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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Seven

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, McLaren almost making a generational fumble, pregnancy, strong language, implied sexism in motorsport

Notes — Missed you all so much! Enjoy this longggg chap <3

From: Susie Wolff <[email protected]>

To: Amelia Norris <[email protected]>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 09:17 AM

Attachments: F1A_AdvisoryBoardOverview.pdf

Amelia,

I’ll get straight to it, as I know you don’t love preamble.

I think now is the time to formally invite you to join F1 Academy as a technical advisor and consulting board member, effective from the start of the 2025 season. Your experience, both practical and personal, is precisely what this program needs.

This role would involve quarterly strategic reviews, input on technical education frameworks, mentoring touch-points, and representation at select events — all designed to build a tangible technical pipeline.

I, of course, understand that this role would have to work-around your prior F1 commitments.

Let me know your thoughts. If you’d like to speak in person.

Warmly, Susie

From: Amelia Norris <[email protected]>

To: Susie Wolff <[email protected]>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 12:04 PM

Hi Susie,

First: thank you.

Second: I’ve read the overview twice already (I annotated the PDF, sorry in advance). It’s smart. Practical. Grounded. That’s rare in programs like this. You’re doing it right.

Third: Yes, I’m in. Fully.

I’ll carve out the time. If we’re serious about keeping girls in the sport, and I am, then this is the most productive way I can help. I’d also like to propose a technical “shadow program” for the engineering side — similar to what the Driver Academy does. We can talk more about it when you have time.

Appreciate the offer. And the trust.

Best, Amelia

From: Susie Wolff <[email protected]>

To: Amelia Norris <[email protected]>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 1:30 PM

Amelia,

That’s the best “yes” I’ve received in months. And I’ll happily take annotated PDFs if they come with your brain attached.

Let’s lock in a short meeting before we fly out next month. I’d love to dig into the shadow program idea — it’s aligned with something I’ve been building out with the FIA technical department. Timing might be perfect.

(Also, your idea about reinforcing retention through non-driver career tracks? Spot on. We’ll need that thinking on the board.)

Thrilled to have you with us.

Susie

From: Amelia Norris <[email protected]>

To: Susie Wolff <[email protected]>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 2:18 PM

Let’s do Thursday morning — Monaco? I’ll bring revised notes and a framework draft for the shadow pipeline.

From: Susie Wolff <[email protected]>

To: Amelia Norris <[email protected]>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 3:04 PM

Thursday it is. I’ll send you the address of a lovely little restaurant on the harbour.

Looking forward to what we’ll build together. The sport’s lucky to have you.

Warmly, Susie

—

It was 8:12 a.m. and the kitchen smelled like toast, fresh coffee, and the faintest lingering whiff of washing up liquid — and Amelia's nausea was only made even worse when Lando toasted the wrong kind of bread.

“Why is there no oat milk?” Amelia said flatly, standing in front of the open fridge and glaring into it.

Lando, half-asleep and shirtless in his McLaren joggers, yawned into his coffee. “What do you mean ‘why is there no oat milk’? You finished it yesterday.”

She didn’t turn around. “No, I finished the backup oat milk yesterday. The good one ran out two days ago. You said you were going to pick some up.”

“I did! They didn’t have your usual so I just got almond instead.”

Amelia shut the fridge and pivoted slowly, expression blank. “That’s not the same.”

Lando blinked. “It’s... kind of the same.”

“I can’t froth almond milk, Lando.” She told him.

“You can’t even drink coffee right now, baby.” He tried.

She stared at him. “Every morning, I drink a decaf latte with oat milk, and you know that, but you’re trying to act stupid so I can’t be mad at you.”

Lando set his mug down very slowly. “Okay. Okay. Let’s breathe through this.”

Amelia pointed at him. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to start throwing things at you.”

“I feel very lucky,” he said, smiling despite himself as he crossed the kitchen and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll go get your silly oat milk after breakfast.”

“My oat milk is not silly. It is gentle and stable and doesn’t split under pressure. Unlike some things.”

“Oh wow,” he muttered, grabbing the butter. “We’re speaking in metaphors now, are we?”

She sat at the table, still glaring at his toast. “You bought the one with sesame seeds. You know I can’t do the texture right now.”

Lando stared at her. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t think I had to! You should just know! You’ve watched me do complex simulations while dry-heaving at the smell of overripe bananas. Sesame seeds are in the same category.”

Lando looked down at his toast, then back up at her. “Okay. So we’re adding a sesame embargo. Got it.”

She let out a sharp sigh, then scrubbed her hands down her face. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m just—”

“Gestating a human?”

She nodded. “It’s so much. Like. All the time.”

Lando softened immediately. He took his plate, dumped his toast in the bin, and set a banana-free, sesame-free bowl of oatmeal in front of her. “Here,” he said. “Neutral foods only. Plain and safe. Like... Switzerland.”

She blinked at the bowl. “This has potential.” She poked the spoon. “You made this with the almond milk?”

“No. Water.” He said. She sighed with relief. He smiled, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. “You have my word that I will never again confuse almond milk with oat milk ever again.”

Amelia muttered into her oatmeal. “You’ve lost food shopping rights.”

He grinned. “I’ll earn them back. Watch me.”

She ate in silence for a minute, then reached for his hand under the table, fingers curling around his.

He squeezed gently. “Better?”

“I still want my oat milk latte.”

“I’ll run down to the shop and get your oat milk.”

“And a bottle of caramel syrup.”

“Of course, baby.”

—

The café on Rue Grimaldi was just beginning to hum with the late-morning crowd when Lando ducked in, hoodie pulled up and sunglasses still on, despite being indoors. He made a beeline for the counter — three cartons of oat milk secured in a small paper bag under one arm, coffee on his mind — only to stop short when someone clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, mate,” came the familiar voice, warm and unmistakably Monegasque.

Lando turned to find Charles, dressed casually in a t-shirt and sunglasses pushed up into his hair, holding a takeaway espresso and looking smug about catching him off-guard.

“Shit. Sorry. Hey,” Lando grinned, adjusting the paper bag before offering a quick one-armed hug. “Didn’t know you came here.”

“You know that I live only three buildings away,” Charles said, amused. “You’re out early for once.”

“Amelia sent me to get oat milk,” Lando told him. “Life-or-death situation. I’m on a mission.”

Charles laughed, gesturing to the barista for another coffee. “How is she?”

“She’s good,” Lando said, instantly softening. He leaned against the counter and rubbed the back of his neck, eyes going distant for a moment. “Actually... she’s kind of amazing.”

Charles raised a brow, sipping his espresso.

“I mean, I always knew she was brilliant, but now with the pregnancy, she’s like... this whole new version of herself. Still very Amelia. Like, intense and sarcastic and kind of terrifying. But also just... soft sometimes. Like, in ways I’ve never seen. And she lets me see it.”

Charles’s face melted into a smile. “You’re in love.”

Lando snorted. “Well yeah. We’re married, remember?”

“But this is different. You sound like... you’re seeing her again for the first time.”

Lando paused. “Yeah. I think I am.” There was a beat of quiet between them as the barista handed over his coffee. He took it with a small nod of thanks, then glanced at Charles. “Think I’ve managed to fall in love with her all over again, you know?”

Charles blinked, visibly touched. “Mate.”

“I know,” he said, grinning awkwardly and taking a sip of his drink. “I’m being all sentimental and shit. Don’t tell Carlos, he wouldn’t let me live it down.”

Charles laughed. “I won’t. But Amelia might appreciate hearing it.”

“She knows,” Lando said quietly, then added, “But yeah. I think it’s good to keep reminding her.”

They stepped outside together, the warm Monaco sun washing over them.

“You’ll be a good dad,” Charles said eventually, nudging his shoulder.

Lando scoffed. “God, I hope so.”

“You will,” Charles repeated with certainty. “I’m sure of it, brother.”

They parted ways at the corner; Charles off to his sim session, Lando heading home, oat milk secure. And for the rest of the day, his smile didn’t quite leave his face.

—

The sun was low, bleeding orange across the horizon and painting long shadows down the winding streets of Monaco. The forest-green supercar purred beneath them like a living thing, gliding effortlessly through the city’s golden-hour glow. The streets shimmered with reflected light, windows catching fire as they passed, the sea winking silver to their right.

Lando’s hands rested easy on the wheel — one perched casually at ten o’clock, the other drifting occasionally over to Amelia’s thigh. The car, already easily recognisable in a city full of fast cars, was still impossible to ignore when he was driving it. Monaco might be saturated with wealth and speed, but Lando Norris in a sleek green supercar turned heads.

Especially when he was wearing that hoodie.

The white Playboy logo, stretched across the back of a black hoodie, had become something of an internet legend. Worn in interviews, airport photos, Twitch streams — it was a piece of lore now. And tonight, with the hood pulled halfway up and his curls just visible underneath, he looked more like a teenager sneaking out after curfew than a world-class F1 driver. But it didn’t matter.

Everyone still knew exactly who he was.

Amelia sat in the passenger seat, the window cracked open slightly, letting the wind tug loose strands of her hair. Her head rested against the seat-back, eyes closed, soaking in the smooth hum of the engine and the scent of salt in the air. After a day full of logistics and troubleshooting — packing, chasing suppliers, managing Oscar’s sim data issue, redoing schedules for Bahrain testing — this was the first moment she’d had to simply breathe.

“This is nice,” she said softly, voice barely carrying above the low purr of the car.

Lando glanced at her and smiled. “Told you it would help. You needed to de-stress.”

“And you needed to stop pacing around the apartment like a caged animal.”

“Fair,” he said with a shrug. “But I pace elegantly, don’t I?”

She cracked one eye open, amused. “You pace like a man trying to calculate the optimal lap around the kitchen island.”

They wound up the coast slowly, not in any rush, Lando deliberately choosing the scenic roads, detouring through the quieter corners of the city. Monaco rolled out around them like a movie set — warm light, quiet glamour, the soft hush of money that didn’t need to announce itself. But eventually, as the streetlights began to flicker on and the sea turned indigo, he turned off toward the familiar façade of the Casino de Monte-Carlo, its gold-lit entrance grand and welcoming.

