still wants it to be a mistake. Still wants to believe in the version of his life where Carlos never let go.
But that version doesn’t exist anymore.
It probably never did.
And slowly, gently, that realization becomes less of a stab, more of a scar.
***
One night, he’s scrolling aimlessly when a clip from that same Red Bull concert pops up. Not that video. Another one. The same song — Smoke and Mirrors — but filmed from backstage this time.
There’s Max Verstappen. Still shirtless. Still wild-eyed and drenched in sweat. The crowd’s roaring his name like a religion.
Max grabs the mic, laughing between verses.
“You ever fall in love with someone you knew was a bad idea?” He shouts. The audience screams back.
“Yeah, same,” he says. Then smirks. “But they never write songs like this about the safe ones.”
The guitars shred. Lights flash. Max howls the next line like a dare.
Charles watches, hypnotized.
He doesn’t know why he watches the whole thing.
Doesn’t know why he saves it.
But he does.
Monte Carlo glows like it’s been dressed for him.
The streets are slick with rain that never quite fell. Gold lights thread the balconies, weaving between palm trees and lamp posts like a promise. Music hums through the air like the whole city’s been tuned to some private frequency. The air smells like salt and summer perfume and something new trying to begin.
It’s his first night out since the divorce. A week since the statement was signed, stamped, finalized.
A clean break, they called it. As if there’s ever anything clean about bleeding out.
But tonight, Charles is not bleeding.
Tonight, he is surrounded by the only three people on Earth who could’ve dragged him out of his penthouse:
Pierre Gasly, his longtime chaos merchant; Andrea Ferrari, his stylist-slash-emotional interpreter; and Joris Trouche, his unflinching assistant who knows when to hand him tissues and when to hand him tequila.
“I’m just saying,” Pierre says, halfway through his third espresso martini, “you should get a revenge tattoo. Preferably on your ass. His initials, but with a line through them.”
“I don’t think that’s how healing works,” Joris deadpans.
“Yeah, well, neither is your idea of signing him up for a spam newsletter,” Pierre shoots back. “Honestly, grow up.”
“That newsletter was a public service,” Joris says. “He needs to know about male pattern baldness.”
Andrea sips something clear and elegant, perched like a cat in a throne. “If we’re going for revenge aesthetics, I vote post-divorce haircut. Something shocking. Bleached, maybe.”
Charles groans. “Bleached?”
“Like symbolic rebirth,” Andrea insists. “Phoenix chic.”
“I don’t want to look like Draco Malfoy on drugs.”
“I do,” Pierre says. “You’d kill it.”
“I already killed it,” Charles mutters. “My entire marriage.”
The joke lands flat.
Andrea’s eyes flick to him, sharp and sympathetic. “Hey. You didn’t kill anything. You escaped it.”
“I know,” Charles says, and maybe he does.
He fingers the stem of his wine glass. Rosé again. He doesn’t know why he keeps ordering it.
“I just keep waiting to feel … free,” he admits.
Pierre leans forward. “You will. Probably not tonight. But soon.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’ll meet someone new, sleep with them once, cry about it, and then suddenly it’ll be two years later and you’ll have a fat dachshund named after a wine and a questionable back tattoo.”
Charles snorts. “That’s very specific.”
“It’s called manifesting.”
Joris sighs. “Do not let him get a dog.”
“I would be an excellent father,” Pierre insists. “Look at my plants.”
“Dead.”
“They died with grace.”
Andrea waves them off. “We’re not doing trauma-through-pets tonight. We’re doing rebirth. Fire. Glamour. Glitter. Sex, maybe.”
“Sex?” Charles arches a brow.
“If you want to be reborn, you have to burn a little first,” Andrea says, eyes gleaming. “Just don’t fuck another celebrity. That never ends well.”
“He should fuck a celebrity,” Pierre counters. “Just a hotter one.”
“God, not this again,” Joris mutters.
“I’m just saying,” Pierre continues, “Charles deserves a full romcom arc. Fall for someone surprising. Someone sexy. Someone with depth. Like — what’s that singer’s name? The one with the voice and the … eyes and the … attitude.”
Andrea tilts his head. “Max Verstappen?”
Pierre points at him. “Yes. Max Verstappen. He has chaos sex energy.”
Charles laughs into his drink. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you’d hate him in all the best ways,” Pierre says, practically bouncing. “You’d argue, then have hate sex, then develop a mutual respect, and then you’d probably fight in public, but it would end with a passionate kiss in the rain.”
“Max Verstappen is not my type.”
“Everyone says that until he sings to them live.”
“He’s not even in Monaco that often,” Charles says.
Andrea’s mouth curls. “He’s here right now.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I have eyes, darling. And Instagram.”
Pierre’s phone buzzes. He glances at it and groans. “Oh my God. He’s here.”
Charles stiffens. “Carlos?”
“No, worse. James.”
“James Vowles?” Joris blinks. “Why is that worse?”
“Because he’s going to start telling everyone he knew the marriage wouldn’t last after he saw Charles microwave water for tea.”
“I mean, that’s valid,” Andrea says.
Charles exhales through his nose. “Should we leave?”
“No,” Joris says firmly. “You are not leaving your own city to avoid your ex’s fanboys.”
Andrea points toward the bar. “You’re going to finish your drink. You’re going to smile. And you’re going to remind everyone that Charles Leclerc does not fall — he ascends.”
Charles gives him a look. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Andrea says. “It’s Monaco.”
The rooftop bar is half-outdoors, all glass and elegance and expensive air. The crowd pulses around them, slow and low like honey, too rich to spill. Laughter floats like bubbles. The DJ transitions into something beat-heavy and decadent.
Charles leans back, lets the night breathe around him.
It almost feels normal.
Almost.
Then the bartender appears.
He’s young, pretty, and trying to keep a neutral expression. He places a drink in front of Charles — dark, complex, and topped with a twist of orange.
“Compliments of the gentleman over there,” he says.
Pierre chokes on his martini.
Andrea leans forward like a bloodhound. “Where?”
The bartender subtly tilts his head.
All four turn.
And there he is.
Max Verstappen.
Leaning at the end of the bar, all black shirt and stormcloud eyes. Glass in hand. Expression unreadable.
He lifts his drink toward Charles.
Not a smirk. Not a wink. Just a look. Direct. Undeniable.
Pierre’s jaw drops.
“No fucking way.”
Charles blinks. “It’s probably not even for me.”
“It’s for you,” Andrea says instantly. “Trust me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s still looking at you.”
Joris whistles under his breath. “Damn.”
Pierre grabs Charles’ wrist. “You have to go over there.”
“I’m not going over there.”
“Then drink the cocktail. Show you’re intrigued.”
“I’m not intrigued.”
“You’re very intrigued,” Andrea says. “I can feel it radiating off you.”
Charles glances down at the glass.
It’s not rosé. It smells like bourbon. Something rich. Something deliberate.
“I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s probably a metaphor,” Andrea says.
