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ojsimpsondidit · 23 hours ago

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The Late Transfer- Daniela Avanzini (Part 3)

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The rooftop door shuts behind you with a dull click.

You stand there for a second, staring at the dark corridor ahead. A single camera tilts slowly in the corner. You pretend not to see it.

No Daniela in sight.

Of course.

You mutter under your breath, something that sounds suspiciously like “Thanks for the help, by the way.” Not that you expected her to hold your hand-but maybe a little less cloak-and-dagger and a little more “here’s how to get back without being caught by the guards and expelled” would’ve been nice.

Your shoes make soft taps against the floor as you start walking. Every hallway looks the same at this hour- white and sterile, interrupted only by trophy cases and polished wall plaques. Every few feet, another name you don’t recognize. Another face frozen in a perfect press photo. Ghosts of idols past.

You’re trying to focus on your path- left at the painting of the girl in the white leotard, then straight until the end of the hallway- but your mind won’t stop spinning.

Daniela asked about your parents.

She asked like it mattered.

And for the first time, you’re wondering if it does.

Because you don’t remember them.

You never even knew them.

Your uncle raised you. Your aunt. Your “guardians.” They never talked about the industry, never hinted at any past worth hiding. Your mom died when you were little. Your dad before that. It was just easier to say they died together. That’s all you were ever told.

And yet…

Why would they choose you? Out of thousands of hopefuls. No social media fame. No viral clips. Just… a letter. A plane ticket. A new life handed to you without warning.

Your stomach twists.

You try to shake the thought, but it clings to your spine like static. Did Daniela notice that? Did she see the way your body stiffened when she asked? You know she’s watching for that kind of thing- every flicker of discomfort, every shift in weight. The way her eyes cut through people like they’re glass.

She probably knows more about you than you do.

You finally round the last corner- miraculously slipping past a burly guard and into your dorm hall. No lights. No footsteps.

You slip through the door as quietly as possible, heart pounding, and gently click it shut behind you.

Safe.

Or… whatever passes for safe in this place.

The room’s dark. Cold. The nightgown Daniela flipped through earlier still crumpled on the chair. Your bed looks inviting, but your thoughts are too loud for sleep.

You toe off your shoes and crawl under the covers anyway, dragging the blanket up to your chest and staring at the ceiling.

You owe her.

That’s what she said.

And whatever Daniela considers a debt, you have a feeling it’s not something you’ll be able to repay with a smile.

Your eyes drift toward the ceiling vent- where the tiny red light of a camera blinks softly.

You’re not alone. Not really.

You never are.

And as the wind brushes faintly against the windowpanes, you wonder if tomorrow will bring more questions.

Or just fewer places to hide.

Your snapped out of your thoughts as the door clicks softly open.

You sit up too fast, heart stuttering. For a split second, you think it’s security- another round of demerits, a silent escort to Missy’s office, a list of sins committed after curfew.

But it’s worse.

It’s Sophia.

She steps into the room with ghostlike silence, the hem of her skirt fluttering slightly as the breeze from the hallway follows her in. Her eyes find you instantly, narrowed- not frantic, not surprised. Just sharp.

Accusing.

You swallow hard, blinking under the low light.

“Sophia-”

“Where were you?”

Her voice is quiet, but every syllable is exact. Not angry. Just certain. Like she already knows the answer.

You open your mouth, then close it again.

The silence stretches.

She doesn’t move from the doorway. She doesn’t need to.

Her presence fills the room like judgment.

“You were with her,” she hisses- not a question, but a statement

Your breath catches- and that inescapable urge to defend yourself nags at you. “It wasn’t-”

“Stop.”

She steps forward now, slow and deliberate, and closes the door behind her with a soft click.

“You think this is a game?” she says, voice still quiet, but clipped now. “You think sneaking out with Daniela is just… something we all do on the weekends?”

You flinch at the name.

Sophia’s gaze sharpens. “They watch everything. You know that.”

You nod quickly. “I- I was careful. She knew how to avoid them, she-”

“That’s not the point,” Sophia cuts in. “Every move you make reflects on me. If you get caught, I get called in. If you make the wrong friends, I get flagged. And if you become a problem…” She exhales. “I can’t protect you from that.”

That silences you.

Her arms fold across her chest. Not in anger- just restraint. Control.

You speak again, softer. “She said I owed her.”

That earns a flicker of something behind Sophia’s eyes- fear, maybe. Or pity.

“She always says that,” she murmurs. “It’s how she gets you to keep coming back.”

You blink.

Sophia doesn’t look at you now. She just stands there, silhouetted against the pale wall, something guarded in her face.

“She’s not what you think,” she says. “None of this is.”

You sit up straighter, heart still hammering from the rush of sneaking in- but now it’s edged with something else.

Frustration.

“Isn’t she your cousin?” you snap, a little harsher than intended. “Shouldn’t you be talking to her about this instead of tearing me apart for breathing near her?”

Sophia doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even blink.

“She doesn’t listen to me.”

There’s no emotion in it. Just the fact, laid bare.

You stare at her, trying to piece together what’s underneath. “So that’s it? She drags me into something dangerous, and you punish me for it?”

“You walked into it,” Sophia responds flatly.

“I didn’t know-”

“Exactly.”

That stops you.

Sophia takes a slow step closer, her voice now low, almost tired. “You don’t know anything. And yet you keep acting like you can afford to make choices. You can’t. Not yet.”

You laugh, humorless. “So what? I just stay quiet? Smile? Let people like Lara and Missy and Daniela decide what happens to me?”

“Yes,” Sophia snaps without hesitation. “Until you know better.”

There’s something brutal about her honesty. Something cold, and practiced. Like she’s said these exact words before- to someone else. Or maybe to herself.

Your shoulders sag.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you mutter, more to yourself than to her.

Sophia’s gaze softens by a hair. Just barely.

“This is a privilege. Treat it like one.”

A long pause.

Then, finally, she moves toward her bed and sits on the edge. The tension in her spine doesn’t go away, but she starts to undo her braid with delicate fingers.

You lie back against your pillow again, staring at the ceiling.

Somewhere down the hall, a soft bell chimes once-midnight.

Curfew.

“Next time,” Sophia murmurs quietly, not looking at you, “don’t give her the high ground.”

You turn your head toward her. “How do you know she has it?”

She pulls her hair tie free. “Because she always does,” She finally glances back at you before continuing. “She’s not what you think,” she pauses briefly, exhaling. “None of this is.”

And suddenly, the exhaustion hits you.

The rooftop. The questions. The stare of the cameras. The weight of your name when no one knows where it came from.

You lie back against your pillow, limbs heavy.

Sophia moves toward her bed, finally, but doesn’t say goodnight. She doesn’t need to.

The warning’s still echoing in the room, unsaid but understood.

You curl tighter beneath the blanket and watch her out of the corner of your eye as she unbuttons her uniform with precise fingers.

This isn’t friendship.

This is survival.

And you’re only just beginning to learn the difference.

……………………………………………………………………………….

The next morning comes in like a fog.

No birds. No sunlight bleeding in through the windows. Just the soft mechanical hum of the Academy waking itself- air vents, surveillance shutters, distant footsteps on polished floors.

You’re already sitting up by the time Sophia stirs.

She doesn’t say anything when she sees you awake-just watches you silently for a beat before moving toward the sink to wash her face. Her movements are quiet, routine. You don’t try to fill the silence like usual. For once, you don’t have the energy. Or maybe, after everything last night, you finally realize what it costs.

A knock breaks the stillness.

Soft. Patterned.

Then the door swings open on its own.

Ms. Heira steps inside without waiting for permission. Pale blue uniform, hair pulled tightly back into its usual knot, clipboard tucked under one arm. She’s carrying a silver breakfast tray like she’s balancing something delicate and disposable at the same time.

“Good morning,” she speaks, voice crisp. Polite. The kind of polite that makes you feel vaguely accused.

She sets the tray on the desk and offers no other pleasantries. Just a glance at Sophia- measuring-and then you.

Her eyes pause on you for a second too long.

You straighten in your seat automatically, spine stiff.

Sophia clears her throat softly, a warning.

You were about to ask something- where are they watching from- why is the tea always lukewarm-what does she know- but at Sophia’s glare, you bite your tongue. Nod instead.

Cool. Play it cool.

Ms. Heira taps something on her clipboard and makes a single note with her pen.

Sophia murmurs, “Thank you,” with the ease of someone trained to say it just enough, not too much.

You follow suit, voice low. “Thank you.”

Heira nods once and exits, the door clicking shut behind her.

The air changes again.

Slightly stale. Rehearsed. Like the room has gone back into standby mode.

You both stare at the breakfast tray for a moment.

There’s nothing wrong with it- at least not visibly. Two cups of barley tea. Toast. Protein jelly packets in matching ceramic bowls. Apple slices in perfect half-moons.

But now you know better than to assume anything’s just what it looks like.

Sophia sits at the edge of her bed, pulling her tray close.

You grab yours with less enthusiasm, taking a sip of tea. It tastes like paper and maybe a bit of regret.

“So…” you start.

Sophia’s gaze slides toward you.

You blink. “Never mind.”

She nods, like she’s proud of your restraint.

The silence continues.

And for once, you let it.

You both eat in near silence, the clink of spoon against ceramic and the occasional swallow filling the sterile hush. The barley tea has a slightly bitter edge this morning. Or maybe it’s you. You keep catching yourself glancing over at Sophia- waiting for a sigh, a lecture, even a glance. But she just eats methodically, like it’s another task to be checked off.