Amelia blinked as he pulled up to the valet. “We’re eating here?”

“Yeah,” Lando said easily, already unbuckling. “Come on.”

Before she could protest, he was out of the car and jogging around the front, hood still up. She rolled her eyes, but her lips tugged into a smile.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m a good husband,” he corrected, pulling open the door.

Phones were already up. Across the street, a handful of passersby had clocked him immediately, cameras out, the sound of whispers and low murmurs rising like static.

She stepped out into the warm evening air, and he offered his hand — palm up, open, steady.

She took it. “You know this is going to be everywhere tomorrow.”

He shrugged, brushing a curl off her forehead. “Let them look.”

And they did.

By midnight, the photos had already gone viral.

One showed Lando — hoodie on, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other casually holding open the car door with a soft grin. Another showed Amelia stepping out of the passenger seat, hand lightly resting on her stomach in a way she hadn’t even noticed at the time. Her dress fluttered slightly around her legs in the breeze, and her smile was half-laugh, turned back toward Lando like he’d just said something that made her forget that the rest of the world existed.

The captions rolled in fast.

“lando norris taking his wife out for a quiet dinner before sakhir testing”

“is she touching her stomach???? IS SHE PREGNANT?????????”

“that bump is bumping i fear…”

“i swear if they announce they’re having a baby i’m throwing myself in the sea”

“seeing the hoodie again has awakened something in me…”

“her HAND is on her STOMACH and he’s wearing the PLAYBOY hoodie i’m going to PASS OUT”

Inside, the Casino’s main dining room was quiet and dignified — white linen tablecloths, the hum of polite conversation, low light glittering off the crystal chandeliers. They were led to a booth near the back — a soft, curved corner table with views of the harbour, tucked just far enough away from the main room to feel like a secret.

It was their table.

Amelia leaned across the polished surface and tilted her phone toward him. “I’m being tagged in a million things.”

He squinted at the screen. “That’s a lot of caps lock.”

She scrolled. “Someone says that if I have a baby I should name it after Daniel Ricciardo.”

He smirked, sipping from his water. “Hilarious idea.”

“They’re very invested.”

“They like you.”

“They like you. I’m a side character.”

“You’re my favourite character,” he said easily, and something in her eyes softened.

Bread and olive oil arrived, without needing to be ordered, and Amelia absently dipped a piece, still half-scrolling.

She looked up again, a small crease between her brows. “Do you think I make it obvious that I’m pregnant?”

Lando shrugged. “Maybe. You look happy.”

She frowned. “I wasn’t expecting people to notice this fast.”

He reached over and gently wiped a smear of oil from her mouth with his thumb. “You’ve got a glow. And It’s not your fault people are obsessed with you.”

“I think it might be your fault, actually.”

He smiled again, soft and private. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Their food arrived. Lemony pasta for her, grilled steak salad for him. She picked at her plate for a while, quiet. Then, finally, she set her fork down and said, “It’s going to be different soon, isn’t it?”

He looked up. “What is?”

“This. Life. Dinners. Feeling like we still get to be just… us.”

Lando didn’t rush to answer. He leaned back a little, watching her — her face, her hands, the quiet vulnerability creeping in at the edges. “Maybe,” he said eventually. “But different doesn’t have to be bad.”

She nodded slowly. Bit her lip. “You’re going to get such an ego when the fangirls start calling you a DILF.”

He grinned. “Won’t be a lie.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m just saying." He said. She rolled her eyes at him and he huffed out a laugh. "If our kid has your attitude, I’m going to need divine patience.”

She stopped mid-bite. Blinked. “Oh.”

Lando tilted his head. “What?”

“What if…” she hesitated. “What if they are like me?”

He sat forward, instantly alert. “Baby—”

“I mean it,” she said, voice cracking just slightly. “What if they’re too smart, or too intense, or too weird, and they don’t fit in anywhere? What if they’re… different, and it’s hard, and people expect them to be like you, but they’re not?”

Lando reached for her hand. Held it steady. “Then they’ll be lucky.”

She looked at him, startled.

“I mean it,” he said, voice soft. “If they’re like you, they’ll be brilliant. Strong. Honest. The world doesn’t make it easy on people like that, but you’ll show them how to do it anyway.”

Her mouth trembled.

He leaned in. “I didn’t fall in love with you despite those things, Amelia. I fell in love with you because of them.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, muttering, “Now I’m crying into my pasta.”

“Adds flavour,” Lando said.

“You’re the worst.”

“I love you.”

She smiled through it, eyes still glassy. “You’re going to be a really good dad.”

He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Not strict,” she said, teasing. “But good.”

Lando grinned. “I can’t even tell you��no. How am I supposed to say it to a miniature you?”

She laughed, soft and real, and somewhere between the candlelight and the quiet clatter of cutlery, everything settled.

It was different now — but maybe, just maybe, it was... better.

—

The apartment was quiet when they got back. Amelia slipped off her shoes in the hallway, sighed, and leaned briefly against the wall as Lando locked up behind them.

She trailed behind him, fingers tracing the edge of the marble countertop in the kitchen. Her body was tired, heavy in a way it hadn’t been before pregnancy; like her muscles were constantly working overtime to keep up with the quiet, miraculous thing happening beneath her skin.

She stood at the sink, sipping a glass of water slowly, letting the silence settle.

Lando reappeared a few moments later with the familiar glass bottle in his hand. It was half-used now — the bump oil she’d started applying a week ago. Some natural blend that smelled faintly of neroli and sweet almond, promising hydration and elasticity and comfort.

But more than that, it had become a ritual. A pause. A grounding point at the end of the day when everything else felt like it was moving too fast.

He held it up. “You want the honours, or shall I?”

Amelia stared at him. “Your hands are warmer.”

Lando grinned. “You just like being pampered.”

“Who doesn’t?”

They migrated to the bedroom, the soft white light of the bedside lamps casting everything in a low, golden haze. She pulled her dress off and tossed it gently over the chair, leaving her in a bralette and cotton shorts. The curve of her stomach was still so subtle — just a hint of bloating that she never usually suffered with, a visible whisper of the life growing inside her.

She lay back against the pillows, propped slightly up, and Lando sat cross-legged beside her, the bottle uncapped, hands already slick with oil.

He started slow, careful, hands gentle as he spread the oil over her skin, fingers smoothing in slow, deliberate circles. He was quiet while he worked, but it wasn’t a heavy silence. It was reverent. Focused. Loving.

“You’re getting good at this,” she murmured, eyes slipping closed.

“I practice on watermelons when you’re not home.”

She huffed a soft laugh.

His thumbs moved lower. “I’m absolutely obsessed with you.” He mumbled against the skin of her hip.

“I know.” Her voice was sleepy now. She reached out, hand brushing against his cheek.

He leaned into her touch, then pressed a kiss low against her stomach, just beneath his hands. “Hi, baby-bunch-of-cells,” he whispered, lips brushing warm against her skin. Her lips twitched. “You’ve got the coolest mum in the world, you know that?”

Amelia blinked hard. “Stop making me cry,” she muttered, voice cracking.

“I’m not doing anything,” he said, smug and soft.

She smacked his arm lightly, and he caught her hand, twined their fingers together, and settled down beside her, cheek resting gently against the swell of her belly.

They lay there like that for a while — the room quiet, the scent of the oil soft in the air, his palm warm and open against her skin.

Eventually, Amelia got up to change into a sleep-shirt, all bleary eyed as she wandered back into Lando’s waiting arms.

“You okay?” Lando murmured into her hair, thumb brushing over the bare skin of her hip where her sleep shirt had ridden up as she wriggled her way under the covers.

“Mmhm,” she hummed. “Just tired.”

He didn’t answer right away, just let the silence stretch, the rhythm of their breaths syncing. Her hand was pressed to her belly again — not dramatically, not even consciously. It was just where it always landed now.

And Lando noticed.

“Tell me more,” he said quietly.

She lifted her head. “More?”

“About what you’ve learned. About... all of it.” He tilted his chin toward her stomach. “I know you’ve been reading non-stop. I want to know.”

She blinked, a little surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah. All of it.”

Amelia yawned, then launched in; quieter now, but no less enthusiastic. “Okay, so the placenta doesn’t fully take over hormone production until about ten weeks, which means all the weird mood swings and the nausea and the exhaustion are mostly just the hCG hormone hijacking my system.”

“That’s the one doubling every couple of days?”

“Exactly. I read this one article that called it ‘a hormonal rollercoaster without a seatbelt,’ and it’s one of the only metaphors that I’ve every genuinely understood.”

Lando chuckled softly, fingers drawing slow, idle shapes along her back.

“And apparently,” she continued, “the nausea’s not about throwing up. It’s like this constant, cloying, edge-of-sick feeling that never fully goes away unless I’m horizontal, full of carbs, or momentarily distracted by you being sweet.”

He kissed her temple. “I’ll do my best to be a cure.”

“You’re good at it.”

They lay there quietly for a beat.

“I can’t eat sushi,” she said suddenly. “Or swordfish. Or soft cheese. Or deli-meats. Or sprouts.”

“Brussels sprouts?”

“Alfalfa sprouts.”

“Oh. Honestly that feels like a win.”

“I also can’t take long hot baths or sit in saunas. No ibuprofen.”

“That one seems unfair.”

“Right?” She sighed. “And then there’s this thing called round ligament pain, which apparently is just surprise stabs in the pelvis because your uterus is growing too fast and the ligaments are mad about it.”

He winced. “Sounds... ouchie.”

“Everything about pregnancy is ‘ouchie’. It’s just all been politely marketed.”

Lando let out a low laugh, his chest shaking beneath her. “Baby.”

“I’m serious.”

He turned onto his side, bringing them face to face, his hand splaying wide across her lower stomach like a gentle shield. His thumb brushed slowly just below her navel.

“You’re really doing it,” he said quietly.

“Doing what?”

“This.” His voice softened. “Making a whole human. Half you, half me.”