Pierre grins. “Or poison. Honestly, either would be iconic.”
Joris tilts his head. “Are we sure this is a good idea?”
“No,” Andrea says.
“Yes,” Pierre says.
Charles doesn’t say anything.
The bar hums around them, heat and breath and the pulse of a city that never really sleeps.
Max doesn’t look away.
Charles picks up the drink.
He raises it — just barely.
Max nods, almost imperceptible.
Charles brings the glass to his lips.
Takes a sip.
The bourbon bites. Then melts.
And suddenly, the night changes.
“Don’t turn around,” Pierre hisses, immediately turning around. “He’s coming over.”
Charles doesn’t flinch. He swirls the rest of his drink, bourbon amber in the low light. The ice clinks, loud against the bass vibrating through the booth.
Andrea, who is very obviously watching the approach through his sunglasses like they’re a periscope, murmurs, “God, he walks like a threat.”
“He walks like a man who has never been told no,” Pierre mutters. “I should hate it. But I don’t.”
“Can I help you?” Joris asks as a shadow looms at the edge of the booth.
Max Verstappen stands there, all smolder and slow-burn confidence, like he owns every inch of the rooftop and knows it. His black shirt is unbuttoned just enough to be intentional. His smile isn’t a smile — it’s a dare.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Max says, voice low, gritty, somehow intimate even over the music. “But I thought it’d be rude not to say hello. Since I did send the drink.”
Charles doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer right away. He watches Max with the same energy one might reserve for a rattlesnake … or a match held too close to dry paper.
“Bold of you,” he says at last.
Max grins, slow and dangerous. “Would you have preferred subtle?”
Pierre, to his credit, bites the inside of his cheek and says nothing. Barely.
Andrea, with the elegance of a seasoned escape artist, stands. “Well. I need a cigarette.”
“Me too,” Pierre says, jumping up so quickly he nearly kicks the table.
Charles glares at them both. “You’re abandoning me?”
Andrea grabs Joris by the hand. “You’ll thank me later.”
Within seconds, Charles is alone. With him.
Max slides into the booth with the easy entitlement of someone who’s never once been told he doesn’t belong. He sets down his glass, something dark and sharp, and leans forward.
“Nice suit,” he says.
Charles lifts an eyebrow. “You can’t even see it. The table’s blocking half of it.”
Max smirks. “The good half’s still visible.”
Charles stares. “Is that your idea of flirting?”
“Would it work if it was?”
“Not even close.”
Max leans back. “Then no. Just honesty.”
Charles takes another sip of his drink. He should ask Max to leave. Should shut this down before it spins into something messy. But curiosity presses heavier than caution.
“You really thought sending a drink was the best approach?” Charles asks.
“It worked.”
“Barely.”
“But it did.” Max’s eyes gleam. “You’re still sitting here. With me.”
Charles exhales a laugh, sharp-edged. “You are infuriatingly self-assured.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I can call you worse.”
Max’s grin flashes like a knife. “Please do.”
They stare at each other — heat under tension, the kind that doesn’t ask permission.
Max breaks the silence first, tipping his head. “So. Did it taste good?”
Charles blinks. “What?”
“The drink.”
“Oh.” He glances at his glass. “Yeah. Surprisingly.”
“I asked them to make something strong. No sugar. No frills. No bullshit.”
“How poetic.”
“I don’t like pretending,” Max says, and this time the heat is stripped out of his tone. “You probably get enough of that already.”
Charles blinks.
And just like that, the entire temperature between them shifts.
Gone is the smug flirtation. What’s left is something stranger. Something real.
Charles doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
“You’re not going to ask about the divorce?” He asks, guarded.
Max shrugs. “Why would I?”
“Everyone else does.”
“I’m not everyone else.”
Charles tilts his head. “You’re not even going to say you’re sorry?”
Max laughs — really laughs, low and throaty and unexpected. “Do you want me to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then no,” Max says. “I won’t. I don’t know what happened between you and Carlos. But I know it’s none of my business. And I sure as fuck know I’m not sorry for sending you a drink.”
Charles narrows his eyes. “You think that makes you charming.”
“No,” Max says. “I think it makes me honest. Which is apparently a novelty around here.”
Charles studies him. The sharp cheekbones. The scar just below his jawline. The tired edge behind his eyes like he hasn’t slept properly in days.
“You don’t strike me as the sensitive type,” he says.
“And you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who drinks bourbon in public,” Max counters. “But here we are.”
Charles snorts. “I usually don’t.”
“Because of Carlos?”
Charles doesn’t answer.
“Right,” Max says. “Rosé, wasn’t it?”
Charles blinks. “How do you-”
“I read,” Max says simply. “And I pay attention.”
“To what?”
“To people. Especially the ones everyone else is turning into symbols.”
Charles falters.
There it is again. That unblinking directness. The refusal to play into pity or pretense. Max doesn’t lean in with concern. He doesn’t reach for Charles like he’s some delicate thing.
He looks at him like a man. Not a tragedy.
It’s … disarming.
Charles sets down his glass. “So, what? You saw the headlines and thought I needed saving?”
“No,” Max says. “I saw the headlines and thought you looked like someone who needed someone real to talk to.”
Charles barks a laugh. “And that’s you?”
Max grins. “I’m the realest motherfucker in this bar.”
“You’re also the cockiest.”
“Maybe,” Max says. “But I don’t lie. I don’t pretend to care when I don’t. And when I do care, I don’t hide it.”
Charles eyes him. “You expect me to believe you care?”
Max holds his gaze. “I don’t know yet. But I’m interested. And I think you are too.”
A beat.
Then another.
And another.
Charles breaks it with a question. “Do you always do this?”
“What’s ‘this’?”
“Turn people into a song before you even know their middle name.”
Max’s expression flickers. Just for a second. Then steadies.
“Only if they’re worth it,” he says.
Charles exhales, slow. He’s not sure whether he’s annoyed or impressed.
Maybe both.
Definitely both.
Max sips his drink. Then, quietly: “You’re allowed to be pissed off, you know.”
“I am pissed off.”
“You hide it well.”
“I’ve had practice.”
Max nods once. “I don’t think he deserved you.”
Charles bristles. “You don’t know anything about us.”
“No,” Max says. “But I know what it looks like when someone stops seeing you. And you haven’t been seen in a long time.”
That stops Charles cold.
It’s too accurate. Too fast. Too much.
He looks away.
Max doesn’t press.
Instead, after a few seconds, he asks, “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”
Charles looks back at him.
There’s no smirk on Max’s face. No arrogance. Just an open question, offered without pressure.
Somewhere quieter.
It could mean anything.
Could mean trouble.
Could mean escape.
Could mean nothing at all.
Charles thinks about the apartment. The silence waiting for him. The empty wine glasses in the sink. The echo of a voice that doesn’t live there anymore.
He turns back to Max.
“Yes,” he says.
Max’s smile, when it comes, is slow and sure.
He stands. Offers a hand.