You shift in your seat, poke at a perfectly cut apple slice. “You’re really not gonna say anything else?”

Sophia looks up at you. Her face is unreadable.

Then, after a beat: “No.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“You want me to say I told you so?” she asks, cool and quiet- like always.

You frown. “No, but… something. Anything.”

She wipes her mouth with the edge of a cloth napkin, sets it gently aside. “You already got more answers than most people here do in their first semester.”

“Answers?” you repeat. “All I got was a conspiracy, a threat, and the distinct feeling that I’m someone’s science experiment.”

She lifts a brow, unimpressed. “That’s called orientation.”

You snort. “Charming.”

Silence again. You chew another bite of toast.

It’s Sophia who speaks next- quiet, a little softer. “Daniela talks to you more than she talks to most people.”

You glance at her. “Because she thinks I’m hiding something.”

“Everyone is,” Sophia murmurs.

You pause. “Is she always like this?”

Sophia doesn’t answer right away. She looks down into her tea like it might hold a better reply than she can offer.

“She’s… complicated,” she finally says.

“That’s one word for it,” you mutter.

Sophia’s lips twitch- just slightly. Not a smile. But close.

“You don’t trust her either,” you note.

“I trust her more than most people,” Sophia replies smoothly. Then she sets her cup down and meets your gaze. “But not completely. No one here gets that.”

Your throat goes dry at that. Because if she can’t trust her own cousin…

Sophia must see something shift in your face, because she softens.

“She’s not your enemy,” she reassures. “Just don’t let her convince you she’s your friend.”

That hits you in a weird place. Not because it’s cruel. Because it feels… protective. Like Sophia’s already forgiven you for sneaking out, even if she’s still mad. Like she’s still trying to keep you whole.

Your voice is smaller than you mean it to be. “You think she’ll turn on me?”

Sophia shakes her head. “No. She’ll just test you. Again. And again. Until you either pass, or prove she was right not to trust you.”

You bite your bottom lip.

Sophia stares at you for a moment.

Not the usual flat, calculating kind of stare. But something heavier. Not suspicious- curious.

And not the good kind.

You shift under it, suddenly too aware of the cold toast on your plate and the way her fingers have stilled completely, curled around the edge of her cup like they forgot what they were doing.

She’s thinking something.

Something she isn’t saying.

Finally, she speaks.

“…Why do you keep asking so many questions?”

The tone isn’t accusing. It’s not even cautious. It’s just… honest. Like she’s asking something she’s genuinely never had to wonder about anyone else before.

You blink. “Because I don’t know anything?”

Sophia tilts her head. “Some girls here didn’t know much either. But they don’t ask.”

You pause, suddenly aware of the shift in her gaze-like she’s searching for a fault line you haven’t even noticed in yourself yet.

“They don’t have to ask,” you say carefully. “They’ve been groomed for this place since before they could talk.”

Sophia gives a small nod. “Exactly. So have you?”

“No,” you answer, too fast.

Her eyes flick up.

You catch yourself. Swallow.

Sophia leans back slightly in her chair. Her posture is relaxed, but her mind clearly isn’t.

“That’s what I don’t get,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Why someone like you would get placed here. Midsemester. No public backing. No family name. You don’t even know the protocols.”

You flinch. It’s subtle, but she sees it.

“Unless someone made an exception,” she continues, her tone turning a little sharper now. “Unless you’re connected in a way no one told you.”

Your throat is dry. Your pulse ticks higher.

You look down at your plate. “I don’t know,” you mutter quietly.

And it’s not a lie. Hell, it might be the most honest you’ve been since you got here.

You feel her still watching you. Measuring the way your fingers twist your napkin. The way your foot taps lightly against the leg of the chair. You’re exposed. Even when you’re quiet.

Maybe especially when you’re quiet.

Sophia sighs softly, like she’s coming to a conclusion she doesn’t like.

“Be careful who you talk to,” she offers finally. “They’ll make theories if you don’t give them answers. And sometimes theories are worse than the truth.”

You meet her eyes again. She looks tired.

No- resigned.

And just a little sad.

“I’ll try,” you reply.

She nods once, as if to say: good. Then she finishes her tea in one final go, eyes already scanning the clock. “Get dressed. We have media training at nine and I’m not showing up with you looking like you slept in your eyeliner.”

You scoff. “I didn’t even wear eyeliner last night.”

“Exactly.”

That earns a genuine laugh out of you- quiet, but real.

Sophia stands and moves to the closet, tossing you your uniform with a flick of her wrist.

“Move fast,” she deadpans. “You never know who’s watching.”

And for once, the phrase doesn’t sound like a warning.

It sounds like advice.

You catch the uniform mid-air, the crisp fabric folding neatly against your chest. It still smells faintly like starch and lavender- ironic, considering how none of the girls here seem to sleep long enough to enjoy either.

“Media training,” you mutter, dragging yourself upright. “Sounds fake.”

Sophia doesn’t laugh. But you think- just maybe- her mouth twitches.

“It’s not fake. It’s worse.” She straightens her collar in the mirror, voice flat. “It’s a performance about performing. The fake kind of fake.”

You groan. “Great. Can’t wait to be told how to smile without showing too much gum.”

Sophia turns, adjusting the cuffs of her blazer with mechanical precision. “If only it were that simple. You’ll learn posture, posture politics, how to dodge a question with another question, how to cry without ruining your mascara. Which cameras to cry in front of. Which ones to ignore.”

“That’s not media training. That’s psychological warfare.”

Sophia gives a dry shrug. “Same difference.”

You slide into the uniform quickly, smoothing the pleats with the flat of your hand, trying to ignore how automatic it’s all becoming. You’ve only been here a few days and already your limbs know the motions like they’ve been waiting for this.

Sophia watches you in the mirror. Not judging. Just observing. Always observing.

“You’ll be in a group again for some of these classes,” she says. “Same tier levels. Mostly Tier C and D together.”

“Cool,” you mutter. “So I get to publicly humiliate myself in front of the C-tier elite.”

“They won’t notice,” she replies. “They’re too busy trying not to fall to D.”

You blink. “You ever been in D?”

Sophia doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

You know the answer already.

She grabs her bag. You follow suit, trailing her out of the dorm and into the hallway- ignoring how your bones feel weirdly stiff- where the silence is too clean, too curated. The walls are, again, lined with glittering frames- awards, magazine spreads, signed vinyl covers with thin, sharp handwriting and perfectly printed brand stamps. A hall of ghosts pretending to be gods.

You glance at Sophia as you walk. “You ever think it’s weird? All these awards? Names you actually recognise?”

She doesn’t slow. “That’s the point. You don’t remember the ones who cracked.”

You fall quiet.

The walk to media training isn’t long, but it feels like it takes forever. Your bones ache weirdly. Your eyes droop more than usual. Every few doors you pass, a camera clicks gently overhead- its mechanical eye trained just slightly too long on you before swiveling back into place.

By the time you reach the sleek black doors of the Media Room, your heartbeat has evened out into something calm.

Not because you’re ready.

But because you know now: no one waits for you to be.

Sophia pauses just before entering, fixing her collar one last time.

She glances over. “Straight back. Confident walk. No fidgeting. If you forget anything else- don’t forget that.”

You nod once, trying to swallow the weird swell of adrenaline in your throat.

Then she pushes open the door- and the performance begins.

The media room is cold.

Not freezing. Not uncomfortably so. But deliberate. Designed. The kind of chill that keeps your spine straight and your sweat from showing.

Rows of soft gray chairs line the space in neat columns, each with a gleaming tablet embedded in the arm. Cameras- small, seamless, almost invisible- are tucked into the corners and ceiling. You know they’re there, even if you can’t see them all. You feel them. Watching. Archiving.

The instructor’s already waiting.

She stands like a woman carved from glass- tall, angular, with a sleek black bob and a monochrome suit that fits like it was sewn in a soundproof room. Ms. Evie Cho. You’ve heard her name in passing. Sophia mentioned her once, in the kind of tone people reserve for fire alarms.

Ms. Cho doesn’t greet you.

She just looks.

You and Sophia file in. The other girls are already seated: a mix of faces you mostly don’t recognise. This class wasn’t tier-based- so thankfully you recognised some tier B girls- Lexie, Ezrela, and Megan. All of them were acting like they hadn’t noticed you. A girl with her bangs gelled back like armor gives you a bored glance. Another one- tall, sharp-cheekboned, with headphones looped around her neck like an accessory- looks you up and down with the kind of interest usually reserved for broken vending machines.

Sophia takes a seat near the front, like she always does. You follow, settling in beside her. She doesn’t look at you. Just taps her screen on, ready.

You copy her, and try not to think about how you don’t even know what you’re supposed to be tapping for.

Ms. Cho finally speaks.

Her voice is smooth. Neutral. Perfect. “You are not here to be understood.”

Your fingers still.

“You are here to be consumed. By the public. By the press. By your own image. You are here to become something worth watching- and something impossible to reach.”

She walks slowly along the front row, her heels whispering against the floor.

“That is your value. Perception. If they know you, they stop needing you.”

She stops directly in front of your row, glancing down. Her eyes skim your face.

You hope to God your posture is decent.

“Today we begin with simple things. Body language. Presence. Stillness.”

Stillness?

She gestures toward the room.

A screen behind her comes to life, projecting a split feed of celebrity interviews. One side shows a girl too fidgety, blinking too much. The other- flawless. Composed. Calculated.

The difference is jarring. You recognise neither of them. But you realize, dimly, that’s the point.