Her throat tightened. She blinked hard, fighting the familiar sting behind her eyes. “I don’t feel like I’m doing anything most of the time.”

“You’re doing everything,” he said. “Even when you’re just laying here talking about ligament stabs.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it quickly with the edge of the duvet and muttered, “Now I’m crying in bed.”

Lando smiled. “Well, there goes the dry side of the pillow.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I love you.”

When she finally fell asleep, it was with his hand still resting over her belly and a vow stitched into the silence of their bedroom.

—

The cabin lights were dimmed to a sleepy gold, the hum of the engines a constant low white noise in the background. Lando had kicked his shoes off an hour ago and was now curled sideways in his seat, legs stretched across the aisle to rest against Amelia’s footrest, a battered hoodie bunched around his shoulders like a blanket.

Amelia had her noise-canceling headphones looped around her neck, but wasn’t using them. Her head rested against the window, fingers lazily tracing patterns on thigh through the soft cotton of her leggings.

Her seat was reclined, her feet tucked up beside her, a half-finished crossword open on the tray table. She wasn’t filling in the answers anymore — just twirling the pen between her fingers, eyes glassy with that deep-travel fatigue that always hit halfway through long-haul flights.

Lando cracked one eye open and looked at her. “You asleep?”

“Nope,” she said, voice soft. “Just thinking.”

“About the car?”

“About the twelve hours I’ll spend at the track tomorrow.” She rubbed her temple. “Oscar’s nervous. The aero team still hasn’t patched the instability in the rear. And I’m definitely going to throw up in the hospitality bathroom at least once before 10 a.m.”

Lando yawned, unbothered. “Sounds like a normal Thursday.”

Amelia kicked lightly at his shin. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to. I’m trying to distract you.”

She glanced at him, skeptical.

He sat up slightly, stretching across the console between them to brush a piece of hair out of her face. “Want me to list all the things I think you’re going to smash tomorrow?”

“No.”

He grinned. “Tough. You’re gonna boss Oscar’s testing schedule. You’re going to yell at one engineer and make them better for it. You’re going to make that car faster in a week than some teams do in three months. And you’re going to throw up very discreetly, like the absolute professional you are.”

She snorted, biting back a smile. “Helpful.”

“I try.”

Amelia tilted her head against the headrest and murmured, “Love you.”

Lando reached for her hand under the shared armrest and laced their fingers together, thumb brushing slow circles against her skin.

They sat like that for a while, not talking, not needing to, the lights dim, the flight steady, and the love endless.

—

The paddock wasn’t quite awake yet.

The early morning desert sun cast everything in long gold shadows, and the garages buzzed with that low, electric anticipation that only came with testing. Engineers murmured over telemetry, coffee steamed in paper cups, and the distinct scent of warm asphalt clung to everything.

Amelia sat on the wide concrete step outside the hospitality unit, a bottle of water between her hands and her sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She didn’t look pregnant yet, not unless you were looking, but she felt it anyway — in the way her shirt tugged tighter around the middle, in the constant low hum of her body doing something without asking her permission.

She didn’t look up when Celeste dropped down beside her with two iced coffees in hand.

“Stolen from Red Bull catering,” Celeste said brightly, offering one. “I’m not above crimes, and they all love you too much to snitch. Yours is decaf, obviously.”

Amelia took it without a word. “Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while, the sun hot on their skin.

Eventually, Celeste nudged her knee. “You good?”

Amelia hesitated. Then. slowly, like peeling something back, “I’m not... bad. But I’m not good.”

Celeste looked at her, eyebrows lifted, but didn’t interrupt.

“It’s just…” Amelia gestured vaguely at her stomach, then let her hand fall again. “Everything’s changing and I didn’t give it permission to.”

Celeste blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. “Yeah?”

“I know that’s sort of the point of pregnancy,” Amelia said, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “But my body doesn’t feel like mine right now. And not just the physical stuff. My routines are off. My sleep feels weird. I don’t like food I used to like, and I suddenly love things I used to hate. And I can’t regulate my temperature or my moods and none of my bras fit and—” She stopped. Swallowed. “I just... I feel hijacked. And it’s really hard not to spiral about it.”

There was a beat. “That makes perfect sense,” Celeste said, voice low and steady. “You’re used to having a say in everything. Your clothes. Your space. Your schedule. Your comfort. Your body. And now all those things are changing at once, without warning.”

Amelia nodded, quick and tight, eyes stinging. “And the worst part is — I want the baby. I love the baby. But I feel like I’m being dragged behind my own life, and I keep thinking... ‘If I’m already this overwhelmed, how the hell am I supposed to do the next seven months?’”

Cleste didn’t offer clichés. She didn’t say “you’re strong” or “you’ll be fine.”

Instead, she reached out and gently touched Amelia’s forearm. “Okay. So let’s start with what isn’t changing today. What do you still have control over?”

Amelia sniffled and looked down at her shoes. “My spreadsheets.”

Celeste smiled. “Great. What else?”

“My noise-canceling ear defenders. My sleep playlist.”

“There you go. Small things are still yours.”

Amelia let out a shaky breath. “I keep telling myself that it’s just sensory overload. That I’ve handled worse. That it’ll pass.”

“But even if it doesn’t,” Celeste said gently, “you’ll adapt. You always have. And if it helps at all, I think what you’re feeling is incredibly valid — and not remotely selfish.”

“I feel selfish.”

“You’re not. You’re neurodivergent, pregnant, and also a woman working in the highest level of motorsport. If you weren’t feeling overwhelmed, I’d be worried.”

Amelia huffed out a laugh, surprised. “That’s... actually helpful.”

Celeste bumped their shoulders together. “You’re allowed to love the baby and hate what pregnancy does to your routine. Both things can be true. You don’t have to be one or the other.”

For the first time all morning, Amelia’s posture eased slightly.

“Do you wanna come hide in the RedBull motorhome for a bit?” Celeste offered. “I think I saw one of the catering guys stash the good pastries behind the juice bar.”

“I shouldn’t abandon my team on day one,” Amelia said, already standing.

Celeste rolled her eyes. “It’s lunch time. I think you’re allowed a croissant.”

—

The sun was beginning to sink behind the Bahraini paddock, casting long gold stripes through the motorhome windows. Most of the team was trickling into the hospitality area for water, air-con, and a brief moment of respite.

Amelia was halfway through a half-melted protein bar and hunched over her laptop, squinting at a CFD report that felt like it was written in Elvish. Her brain had long since checked out. She barely noticed the door open until a familiar voice cut across the quiet.

“Well, if it isn’t the boss herself.”

She looked up — and grinned, the kind of grin that cracked her whole face open with genuine affection.

Oscar stood in the doorway, sun-browned from a week back home in Melbourne, hair a little longer, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms. He looked… relaxed. And irritatingly cheerful.

“You’re late,” she said, standing up and crossing the room in three long strides before throwing her arms around him in a hug that knocked the breath out of him.

“Jesus,” he wheezed, but hugged her back without hesitation, forehead dropping against her shoulder. “Missed you too, I guess.”

“Shut up,” she said into his hoodie. “You were gone for seven days. That’s the longest we haven’t spoken in two years. It was disorienting.”

He laughed, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” she said flatly. “They changed the diffuser without me.”

Oscar winced. “I heard. Sorry. Want me to key somebody’s car?”

“No, I can’t have you being charged with a crime this close to the first race of the season,” she sighed. “But thank you anyway.”

They sank into the cushy booth under the window, Amelia tucking her legs up beside her and watching as he peeled open a protein bar of his own.

“Home okay?” She asked.

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. Mum made me a list of things to bring back that I forgot entirely. My sister says hi. Oh — and Dad said ‘congrats on the rugrat’.”

Amelia snorted. “He did not.”

Oscar shrugged, his lips twitching. “He did.”

She laughed, leaning her head back against the booth. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m very loveable. Anything explode while I was gone?”

“Just my patience. And there was a very minor fire in the CFD department.”

Oscar winced. “Anyone hurt?”

“No. Just some bruised egos.” She sighed. They sat in companionable silence for a while. Outside, the sound of reporters and tool carts echoed through the alleyways. Inside, it was calm. Steady. After a moment, Amelia nudged him with her knee. “It’s good you went home. Family time is important for optimal motivation.”

“I know.” He said. He was smiling at her.

“Did you bring me back a souvenir?” She asked.

Oscar grinned. “Check my backpack.”

She leaned over, unzipped the top pocket; and let out a delighted noise at the sight of a tiny stuffed koala wearing aviators.

“His name is Downforce,” Oscar said proudly.

Amelia held it up and stared at it. “I’m putting him on the dash of the simulator.”

“Please do.”

And just like that — they were back. Her with her sharp edges, him with his dry sarcasm, and something between them that felt like a shared backbone. Stronger for the distance. Ready for whatever testing, and the season ahead, threw at them next.

—

The desert heat hadn't even peaked yet and Amelia was already sweating.

Engineers in crisp polos darted between garages with clipboards and headsets; pit crew rolled tires across the hot concrete; camera crews hovered at the edges, hungry for glimpses of shiny new bodywork or strained facial expressions.

Amelia stood just inside the garage, arms crossed tight over her chest, her clipboard clutched in one hand like a weapon. Her sunglasses were perched high on her nose, more for the glare of her own frustration than the sun. In front of her, the MCL38-AN, her car, in every way that mattered, sat on its stands, monitors blinking with diagnostic readings. And she hated what she saw.

It wasn’t bad, technically. Nothing catastrophic. But it was wrong.

The wrong wing configuration. The wrong ride height assumptions. The rear diffuser changes she’d flagged three weeks ago had been pushed through without her sign-off — a democratic decision made by the broader engineering committee while she was out for the afternoon with a migraine. The moment she’d seen the telemetry from Oscar’s first handful of laps, she’d known that’d cost them at least two-tenths on the straights.

And now? It was too late to fix it.

“Still gathering data,” one of the aero leads said beside her, hopeful. Too hopeful.

Amelia didn’t look at him. “You’re gathering confirmation bias. You want the data to tell you it was worth it.”