Charles doesn’t take it.
But he stands, too.
And follows.
The photo hits the internet before Charles even wakes up.
It's not grainy. It’s not distant. It’s perfect — snapped with precision from someone’s iPhone, maybe a bartender, maybe some sharp-eyed influencer who knows gold when they see it. Charles and Max, walking down the steps from the rooftop bar. Max in all black, brooding as ever. Charles in that sleek navy suit Andrea forced him into, hand in his pocket, head tilted toward Max just enough to look intimate.
Too intimate.
The caption does the rest.
Leclerc Spotted Leaving Rooftop Bar with Verstappen. New Romance or Revenge?
By the time Charles checks his phone, the story’s everywhere.
Joris sends the article link at 8:04 a.m.
Andrea sends six fire emojis at 8:07.
Arthur calls at 8:11.
“Tell me you didn’t sleep with him.”
Charles answers mid-toothbrush. “Good morning to you too.”
“Don’t deflect. Did you?”
“No.”
“But you left with him.”
Charles spits into the sink. “And?”
Arthur exhales like a disappointed father. “Charles.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything smart either. Do you have any idea how this looks?”
Charles swipes the toothpaste foam off his mouth. “Like I left a bar with someone.”
Arthur groans. “It looks like you’re using him to piss off Carlos. It looks petty. It looks-”
“I am pissed off!” Charles snaps.
Silence on the line.
Arthur softens. “I know. I know you are. But you’re also being watched. Everything you do now is public. Max Verstappen is chaotic. And this … thing with him? It could bite you in the ass.”
Charles leans on the bathroom counter. “It wasn’t a thing.”
“Yet.”
Charles doesn’t answer.
Because the truth is — it wasn’t a thing. They walked. Talked. Sat by the water at Port Hercules, just the two of them and the sea and a bottle of wine Max stole from a kitchen he “knew the owner of.” They didn’t kiss. Didn’t touch.
But Max had asked questions no one else had asked.
And Charles had answered them.
It was … quiet. And honest. And somehow louder than anything he’s done in months.
Arthur’s voice breaks the quiet. “Just be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“No, you’re good at pretending to be careful,” Arthur corrects. “Which is different.”
Charles hangs up with a sigh.
***
By noon, it’s viral.
#Lestappen trends on Twitter.
One headline reads: Charles’ Rebound? Red Bull Frontman and Leclerc Stir Romance Rumors in Monaco
Another one: Max Verstappen: Heartthrob or Homewrecker?
The photo makes it to TikTok. Someone overlays it with Je te laisserai des mots and suddenly it’s sad. Romantic. Tragic.
Charles throws his phone across the bed.
Then picks it back up. He checks Instagram. Max hasn’t posted anything. No stories. No cryptic captions. Nothing.
But he’s followed Charles.
Charles doesn’t follow back.
Not yet.
***
At 3:46 p.m., Carlos texts.
The name lights up Charles’ screen like a virus.
Carlos Sainz: You’re better than this.
No hello. No context. Just seven words soaked in judgment.
Charles stares at it for a full minute.
Then blocks the number.
No drama. No second thoughts.
Just … done.
***
Andrea calls next. His voice is syrupy, pleased.
“Well. You’ve set the internet on fire.”
“I noticed.”
“People are losing their minds.”
“Half of them think I’m in love. The other half think I’m trying to ruin my ex.”
“Darling,” Andrea hums, “who says you can’t do both?”
Charles rolls his eyes. “I didn’t even do anything.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Andrea says, “you looked like you did. That’s what matters.”
He hears the sound of fabric rustling. Andrea’s definitely trying on something while on the phone. Possibly sequined.
“I’ll be honest,” Andrea continues. “Arthur is right about one thing — Max is messy.”
Charles raises an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am. That’s why I’m also telling you — Max is magnetic. And you’ve been circling this black hole of heartbreak for months. Maybe it’s time you let yourself get pulled into something that doesn’t come with conditions.”
Charles rubs his temple. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Terrible ideas make excellent stories.”
***
That night, Charles doesn’t go out.
He orders Chinese. Wears sweatpants. Watches two and a half episodes of a Norwegian detective series he doesn’t even like.
But at 11:13 p.m., he scrolls through his camera roll and finds a blurry photo Pierre took — him and Max mid-laugh, the rooftop lights soft and golden behind them.
Charles stares at it longer than he should.
He doesn't message Max.
But he thinks about it.
***
The next morning, someone leaks a clip from a podcast.
The host, smug and oily-voiced, says: “I mean, come on. Charles Leclerc just finalized a divorce, what, a week ago? And now he’s canoodling with Max Verstappen in public? It’s a stunt. A pretty one, sure. But still a stunt.”
Canoodling.
They make it sound like he was dry-humping Max on a yacht.
Charles tosses his phone on the counter.
Then picks it up again.
Then does what he’s been fighting not to do since yesterday.
He opens Instagram and sends a DM.
Charles: I hope you didn’t read the headlines. They’re ridiculous.
Max replies exactly forty-six seconds later.
Max Verstappen: Of course I read them. My manager sent me a slideshow.
Charles: That’s … horrifying.
Max Verstappen: There was music.
Charles: You’re not helping.
Max Verstappen: I’m not trying to.
Charles rolls his eyes.
Then, after a pause:
Charles: Does it bother you?
The response comes slower this time.
Max Verstappen: No. I know what’s true. Do you?
Charles stares at the blinking cursor.
Charles: I didn’t use you.
Max Verstappen: I know. But it’d be okay if you did.
Charles blinks.
Charles: That’s a fucked up thing to say.
Max Verstappen: So is telling someone they’re better than this.
Charles’ stomach twists.
Charles: You saw that?
Max Verstappen: Your friends are gossips. Sorry.
Charles: Don’t be. I blocked him.
Max Verstappen: Good.
Another beat.
Max Verstappen: You want to get out of here? Go somewhere no one’s watching?
Charles doesn’t answer for a long time.
Charles: Where?
Max Verstappen: Trust me.
Charles wakes to the sound of a guitar string snapping.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a sharp little twang, followed by a mumbled Dutch curse and the unmistakable clatter of something falling onto hardwood.
He blinks. Stares at the ceiling. It's high — white, curved like a wave — bathed in pale morning light that creeps through enormous windows without bothering to knock. Somewhere in the apartment, a dog barks. Or maybe it’s just Max, frustrated.
He sits up slowly.
Max’s guest room — if this is a guest room — looks like it belongs to a person who doesn’t believe in drawers. There’s a guitar leaning against the wall. A record sleeve on the nightstand: Fleetwood Mac. A sweatshirt — Max’s, definitely Max’s — folded in a way that says I did not do this, but someone told me I should.
Charles swings his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet finding cool wood. He stretches. Pauses.
There’s a question lodged at the back of his throat, but it’s not the right time to ask it. Or maybe it is, and that’s the problem.
He finds Max in the living room.