“If the world thinks you’re untrained,” Ms. Cho continues, “they’ll write your downfall before your debut.”

Your throat feels dry.

Beside you, Sophia is statue-still. A machine designed for this.

You do your best to mirror it.

The lesson drags forward in strange increments-watching clips, practicing mock greetings, answering fake interview questions while Ms. Cho observes silently, tapping notes into a tablet without ever looking down.

Halfway through, she stops behind your chair.

You freeze.

“Say your name,” she demands.

You glance up. “My name?”

“Say it like someone else’s reputation depends on it.”

You try.

You sit straighter, fix your gaze, modulate your tone like you’re narrating a commercial.

“My name is-”

She stops you with a look.

“Again. Like you mean it this time.”

Your cheeks burn, but you try again.

This time your voice is firmer. Less air, more spine.

When you finish, she studies you. Then moves on.

You exhale slowly through your nose.

Sophia doesn’t praise you. But you notice, out of the corner of your eye, her fingers relax ever so slightly on her screen.

By the time it’s over, your jaw aches from tension and your throat feels like sandpaper.

Ms. Cho closes her tablet and steps back.

She doesn’t dismiss you. She just walks out.

And somehow, you know- that was the dismissal.

Sophia rises, smooth and silent. You follow- though your movements were slightly sluggish, more than usual.

As you walk out together, you murmur, “I think I just blacked out during my own name.”

Sophia’s mouth twitches. “Better than stuttering through it.”

You glance at her. “So… do we do that every week?”

“No,” she says. “That was easy.”

You stop walking.

She turns back, arching a brow. “Next week is live scenario training.”

“Meaning?”

“Actual interviews. With real cameras. Real broadcast. No prep.”

Your stomach flips.

“And if I bomb?”

Sophia shrugs. “Then Ms. Cho stops wasting her time on you.”

You blink. “And if I don’t?”

Her eyes narrow slightly- almost approving. “Then she watches more closely.”

Sophia falls silent after that- just a beat too long. Her eyes flick briefly past your shoulder.

That’s when you feel it.

The shift.

Not loud. Not obvious. But distinct.

You don’t know when the hallway filled up. The silence from the media room had followed you out like fog, and somewhere in that fog, the others emerged- girls from your class, from upper tiers, drifting in small clusters, murmuring in their pairs or alone. Quietly orbiting. Not quite pretending they aren’t listening.

You catch a few glances. A whisper clipped short. A blink held just a moment too long.

They’re not watching you like you’re new.

They’re watching you like you’re… something.

Maybe not a threat. Not yet.

But maybe an anomaly.

You realise, suddenly, that your footsteps have slowed.

So have Sophia’s.

Her gaze sharpens again- just slightly- and then she tilts her head, chin angled like she’s listening without turning.

You murmur, “They’re watching.”

Sophia doesn’t nod. Doesn’t look.

Just says, calm as glass, “They always are.”

You swallow. Hard.

But you keep walking.

And when you catch the narrowed stare of one girl across the corridor- a Tier C you haven’t spoken to yet, with high cheekbones and two French braids slicked back so tight it makes your scalp ache- you don’t flinch.

You keep your expression smooth. Even.

Perception, Ms. Cho said.

You are not here to be understood.

You’re here to be consumed.

Sophia slips ahead, and you follow. Not too fast. Not too slow.

The dining hall is just up ahead- those wide glass doors glowing with soft afternoon light, the scent of lemongrass rice and lacquered sweet soy meat wafting faintly into the corridor. You’re almost there. Almost safe again, tucked beside Sophia, where no one asks questions out loud.

Then-

“Miss.”

The voice cuts through the air like a dull blade.

You stop. Instinct, not thought.

Sophia stops too, half a step ahead of you, her eyes narrowing before she even turns.

You pivot slowly.

He’s huge. Square-shouldered, buzz-cut, face like carved stone. The same man from last night. The one who swept silently past you and Daniela when you were sneaking back from the roof. He hadn’t said a word then.

Now, he doesn’t blink.

“Missy wants to see you,” he says.

Flat. Apathetic. Like he’s delivering a weather report.

You blink- that sluggish feeling in your bones returning tenfold. “Now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just waits.

The hallway goes still.

You don’t have to look to know people are watching. Conversations taper into silence. The air thins around you.

You see Lara sit up straighter in her seat- her usual wicked smirk blooming across her gorgeous face as she watches you intently. Megan- to her left- just observes. Her body was relaxed, yet her eyes were alert. Yoonchae, however, didn’t even bother looking up.

You spot a couple of other girls: Emily, Adela, Marquise, Celeste, Karlee; all of whom were staring at you in a mixture of amusement, excitement, sympathy (mostly Adela), and intrigue.

Beside you, Sophia tenses- not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you feel it. The tightness in her stillness.

You glance back toward the dining hall.

Manon’s inside, tray in hand, halfway through setting it down at an empty table.

She sees you instantly. Brightens.

Waves.

You offer the tiniest smile.

It drops fast.

She follows your gaze- sees the guard- her brows crease.

You don’t move yet.

For a brief moment, your thoughts drift towards a certain Latina, wondering if she was here right now. You couldn’t see her, but you could practically feel her presence.

Sophia, still beside you, murmurs under her breath, words barely audible yet no less firm: “Don’t ask questions. Don’t hesitate. Just go.”

You look at her.

Her eyes are on the guard now, not you.

But her meaning is clear.

This isn’t optional.

You swallow down the dryness in your throat, then turn back to him. Nodding, once.

He doesn’t gesture for you to follow. Just turns.

And you follow.

One step. Then another.

Manon is still staring through the glass, one hand frozen over her tray.

You don’t look back again.

The hallway seems to stretch longer with every step.

You trail behind the security guard- silent, looming, unbothered- as the hum of the academy fades behind you. Your boots make soft, traitorous sounds against the floor, like you’re trying not to get caught in a place you were dragged into.

You think about turning around. Just for a second. Just to see Sophia. Or Manon. Or anyone.

But you don’t.

You keep walking.

The route he takes is different than anything you’ve walked before. Past the main offices. Past the classroom corridors. Past the monitored rehearsal wings and the vending machines stocked only with sparkling water and protein jellies. This wing is quieter. Colder. Older, maybe.

You pass a wall lined with portraits- old ones. Black-and-white. Faces framed in gold leaf. Not students. Executives. Designers. Managers. One of the frames is cracked.

At the end of the hall, there’s a door. Larger than the others. White like everything else, but matte instead of gloss. No handle, just a keycard panel.

The guard scans his ID.

The door opens with a hiss.

He steps aside. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

You go in- taking in the sight of the office once again.

It’s beautiful.

In the way all sterile things are beautiful.

A sharp, symmetrical desk. A single chair behind it, upholstered in cream leather. Tall, curtained windows with the jungle barely visible between folds. A wall-length mirror. A single orchid blooming on the corner shelf. The scent of white tea and cold air.

Missy is standing by the windows. Her back to you.

Even when you close the door softly behind you, she doesn’t turn.

For a moment, all you hear is the faint tick of her silver watch as she folds her hands in front of her.

Then:

“You’ve made quite an impression.”

Her voice is cool. Controlled. Like the marble floors.

You wait.

Finally, she turns. Her heels click as she walks slowly toward the desk. Her white blouse is buttoned to the collar, her sleeves rolled to the elbows with surgical precision. Her gaze lands on you like an x-ray.

“You transferred less than a week ago,” she continues, “and already you’ve altered three class schedules, gathered attention from three top-tier students, and received verbal warnings from two staff members.”

She raises one brow.

“Would you like to explain?”

You straighten your spine, trying to sound somewhat confident. “No one told me there were limits on who I could talk to.”

Missy smiles.

It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“There are limits on everything here. Whether you’re told or not.”

She walks behind her desk.

“Which brings us to the matter of expectation.”

You feel it then- that pull. That quiet, invisible tug that everyone’s warned you about but no one’s described. Missy’s presence isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It’s curated. Controlled. Like everything else in this place.

“You’re not here because you won a contest,” she hums, folding her hands. “You’re here because someone cleared your name off a list and made space for you.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. The question burns at the tip of your tongue:

Who?

Her voice dips lower, folding around the unspoken weight in the room.

“But this isn’t about bloodlines or legacies. Not tonight.”

She steps closer, slow and deliberate, voice dropping to a near whisper.

“This is about your choice to sneak out after curfew. Did you really think the guard didn’t notice you slipping back into your dorm? That your movements were invisible?”

You swallow, caught somewhere between defiance and exhaustion.

Her eyes flick to the door behind you, then back.

“You already know the rules. Three pins, and you face serious consequences,” she lets the words sink in before continuing, “I’m tempted to skip the formalities and just give you the punishment outright.”

You hold your breath.

“But I won’t.”

She lets the words hang, a slow smile curling on her lips- half warning, half promise.

“Because you’re new. Because there’s still something to be gained from watching how you handle this. Because you’re… special”

Her heels click sharply as she steps back toward the window.

“Prove to me that you belong here. That you’re more than a liability.”

The room cools further in the silence she leaves behind.

You step toward the door, the weight of her gaze lingering, heavier than any chain.

You duck your head, spine rigid, and weave quickly between the two guards standing just outside her office. Neither of them speaks. One barely blinks. You feel their eyes all the way down the hall.

The quiet is worse than if they’d said something.

Your shoes scuff against the polished floor as you pick up speed. Past the cracked portrait. Past the vending machines and surveillance cameras and sterile white lights that hum like they’re laughing.

You don’t look back.

Your pulse skitters like it’s trying to race ahead of you. Every door you pass looks too sharp, too tall. Every mirror feels like a trap.