He blinked. “We can’t reverse the updates before the first race.”

“I know,” she said tightly. “I’m not asking you to. I’m telling you that they shouldn’t have been implemented in the first place.”

He took a step back.

Oscar pulled back into the garage just then, visor up, sweat beading at his temples. He popped the wheel off and offered her a sheepish smile. “Feels like I’m dragging a parachute on the straights.”

Amelia didn’t smile. “You basically are.”

Oscar winced. “Well, that’s nice.”

She handed the clipboard off to a mechanic without a word and turned on her heel, storming down the garage tunnel toward the back paddock.

Lando caught up with her a minute later, jog-walking like he knew better than to grab her arm when she was in this mood. “Hey. Hey—baby.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

She spun to face him. “They changed my car, Lando. They changed my car without consulting me, and now it’s dragging down the straights like a brick with wings. And everyone’s acting like it’s going to be okay because they modelled it that way.”

His expression softened. “You told them that diffuser adjustment was a mistake.”

“I told them ten times.”

“You also told me you’d be polite and calm in front of the media,” he teased gently.

“I lied.”

He stepped closer, bumping his shoulder lightly against hers. “We’ll fix it.”

“No,” she said, throat tight. “We’ll mitigate it. We’ll bandage the decision they made without me. But it’ll still be wrong, Lando.”

Lando didn’t argue. He knew her well enough not to.

Instead, he stood beside her quietly, both of them staring out at the line of cars rumbling through pit lane in the rising heat.

After a long moment, Amelia let out a breath. “I hate when I’m right.”

“I don’t,” Lando said. “That’s why I married you. It’s helpful to always have the smartest one in the room on my side.”

She didn’t smile, not quite, but the fury softened at the edges, just enough.

—

The room was too bright. Too cold. The kind of sterile that made every emotion feel like a liability.

Amelia stood at the end of the table, spine ramrod straight, her hands braced on the glass surface like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the floor. Zak sat near the head, arms folded tightly across his chest. Andrea was beside him, flipping aimlessly through the printed test data, though his eyes never left her.

She didn’t wait for an invitation. She didn’t sit.

“This isn’t working out.”

Zak blinked. “Amelia—”

“No. Don’t try to explain it to me.” Her voice was even, but it cracked with a sharpness that made Andrea stiffen. “I’ve been quiet about the changes. I’ve followed the chain of command. I’ve backed off. I’ve trusted the process. But I’m telling you now: the car is wrong.”

Andrea opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him speak.

“I don’t care what the wind tunnel says,” she continued, tone clipped and fast, like she had too much to say and not enough runway. “I don’t care how many simulations you run with this configuration — the car is fundamentally slower through mid-to-high speed corners and we are losing straight-line efficiency. I flagged this four months ago when the adaptions were suggestion, and I was ignored.”

Zak exhaled slowly. “We made collective decisions, Amelia. You were—”

“No,” she said, and it wasn’t loud, but it hit. “Decisions were made, yes. But I wasn’t listened to. There’s a difference.”

Andrea’s voice was quiet but firm. “The engineering team felt—”

“The engineering team,” she cut in, “is brilliant. I have never questioned their intelligence. But they are second-guessing me — consistently — because I’m who I am. And don’t you dare try to tell me that’s not part of it.”

Zak’s expression tightened, and for a second, he looked like her father again — not the CEO, not the face of McLaren, just a man caught between protectiveness and policy. But he said nothing.

Amelia leaned forward, tone even sharper now. “You gave me my title. Chief Technical Director. You paraded me in front of press as the future of McLaren. But when it mattered, when it came down to actual performance philosophy, you let them override me. You didn’t back me.”

There was a long, taut silence.

Her hands curled into fists against the glass.

“I am telling you now,” she said clearly, eyes burning but voice terrifyingly calm, “You have until Miami to revert the floor spec, the rear suspension setup, and the aero surfaces back to my configuration. You have until Miami to stop pretending that compromising on half a dozen micro-decisions makes a faster car. It doesn’t. And I won’t let my work, my life’s work, be slowly watered down until it’s just another near-miss.”

Andrea looked at her, slow and wary. “You’re saying you’ll quit.”

She didn’t flinch. “I’m saying I’ll walk.”

Zak looked like she’d punched him. “Honey—”

“No,” she said. “I’m not bluffing. I’ve given everything to this car. I built the MCL38-AN from the ground up. It is mine. And I’m watching it get torn apart by people who didn’t have the vision and don’t have the stakes I do.”

Her voice caught, just for a second; not from tears, but from fury held too long in her chest.

“I am not normal. I’m autistic,” she said bluntly, like she was listing part numbers. “I have spent my life learning how to make people take me seriously. I have sat in rooms where grown men laughed at me. I have had to make everything perfect just to be considered competent. So when I say that the car is broken, that your changes are wrong, it is not emotion. It is not ego. It is fact.”

She let that hang in the air.

Zak looked stunned. Andrea finally glanced down at the table.

Amelia straightened, pulling her hands from the glass. “Miami. That’s your deadline. Fix it, or I walk. And don’t think for a second that I won’t be taking both of my drivers with me.”

She turned before they could answer, too wired to hear excuses, too angry to be placated.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And somewhere down the hall, someone exhaled like they’d been holding their breath the entire time.

—

SkySportsF1 — An Interview with Amelia Norris

Naomi Schiff smiled at the camera as the red light blinked on. “Welcome back to Sky Sports F1. I’m joined now by McLaren’s Chief Technical Director, Oscar Piastri’s race engineer, and — of course — Lando Norris’ better half, Amelia Norris.”

Amelia, seated beside her in her team polo and her aviators hooked neatly into her collar, gave a small nod. “That’s a long title.”

Naomi laughed. “It’s earned. You’ve got more job descriptions than most team principals.”

Amelia tilted her head. “Efficient, not overcommitted.”

Naomi grinned. “Noted. Let’s start with something beyond car development — I know, shocking. F1 Academy is heading into its second year. More races on the main calendar. More visibility. How does it feel to see that kind of progress?”

Amelia’s expression shifted. Still composed, but with the slightest hint of warmth. “It feels... structural. Like we’re finally reinforcing the foundation instead of just repainting the surface.”

Naomi raised a brow, impressed. “That’s a good way to put it.”

“I don’t do metaphors often,” Amelia said dryly. “But that one felt accurate.”

Naomi leaned in slightly, tone softening. “You’ve spoken before, pretty openly, about how difficult it was to be taken seriously in motorsport. As a woman. As someone neurodivergent. What does this shift toward real support for women in the sport mean to you, personally?”

Amelia paused, more out of precision than hesitation. “It means I don’t have to keep hoping someone else fixes it. I can actually contribute. Visibility isn’t enough. It has to come with access. Tools. Pathways. F1 Academy’s starting to offer that.”

Naomi nodded, clearly moved. “And — not to blow up your spot, but — there are rumours that you’ll be working more closely with them in 2025?”

Amelia gave her a dry look. “Did Lando tell you that?”

Naomi smiled innocently. “I have many sources. All of them chatty.”

A breath, then Amelia gave a small, firm nod. “Yes. I’ll be joining the F1 Academy as a consultant next year. I’ll be working with Susie Wolff to develop a clearer technical development route for girls who want to work behind the scenes; not just drivers, but engineers, analysts, strategists. The full picture.”

Naomi’s eyes lit up. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s overdue,” Amelia said plainly. “You can’t call it a pipeline if it only works for certain people. And I know there are girls watching now who love this sport but don’t dream of being the one in the car. I’m doing this for them. Or someone like me, fifteen years ago.”

Naomi nodded. “And I assume McLaren’s more than happy for this to happen?”

Amelia shrugged. “Can I be honest? I haven’t even asked. It won’t affect my workload, and it certainly won’t affect my ability to do my job.”

Naomi laughed. “So you’re not going to slow down anytime soon?”

Amelia shook her head. “Statistically unlikely.”

Naomi turned slightly to the camera. “Well, there you have it. Amelia Norris — technical director, race engineer, soon-to-be F1 Academy consultant, and managing to make the rest of us look lazy.”

Amelia leaned toward the mic. “If anyone catches me napping in the background of any kind of weekend coverage, keep it quiet.”

Naomi laughed again, but there was a twinkle in her eye as she added, teasing, “One last question, off the record — and this is very important. Have you tried ginger nut biscuits?”

Amelia blinked. “I don’t really like cinnamon.”

Naomi tilted her head. “They’re not made with cinnamon.”

Another blink. Amelia was processing.

Naomi just winked. “Woman to woman.”

There was a beat of silence, then Amelia deadpanned, “That’s a reach.”

But her hand twitched toward her stomach, just slightly, as Naomi stood to wrap the segment.

“Thanks for joining us, Amelia,” Naomi said with a smile. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you — and your napping schedule.”

“Please don’t,” Amelia muttered as she removed her mic.

Off-camera, Naomi gave her a wink again. “You’re glowing, by the way.”

Amelia looked at her, unreadable. “That’s just my moisturiser.”

Naomi grinned slyly. “Sure it is.”

—

The desert heat shimmered off the tarmac in visible waves.

Oscar’s McLaren skimmed past the pit wall with that clean, calibrated roar, and Amelia tracked the car’s movement without flinching, her eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses.

“Box this lap,” she said calmly into the headset.

“Copy, boxing,” came Oscar’s voice, easy and even, like it always was. There was something reassuring about his tone; not casual, but not strained either. Balanced. Controlled.

Andrea leaned over her shoulder, pointing to the small uptick in temps on the left rear. “He’s pushing.”

Amelia didn’t look up. “Yeah. That was the instruction.”

Oscar pulled into the box, the car gliding to a stop just as the garage crew surged into motion — tire blankets off, engineers at the ready. Amelia stood, tugging her headset off and walking to the front of the garage.

Oscar cracked his visor. “That middle sector’s still a bit off.”

“Because you’re braking into 10 a touch early,” she said, handing him a bottle of water. “You’re playing it safe.”

“I like keeping the car in one piece.”

“You’re not going to bin it.”

Oscar arched a brow. “You say that with such confidence.”