Which is somehow both enormous and cluttered. One wall is all glass, opening to a view of the sea so dramatic it looks fake. The other walls are chaos — art, posters, shelves full of vinyls and old cameras. A cat jumps from one piece of furniture to another with no regard for gravity.
Max sits cross-legged on the floor, barefoot, tuning a new string into his guitar like he’s been doing it since before sunrise. His hair sticks up wildly in all directions.
Charles clears his throat.
Max looks up. “Morning.”
His voice is hoarse. Real. Not stage-polished. Not careful.
Charles runs a hand through his hair. “I think your cat wants me dead.”
Max grins. “She probably does. She’s loyal like that.”
The cat — a bengal with bright green eyes — stares at Charles with unblinking suspicion from atop a stack of records.
Max sets the guitar aside and stands. “Coffee?”
“Always.”
They walk to the kitchen — if you can call a semi-organized warzone of espresso machines, mugs that don’t match, and a bowl full of lemon rinds a kitchen. Max hands him a chipped mug filled with black coffee. No milk. No sugar.
Charles sips it anyway.
And somehow, it’s perfect.
Max leans against the counter, arms folded. “You sleep okay?”
Charles shrugs. “Better than I have in months.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “You want to talk about it?”
“No,” Charles says too quickly. Then adds, “Not yet.”
Max doesn’t push. He just sips his own coffee and nods like that’s fair. Like that’s enough.
Charles doesn’t understand it. Not really.
How Max makes space for silence like it’s a language he’s fluent in.
“So,” Max says, dragging out the vowel like it’s the beginning of a challenge, “are you going to keep pacing around my apartment like a polite little hostage, or are you going to sit down?”
Charles smirks despite himself. He lowers onto the sofa, the fabric worn but soft, and immediately gets a paw to the thigh. The cat, apparently, has accepted his presence. For now.
Max joins him a moment later, one knee pulled up, sipping his coffee like it’s a performance. “You want to know the truth?”
Charles tilts his head. “Sure.”
“I thought you were going to kiss me.”
Charles chokes on his coffee.
Max watches him calmly.
“I … last night?” Charles coughs. “We were just talking.”
“You always lean in when you talk?”
Charles fumbles. “I didn’t realize I was-”
“You were,” Max says, matter-of-fact. “I didn’t mind.”
Charles opens his mouth. Closes it. “Did you want me to?”
Max looks at him. Really looks. “I want you to do what you want. Not what’ll make headlines. Not what’ll piss off your ex. Not what people expect of you. Just … what you want.”
Charles exhales, slow.
No one says that to him. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.
“I’m not sure I know what that is yet.”
“That’s okay,” Max says. “I’m not here to fix you.”
Charles glances sideways. “Then what are you here for?”
Max shrugs. “To know who you are. Now that he’s gone.”
The words hit like a tuning fork in Charles’ chest. Resonant. Sharp.
It’s the first time anyone’s acknowledged it — not the marriage, not the drama, not the betrayal — but the loss. The blank space where something used to be. The hole in the routine, the quiet in the morning, the nothingness after forever stopped being forever.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
Max lets the silence sit.
Then Charles speaks.
“I was eighteen when I met Carlos. He was … older. Not old,” he adds quickly, “but older. Already everything I wanted to be. Cool, put together, confident.”
Max chuckles. “So, a liar.”
Charles smiles, a little. “Yeah. Maybe.”
He continues, slowly, like pulling thread. “We got together fast. Too fast. I thought it was normal to … mold myself to him. His world. His company dinners. His schedule. His friends.”
Max doesn’t say anything, but his eyes narrow, just slightly.
“I stopped writing. Did you know I used to write?”
“No,” Max says. “What kind of stuff?”
“Poetry. Mostly bad. Some good. I had a blog. Carlos told me to delete it when we got serious.”
Max winces. “Yikes.”
“He said it wasn’t ‘aligned’ with the image we were building.”
Max puts down his coffee. “That’s not love. That’s PR.”
Charles shrugs. “I didn’t know the difference.”
The cat climbs into his lap. He pets her absently.
“Anyway,” Charles says, voice quiet now, “everyone saw us as perfect. So I had to keep being perfect. Even when I wasn’t.”
Max is quiet.
“Do you miss him?”
Charles doesn’t hesitate. “No.”
Then he does hesitate. “Or … not the version I ended up with. But I miss the beginning. I miss the feeling. Of being wanted. Of being seen.”
Max hums. “That’s not the same thing as love.”
“I know.”
They sit like that for a while. The windows wide open. The sea stretching beyond them like it doesn’t care who’s watching.
Then Max says, “You want to hear a terrible song I wrote at 3 a.m. while drunk on kombucha and heartbreak?”
Charles blinks. “That’s a very specific combination.”
Max grins. “I’m a very specific guy.”
He stands, grabs the guitar, and strums once. It’s slightly out of tune. He adjusts the knob without looking.
“Don’t laugh,” Max warns.
“No promises.”
Max launches into the song. It’s half-melody, half-confession. Something about losing your voice in someone else’s echo. About love that feels like drowning in perfume. About waking up next to someone and feeling lonelier than sleeping alone.
It’s rough. Raw. A little sharp around the edges.
But it’s good.
Really good.
When Max finishes, Charles claps. “I didn’t laugh.”
Max smirks. “You looked like you wanted to.”
“A little,” Charles admits. “But I didn’t.”
“Because it was bad?”
“Because it was honest.”
Max tilts his head. “You’re kind of poetic when you’re not trying to be.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Charles says. “I have a reputation now.”
Max chuckles. “Reputation for what?”
“For being the world’s most tragic divorcee.”
“Well,” Max says, plucking a string, “you are very French.”
Charles sputters. “I’m Monegasque.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s absolutely not.”
Max grins wider. “You’re cute when you’re defensive.”
Charles rolls his eyes but can’t help the flush rising in his cheeks.
“I should go,” he says eventually.
Max nods, but doesn’t look happy about it. “Sure.”
Charles stands, brushing cat fur off his pants. “Thanks for … this. The coffee. The silence.”
Max rises too. “Anytime.”
Charles heads to the door, hesitates with his hand on the knob.
“I meant it, by the way. I didn’t kiss you last night because I didn’t want it to mean the wrong thing.”
Max walks closer. Not touching. Just … present.
“And if you kissed me now?”
Charles looks at him.
Looks hard.
Then smiles, small. “Still the wrong thing.”
Max nods.
And doesn’t try to convince him otherwise.
Which is exactly why Charles wants to kiss him.
But he doesn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, he opens the door. Walks out into the sunshine. And, for the first time in weeks, doesn’t feel like he’s walking into a storm.
Carlos looks like he hasn’t slept.
Lando looks like he’s never been on camera before in his life, which is funny because Charles knows he has. Dozens of times. CPO of Smooth Operation, face of the "People First" campaign. Boyish and soft-spoken and perpetually five seconds from laughing at something he shouldn't.
But this time, he isn’t laughing.