By the time you reach your dorm floor, your heart’s still hammering- and it’s not just fear.

It’s the sick, electric knowledge that she was right.

You’re being watched.

Not in the vague, metaphorical way you’d felt the last few days. But now, after tonight, it’s confirmed. Quantified. Counted.

You brush your knuckles against your thigh as you walk, trying to shake off the chill in your hands. Your limbs feel like jelly- you’ve felt it since breakfast and that… whatever that was only made it worse.

The hallway stretches on, and you think- not for the first time- about the “basement” the girls whisper about. Three pins. That’s all it takes.

And you haven’t even gotten one yet.

But Missy looked at you like she’d already made room for yours in her pocket.

You finally reach your dorm door, pausing only long enough to make sure no one’s in the hall behind you.

Then you slip inside, breath held tight in your chest.

Safe.

For now.

You feel battered- like you could just collapse onto your bed right then and there and fall into a coma.

Somethings wrong.

“You took your time.”

The voice slices through the silence like a silk ribbon through smoke- low, amused, unmistakable.

You freeze mid-step.

Daniela.

She’s sprawled across your bed like it was always hers to claim. One knee bent, the other leg draped lazily over the edge, ankle flexing like a ballerina in a music box that plays only in minor key. Her jacket’s shrugged halfway off one shoulder, shirt untucked just enough to be intentional. She looks like a fashion ad for danger.

“You always sneak into people’s rooms uninvited?” you ask, voice sharper than you meant it to be.

She shrugs, the movement languid. “Only when I know they’re sneaking out of rooms they shouldn’t have been in.”

You shut the door carefully behind you. “Were you waiting here this whole time?”

She doesn’t answer. Just stretches a little, like a cat waking up from a nap. The mattress creaks beneath her, soft and slow.

“What, no congratulations?” you ask, feigning ease as you shrug your blazer off. “I made it back without getting tossed in the dungeon.”

“That you know of.” Her hazel eyes glitter. “Missy’s more subtle than you think.”

You don’t respond. Your throat’s too dry.

Daniela watches you like she’s waiting for a tell. A crack. A breath too long, a blink too hard. Then she cocks her head.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

She sits up then- graceful, fluid, too close- and smiles like a secret you’re not sure you want to know.

“What did she say?” she asks softly.

There’s no teasing in her voice now.

Just curiosity.

And something else.

Something colder.

You narrow your eyes. “Why? You nervous I mentioned your name?”

Daniela just stares, smile slipping into something quieter. “Should I be?”

You snort, peeling off your jacket and tossing it toward the chair in the corner. “Relax. I didn’t rat you out. I’m not that dumb.”

“That’s what all the dumb ones say,” she replies lightly, but the edge is there- slim, sharp, almost invisible.

You meet her gaze anyway. “I didn’t say anything.”

A long pause.

She studies you from where she sits, elbows propped on her knees now, hands folded loosely between them like she’s weighing a confession against a coin. Then she leans back onto her palms, exhaling slowly.

“Good,” she murmurs. “You’re learning.”

You roll your eyes and tug at the hem of your shirt, heat still prickling your skin from the walk back and the buzz of Missy’s words in your skull.

Three pins.

Basement.

You still don’t know what that means exactly, but you know the look in Missy’s eye when she mentioned it. It wasn’t metaphorical.

Daniela watches you lazily pull your hair back into a loose tie- eyes narrowing slightly in thought as she watches your movement- then adds, “You looked rattled coming up the stairs.”

“No shit,” you mutter tiredly. “She practically dissected me with her eyes.”

“She does that.” Daniela lies back fully, arms folded under her head like she’s settling in. “She enjoys it, too. She likes seeing which ones break early.”

You chew your bottom lip. “She said I’ve made too much noise already.”

“She’s not wrong.”

You glance over. “So what, you gonna start avoiding me now that I’m radioactive?”

Daniela’s brows lift, amused. “Oh, sweetheart. I started hanging around you because you’re radioactive.”

You snort again- but it doesn’t fully land. Not with the way she’s watching you now. Not with how still she’s gone. As if she’s still trying to figure out what you are beneath all the sarcasm and stumble.

You blink at her, then say, “You know I still owe you.”

Daniela smiles- slow, satisfied. “I know.”

You sigh and drop onto your bed opposite her, letting your head fall back against the cool wall. “You’re not gonna tell me what you want yet, are you?”

“Not yet,” she replies softly. “I like watching you squirm too much.”

You make a face.

She closes her eyes for a moment, lashes dark against her cheek. “But for what it’s worth… not many people make it back from a Missy one-on-one without something broken. So. Good job.”

You glance at her.

The compliment sounds like it cost her something.

Or maybe she just hates giving them.

You lie in silence for a beat- two silhouettes mirrored on opposite ends of a twin bed, both too stubborn to move and too prideful to say it.

Then, quietly:

“I didn’t break,” you mutter.

Daniela hums, eyes still closed. “Not yet.”

Daniela shifts, just slightly- enough for her shoulder to brush the wall, for her eyes to flick open again in the low light.

“Not yet,” she repeats, her voice velvet-smooth now. And then, a beat later, with that infuriating, unreadable smile:

“Good girl.”

You sit up a little too fast, heat crawling up the back of your neck before you can smother it. “Okay, gross.”

Daniela just stretches out on your mattress like she owns it, long legs crossing at the ankle, the sharp line of her jaw framed by the sunlight.

“Didn’t say it was a reward,” she muses, arching a brow. “You just didn’t crack. Yet. I’m allowed to be impressed.”

You glare at her, still flushed. “You’re not impressed. You’re bored.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” she replies easily. “Besides, I was hoping you’d crack. Just a little. Crying girls are easier to read.”

“I’m not gonna cry,” you shoot back.

Daniela hums again, letting her eyes drift lazily over you. Not invasive- just speculative. Measuring.

“No. But you’re twitchy. That tells me more than tears.”

You exhale, folding your arms across your chest, irritated at how visible you apparently are. “And what’s your read, then? Since I’m such an open book.”

She tilts her head. “That you hate not knowing things. That you’re better at pretending than you thought. And that the reason you’re not relaxing right now isn’t me- it’s the part where Missy said someone cleared your name.”

That makes your stomach twist. You don’t even bother asking how she knows that. How she heard.

You don’t respond. You’re too careful now. Too tired.

Daniela watches the way your mouth flattens, your hands go still.

Another pause. Then:

“I could help you figure it out,” she offers casually.

You blink. “What?”

“I mean…” She sits up, slow and deliberate, her body closer now. “If you asked nicely.”

You narrow your eyes. “So now you’re offering help?”

“I’m offering a trade,” she keeps her voice low. “Like always.”

You hesitate.

“…What kind of trade?”

Daniela smiles, lazy and dangerous. “That’s the part you’ll have to figure out.”

You let out a tired laugh and flop back against your pillow. “Of course it is.”

There’s a long pause, and then:

“You’re interesting,” she murmurs.

It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

It sounds like a warning.

Daniela watches you for a beat longer- eyes flicking over your posture, your clenched jaw, the way your arms have folded across your chest like a shield.

Too tense. Too stiff. Even for you.

The amusement fades from her face- not all at once, but enough. The sharpness dulls slightly, just at the corners.

“Lie down,” she says, not quite a command. More like a suggestion dressed as a dare.

You scoff. “What, so you can psychoanalyze my REM cycle too?”

“Maybe,” she murmurs, quieter now. “But mostly because your shoulders are screaming.”

You hesitate.

And then, cautiously, you lower yourself back onto the bed. Not quite relaxed- more like you’re testing it, ready to spring back up if she so much as breathes the wrong way.

Daniela shifts beside you.

One elbow propped, her hand drifts-casually, gently- to nudge your shoulder down, like she’s settling a restless cat. Her fingers brush the line of your collarbone before slipping away.

“Better,” she murmurs.

You stare up at the ceiling.

The air in the room is still cool from the vents, but Daniela’s presence radiates warmth. Too close. Too calm. Too something.

She doesn’t touch you again. Doesn’t need to.

You can feel her watching.

“Whatever they said to you,” she whispers, voice soft now, almost like she’s not sure she should be saying it, “don’t let it get in your head. They want you paranoid. Easier to shape.”

You don’t answer. Not yet.

Your throat feels tight again- but this time, not from fear.

More like fatigue.

More like the weight of being turned inside out in front of so many people, and not knowing what parts of yourself you even want to keep. And something… more.

You shift slightly, just enough that your arm brushes hers.

She doesn’t pull away.

“Try to sleep,” Daniela continues. “You’re no good to anyone if you burn out.”

You don’t say anything.

But you don’t move away either.

You hum, soft and dry. “It’s only like- 10 am. I have class in an hour.”

Daniela doesn’t even blink- only responds like she knows something you don’t. “I’ll wake you up.”

You squint at her, half-draped over your own pillow, like you’re not entirely convinced this isn’t some trap. She gives a little smile- close-lipped, knowing. “Exactly. I owe the universe one act of punctuality.”

You huff a laugh, small and reluctant, eyes already starting to droop from the warmth of the blanket and the absurd calm of her voice.

Outside, you can still hear movement in the halls- distant footfalls, doors opening and shutting- but it all feels muffled now, the sound wrapped in velvet.

Daniela doesn’t touch you again.

But she stays.

Silent.

Present.

And when your breath starts to even out, and the weight behind your eyes gets too heavy to ignore, she glances sideways- just once- and whispers, almost to herself, “Good girl.”