“I built the balance map. I know what it can take.”

He took a sip of water and gave her a knowing look. “You’ve been a bit grumpy today.”

Amelia crossed her arms. “Because I feel like I’m being ignored and I don’t like it.”

Oscar smirked. “You sound like Lando.”

��I married Lando,” she muttered.

Oscar exhaled a quiet laugh and climbed out of the car. “Alright. Back in ten?”

“Back in seven,” Amelia corrected, already turning toward the data wall.

As he walked past her, he added, “You missed me, didn’t you?”

“I missed clean telemetry,” she replied without looking up.

But her mouth twitched.

Oscar tugged off his gloves. “I’ll take it.”

She didn’t say anything, but when he sat back down in the debrief chair, she handed him the revised turn-in model she’d finished before lunch — already annotated, already highlighted, already calibrated to his feedback.

He looked down at it, then back at her. “You ate lunch, right?”

“I did,” Amelia said flatly, taking her seat at the pit wall again.

Over comms, the crew confirmed readiness.

Oscar nodded to her. “Let’s go again.”

“Push lap. Use the whole track. Let it breathe in 12.”

“Copy.”

—

The moonlight caught Amelia’s cheekbones when she leaned her head against the headrest, her arms folded tight across her chest.

Oscar was on her left, earbuds in but not playing anything. Lando sat on her right, one leg folded beneath him, picking at the label on a water bottle.

The car was quiet in that post-testing way; all of them wrung out, smelling faintly of heat and rubber, the air-conditioning humming low.

Amelia finally broke the silence.

“I gave them a deadline,” she said.

Lando glanced over. “Who?”

“My dad. Andrea.” She didn’t look up. “I told them they have until Miami to either revert the car back to my spec and implement the rest of the changes — or I walk.”

Oscar blinked. Slowly pulled his earbuds out. “You what?”

“I’m not doing this,” Amelia said, voice cool and measured. “I refuse to accept excuses and be forced to sit back and watch the car become less than what it could be.”

Lando didn’t speak. He just reached over, his hand warm where it closed around her wrist, grounding.

Oscar leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You said that to their faces?”

“In Zak’s office. Door open. With Andrea across the desk. I told them straight — they’ve got until Miami to course-correct, or I’m done.”

Lando’s jaw flexed, but he stayed quiet.

Amelia kept her eyes fixed out the window. “They know it’s true. They’re letting politics win over performance. And if they don’t fix it, I’m not going to sit there and let them ruin our chance of a championship to preserve some internal power structure. I’m tired of pretending the problem is something else.”

Oscar shifted. “You think they’ll actually listen?”

“I think they’ll think about the gap they’ll have to fill if they lose me mid-development. They’ll run the numbers.”

Lando exhaled through his nose. “You shouldn’t have to threaten to leave just to get them to listen to you.”

“I know,” she said. Quiet. Blunt. “But they weren’t going to do it otherwise. I’ve tried calm. I’ve tried patient. I’ve tried proving them wrong. They still my decisions be overridden. So now they get consequences.”

Lando rubbed a hand down his face. “I’ll back you. Whatever happens.”

Oscar nodded. “Same.”

Amelia finally looked at them. “You’re both under contract.”

“And you’re the reason we were podium-capable last year,” Lando said. “If they don’t see that, they’re idiots.”

Amelia didn’t smile. But the line of her shoulders softened just a little.

Oscar leaned his head back against the headrest. “Miami’s in, what — two months?”

“Eight weeks,” she said.

“So... no pressure.”

Amelia snorted. “You’re driving the car, ducky. Pressure’s on you.”

That earned a tired chuckle from the Aussie.

Lando leaned into her shoulder gently, head tipping against hers. “Whatever happens, we’ve got your back, okay?”

Amelia closed her eyes for a moment, just long enough to breathe it in. “I know.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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formulafanfics13 · 14 days ago

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All Eyes on Me - chapter 38

Masterlist

Disclaimer:

This fanfic will contain mature themes and topics (smut, abuse, power imbalance, drug use, alcohol dependency, control, and eating disorders). There will not be warnings throughout, so if you proceed with this fic, please bear this in mind!

The few days after Monaco was a blur of closed curtains, electrolytes, and carefully curated lies. The girls went dark on socials. The drivers returned to training. The team principals quietly deleted a few blurry nightclub photos from their phones. Officially, the campaign was still a dream. Unofficially, it was hanging on by mascara, muscle relaxants, and the airtight silence of every man who had seen too much and said nothing.

But it wasn't over. Monaco was just the beginning. Now came the triple header. Imola. Barcelona. Silverstone. Three races. Three countries. Three weeks. No breaks. No fuck-ups. And no excuses.

The Victoria's Secret girls landed in Italy on a private Gulfstream jet chartered from Milan, the same one they'd used for Bahrain and Shanghai, but this time with even darker window tint. No one needed to see the vodka sodas in their Hydro Flasks or the Adderall tucked into a mint tin. They arrived Wednesday morning, fresh off their 'recovery weekend' which had included one spa day, three brunches, and two more lines of coke than anyone wanted to admit.

The jet touched down at Bologna Guglielmo Marconi Airport just after 8am. The girls barely spoke in the car. They were dressed identically in navy Victoria's Secret x F1 gym sets, each with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and oversized sunglasses glued to their faces. Not because of the sun. But because they still hadn't slept properly since Saturday. They didn't check into the hotel first. They didn't unpack. They didn't even drop their bags. They went straight to the paddock.

Karen was already waiting. Her posture screamed military. Black leggings. Tight black tank top. Clipboard in hand. Stopwatch hanging from her lanyard like a weapon.

Behind her, the team's hospitality unit buzzed with early race week activity. Engineers. Mechanics. PR staff. Even a few curious drivers milling around for breakfast. But all of them paused the second they saw the girls emerge from the transport van. Five matching figures. Five goddesses in matching Lycra, moving like soldiers toward the kill.

David was pacing by the entrance to the temporary Victoria's Secret gym trailer that had been wheeled into the paddock specifically for this part of the campaign. He didn't look up when the girls arrived. Just flicked a glance toward Karen and murmured, "They're ten minutes late."

Karen smiled tightly. "Then they'll train ten minutes longer."

Barbara muttered something in Hungarian under her breath. Lila elbowed her. Taylor stretched like a cat. Martha didn't react at all. She just pulled her hoodie off, revealing her gym set beneath, flawless despite the dark circles hiding behind her Dior sunglasses. Gigi tied her hair up without a word.

Inside the trailer, everything smelled like lavender disinfectant and corporate delusion. There were five yoga mats lined up in a row, each with a water bottle, sweat towel, and clipboard containing the girls' individual vitals and targets. Yes. Targets. Calories burned. Muscle fatigue. Weight retention. Heart rate peaks. All tracked. All stored. All compared.

Karen clapped once. "Phones off. Watches off. Cameras are off until after stretch. Let's go."

The girls obeyed. Like machines. It started slow. Stretching. Planks. Core holds. But it escalated quickly. Sprints on the treadmill. Resistance circuits. Weighted lunges. High intensity interval training, one round after the next. Karen didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Her eyes were enough. That terrifying, clinical smile when someone's rep was a second too slow. When someone's recovery took one breath too long. When Gigi hesitated after her third round of box jumps and leaned against the wall for a second too long, Karen just said, "That's not a break. That's weakness."

Taylor spat onto the gym floor and kept going.

Outside the trailer, several engineers had gathered quietly near the catering tent, pretending to eat breakfast while watching through the half-frosted gym windows. It was hypnotic. Barbaric. Sexy in the way you didn't want to admit. Five girls being torn down to nothing in real time and building themselves back up between reps.

The gym session lasted two hours. By the end, every girl was drenched in sweat and trembling from the inside out. But no one quit. No one tapped out. Martha nearly collapsed mid-way through her final plank, her forearms slipping against the mat, jaw clenched so tight her molars ached. But she stayed up. Because collapsing in front of the cameras meant weakness. And weakness was a sin.

Once the session ended, Karen handed out protein shots like communion. One ounce. No more. Then she pointed to a portable ultrasound scanner plugged into the corner.

"Body fat scans in five. Go rinse off. Wipe your faces. You're being filmed next."

Not interviewed. Not filmed talking. Just filmed existing. Walking. Laughing. Pretending they weren't dying inside. This was what Victoria's Secret called 'raw campaign content', which meant sweat with lip gloss. Suffering with a smile.

Outside the trailer, the sun had risen fully, casting sharp angles of light across the paddock. Teams were setting up hospitality units. Drivers were arriving in branded rental cars. Cameras were being tested. But the most buzz came from that trailer. The whispers about the models never stopped. The speculation. The gossip. No one talked openly. But everyone was watching.

Because what they saw wasn't five influencers posing for likes. It was five women being sculpted into performance art.

Martha stood just inside the doorway, head tilted back against the trailer wall, eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell like a machine cooling down. Her ribs visible through the Lycra. Her hands shaking as she downed the last drop of her protein shot.

"Medical time, angels," Julia's voice called, chirpy like she was announcing brunch and not mandatory wellness screenings by a doctor who was probably part-cyborg at this point. "Let's move."

"Jesus, already?" Barbara muttered, yanking her ponytail tighter.

Martha rolled her eyes, stretching her arms overhead, the hem of her hoodie riding up to reveal the faded yellow bruise still painting her rib. "We could've at least gotten a mimosa first."

"You want a mimosa with your weigh-in?" Taylor snorted. "Why not just snort a line off the scale while you're at it?"

"We've literally done that before," Gigi said, completely deadpan.

"Oh my god, that was Milan last year!" Lila cackled, pulling her hoodie off as they approached the curtained exam area. "When you made that assistant cry because she offered you fruit?"

"Bitch tried to feed me melon before a Balmain fitting," Gigi said, like that explained everything.

They were still laughing when they stepped behind the curtain.

Dr. Mireille Dupré didn't laugh. Ever. French. Mid-forties. Crimson lipstick never smudged. She looked at the girls like she was checking inventory, not vitals. There was no warmth. No judgment either. Just sharp clinical efficiency disguised as care.