Charles watches it all unfold from Max’s studio couch — socks mismatched, champagne in hand, Max’s cat curled like judgment in his lap.
The apology video is live.
Carlos and Lando sit shoulder-to-shoulder, a faux greenery backdrop behind them. There’s a “casual” ficus in the corner. Lando’s wearing a white sweater too clean to be real. Carlos is in a navy button-down. No wedding ring.
“-we want to take a moment to acknowledge the pain we’ve caused, not just to each other, but to the people around us,” Carlos says, his voice carefully measured.
Lando nods, too vigorously.
Charles tilts his head. “How many PR people did it take to write that sentence?”
Max, seated at his mixing desk in the corner, smirks. “At least five. And one soul sacrifice.”
They both sip their drinks.
“We know how it looked,” Lando says into the camera. “And we want to be clear: it was never our intention to hurt anyone. Our relationship developed during a difficult time, and we’re still figuring it out.”
Charles snorts into his glass. “What’s there to figure out? You f-”
A loud pop interrupts him. Max opens a second bottle of champagne, foam fizzing over the neck like it’s celebrating something. He hands Charles a fresh glass before collapsing beside him on the couch.
“Do you want me to turn it off?” Max asks. “We could watch Bridget Jones instead.”
“I need to see how bad this gets.”
“Oh,” Max grins. “You won’t be disappointed.”
On screen, Lando takes a breath, clearly preparing for his dramatic monologue. “We’ve both made mistakes, but at the end of the day-”
A crackle of audio.
Then, clear as crystal, “This would be easier if Charles wasn’t being so dramatic about it.”
Silence.
Charles blinks. Slowly.
Max inhales. Holds it. “Oh shit.”
The camera zooms out slightly. Lando’s smile flickers. Carlos freezes — mouth parted, eyes wide. There’s a sound, like a producer swearing in the background.
Charles turns the volume up.
Carlos tries to recover, leaning forward like he can magically fix it with posture. “Uh, we want to reiterate our commitment to transparency-”
But it’s too late.
The internet doesn’t forgive a hot mic. It lives for it.
Charles grabs his phone. The video is already being clipped and memed. Dramatic Charles starts trending in five languages. Someone pairs the audio with a TikTok of Charles holding back tears at the Monte Carlo Christmas tree lighting two years ago.
He sets the phone down.
Max is already watching him.
“I’m not dramatic,” Charles mutters.
“No,” Max says, leaning back. “You’re cinematic.”
Charles fights a smile. Loses.
It’s the first time he’s laughed — really laughed — in weeks. His whole chest shakes. It’s ugly and cracked and absolutely necessary.
Max watches it unfold with quiet satisfaction.
“They have no idea what they’ve just done,” Charles says.
“Oh, I think they do now.” Max lifts his glass. “To unforced errors.”
Charles clinks his glass. “To microphones.”
***
Later, the sun dips behind the buildings and Max’s studio glows golden. Guitars hang on the walls. There’s a broken drum kit in the corner. A shaggy rug that might be older than either of them.
Charles walks barefoot to the window. The sea’s glittering. Below, a paparazzi car cruises slowly past the building.
“They’ve been there for three days,” he says.
Max stands behind him, arms folded, quiet. “Your building?”
Charles nods. “Can’t go home. The front desk is swarmed.”
Max hesitates for half a second. “Stay here.”
Charles turns.
“I’m serious,” Max says. “It’s not the Ritz, but I’ve got more couches than I know what to do with. Cat’s already imprinted on you.”
Charles lets out a breath. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” Max shrugs. “Besides, if you go back now, you’ll just end up in a Daily Mail slideshow titled Sad and Single in Saint Devote.”
Charles groans. “God. They’d do it.”
“They’d use the worst photos, too. You with your mouth open. Mid-blink.”
“I’m not staying here to protect my press image,” Charles says, half-defensive.
Max raises both hands. “I didn’t say you were.”
Charles pauses. “But I will stay. For a bit.”
Max nods. “Good.”
Charles steps closer, his gaze steady now. “But this isn’t a rebound.”
Max’s expression doesn’t flicker. “I know.”
“I mean it, Max. I’m not … I’m not ready for anything. Not yet.”
Max looks at him. No smirk, no mask.
“Then let’s make it a slow burn.”
And for once, someone says exactly the right thing.
***
That night, Charles sleeps in Max’s guest room again.
The cat sleeps on his chest like a sentry.
He hears Max playing something soft in the studio — notes drifting down the hallway like a secret. It’s not a lullaby. It’s not for him.
But Charles listens anyway.
And for the first time in a very long time …
He feels safe.
He feels chosen.
Not for headlines.
Not for heartbreak.
Not for the idea of who he was.
Just for him.
Just Charles.
It starts with coffee.
Always black. Always too early. Max doesn’t do mornings, but Charles — Charles wakes with the sun now. His routine’s changed. No emails from Carlos. No planning meetings about Smooth Operation’s next soul-sucking gala. Just Max’s ridiculous espresso machine hissing like a dragon and Charles curled up on a barstool in his softest hoodie, watching Monaco come alive through panoramic windows.
“You’re doing it again,” Max says, voice rough with sleep.
“Doing what?”
“Looking like the beginning of an indie film where the hot, broken guy starts journaling in Paris or something.”
Charles rolls his eyes. “I’m not journaling.”
“No? Then what’s this?” Max walks over, snatches the beat-up notebook from under Charles’ elbow.
“Hey-” Charles lunges but Max dances backward.
“I thought this was a grocery list,” Max says dramatically, flipping pages. “But no. It's … Oh my God.” He squints at the handwriting. “‘Chapter Four: He never loved her, not really-’”
Charles groans. “Stop.”
Max looks up. “You wrote a novel?”
“Don’t call it that.”
“What do you want me to call it, then? A manifesto? A fanfic? A cry for help?”
Charles snatches it back and hides it behind his back. “It’s private.”
“But you’ve got chapters. That’s like, at least three more than I’ve ever written.”
“I started it years ago.”
Max sits on the counter. “Before Carlos?”
“During.”
There’s a silence.
Max sips his espresso. Then, softly, “You want me to read it?”
Charles hesitates. His shoulders rise, fall. “Would you?”
“Only if you want me to.” Max nudges him with a socked foot. “But fair warning — if there’s a character clearly based on me and he’s an arrogant sex god, I will be insufferable about it.”
Charles manages a laugh. “You’re not in it.”
“Yet.”
***
They fall into a rhythm.
Charles goes to Red Bull rehearsals — not always invited, never unwelcome. He sits in the back, headphones half-on, scribbling edits in the margins of his manuscript while Max argues with the bassist about key changes and existential dread.
On Tuesdays, Max cooks something outrageously complicated and always slightly burnt. On Thursdays, Charles reads aloud from whatever he’s written that week while Max lounges on the floor, chewing on a pencil like a critic in flannel pajamas.
“You have a thing for bittersweet endings,” Max notes one night, lying upside down on the couch.