You’re already half-asleep when you hear it.

Too late to react. Too tired to overthink it.

But not too far gone to feel the way your chest tightens, confused and warm, like maybe- just maybe- it meant something more than it was supposed to.

……………………………………………………………………………….

The world filters in slowly.

Muted voices. A draft somewhere. The sharp bite of someone’s accent curling around clipped, angry words.

You shift on the bed, blanket tangled around your ankles, limbs heavy with the kind of sleep that leaves you wondering what year it is. Your mouth is dry. Your lashes stick.

There’s a voice outside your door- low, firm, tense. Daniela’s. You recognize the cadence even through the cottony fog in your brain.

Then another voice- sharper. More familiar.

Sophia?

But the thought drifts before you can catch it.

Because when you finally manage to peel your eyes open, someone’s there.

Manon.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed like she’s been waiting for a while. Her hair is still braided, neat but soft around the edges now, like she’s run her fingers through it once too many times. Her academy blazer sleeves are pulled over her palms.

And she’s smiling.

Not brightly. Not the sunbeam kind she gave you in the dining hall. This one is smaller. Faint. Tired.

But it’s real.

You blink again, trying to form words. “Manon…?”

Her smile tugs slightly wider. “Hey.”

You push yourself up on one elbow, dazed. “How long-?”

“Just a few minutes,” she says gently. “You looked peaceful.”

You glance at the door, where the voices are still muffled and clipped. She follows your gaze, then looks back at you. Her brows lift, like she’s about to say something- but instead, she reaches out and tugs your blanket up, smoothing it gently over your shoulders.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

You nod, though you’re not sure if it’s true. “Yeah. I… think I fell asleep on top of Daniela.”

Manon’s nose crinkles at that, but she doesn’t say anything cruel. Just: “You’re braver than me.”

You smile sleepily. “Is it brave if I didn’t know what I was doing?”

“Still counts.”

There’s another sharp voice behind the wall- definitely Sophia now- and Manon’s eyes flick toward it. Her smile dims.

You sit up a little straighter. “Is… everything okay?”

She shrugs, casual in a way that reads a little too practiced. “Sophia’s just Sophia.”

You glance toward the door again, and this time Manon leans in slightly, her voice quieter.

“She’s mad Daniela left you alone.”

That jars you more than it should. “She didn’t.”

Manon lifts a brow. “She wasn’t here when I came in.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

Because you don’t know when Daniela left.

You don’t know how long you slept, or what she said before she slipped out, or if she even said anything at all.

You only remember warmth, a weight near your side, and a quiet voice that still echoes in your head-

You look down at your hands.

“Hey,” Manon murmurs again, and when you look up, she’s watching you carefully. “You okay?”

You nod. Slower this time. “Yeah. Just… piecing things together.”

She gives you that small, worn smile again. “Well. You’ve still got ten minutes before class.”

Your eyes widen. “Ten-?”

She stands up, smoothing the front of her skirt. “Come on. I’ll walk with you.”

And this time, when you stand, you notice she waits.

Just long enough to make sure your feet are steady before she moves toward the door.

And just before she opens it, the argument outside suddenly goes quiet.

Sophia’s posture is textbook fury.

Not loud. Not wild. Just restrained in that terrifyingly calm way- jaw locked, arms folded like steel beams across her chest, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. You’ve seen her annoyed before. Irritated. Snippy.

But this?

This is something colder.

More permanent.

Daniela, on the other hand-

She’s panting.

Not dramatically, but enough that it’s obvious. Her usually pristine posture is slightly off-kilter, one shoulder lifted higher like she’s just pulled herself out of something. Her hair’s a little tousled. Her eyes-those always-unreadable, half-lidded eyes- are alive in a way you haven’t seen before.

Not with confidence.

With heat.

And not the good kind.

It hits you then- whatever just happened, it wasn’t verbal.

At least, not entirely.

Sophia doesn’t acknowledge you or Manon right away. Her gaze stays locked on Daniela, as if she’s willing her to say something else. To push it. To cross the line completely.

Daniela sees you, though.

And even now, chest rising and falling, pupils slightly blown, she smiles.

Not her usual sharp-edged, devastating smile.

This one’s different. Softer. Tired.

But it’s still meant for you.

“Morning,” she says casually, voice a little hoarse. “Sleep well?”

Sophia’s head snaps toward you at that. You flinch.

But then Manon steps slightly in front of you.

It’s subtle. Not aggressive. Just enough to remind the room you’re not alone.

Sophia doesn’t even blink. She just exhales through her nose and turns on her heel.

“We’re late.”

And then she’s gone.

Daniela watches her leave, then leans lightly against the nearest wall- arms folded, lip tugged between her teeth in the briefest flicker of thought.

You glance between them, tension still thick in the air.

“Should I… ask what that was about?”

Daniela’s smile widens just a fraction.

“Only if you want the kind of answer that makes you more paranoid than you already are.”

Your stomach flips.

She pushes off the wall and walks past you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours. On purpose.

But before she rounds the corner, she pauses- just for a second- and murmurs, low:

“Next time, wait for me to wake you up.”

And then she’s gone.

Manon exhales next to you, quietly.

You don’t ask what that meant either.

Because you’re starting to realise- you’re not supposed to.

You glance over the room- hoping it’ll give you some answers. The water jugs were overturned- some water haphazardly spilled on the floor that Ms Heira will probably clean later. That’s not what nags at you, though. It’s the realisation that Sophia never lets the dorm get messy, so why would she-

Manon’s hand finds the small of your back- breaking you out of your stupor. Barely a touch. Just enough to guide you.

You let her steer you out the door.

It’s quieter in the hallway. Not peaceful- nothing here ever is- but distant enough from the heat of that room to let you breathe.

Manon walks beside you in silence for a moment, the two of you moving past pale doors and flickering exit signs. You realize she’s waiting to see if you’ll ask.

You don’t have to.

She sighs- the sound quiet but heavy, like she’s been carrying it for too long already.

“It was your tea,” she says softly.

You stop walking.

She does too- just a step ahead- then turns to face you.

“Or maybe the food. No one’s sure yet. But something Ms. Heira dropped off this morning was laced.”

Your stomach twists.

“What?”

Manon’s eyes are solemn. Not nervous- just careful. “Just your portion. Not Sophia’s. Daniela noticed when you came into the room. Said that when you started looking… off- sluggish, confused- she clocked it. Fast. She didn’t say anything at first, just tried to keep you talking. But you weren’t really responding.”

You try to replay the moment in your head- Daniela’s low voice, her fingers brushing your collarbone, the way you’d melted into the bed faster than your body should’ve allowed.

“She told Sophia?” you murmur.

Manon nods. “After you were asleep. Or- out. Or whatever it was. Daniela went to get her. They argued. It wasn’t that loud, though.”

You blink.

“She told Sophia everything?” you ask again, but quieter this time.

“Only what mattered. That you came back from Missy’s office weird. That something’s not right. Sophia was already on edge after you got called in. Daniela telling her that you were drugged didn’t help.”

You go quiet.

It’s a strange silence. Not empty. Just thick with the knowledge that you missed something. Slept through something. Slept through people fighting about you.

And then, like something leaking through the cracks of your skull, the thought returns.

You were alone with Daniela. You passed out next to her.

You swallow- your thoughts spinning. Flickering back to that too-soft bed. Daniela’s hand on yours. Her voice promising, ‘I’ll wake you up’. And the way your body had sunk so fast, like it wasn’t entirely your own.

You stop walking again.

And then, quieter: “Did she…?” You can’t even form the sentence. Can’t look Manon in the eye.

But Manon doesn’t need you to finish.

She stops walking, her sneakers soft on the tile, and turns fully to face you. Her eyes flash- not angry. Not shocked.

But clear.

“No,” she speaks firmly. “Daniela’s a lot of things. But she wouldn’t do that.”

You search her face.

“Are you sure?” you whisper.

“She wouldn’t,” Manon says again, gentler now. “Daniela’s manipulative. She’s cocky. She flirts like it’s a power play. But that? No. She doesn’t cross that line. I don’t know what game she’s playing with you. But it’s not that.”

You nod.

Not because you’re sure.

But because something in her tone makes it easier to believe.

You start walking again- pressing a palm to your forehead as the hallway lights begin to stutter in your vision. Manon walks closer. Not guiding. Just beside you. Like if your legs gave out again, she’d catch you before you hit the ground.

“She told Sophia you were drugged,” Manon continues. “Sophia lost it. She thought it was retaliation. For sneaking out. For drawing attention. Whatever. Then Daniela mentioned you didn’t eat anything after breakfast. That the water jugs were fresh. Sophia went straight to them.”

You remember the spilled water. The damp streak on the tile.

“Ms. Heira’s the one who brings your dorm breakfast,” Manon murmurs mostly to herself, voice steady but cautious. “Every dorm has a personal assistant. She’s yours. Which means either she’s sloppy… or she’s not the one calling the shots.”

You blink hard.

Your head aches again. But now it’s not just from sleep or stress.

It’s from understanding.

Someone wanted you subdued. Maybe not hurt. But quiet. Contained. For just long enough.

And if Daniela hadn’t noticed- If she hadn’t been in your room- then whoever it was could’ve had the perfect opportunity to… deal with you.

What if it was one of the girls? That would explain the stares after class (though nowadays it felt like everyone was staring at you). One- or maybe even more- of them were watching you, waiting to see if the drug had affected you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, pulse ticking against your ribs like a metronome gone crooked.

You didn’t even know which possibility scared you more- the person out to get you being either part of the staff or another trainee.