"Martha first," she said, without looking up from her tablet.

Martha sighed, dropping her robe and climbing onto the table in her sports bra and spandex shorts. "Let's get this show on the road, Doc."

"Bonjour, ma chérie," the doctor said flatly. "Pulse."

Martha stuck out her wrist. The cuff inflated. The numbers flashed. 43 BPM.

"Low," the doctor noted, typing. "But expected."

"Is that code for iconic?" Martha asked sweetly.

The doctor didn't answer. She was already pressing cold fingers to Martha's sternum. "Tender here?"

"A bit."

"You ate late?"

"Pasta. With parmesan. Don't arrest me."

The doctor didn't even blink. "Carbs bloat the stomach. And salt holds water."

"Cool," Martha muttered. "So basically I'm a beach ball with mascara."

The doctor tapped at the tablet. "Injection site?"

Martha turned and pointed to her left hip. The doctor tugged the waistband down slightly and examined it with precise fingers.

"Small bruise. Rotate to upper arm next. No more hip injections this week."

Martha nodded. The scale beeped.

"Thirty-eight point two," the doctor read aloud. "Maintain it."

Barbara clapped sarcastically from the back of the tent. "Gold star for you, Jones."

"Shut up, you're next," Martha said as she slid off the table.

As Barbara stepped forward, Taylor whispered, "I bet she says I'm too hydrated again."

"She always says that," Lila said. "Because you actually drink water."

"What a whore," Taylor muttered.

"Taylor," the doctor called, sharp and cold. "Now."

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of robe drops, clipped instructions, low blood pressure, bruises ignored, iron levels noted, and comments about visible abdominal swelling that weren't even insults, just... logistics. "Lila, you've lost point three kilos," the doctor said, tapping notes.

"Slay," Lila grinned.

"It's dehydration."

"Still a slay."

Barbara leaned toward Martha. "She poked my ribs and said, 'Still firm. Good.' What the fuck does that mean?"

Martha smirked. "It means you're built like a Dior mannequin and she's proud."

"Do you think I could bribe her to fake my iron levels?" Gigi whispered.

"Babe, she's French. You bring her a glass of Bordeaux and she'll sign your death certificate with a croissant."

The doctor finally turned to Julia, who'd slipped into the tent on her phone, mid-text. "All girls cleared. Physically stable. No concerns."

Julia clapped once, fake cheerful. "Amazing! We start filming in twenty."

"Great," Martha muttered, slipping her arms back into her robe. "Can't wait to fake-laugh in the garage while dying inside."

Taylor looped her arm through Martha's. "Don't worry, I'll pass out dramatically and buy us five minutes."

"You'll ruin the shot," Gigi said.

"I'll fall in frame," Taylor replied. "Duh."

Barbara grabbed her water bottle. "If someone doesn't spike my blood sugar with a cupcake soon, I'm gonna start eating set decor."

"Eat one of the Ferrari engineers," Lila offered. "They look soft."

As they stepped out into the main part of the tent, David was waiting with his usual folder, tablet in hand. "You'll be on set in the garages by one," he said briskly. "You know the drill. Stay light. Stay up. Stay sharp. No bloat. No breakdowns. No Instagram until after post."

"Are we allowed to blink today?" Martha asked.

"Twice an hour," David replied without missing a beat. "Smiling optional. Lying mandatory."

Taylor saluted. "Captain of trauma, reporting for duty."

Julia gave them all a look that was meant to be encouraging but landed more like a death threat. "Imola's a legacy track. Act like it."

They were already walking before she finished.

The filming went smooth, without a single hair out of place. Under the early afternoon sun, the track shimmered like hell under spotlight. A slow-boil mirage. Somewhere between heatstroke and a Calvin Klein ad.

The girls stood in formation at the start line like prisoners about to be marched into battle. Matching blush-pink Victoria's Secret gym sets. Hair tied high. Glasses on. Lips glossed. Hearts bitter.

"Four laps," Karen barked, clipboard in hand, aviators glinting. "You stay in frame, you stay in sync. You don't break formation unless someone literally dies."

"Wow," said Taylor, eyes narrowed. "Someone's got a murder kink today."

Gigi popped her gum. "She always does. She just calls it 'conditioning.'"

Lila didn't speak. She was too busy arching her back into a stretch like she was limbering up for a death sentence. Barbara looked like she wanted to throw herself down on the nearest DRS zone. "I haven't run since we did that campaign in Mykonos and I passed out in the sand."

"Girl, that was five years ago," Martha muttered, tying her hoodie around her waist. "And you were blackout from sangria."

"Exactly!" Barbara snapped. "And I'm about to relive it. Right here. On this actual fucking track."

"Save the drama for after the run," Karen called. "You've got five seconds before the drone goes up."

The girls shuffled into line like sleep-paralysis demons. Martha felt sweat trickling down her spine before they'd even moved. Taylor pressed her fingers to her temples and whispered, "Dear cocaine gods, grant us speed."

Gigi cackled. "And grace."

"And disguise." Lila added, deadpan.

"Go!" Karen's whistle pierced the silence like a dagger to the brainstem.

Lap one was survivable.

The drone hovered above like a robotic vulture, camera panning low as they found their rhythm, a soft-footed glide over Imola's undulating terrain. Arms pumping, hair bouncing, smiles fake but convincing. Taylor blew a kiss to the drone mid-lap. Gigi flipped it off. Lila didn't even glance at it. They didn't talk. Just breathed in sync. A tight unit of muscle and mascara.

Lap two was already pain. Barbara started trailing behind just after turn seven. Her breath got ragged. Her pace dropped. Martha didn't even think, she fell back and grabbed her arm like a bodyguard in lip gloss.

"Link up," she muttered. "I got you."

Barbara's eyes said don't you fucking pity me, but her legs said thank fuck. She didn't let go.

Gigi started singing to distract them. "I'm bringing sexy back..."

"No," Lila snapped.

"Yes," Taylor grinned, harmonising, "them other girls don't know how to act..."

"Stop," Lila groaned, "I'm genuinely going to pass out and I don't want Timbaland to be the last thing I hear."

They rounded the final corner of the lap like a sinking ship.

Karen clapped once. "That's halfway!"

"Jesus fucking Christ," Barbara wheezed.

"I don't see him here," Taylor gasped. "Just Karen."

Lap three felt like a fever dream. The sun hit a new level of cruelty. Heat radiated off the tarmac like a grudge. Every breath tasted like fire and perfume. Gigi muttered something in Italian. Lila replied in French. No one had the energy to ask what either of them said, but the tone was clear: fuck this.

"I'm gonna throw up," Taylor groaned.

"Do it in my sports bra," Martha panted. "It's already wet from sweat." Barbara didn't speak. She looked like she was running underwater.

"Form up," Karen yelled from the sidelines. "You're drifting!"

"Drifting?" Lila snapped, voice raspy. "Bitch, we're evaporating."

They hit the final stretch of lap three and slowed instinctively. Breath shallow. Mouths open. Gait collapsing. Martha had a cramp like a knife under her ribs. Karen's whistle blasted again. "Last lap! Pick it up!"

"I'll run faster if you get me a quick key of coke!" Martha shouted, barely looking up.

"Just run!" Karen barked.

Barbara wheezed. "I haven't felt my legs since lap two!"

"I haven't felt joy since 2020!" Gigi howled.

The track dipped, just slightly, at a turn none of them registered fast enough. Barbara's foot clipped the edge. Her ankle rolled. Her entire body flailed mid-stride.

Martha felt it before she saw it. "Shit-" she tried to tighten her grip, but the angle was off. Barbara fell hard. Cheek to tarmac. Skin to gravel. Martha was still locked through her elbow and got yanked sideways, falling like a puppet cut mid-air.

The sound was sickening. Skin. Ground. Skin again. Barbara stayed down, cheek mashed to the ground, eyes wide. Martha groaned, rolling onto her side, blood slick across her palms and forearms, the sting at her hip white-hot.

"Oh my god," Taylor gasped, skidding to a stop.

Lila stopped dead, eyes wide. "Barbara?!" she shrieked.

Gigi doubled back, jogging toward them, trying to conceal her laugh. "What the fuck just happened-"

Barbara coughed. "I think... I think I just kissed the ground."

"Was it consensual?" Martha mumbled, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

"No. But I think it loved me."

Martha sat up slowly, grimacing. Her hands were red. Her knees scuffed. Her hip screamed with every shift.

Taylor crouched beside her. "Holy shit, babe. Your elbow."

"Is it still attached?"

"Barely."

Karen was already storming over. "What the fuck just happened?!"

Lila rolled her eyes. "What does it look like?"

"They tripped," Gigi snapped. "Because it's forty fucking degrees and the track is on a gradient designed by Satan himself."

Karen dropped to a knee, checking Barbara's pupils like she was suddenly Florence Nightingale. "You dizzy?"

"Only from your voice," Barbara muttered.

Martha spit blood from her lip. "I need ice. Or vodka."

Lila held out her phone. "Should I call David and tell him you broke two of his favourite assets?"

"I'm not broken," Martha hissed.

Barbara blinked up at the sky. "I'm spiritually broken."

Karen reached for her radio. "I'm calling medical."

"You do that," Taylor said sweetly. "We'll just lie here and melt."

The girls sat in the middle of the track like a fashion ad for heatstroke. Legs bruised. Faces pink. Mascara melting like war paint.

"I told you we should've done Pilates," Gigi muttered.

"Shut up," Martha groaned. "No one likes a prophet."

The medic tent was tucked behind a paddock fence near the end of pit lane, an over-airconditioned white cube that smelled like latex, stale hand gel and whatever trauma Gigi had brought in with her sports bra.

Martha was draped across a padded bench like an old Roman painting. Bandages being wrapped tight around her elbow by a nurse who looked disturbingly excited about it.

Barbara sat beside her on a plastic chair, a gauze pad pressed to the side of her cheek where she'd scraped skin, one sock off, head tilted back like she was recovering from a war crime.