“I’m a Ferrari fan,” Charles says, sipping wine.
“That counts as trauma.”
***
The photos start small.
A blurry image of them outside a bookshop in Old Town. Charles with a coffee, Max carrying three paperbacks and arguing with someone offscreen. A second one — Max shielding Charles from rain with his hoodie as they run into a rehearsal building.
Then: a dinner sighting in Nice. A brunch on Max’s terrace. A blurry-but-undeniably-them shot through a taxi window at night, Max’s hand barely brushing Charles’ wrist.
The tabloids combust.
Leclerc and Verstappen: A New Era or a PR Fantasy?
From Smooth to Chaotic: Charles Leclerc’s Rebound Rumored to Be Red Bull Frontman.
No Touching, All Tension: Monaco’s Hottest Non-Couple.
Charles reads the headlines with Andrea curled beside him on the apartment floor, chewing bubblegum.
“They’re obsessed,” Andrea says. “It’s disgusting. I love it.”
“It’s not … we’re not-” Charles gestures vaguely.
Andrea rolls her eyes. “Oh please. You’re glowing, darling. Glowing and borderline feral. And I say that with love.”
***
Carlos tries to respond the only way he knows how: manipulation masked as PR.
There’s a leak. Some glossy tabloid column. Carefully worded. Anonymous “sources.”
Charles and Carlos Are Working on Things, it says. They’ve been in privately and may be exploring a path forward.
Charles stares at his phone. Then tosses it onto the coffee table like it’s contagious.
“That bastard,” he says.
Max looks up from tuning his guitar. “What happened?”
“He’s trying to rewrite the story. Make it seem like we’re … like we’re in some kind of quiet reconciliation.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “You want me to tweet something chaotic?”
Charles considers it. Then says, “No.”
Instead, he walks to the balcony. The Monaco evening air is thick and orange-hued. Below, the city glows — paparazzi still waiting, rumors still spinning.
Max follows him, two glasses of wine in hand. He passes one over wordlessly.
Charles accepts. Thinks for a second.
Then he pulls out his phone.
“What are you doing?” Max asks.
Charles raises his glass. “Stand beside me.”
Max does.
They don’t touch. They don’t pose. They just exist — side by side, silhouetted against the sea.
Charles takes the photo.
Two figures. Shadows on the edge of something real. Glasses raised. No explanation.
Then he posts it.
Caption: I don’t recycle.
***
The internet combusts.
2.1 million likes in one hour.
Tweets, memes, fan edits. Articles dissecting every pixel of the image. Reaction videos. Screencaps. Theories.
Carlos releases a limp statement. “I wish Charles the best.”
Lando deletes his Instagram.
Andrea texts: That’s my boy.
Max says nothing at all.
But he watches Charles, watches the way he breathes after pressing send, like he’s just stepped out from under a shadow. Like he’s lighter now.
And then he clinks his glass against Charles’.
“To not recycling,” Max says.
Charles laughs softly. “To not pretending.”
***
That night, they watch bad reality TV. Max braids Charles’ short hair with inexplicable skill. Charles reads him a new chapter — one that didn’t exist yesterday. One Max definitely inspired.
And when they say goodnight, there’s a beat where Charles almost leans in.
He doesn’t.
Not yet.
Slow burn.
Max cancels Berlin first. Then Copenhagen. Then Rome. Three dates in two days. The official statement cites “creative burnout.” It hits Twitter at 3:04 a.m., white text on black background, signed simply with a red lightning bolt and the words thank you for understanding.
Charles reads it in bed.
“Burnout?” He mutters, blinking at his screen in the dark.
Andrea’s already texting him in all caps: IS THIS A PUBLICITY STUNT OR DID HE FINALLY LOSE HIS MIND?
Charles doesn’t respond. He just stares at the post. Then switches over to Messages.
You okay?
No reply.
He types again.
Didn’t know you were cancelling shows. Call me?
Nothing.
***
Two days go by.
Charles is in Milan, surrounded by glossy hair and louder opinions. Vogue Italia wants him on the October cover. The editor talks about “reinvention,” “melancholy with edge,” “raw elegance.” Someone suggests shooting it at the house where Charles and Carlos once threw New Year’s parties. The irony makes him dizzy.
He declines. Politely.
Later, his agent corners him in the hotel lobby with a grin that’s all business. “Podcast deal,” she says. “Spotify wants your voice. Vulnerability is in right now.”
Charles blinks. “My voice?”
“Yes. You. Heartbroken but hopeful. Think Eat, Pray, Love for men who cry in Ferragamo.”
“I don’t wear Ferragamo,” he mutters.
“You do now,” she says, handing him a contract.
***
Back in Monaco, Charles stares at his reflection in the kitchen window. The apartment is finally quiet. The noise stopped when Max did.
“I thought this was a slow burn,” he says aloud.
Joris, watering a tortured cactus, glances over. “You okay?”
Charles sighs. “No. I think I broke it.”
“The coffee machine?”
“No, Max.”
“Oh,” Joris says. Then, “Also the coffee machine.”
***
When the knock comes, Charles is wearing one of Max’s hoodies, too long in the arms. For a second, hope leaps up inside him.
But it’s not Max.
It’s Pierre.
“Why do you look like a sad university student after midterms?” Pierre asks, barging in with two grocery bags and a bottle of something unreasonably expensive. “Did you forget you’re beautiful and single and literally trending in four countries?”
“I don’t care about trending.”
“You used to.”
“Well, I don’t now.”
“Bullshit. You’re just sad.”
Charles sighs. “Don’t psychoanalyze me with Aperol in your hand.”
Pierre slaps the bottle on the counter. “Listen. I’m not saying Max is a coward — actually, no, I am saying that. But you’re also a drama queen. Maybe you scared him off.”
“I didn’t scare him.”
“You’re intense. You look at people like you see them.”
“I thought that was a compliment.”
“Not to someone who doesn’t want to be seen,” Pierre says, opening the fridge and inspecting it like a health inspector. “Jesus. Do you only eat yogurt now?”
Charles ignores him. “He just left.”
Pierre looks over. “Did you tell him what you want?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Charles hesitates. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Liar,” Pierre says, pulling out a half-frozen croissant. “You want him.”
***
Meanwhile, Max is in Amsterdam, holed up in an old studio he used to crash in during his early twenties. The floors are scratched. The walls echo. There’s no staff. No expectations. Just his guitar, his notebook, and a dozen messages from Charles that he hasn’t opened.
He doesn’t reply to anyone. Not his band. Not his manager. Not his mother, who sent him a TikTok of Charles feeding pigeons with the message ‘cute. is this your boyfriend?’
Max throws his phone across the couch.
He hasn’t written a song in six days. Every time he picks up the guitar, it sounds like him. Like them.
And Max is terrified.
Because it’s not just the rebound thing. Not just the public scrutiny, the photos, the rooftop glances that now feel like promises. It’s the way Charles listens. The way he looks at Max like he’s not just another frontman spiraling toward a documentary.