“She stayed until you were asleep,” Manon says gently- breaking through your train of thoughts. “Didn’t touch you. Didn’t ask for anything. Just sat there.”

You close your eyes.

For a second, you let yourself picture it. Not the part where you passed out. Not the part where your trust had limits.

Just Daniela, silent and still, in the dark. Guarded. Tense.

Not watching you.

Watching everything else.

“Thanks,” you murmur. Not sure if you mean it for Manon, or for someone who isn’t here.

Manon bumps your shoulder lightly with hers.

“You’re not alone, you know.”

You nod once. Then again.

And finally, you both keep walking.

………………………………………………………………………………….

Dance is mercifully normal.

Nikky’s already blasting music when you and Manon slip in, her voice cutting over the beat as she snaps for you both to spread out. You fall into place near the back, still bleary, your limbs stiff but functional. The mirrors catch everything- sweat, stumbles, side-eyes- but today, they blur together in a rhythm that’s too fast to overthink.

Nikky calls out corrections like she’s firing a starter pistol. You mess up twice. Manon messes up three times and laughs every time she does. You snort once at the same time she does. It doesn’t help your balance.

Nikky gives neither of you more than a narrowed look.

Still, you’re grateful.

Because there’s no one else here.

Just you. Manon. Tier D.

And today, that feels like a blessing.

You don’t think you could stand being in a room with the other girls. Not when one of them- any of them- might’ve been the one to drug you. Not when their smiles are probably rehearsed. Not when their routines are polished down to the muscle but you can’t trust a single blink between phrases.

The truth presses under your skin like heat under glass.

It could’ve been any of them.

And right now, you’re glad you don’t have to find out which.

You’re quick to file out the second Nikky claps and dismisses you.

Manon’s still catching her breath, hunched over with her hands on her knees, and you toss her a small nod before slipping past the mirrored wall and pushing through the door.

The hallway outside the studio is colder. Quieter. The fluorescent lights buzz like they know something you don’t.

You don’t look back.

Your body aches- not from exertion, not really. It’s deeper than that. Like something’s been working at your muscles from the inside out. Your limbs feel borrowed. Your spine’s too stiff. Your skin still remembers the sterile chill of Missy’s office and the soft press of Daniela’s palm on your shoulder.

But more than anything, you just feel off.

The communal showers for Tier D are tucked into the back corner of the dorm wing. They’re clean- suspiciously so. The kind of clean that makes you wonder what they’re trying to wash away.

You shove your uniform into one of the cubbies, stripping off the layers like they’re too heavy to wear anymore.

The water is scalding.

You don’t turn it down.

For a while, all you hear is the rush of water and your own breath. No voices. No doors. Just you and the heat and the slow way it works into your neck, your shoulders, your back.

And when you close your eyes, it almost feels like you can wash the morning off your skin.

But you can’t.

You know that the second the water starts to cool- when the sting fades and the heat can’t quite burn the memory out of your joints. The second you blink and see her face again.

Missy, poised behind that matte white desk.

Daniela, mouth twitching around the ghost of a smile.

Sophia, cold and furious and silent.

The ache in your chest sharpens.

You press your palms flat against the tiled wall, forehead resting between your arms. The steam curls around you like smoke, but it can’t choke out the questions still spinning behind your eyes.

Who drugged you?

Did it have something to do with your parents?

Was it targeted?

How are your parents even involved in all of this?

Or random?

The thought alone makes your stomach turn, because Tier D is small- intentionally small. Just you and Manon. Which means the danger didn’t come from inside your dorm. Not unless something got mixed up.

It came from the outside.

Someone had to touch your tray. Someone knew which cup was yours. Someone watched you long enough to time it.

And someone knew exactly what they were doing.

You drag in a shaky breath and rinse the last of the soap from your skin.

Your fingers tremble when you shut off the water.

By the time you wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot into the changing stalls, the adrenaline’s worn off, and what’s left behind is worse. Not fear. Not even rage.

It’s doubt.

Of everyone.

You towel off slowly, stalling longer than necessary. But eventually, you pull on fresh clothes- plain academy-issue blacks and greys, still warm from the dryer.

The fabric feels too thin.

Too exposed.

You don’t bother drying your hair all the way. Just twist it up into a bun, half-damp, and shove the rest of your things into your locker.

When you finally step back into the hall, the floor feels harder beneath your feet. Your shoulders square out of habit. The cameras in the ceiling blink quietly overhead.

And this time, you don’t just feel watched.

You know it.

#katseye #sophia laforteza #daniela avanzini #daniela avanzini x reader #katseye manon #meret manon #manon bannerman #wlw post #some #meret manon x reader #danon #katseye x reader

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saintescuderia · 2 days ago

Text

pancakes (pt. 8)

AKA - the story of how the naive australian rookie befriended the gym junkie F1 hospitality worker with the shoe collection - and inadvertently broke the grid's most treasured and unspoken rule: you don't go for y/n.

series masterlist here :)

the pancakes recipe here :)

A/N: hello! apologies for such a hiatus. here we go, finally kicking things into gear! enjoy (it's 6.7k lol) (also i rewrote some of the earlier chapters so check them out!)

P8 - active rest

“Look for quiet moments, times where you can be still and present.”

That was the advice of one Louise, the infamous therapist who had helped you survive the tumult of the past few years. Considering everything, you could at least take the silver lining of all the shitty years bringing you to therapy helping you learn how to make the most of a Grand Prix weekend.

Because man they are busy.

Even when you weren't working in Hospitality, it was hard to be present. To be still. Everything was always in flux, a chaotic busy schedule of this and that and rushing to and fro and doing this and sorting this out and it seemed to never end.

When you tried to explain that to Louise, the endless media, fans, noise, debriefs, trainings, updates - the Formula 1 bit of it all, she merely shrugged and seemed unfazed.

"Force it. Find time to be quiet and still. Make it happen." You remember the smirk that came onto her face with her next words. "Engineer it."

And so you would engineer it.

This weekend, you were sitting on the rooftop of some ridiculously expensive Hospitality suite. Your feet were dangling over the edge, black and white Cortez for the day. You had chosen them as a way to make yourself feel slightly better at being shifted from Haas to Ferrari.

Guenther had just sworn in exasperation and then said this was probably Fred's doing to get on the mini pizzas. You wondered if --

No. You stopped the train of thought. You were here to be still.

You spooned up another serving of your overnight oats into your mouth. You had made it with chia and this new type of protein powder. You grimaced at the taste - it evidently was not good. It tasted like... well, like protein powder. You were unsure if the added 15g of protein was really worth the taste.

It was the very reason that you were having breakfast that you could sit on the rooftop ledge of a Formula 1 Hospitality suite, sneakers dangling over the edge. You watched the slow trickle in of mechanics from various teams. You also spotted a few F3 and F2 drivers coming in with their trainers. You smiled down at the next generation of drivers. They were so young.

The sun was just rising over the lake, just behind the city scape of Melbourne's CBD skyline. You smiled at the colour of the clouds and how they were mirrored on the still water. You took a deep breath - and then ate some more of the protein mess.

By the time you were done, some Ferrari workers had arrived. You closed the glass tupperware container - there was about a quarter left of but you had eaten all the berries and without the fruit to sweeten it, you couldn't do it - and made moves to the motorhome.

Last night had bought home pistachio ice-cream and it had given you the idea to make cannoli as a nice Race Day treat. It also meant you would be busy making the shells and the filling would be self-serve. As in, you could hide in the kitchen while everyone served themselves.

It wasn't like you hadn't worked in Ferrari in the past five years. However, it was the first time you'd been here since Oscar Piastri had entered the picture. And since Oscar Piastri had entered the picture, Daniel had drunkenly screamed at you, the Team Principals had all met to discuss your contract and Charles had looked at you. Somehow, the latter was the most daunting.

Either way, you weren't taking chances.

You greeted some Ferrari staff and took some coffee orders. While the machine turned on, you tied a bandana around your head and apron around your waist.

Then you got to work.

"Y/N can you make the coffees for the debrief?"

"Yeah sure no worries." You had just done the finishing touches for the dough and were just sitting on the table, scrolling through your phone killing time anyway. You walked over to the machine and turned on the grinder?

"Grazie! Oh, and can you then take them to the meeting room?"

The intern delivering the news immediately dipped after that, unaware of the bomb they'd just dropped in your lap. You blinked after them and wanted to call out but they were already gone in the business of the Race Day craziness. Your eyes were bulging in shock - since when were you walking into important meetings such as race debriefs? If it weren't for the fact that you recognised this intern from last year - and to be related to Fred - and you would've thought it a careless instruction that would have them immediately fired and banned for life.

You went about making all the respective coffees. You prepped Carlos' piccolo, a strong latte for Charles, the engineers coffees. And a double espresso for Fred. Just in case.

Even though he was nothing like Mattia, you had PTSD from TPs in red. You liked Fred but the whole environment still had you on edge.

You set the coffees on a tray and looked around in case you could pass them to someone else to deliver, maybe a lowly intern or an engineer about to walk in?

None.

You sighed and gave yourself a moment. You dusted your hands on your apron - and then promptly took it off once you realised the massive egg/flour mishap stain at the front. But then you looked down at your legs bare in a pair of Adidas shorts and wondered if the apron covering was better.

You took a steading breath, feeling the nerves rise up. Suddenly you felt the sensation of the bandana wrapped around your head too tight and took that off. When you felt slightly, even if incrementally, slightly better, you grabbed the tray and made way to the third door beside the two Ferrari driver rooms.