Gigi, Taylor, and Lila hovered by the curtained entrance sipping bottled water with the dramatic flourish of women who knew cameras weren't on them but still behaved like they were.

"This is degrading," Taylor muttered, leaning against the wall. "They didn't even offer us a snack."

"I'd kill for a banana," Gigi groaned.

"You said that in Ibiza once," Lila said. "And then nearly did."

"Girls," Karen barked from the far corner where she stood beside the head medic's desk. "Can we please take this seriously."

"Oh, now we're serious," Martha mumbled, deadpan. "After you made us sprint Imola at high noon."

Karen's lips thinned into a press line of fake concern. "You were told to hydrate-"

Barbara raised one finger like a lecturer. "Hydration doesn't save you when the asphalt is boiling and the only carbs we've had this week are champagne bubbles and Tic Tacs."

The nurse snorted under her breath.

Karen turned her glare toward her. "Was something funny?"

The nurse instantly recomposed. "No, ma'am."

"Thought so."

David swept into the tent like the ghost of capitalism in a perfectly tailored linen shirt. His sunglasses were still on, despite the shade, and he walked with that falsely casual bounce of a man who'd just finished making six figures off trauma content.

"Ladies," he said lightly. "Heard we had a stumble."

"We were running a hill circuit with zero fuel in our bodies in 34 degree heat," Gigi replied, still seated on the floor now like a weary nymph. "It's not a stumble, it's fucking manslaughter."

David smiled politely and walked past her.

"Doctor," he said, addressing the VS-hired medic, a grey-haired woman with no name tag and a remarkably blank expression. "They can have something for the pain. Let's make sure they're fit to film later."

The doctor nodded once. She had the energy of a woman who'd seen too much and stopped caring sometime back in 2007.

"What're the options?" Martha asked, shifting under the blanket of gauze wrapping her hip. "Because I'm not doing a vitamin shot."

The medic tilted her head. "We have mild injectables—diclofenac, dexamethasone. Or tramadol orally."

Martha met David's eyes from across the room. "Got anything stronger?" she asked, tone flat, unreadable.

David's mouth twitched. Just slightly. And then he nodded. "We'll arrange something cleaner. Discreet."

The medic said nothing. Just turned and walked to the little locked fridge unit and pulled out a labelled box of single-use vials.

Barbara, from her chair, groaned. "Can I just have some codeine and be left alone for twenty minutes?"

"You want a 15mg or 30?" the medic asked without even looking up.

"Whichever gets me high enough to forget I fell in front of a fucking drone," she muttered.

Martha grinned. "Get me the drone footage later."

"You know they'll use it in the next docuseries," Gigi chimed.

"Oh for sure," Taylor added. "Episode title: The Girls Collapse."

Lila was still quiet. Watching everything. The drug discussion. The way David didn't flinch. The way Karen didn't interfere. The way the medic already had their files pre-labelled. She crossed her arms and leaned back against the tent frame.

"This is normal," she said aloud. Not a question.

Martha glanced at her, soft but honest. "It is now."

The girls didn't speak for a minute. Just let the cooling air hum around them, nurses moving quietly, the medic prepping syringes, David checking his phone.

Karen finally cleared her throat. "You'll need to shower and change before the filming block."

Taylor flipped her off without turning around. "Schedule this, bitch."

Gigi chuckled darkly. "If I pass out in the shower, tell them to film around my corpse."

Barbara reached over and stole the gauze-wrapped champagne bottle from the cooler by the wall and held it to her cheek like an ice pack.

"Somebody kill me. But gently," she mumbled.

Martha let her head fall back onto the bench pillow. The injection was already in her bloodstream, a slow, familiar fog rising up behind her eyes. Not enough to knock her out, just enough to smooth the edges. Just enough to keep her upright. Beautiful. Profitable.

"What's next?" she asked.

David smiled. "Lunchtime runway rehearsal. Then filming. Then final content shoot before the race weekend officially starts."

"And after that?"

"You rest."

"Liar," Martha whispered. No one corrected her.

The girls had left in a slow procession of heels and painkillers, escorted by Paul and two junior stylists toward the fitting trailers at the back of the paddock. They were still half-limping, still laughing in fragments, but the minute they crossed the white vinyl threshold of the tent exit, the air inside shifted.

Quieter. Colder.

David straightened his cuffs and turned toward the doctor, lowering his sunglasses from where they'd been perched atop his head. Julia stepped forward beside him. Karen remained tucked in the corner, arms crossed, silent but listening.

"Let's talk numbers," David said.

The doctor, unfazed, tapped a few keys on the small black laptop on the folding table beside her. She didn't hesitate. "All five girls are back within their typical campaign chemical ranges. Elevated but controlled."

"Specifics?" Julia asked, casually checking her reflection in her phone screen.

The doctor flipped the screen toward them briefly. "Methylphenidate, modafinil, and benzos across the board. Cocaine metabolites peaked in three out of five of them this morning. Martha and Barbara especially. Lila's on lower levels but consistent. No red flags."

David scanned the screen. "So they're operating at peak performance."

"Yes," the doctor replied. "Standard for mid-campaign. Above personal off-season averages, but that's expected. The pattern holds across every event we've done since Australia."

Karen shifted slightly, arms still folded. "It's not dangerous?"

The doctor glanced at her like she'd just asked if water was wet. "It's modelling."

Julia hummed in agreement and flicked to her notes. "And physically?"

"Gigi's BMI is stabilising. Taylor's is below but within acceptable bounds for her target look. Barbara's lost weight since Bahrain, likely due to exertion. Lila's neutral. Martha has dropped 1.2 kilos since Monaco. Still functioning, but she's dipping."

David nodded slowly. "Adjust her food."

Karen looked up properly now. "How much?"

David didn't flinch. "Half."

"No solids after 5pm," Julia added. "She's still got two outfits we haven't shot."

"I'll tell the kitchen," Karen muttered, pulling out her phone.

"She also asked me something," the doctor added casually, scrolling down. "Martha. This morning."

Julia arched an eyebrow. "What."

"She asked about getting a prescription for semaglutide."

David paused, reading between the lines instantly. "Ozempic?"

The doctor nodded. "Said she'd heard it was easier on the system than constant pills. Wanted to know how often we administer it. If it would replace anything else."

"And you told her?" Julia asked.

"I told her it was above my pay grade." A pause. Then: "And that she'd need to go through you."

David's expression didn't change, but something sharpened behind his eyes. "Do you think she needs it?"

"She wants it. That's enough," the doctor replied, blunt and almost bored. "It's effective. Appetite suppression, metabolic increase, minimal side effects if monitored."

Karen cleared her throat, quieter now. "She's already below 38 kilos."

David didn't even blink. "Then we'll monitor it closely."

There was a long, tight silence.

Outside the tent, a golf cart whirred past. Laughter. Someone from media shouted about lights being late. But inside, the medic tent felt vacuum-sealed. Tidy. Empty.

Julia spoke next, cool and casual. "Make the decision by Barcelona. If she still wants it then, we go ahead. But only if she signs for it herself."

The doctor nodded. "Understood."

David clapped his hands together lightly, tone snapping back into bright CEO charm. "Alright, let's get to rehearsal. They've got champagne hair and heroin cheekbones, what more could we want?"

Karen offered a tight little smile. "Just a little more thigh gap."

Julia turned, already walking. "That's what Ozempic's for."

They left the tent one by one. Polished. Efficient. Sharp.

The doctor remained behind for a moment, staring at the screen, then closing the laptop. Her face was still blank, her movements automatic. She packed away the records, locked the fridge, and sealed the drug log with a blue signature she didn't even look at as she scrawled it.

Outside, the paddock buzzed with weekend energy. Inside, the war machine kept humming.

By the time the Victoria's Secret SUV convoy rolled through the Imola paddock gates, the place was already crawling with camera crews and press coordinators, shouting names and dragging lights across the asphalt. Sky Sports had built their pop-up platform by the Alfa Romeo garage. F1TV had a camera on every corner. Drivers were being bounced between media pens like designer ping pong balls. And the team principals were locked in their own photo ops, arms folded, faces polished, energy tense as fuck.

And then the girls arrived. Not loud. Not chaotic. But completely unmissable.

Martha stepped out first, her long legs gleaming under the tiny hem of her deep red VS gym shorts, a water bottle slung casually in one hand, hair scraped up, sunglasses massive. She looked violently expensive. Gigi and Taylor followed her, all long limbs and quiet menace, matching sets in monochrome greys, high ponytails swaying as they walked. Barbara and Lila flanked them at the rear, energy sharper, giggling about something no one else would ever be allowed to hear.

The paddock looked up. The press looked hungry. The girls didn't break stride.

David walked a few steps behind, sunglasses on, jaw tight. Julia had her tablet in one hand and her iced coffee in the other, phone already blowing up from three different group chats and two international stylists. Karen was in a navy tracksuit and clutching her protein shake like it was a hand grenade. Paul trailed behind in his all-black polo, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning every single face in the vicinity.

They passed the McLaren garage and Lando, mid-interview, almost choked when he caught sight of Martha. She didn't wave, just lifted her sunglasses for half a second and smirked. His brain short-circuited. The camera caught it. Somewhere on TikTok, it was already being edited.

The girls were led straight to the gym tent, a temperature-controlled, mirror-lined monster erected between the Mercedes and Red Bull motorhomes. Inside, the air was cold, the lighting brutal, and their training schedule had already been printed and pinned to the mirrored wall.

VICTORIA'S SECRET - TRAINING DAY TWO - IMOLA 8:30AM - FULL BODY CONDITIONING 9:45AM - PILATES / STRETCHING 11:00AM - CAMPAIGN MEETING (VS Runway + MET Gala) 1:00PM - MEDIA LUNCH + PADDOCK SHOOT (ALL MODELS) 3:30PM - ENGINEER CONTENT (TBD)

The moment they stepped inside, Karen clapped her hands. "Shoes off. On the mats. You know the drill."

"Do we ever get a day off?" Lila muttered, already tugging her trainers loose.

Taylor yawned. "Yeah. The day we die."