It’s the way Charles makes him feel like a person.
And Max doesn’t know what to do with that.
***
When they finally talk again, it’s not planned.
It’s 11:47 p.m. Charles is rereading the same paragraph of his book for the third time. His phone lights up.
He stares at the screen.
Then answers.
“… Hi,” Charles says quietly.
“Hey.” Max’s voice is low. Familiar. Cracked at the edges.
“Where are you?”
“Amsterdam. Sorry I didn’t … sorry for everything.”
Charles closes his eyes. “You just left.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know if you were okay. Or if I did something wrong.”
“You didn’t.”
“So why-”
“Because I like you,” Max says, all at once. “Too much. And I didn’t want to ruin it.”
Charles blinks. “Ruin what?”
“Whatever this is. You’re still healing. And I don’t want to be the guy people say you used to get back at your ex.”
“You’re not,” Charles says, soft but sure.
“I didn’t know that. Not then.”
Silence.
Max exhales. “I panicked.”
“I noticed.”
Another pause. Max swallows. “Do you hate me now?”
Charles lets out a tired, sad laugh. “No. I just wish you stayed.”
“I wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because staying means something. And I wasn’t ready to mean something.”
Charles’ voice is barely a whisper. “And now?”
Max doesn’t answer.
Charles nods slowly, even though Max can’t see him. “Right.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I miss you.”
Charles feels his chest ache. “I miss you, too.”
Max sighs again. “You going to Vogue?”
“Maybe.”
“You should.”
“Not if you’re not in the background, throwing grapes at the photographer.”
Max chuckles. It’s quiet and honest.
Then he says, “Charles-”
But Charles cuts him off.
“You don’t have to say anything. Not now.”
“I want to. I just … I don’t know how to be what you need.”
Charles presses the phone closer to his cheek. “Maybe I don’t want someone who fixes everything. Maybe I just want someone who stays.”
It hangs there. Heavy. Real.
Max breathes in like it hurts. “I can try.”
***
The next day, Charles walks the boardwalk with Pierre and Andrea, both of them bickering about scarf lengths while paparazzi snap from behind cafe umbrellas. Charles says nothing, his mind still in Amsterdam.
A little boy runs past, chasing a paper plane.
Charles stops walking.
He watches the plane spin upward, catch the breeze, then dive straight into the sea.
It sinks.
And somehow, that’s what it feels like to love someone like Max Verstappen. Like throwing something fragile into the air and not knowing if it’ll fly or fall.
But it’s still worth it.
He pulls out his phone.
Come home.
The reply is instant.
Already on my way.
The song drops at midnight. No warning. No teaser. Just a single link posted to Red Bull’s socials — Max’s voice already curling like smoke through speakers before anyone knows what hit them.
It’s called “Monaco.”
Three minutes and fifty-two seconds of stripped-back guitar and a voice that frays like rope.
Charles listens once. Then again. Then seven more times with the lights off and his laptop on his chest, his phone vibrating uselessly beside him.
Max never says his name. But he doesn’t need to.
It’s in every lyric. Every gut-punched chord. It’s in the way the chorus doesn’t build — it breaks. Quietly. Like something you love giving up.
Charles breathes through his nose. Tries not to feel everything all at once. Fails completely.
Andrea texts him at 12:14 a.m.: Have you heard it?? I want to cry and kiss him and then maybe hit him.
Pierre: Tell your boyfriend to stop holding us emotionally hostage.
Arthur, of all people, just sends a voice note. One long sigh and then, “Okay. I like him. Don’t tell anyone.”
***
Charles walks into the kitchen barefoot, heart still sore in that sweet, painful way.
Joris looks up from the espresso machine. “You’ve got that ‘someone wrote a song about me and now I can’t breathe’ face.”
Charles leans on the counter. “It’s not about me.”
Joris raises a brow. “It’s called Monaco.”
“He likes metaphors.”
“It literally says ‘I loved you quieter than I should have.’”
Charles shrugs. But he’s smiling. Barely.
Joris presses the espresso button. “So … are you two officially unofficial now?”
“There’s nothing to announce.”
“Uh-huh.”
Charles crosses his arms. “We didn’t even post anything.”
“You don’t have to. The fans are already building Pinterest boards.”
Charles snorts. “That’s dramatic.”
“You’re dating a lead singer. Drama is the brand.”
***
Max doesn't text right away. Not after the song drops. Not after the world goes ballistic. The song climbs iTunes in two hours. Twitter is a battlefield. One side screaming “iconic,” the other side dissecting every verse like they’re codebreakers.
Max does none of it.
He’s in the studio with a beer, a hoodie, and bags under his eyes.
Daniel, Red Bull’s drummer, scrolls through the chaos with a grimace. “You knew this would happen.”
“I didn’t write it for them,” Max says, eyes closed.
“You wrote it for him.”
Max doesn’t deny it.
***
When they finally see each other again, it’s backstage at an indie film premiere neither of them were supposed to attend. Charles is dragged there by Andrea, who insists he “needs culture and fresh air and a red carpet that isn’t about trauma.”
Max arrives through a side door with his manager and a baseball cap pulled low.
They spot each other across the room like it’s a movie. Like everything slows down and gets soft around the edges.
Andrea stops mid-sentence. “Oh my God, it’s him.”
“Don’t start,” Charles mutters.
“I’m not starting. I’m narrating.”
“Lower your voice.”
Andrea pulls sunglasses from his bag and puts them on indoors. “You’re welcome,” he says, and vanishes into the crowd.
Max walks toward him. Unhurried. Like he knows Charles won’t move.
He doesn’t.
“Hi,” Max says, voice like gravel and low tides.
Charles swallows. “Hi.”
Neither of them smile. Not yet.
Max nods toward a quieter corner. “Walk with me?”
Charles hesitates.
Then nods.
***
They end up in a shadowed hallway that smells faintly of old cologne and velvet ropes. It’s quiet. Cold. But the kind of cold that makes your skin feel awake.
Max leans against the wall. “Did you hate it?”
Charles frowns. “What?”
“The song.”
“Are you kidding?”
Max shrugs. “Wasn’t subtle.”
Charles folds his arms. “I don’t think you’ve ever been subtle.”
“True.”
Silence.
Then Max asks, “Did it feel honest?”
Charles stares at him. “It felt like you cracked yourself open and handed me your ribs.”
Max winces. “Too much?”
“No,” Charles says quietly. “It was perfect.”
They look at each other.
And for the first time in weeks, the noise in Charles’ head goes quiet.
Max rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know how to say it. So I wrote it instead.”
Charles steps closer. “I heard it. All of it.”
Max’s voice catches. “I’m still figuring it out.”
“I’m not asking for perfect.”
“I’m not … a stable person.”
“I’m not a clean slate,” Charles replies.
Max laughs once, broken and small. “That’s a terrible Hallmark card.”
“I mean it.”
Their eyes lock.