You knocked twice and entered when you heard the call. You walked in and saw the small group of people, mainly comprised of Charles and Carlos, their respective engineers of Xavi and Adami. You also vaguely noticed Morena, the PR manager and were mildly confused at that oddity.

"Oh, let me get that for you!" The closest person to you stood up to help you. It was Carlos and you thanked him. You ducked your head and were immediately half way out the door when Morena was already calling out.

"Perfect timing! I need a woman's opinion on this!"

"Uh - what?"

"A woman's opinion!" Morena repeated but clarified nothing. "We have some model options coming in today to pair up with our boys and they seem to not care much for this."

You stared at her. You blinked twice. It took you a few seconds to understand what she was saying. Suddenly pictures, looking like head shots, were slid across the table.

You stared down at the incredibly gorgeous girls and the reality of the situation you were in. Suddenly, taking off the apron seemed like a good call.

They were each more beautiful than the other. Faces perfectly symmetrical, hair styled by the gods and a waist that no type of cut would ever get you.

"Is this really appropriate?" Charles voice drew you back from the models photos. You didn't look at him but at Morena who was frowning at him.

"Considering they will be here in an hour and no one has given me an answer, then yes. Y/N is known for her discretion, no?" Morena looked at Fred who looked like he would literally be anywhere else but here.

"Bah, if it means we can get a decision sooner." Fred shrugged. "I'd like to get to racing."

"And I won't choose for you!" Morena asked. "And Xavi has not helped."

"Xavi is my race engineer. Not my match-maker." Charles said, tensely. "And neither is some hospitality worker."

Oh.

Oh no.

You felt your ears go warm. You felt the need to swallow whatever was bubbling up in your throat. Your eyes were on some random models face but she was nothing but parts of a face to you. Charles had just referred to you as 'some hospitality worker' and you wanted to die.

How - how did you guys get to this? Never in a million years would you have imagined that the first time you would be both be in a race day debrief for Ferrari would it go like this.

Still, you would steel yourself. You would not be shaken like this.

"Charles is right." You said, hating how hoarse your voice sounded. You cleared it and then spoke again. "Even if it's for PR, more thought that this should go into it. As much as modelling agencies are discreet, this particular one has had controversy selling secrets when some footballers consulted them." You thought of Jude's ex-girlfriend's manager from this agency and how they'd sold 'secrets' about him for some extra quick cash. "I would suggest finding… more local participants to make life easier and for the genuine aspect of it.” You winced at how that sounded. But it was true. “I would also suggest doing this after the race as both F2 and F3 have finished their feature races reporting increased tyre degradation from yesterday."

"How do you know?" Adami asked, frowning at you.

"About the modelling agency or the tyre degradation?" You shrugged and grabbed the tray. "Who knows? I am just a hospitality worker."

You gave Charles a look. His eyes were down, looking at his lap. You know he was clenching his fists.

You went back to the kitchen but you were too hyped up. You found yourself pacing back and forth, unable to process it. He called you a what? Charles. Charles Leclerc. The same boy you shared a crib with had referred to you as just some fucking hospitality worker?!

It wasn't like you were ashamed of the type of work you did. You know that, considering the elitism of F1, there was definitely a lack of being in touch with the reality of people who work the 'menial work' and wait on and serve those with the million dollar watches and matching boat. You had first-hand experience of going to having the lanyard to serving the people with the lanyard.

But you hadn’t expected Charles to be like that. You had expected him to be better than that.

Suffice to say, you had lost respect for Charles Leclerc. The fact that it came from him made the anger, hurt and shame all the more inflamed and you knew there was no way you could pretend to give a shit about cannoli anymore.

You stalked out the Ferrari motorhome, unable to think straight but needing to just get out.

However, it just so happened that the universe really wanted to screw you over because as luck would have it - you just had to bump into a familiar face in Red Bull gear.

The car was good. Really good. He came out on top in all three Free Practice sessions. Max Verstappen had pole position and he was beyond confident he would convert that into a win today.

And yet, he felt like he might actually throw up.

Staring down at his phone, Max let the Instagram reel keep replaying automatically as he watched you and that fucking McLaren rookie in your old Supra.

Initially, it hadn't come up on his feed. Max saw no need to follow any of the other teams and he had zero desire to befriend the new kid. Sure, Oscar Piastri’s resume was already quite impressive but Max was already wary of him since he was the reason Daniel, one of his best friends, had been forced out of F1.

And now it seemed like Piastri felt like he could take more than Daniel’s seat.

"Yo, Maxie!" Max looked up to where the man in question was walking out. Daniel had just finished doing some PR bullshit Horner had him doing as the third driver. Whilst Max could appreciate it being nice to have Daniel again around in Red Bull - and elevate some of the PR demands - Max didn’t appreciate all the rumours and unnecessary drama brought up between Daniel and Checo.

Because Max would win either way. Whoever was in the other seat didn’t phase him all that much. It couldn’t.

"Hi Daniel." Max said, looking back down at his phone once more and then pocketing it.

"What you watching?" Daniel asked casually.

"Oh nothing." Max dismissed. "Something Kelly sent me." Technically, that was true. Kelly had been the one to message him the reel.

"Ah, the missus. How is she?"

"Good, good." Max nodded, looking down for a moment. Then he looked back at his friend. "What happened between you and Y/N?"

"What?" Daniel blinked, his smile faltering at the question. "Er - where is this coming from?"

"No where. Kelly asked me and I realised I never knew the full story. She - she was gone before I could ask her." Max said, referring to your evident distance from him due to what had happened with Jos.

It was something Max had always felt conflicted about. Could he be happy that you had defended him even though it meant someone close to him got hurt? It was his father so why did it feel wrong to stand by Jos? Was it because it meant it was against you?

Either way, none of that really mattered right now. All that Max knew was that Daniel didn't break up with you because of what happened with Jos.

So what? Max knew things weren't always rosy with you and Daniel but he'd just assumed it was F1 pressures or the usual woes of relationships. Then you both broke up and knew that there was something else.

"We just, uh, I don't know. Didn't work. Fit." Daniel shrugged and looked away. It was the same line he'd always used. Max was about to give it up when Daniel finally added something new to the story. "Fucking Charles always got in the way."

Max considered this and thought about Charles and you for a moment.

He remembered always seeing you at the circuits growing up, fussing over Leclerc. He'd met you the same time he'd met Charles for the very fact that Where ever Charles was, you wouldn't be too far off. Initially, Max was confused about your relationship. You were too young to be dating but had vastly different features to be related. However, over time, he'd just come to accept that you and Charles were, well, you and Charles.

Admittedly starting in Formula 1 before Charles meant Max had been nervous when they were finally racing against each other and where your loyalties would lie. However, for the short period where that was the case (before everything crumbled, that is) it seemed to, oddly enough, actually work.

Max looked at his friend who had lost his easygoing smile. "I never felt that with her." He said, running through his memories of their time at Toro Rosso. "We thought it would cause problems with her being my trainer. But it never was."

"Yeah, well, you weren't dating her." Daniel said with a shake of her head. There was a finality to his tone that, frankly, Max didn't give a shit about. This was the most amount he'd ever gotten out of Daniel about what happened between the two of you.

For a second, Max wondered if Daniel was over this breakup as much as he said he was. "...Do you think Charles was in love with her?"

Daniel threw his head back in a laugh. Not his usual one. No, this was more sarcastic, sardonic even. "Oh, definitely. Always throwing it in my face." Now it was Daniel's time to be inquisitive. "Do you know what happened between them? Like I heard all the rumours - "

"No. I don't." Max reached across to pull a can of Red Bull to him and crack it open. Daniel didn't say anything even though they both knew that was a lie.

Because Max did know. It was why Max and Charles stopped speaking. It was why they came to blows that one night in Imola.

Daniel knew Max was lying about what happened with Charles. Just like Max knew Daniel was lying about what happened with you.

"Anyway Maxie, I have to -- oof!"

Both men turned around to see the very girl in question fall back. You were clearly running from the Ferrari motorhome - it was right next door - and judging by your face, you were very much not okay.

"Woah, you okay?" Daniel reaches his hands out to steady you and Max notes the way you immediately recoil from his touch. Your eyes darted quickly to meet his and Max felt himself want to reach out also and make sure you were okay. Daniel's observation was correct: you very clearly weren't okay.

"Yeah, excuse me." You made a move to step around but Daniel immediately ran his mouth.

"You don't look good, Tez." He looked behind you at the red building. "Trouble in paradise?"

"I'm honestly not in the mood for your shit."

"What shit? I'm just pointing out the facts." Daniel said. Max glared at his friend. Daniel could be a dick when he wanted to be. "Just be careful. McLaren's next door and it could look like you're violating your contract."

"Daniel." Max couldn't help but warn his friend. It was clear you were not okay and this was not the time.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" You spat back. "Have you been waiting outside the Ferrari motorhome to make these digs? What? Liking some fucking tweets wasn't enough for you?"

"Y/N." Max now warned you.

"Max, with all due respect, I'm this close to losing it. And you have lost the right to care about me."

"Yeah, don't want to add another Verstappen to your list."

That was too far, even for Max. He stepped in front of you before you could react and gave Daniel a very clear shove. "Don't you fucking dare." It was at this point the Australian realised he had probably gone too far. He shoved Max's hand off and turned around with a "yeah whatever" before stalking off.

Max turned around and saw something he'd only witnessed once before in the ten years or so that he'd known you.

You, on the verge of tears.