Martha snorted and flopped down onto her mat. "Can someone at least pretend this is fun?"

Gigi dropped her bottle on the floor and stretched dramatically. "Babe, pretending is literally the job."

Barbara laid back and sighed. "I'll start pretending once the cocaine kicks in."

Karen didn't even flinch. "Three-minute warm up. Go."

The girls moved like clockwork. Stretches. Lunges. Controlled chaos. Their bodies operated on muscle memory now, their minds half-fried and halfway to the next requirement. There was no such thing as down time anymore, not this deep into the campaign. Not mid-season.

By the time their bodies were warmed, Pilates had started, with Julia pacing behind them, making notes on posture and body tension. Karen corrected angles with two fingers on knees, elbows, hips. The air felt more like a showroom than a gym. Paul stood at the back with two interns watching a silent feed from the paddock's main press area on his phone.

Martha was midway through a downward dog when Julia spoke.

"Eleven o'clock meeting is confirmed. We've got confirmation from both Anna and Anna's team, all five of you are walking next year's Met Gala red carpet."

"Again?" Lila asked, upside down.

Taylor groaned. "Can we not even get a break from that?"

Barbara blinked. "Do we have a theme yet?"

"Yes," Julia said. "But it's under embargo until Vogue publishes. We've got first access to fittings."

"And the runway?" Gigi asked, already sitting up.

David entered just in time, voice sharp. "Scheduled for September. Full rebrand. Headline is The World is Watching."

Martha rolled her eyes. "That's not dramatic at all."

"Neither is this campaign," Barbara muttered.

David ignored them. "You'll be briefed on the wardrobe designs after lunch. We're working with Mugler, vintage Galliano, and archival Balenciaga. Hair is still in discussion. We're waiting on feedback from Anna."

"Which Anna?" Gigi said flatly. "Because one loves us and one wants to skin us alive."

"Both," David replied without blinking.

Karen handed out small protein bars at the end of the session. "No sugar. You'll get your green shots after the meeting."

Martha bit hers and grimaced. "This tastes like despair."

Lila leaned on her shoulder. "Mine tastes like Stockholm Syndrome."

Taylor laughed under her breath. "Babe, that's not the protein bar. That's just our friendship."

The girls exited the tent mid-morning, faces already glossed, bodies tight, and the sun hitting their backs like a spotlight. The drivers were still busy Charles deep in conversation with a journalist, Carlos posing with a young fan, Max pretending to listen to a PR girl while subtly texting Kelly. The team principals were halfway through the press carousel, camera crews swirling around like bees.

But the girls didn't stop to watch. They moved like ghosts through the chaos, perfectly visible, totally untouchable.

A ghost campaign dressed in sugar and blood. And the world still had no idea.

On the other side of the paddock, Toto had a hand on his hip, brows drawn together, while Zak rubbed the back of his neck like he was trying to massage the tension straight out of the weekend. Lewis had just finished media rounds and was sipping on a green juice that clearly wasn't helping. The three of them were in a half-circle behind the McLaren garage, out of camera range, but close enough to watch the paddock in full motion.

Zak spotted Lando first. "You alright?"

Lando blinked like he'd been snapped out of a dream. "Yeah. Just-" His eyes flicked back toward the VS tent, where a flash of red had just disappeared behind the flap. "Saw the girls. They're doing gym training."

Lewis followed his gaze and sighed. "Of course they are. Always training, always filming, never resting. They're like... athletes with better PR."

"Worse management though," Toto muttered under his breath.

Lando hesitated, lips parting slightly before he glanced over his shoulder. Then he turned back to them and said it. "Martha told me."

Zak looked up. "Told you what?"

Lando took a small breath, lowering his voice. "Everything."

Toto's head tilted, sharp. "Define everything."

"She told me about the drugs," Lando said quietly. "That it's normal in the industry. That management supplies them. She said during campaigns it gets worse."

Lewis blinked. "She said that? Directly?"

Lando nodded. "On my balcony. The night after Jimmy'z."

There was a beat of silence. Zak swore under his breath. "Fucking hell."

"She said they all do it," Lando went on. "It's not hidden. They get injections. Pills. Cocaine is normal. Even the staff know. I joked that I should be her unprofessional therapist, so she told me everything. About Jacob. About the hospitalisation. The food rules. The NDAs. Everything."

Toto's jaw flexed but his face stayed unreadable. "She mentioned anyone by name?"

"She said Stefano knew," Lando replied. "That she wasn't allowed to walk fashion week last year unless she left Jacob. That Anna Wintour gave her an ultimatum. She didn't leave him. So she didn't walk. And then she said designers stopped helping. Just started covering it up instead."

Lewis crossed his arms tightly. "That tracks. And we've all seen it."

"She told me about Jude," Lando added. "Not details. Just that they always ended up together whenever she broke up with Jacob. But it was the eating disorder that hit me the most. She collapsed. Was hospitalised. And everyone just pretended it was exhaustion."

Zak let out a slow breath. "And she's still showing up every day. Still filming. Still on schedule."

Lando nodded. "Yeah. And yesterday apparently she did a fucking four-lap run. Barbara fell, and Martha hit the tarmac with her. Grazed her ribs and hands. Still finished the run."

"She's running on more than adrenaline," Toto said darkly.

Lewis looked at Lando. "Why'd she tell you?"

Lando gave a half-shrug. "Because I asked. And because I signed her NDA."

Toto blinked. "You what?"

"She made me sign an NDA," Lando said, a little sheepish. "Wrote it on a piece of paper, made me sign it before she'd talk."

Zak shook his head. "God, I like her."

"She's not trying to be a hero," Lando said softly. "She just doesn't want to lie anymore. And she's so tired, I could see it. She just needed someone to listen."

Toto ran a hand over his mouth. "Did she say if she wanted out?"

"No," Lando said honestly. "She said this is the job. That this is normal. But I don't think she sees what it's doing to her. Or maybe she does and just doesn't think anyone can stop it."

Lewis glanced toward the VS tent. "If what she's saying is true, it's not just abuse. It's systematic. It's coordinated."

Toto nodded. "Then it's a machine. And machines don't stop unless someone breaks them."

Lando hesitated. "I want to help her. I just don't know how."

"You already are," Zak said. "She trusted you."

Toto added, voice low. "And you're giving us something no one else has: proof from the inside."

Lewis stepped closer. "We need to watch for escalation. They'll cover their tracks now. But if we can get more, real evidence, then we can go to Stefano. Or Anna. Or someone with actual power."

"I'll stay close," Lando promised. "But not like surveillance. Just as a friend. She deserves that."

Toto placed a hand on Lando's shoulder. "You're doing good, kid."

And they all stood there, silent for a beat, as the sun climbed higher and the paddock kept spinning, cameras still flashing, drivers still smiling, and just a few feet away, five girls still sprinting toward a finish line that no one could even see.

Andrea approached with a clipboard in hand and the usual post-media-round briskness, but the second he saw Zak's face, he paused. "What did I walk into?"

Zak gave him a look. "Something serious."

Toto nodded toward the shadows. "Let's move inside."

They slipped into one of the hospitality back corridors, into a room designed for technical briefings and emergency PR cleanups. Cold water bottles. Blank screens. No cameras. The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence thickened.

Lewis leaned against the edge of the table. "Lando told us everything."

Andrea glanced around the group. "Everything meaning...?"

Zak folded his arms. "Martha opened up to him. Drugs. Jacob. Eating disorder. Management control. The NDA-level shit."

Andrea blinked, the weight of it settling fast. "How much detail?"

Toto's voice was steady but sharp. "Enough to confirm what she told me back in Monaco."

Andrea looked at him. "You too?"

Toto nodded once. "She came into the Mercedes garage early that weekend. No cameras. Just her. Looked like she hadn't eaten properly in days. Barely holding herself together. I moved her into the back office and she... cracked."

Lewis glanced at Toto, then turned to Andrea. "She told him Jacob had been controlling her for years. That she was isolated, being micromanaged by VS, the whole thing was already covered up before we ever saw the first promo."

Andrea rubbed a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ."

"And now Lando's confirmed the rest," Zak said. "That they're given drugs regularly. That management supplies it. That injections and 'vitamin' routines are just part of the normal structure. The girls joke about it but none of it's funny."

"She told Lando it was normal," Toto added. "That the job requires it."

Lewis leaned forward. "And that the real instruction from management is to never tell the drivers what's actually happening."

Andrea's expression didn't change much. But his voice dropped. "We've all suspected it. Since Bahrain."

Toto nodded. "But now we have direct confirmation. Two separate accounts. From someone in it, and from someone they trusted enough to share it with."

Andrea exhaled. "She's still showing up though."

Zak cut in. "Because she thinks she has to. Because she still sees this as 'normal'."

"Because no one's ever told her it doesn't have to be," Toto said quietly.

Lewis shifted his weight, eyes dark. "How do we play this?"

"We don't storm in," Andrea said. "That'll just get them locked down harder. The girls, especially Martha, they'll get cut off. Replaced. Discredited."

Zak agreed. "They've got media training, script writers, lawyers. We go too public, it becomes denial versus rumour. We lose."

"But we don't stay silent either," Toto added. "We stay close. Build trust. Watch. Collect. The next misstep from management, we document it. Quietly. Legally."

Lewis nodded. "We're in a triple-header now. That means three weeks of non-stop exposure. Plenty of time to observe."

Andrea was already thinking strategically. "They'll all be at the same hotels. Same paddocks. No space to hide."

"We move like a unit then," Zak said. "We stay in contact. Protect them where we can. Especially Martha. She's the most fragile in all this."

"She's also the one who's already speaking," Toto said. "She'll be targeted first."

Andrea's voice was cold now. "Then we keep her safe."

Lewis nodded. "And if they try anything?"

Toto's eyes flicked toward the door. "Then we stop pretending this is about a fashion show."

And in that moment, in that tiny hidden paddock room, four of Formula 1's most powerful men stood completely aligned, not as team principals, not as sponsors, not as media-trained talking heads, but as protectors. Of a girl they shouldn't have had to protect. Of a secret that never should've existed in the first place.

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