Charles reaches out and takes Max’s hand. No press. No captions. Just skin on skin. Warm and real.
“I don’t need a fairytale,” Charles says. “I just need someone who stays when it’s messy.”
Max exhales.
And nods.
***
They don’t post anything. There’s no red carpet kiss. No statement.
But suddenly, they’re everywhere. Seen. Glimpsed. Always just close enough to light rumors on fire.
They go to dinner with friends and leave out the back. They sit on the same side of booths. They wear each other’s clothes. Charles picks Max up from the airport in Max’s own car.
The paparazzi scramble. Columnists foam at the mouth. One headline reads: NEW ROMANCE OR JUST FAME GAMES?
Another: EXCLUSIVE: Inside Charles and Max’s Love Bubble.
Carlos tries to spin it. Again.
Leaks a story to a magazine about “reconnecting with Charles over wine and nostalgia.” The article uses old photos. Says they’re “in talks to reconcile.” Cites an anonymous source who claims Charles still calls Carlos “home.”
Charles doesn’t even flinch when he sees it.
He just burrows deeper into Max’s side and watches as Twitter tears Carlos apart.
Glastonbury is a chaos of light and sweat and mud-streaked dreams.
The crowd spills past what the eye can see, a sea of limbs and love and flashing phones, tens of thousands of voices ready to worship whatever Red Bull gives them tonight.
And they give everything.
Max steps onstage like he owns it — because he does. Not just the set or the stage or the four-story LED wall behind him. He owns the night. The noise. The beat that pulses through bodies like blood.
He wears a black shirt, mostly unbuttoned, and a guitar slung across his back. His curls are damp from backstage heat, and he doesn’t smile.
Not yet.
Daniel cracks the first drumbeat.
And Max roars.
***
Charles watches from the VIP box, two levels above the madness, behind tinted glass. It’s quieter up here, but only just. The bass still rattles in his ribs. The lights still blur. The screens are massive, capturing Max from every angle — jawline sharp with fury, voice soaring.
He’s transcendent.
Andrea leans toward Charles, yelling over the sound. “You’re blushing!”
Charles doesn’t look away from the stage. “I’m not.”
“You’re actually blushing. How disgusting. I’m calling Vogue.”
Pierre appears with two cocktails. “Is it normal to be jealous of a man’s microphone?”
Joris grabs one of the drinks. “If we were in a romcom, Max would be shirtless by now.”
“We’re in the climax,” Andrea says. “The shirt comes off for the encore.”
Charles laughs — and it catches him off guard. How easy it feels. How light.
It’s been weeks since they decided to stop hiding. And still, moments like this surprise him. How Max fills up space and leaves room for Charles too. How it doesn’t feel like a performance. How it doesn’t feel like survival.
It just feels like now.
***
Max is halfway through Static Reign when he finally looks up — really looks up — and finds the VIP box.
He sees him.
The lights flash white-blue-pink, strobing across Charles’ face. And even from this far away, Max can see the grin. The one that starts shy, then stretches wider when he realizes Max is staring.
Max nearly misses the next line.
He shakes his head, smirks. The crowd thinks it’s for them.
Maybe it is.
But only a little.
***
It’s nearing the end when Max changes the script.
Daniel looks over in surprise when Max taps his mic, pulls out an earpiece, and steps forward.
The crowd is buzzing — already drunk on adrenaline, expecting something, anything.
Max lifts the mic to his mouth. “We weren’t supposed to play another one,” he says, voice low, rough-edged. “But we never follow the rules, do we?”
Screams. Deafening.
He laughs. Just once.
“This song’s not on the setlist. It’s not even out yet.” He glances toward the box, eyes landing on Charles. “It’s for someone who taught me how to stay.”
A pause.
“Charles, this one’s yours.”
The crowd doesn’t scream this time. They gasp.
And then they listen.
***
It starts with just piano. Soft, simple. Unexpected.
Max’s voice enters like smoke through a crack in the window.
“I wrote your name in static. Screamed it down the wire. Thought I lost it in the feedback. But it stayed beneath the fire …”
The crowd goes silent. A hundred thousand people, holding their breath.
“You were never meant to fix me. You just held the broken parts. And I found myself reflected in the echo of your heart …”
The band slowly builds in behind him — Daniel on cymbals, the synths blooming under the chords like sunrise.
But the words stay sharp. Simple.
“So if you’re home, I’m home. If you’re light, I’ll shine. If you’re lost, I’m gone. Just say you’re mine …”
Up in the box, Andrea is openly crying.
Pierre clutches his chest like he’s been shot. “Jesus. Jesus.”
Charles is still. Eyes glassy, lips parted.
The whole world is watching.
But for a moment, it's just Max and Charles and the truth.
***
Backstage, after, Max is drenched in sweat and adrenaline. People are everywhere — techs and managers and friends and industry people who want a photo, a quote, a handshake.
He pushes through them like a man possessed.
Charles waits by the curtain.
When Max sees him, his breath catches.
“Hey,” Charles says.
Max stops in front of him. “Did you hate it?”
Charles doesn’t answer.
He just pulls Max in by the shirt and kisses him — hard, slow, deliberate.
The hallway erupts. Cheers. Wolf whistles. Flash photography, probably.
Neither of them care.
Max laughs into the kiss. “Was that a yes?”
“It was a finally.”
***
They leave the festival before dawn, tucked into the back of a blacked-out SUV, silence pressed between them like a shared secret.
Charles rests his head on Max’s shoulder. Max threads their fingers together.
The city blinks awake in the distance.
***
Later, much later, they’re home. Not Charles’ apartment — still half-hunted by paparazzi. Not Max’s penthouse — too big, too loud, too staged.
They’re at Max’s tucked-away flat in Eze, the one even his label doesn’t know about. It smells like sage and old records. The fridge is empty. The sheets are soft.
Charles sits on the couch, scrolling through Twitter, watching the clip of Max’s dedication from every angle imaginable.
Max emerges from the shower, hair wet and towel low.
“I’m trending again,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside him.
“You deserve it.”
Max stretches, head falling into Charles’ lap. “My whole label’s having a meltdown.”
“I imagine so.”
“They think I’ve ruined the mystery.”
“You are the mystery.”
Max grins up at him. “You’re such a writer.”
Charles brushes damp hair off Max’s forehead. “You’re such a disaster.”
“Your disaster, though.”
Charles rolls his eyes. But he’s smiling.
He grabs his phone, lifts it above them, and snaps a blurry photo. Max half-asleep in his lap, the glow of the TV catching the gold in his curls.
He posts it without filters.
Caption: Home, finally.
Within ten minutes, it has a million likes.
But they don’t notice.
Because Max is asleep now, breathing steady, hand still in Charles’.
And Charles — for once — isn’t thinking about headlines or heartbreak or damage control.
He’s thinking about a song.
A balcony.
A boy who didn’t try to fix him, just stayed.
He leans back, lets the silence hold him.
He’s home.
Finally.