"Fuck, Tez." Max immediately wrapped a hand around your shoulder and guided you to the shared loading zone space of the Red Bull and Ferrari motorhomes. "Are you okay? He lowered down to meet your eyes. You were staring at nothing behind him, guiding your attention there as your tears pooled and fell down your face.

"Do - do you want a hug?" He asked, feeling awkward since it wasn't exactly like he was your closest friend right now and had the right to offer you any comfort. Max also had never seen you like this.

Vulnerable. You were always the rock in a time of chaos. You had always kept him level-headed and reminded him to curb his anger and how to properly channel it. You were the calm in any storm. You were always stronger that way. Nothing ever seemed to get you down.

So to see you like this... it was almost like seeing a parent cry. You had always been the one to comfort him. Never the other way around.

He was about to put his arms around you when that seemed to awaken something in you.

"Get the fuck off me." You immediately shoved him back.

"Woah, I'm just trying to help you."

"And why would I need your help? Especially since you never offered it when I really fucking needed it."

Max faltered. You had a point. He should've said something when you defended him - when you protected him. Not throw you under the bus and lie because his dad told him to do so. Because everyone knew you were protecting Max from his abusive father but the official records were that you attacked Jos since Max's testimony went that way. His mother had cried, Jos had given him the silent treatment and even Helmut told him to think of his career.

So Max gave the final line needed that would see you always see you a premeditated court agreed amount of space away from his family. And him by extension.

It wasn't lost on him that the last time Max had been this close to you had been when you were mopping up vomit in Abu Dhabi 2021.

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

"A few too fucking years late, Max." You wiped at your tears. You never liked to be seen as weak. He liked to think he got that from you.

"Then let me just help you out this one time." He wasn't sure why he started this - maybe it was the guilt of not doing something in the past and wanting to rectify it, but he added. "Horner's onto you. He's got lawyers on your case."

You stopped crying for a moment, thrown at this. "What?"

"That Piastri kid. I know you're close to him." Max couldn't help the annoying feeling when he said that aloud, "But Horner is worried since he has a good record with F3 and F2 but McLaren have a shit car so I'm not too worried but - "

"Oh my God." You breathed and turned around, looking at the wall. "Oh my God." You repeated.

"What?"

"Oh my God I'm actually going to move to Madrid and start with football because I am so fucking done with you drivers."

Max stared, unsure what was going on with you right now. What had he said? Why were you so angry?

"Is that seriously what you're worried about right now?"

Max blanked. How had he gone from trying to help you out by letting you know what Horner was doing to somehow pissing you off even more. "No, I - I'm just saying that I don't care if you're training Piastri but the point is that Horner - "

"And say, Max, why should it matter if you care or not?" You snapped at him, all the tears suddenly gone. You were fuming. "What? I need your permission as my old driver to train someone new?"

"No, it doesn't matter because I'm better than him."

"Yeah but I haven't trained him yet."

"Well go ahead and train him then! We'll see who wins with your rookie in that McLaren tractor."

"You know what, Max? Bet. By the end of this year, both you and Horner will regret fucking me over for Jos."

"Good luck doing that when you're also making him coffee."

At that exact moment, the sound of a door flinging open broke the tension and out came a man dressed in red. Neither you or Max were sure where Carlos Sainz had come from but there he was. He bounded down the steps and came between you and Max before you had anytime to say or do anything.

Max, immediately filled with regret, started apologising. "I didn't mean that - "

"Shut the fuck up Verstappen." Carlos' harsh curse cut out of nowhere. He didn't look at the driver once and Max watched as you let Carlos tug you back and up the steps back into the rear exit of the Ferrari motorhome.

Max turned to the side of the building and, despite knowing he has a race in a few hours, threw his fist right into it.

Usually on your rest days, you opted for active rest. Walks. Yoga - or just stretching in general. Swimming if possible was also a go.

Today was a rest day. You had planned to go for a walk around Albert Park when the track closed up for the day. That had been the plan. Make it through the day, enjoy the race, go for a walk and then start making plans for Azerbaijan. You had discussed getting there early to have a few days to settle and get into a routine with working out and training.

That had been the plan. And if life had gone according to your plan, you would currently be smiling at the sun that was setting over the skyline reflected on the lake and think to yourself about how much you loved Formula 1.

However, right now you were in bed, no form of exercise attempted as you watched the Liverpool game. The race had finished a few hours ago and you had watched Max win on Dia's old TV. It just added fresh salt to the wound and he lifted the trophy and celebrated as if you were nothing in building him to be the driver who was standing on that podium.

As such, you were under two blankets and hadn't left the space on the living room couch since you'd arrived earlier today. You had also apparently given up on your cut as you accepted Dia's Nutella sandwiches and glasses of red wine.

When she asked what had happened you just said, "2018 hit me in the face again."

She didn't say anything more about that. She said a gentle, "I'm here if you want." But then just sat by you on the couch and knitted. She commented on Oscar's driving style. She also kept making jokes about Stroll. That lifted your mood slightly.

The race, admittedly, had been an interesting one. Dia didn't say anything when Charles went off but her loud snort made you smile. Him getting beached the first lap felt karmic to you and for the first time ever, you would allow yourself to feel vindication seeing Charles go out of a race.

However, it wasn't the Ferrari with the black T cam that had your attention this race. Carlos was starting 5th and anytime he was on screen, you found your attention drawn to his car. Especially since the first half of the lap he was fighting with Pierre and when he finally overtook him on lap 25, you found yourself wanting to cheer for him.

Oscar drove pretty well and finished 8th. It wasn't too bad but with the amount of cars that went out, it was a lucky result. Especially since most of the time, both the McLarens were fighting with Haas.

Especially after the second red flag and he got into 3rd place after he was forced into Alonso who spun out. Unfortunately he didn't keep it and finished 12th. It was evidently not a good result and you almost wished you could reach out to him.

In another life.

You were done with drivers and Formula 1 for the day - for the week. You hadn't been serious before with Max but now, in the space or your living room watching the Liverpool game Carlos had spoken about before, you couldn't help but think that football would be better than F1.

The doorbell rang and you looked at your aunt.

"Did you order Uber Eats?"

"In my house? Don't insult me." Dia tutted and lifted your feet off her lap to get up and answer it. You kept watching the game and watched as Mo Salah went in for the assist but missed. Your thoughts continued to mull over it as the offhanded angry comment became more and more concrete as the night wore on.

For one, taking your uncle's offer meant you'd get to train athletes again. You wouldn't get to travel as much, sure, but that also meant you'd get more consistency and having a routine wouldn't be so much of a headache with all the jet-lag. You were friends with most of the boys on the squad and they all usually came from diverse backgrounds - meaning less of the elitist snobbery of the rich upper class that ruled F1.

And since Christian Horner was apparently calling his lawyers - his very, very good lawyers - it would probably be for the best. Maybe she could coach Oscar online or something. He'd understand. He was a good kid and she'd miss him, sure but was it really worth it if --

"Oh dearest, sweet niece of mine! You have a guest!" Dia's voice rang from the hallway and you frowned, sitting up. You weren't sure who might come to visit you. The only feasible option was Oscar and so you stood up, not caring about your dishevelled, ratty pyjamas. Maybe it was a good time to tell him he was going to Madrid.

"Hey bro, sorry for not messaging you. Shit hit the fan and I think I'm gonna move to Madrid - "

"My hometown? That's nice. I can show you around."

Oscar Piastri was not standing in your door frame.

It was Carlos Sainz.

"Carlos? What - what are you doing here?" You pulled at the large jumper you wore above the Spider-Man boxer briefs that completed your nightwear look.

Unfortunately this just made him look down at said boxer briefs. Carlos' lips twitched but he said nothing and just smiled warmly at you. "You weren't at the circuit." Was all he said, as if that explained anything. Then he held up a brown paper bag. "I brought you ice-cream."

Not sure what to do, you just welcomed him in. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Come in." You noticed Dia quickly dip down the hallway to give you space. Not before she made a show of wiggling her eyebrows at you. You gave her an unimpressed look and waved at her.

And so you sat at Dia's cluttered kitchen table with Carlos Sainz who brought you ice-cream from a gelato shop near the hotel he was staying at.

"I wasn't sure what flavour you liked so I got a few." He opened the styrofoam tub and you saw three different colours. "Pistachio, hazelnut and tiramisu. It was their weekly flavour."

"All sounds good." You brought some spoons and cups to the table. Carlos brought a cup to him and began serving himself. You went to the other cup but Carlos tutted your hand away. He then finished scooping some of each flavour before passing the cup to you.

It was a small gesture but after the day you had, it meant a lot. You smiled and muttered a quiet thank you. You waited until he had served himself before you tried the pistachio.

"Hmm, that's good." You commented. Pistachio was one of your favourite flavours and this was pretty good.

"I agree." Carlos nodded. "Do you have a favourite flavour?"

"Usually go for pistachio."

"Ah, good for me!" Carlos smiled and held out his spoon with pistachio ice-cream. It took you a second but you clinked your spoon against his. "Cheers! You know, if you move to Madrid I can show you all the good ice-cream shops."

"Thank you. It's not confirmed, just a thought I'm having on a bad day." It was then that you realised that you probably weren't the only one who might be having a bad day.

Technically, with eight cars out, Carlos' 12th place meant he had finished last today.

And had been told he needed to get into a PR relationship.

"I'm sorry." You said. He looked at you, spoon in mouth and frowned. "I - uh, about today. The race."

His face became a bit more solemn and he sighed. "Thank you. It wasn't exactly my best result but I know Charles - " He stopped and you thought it was because he named your former best friend. But then he shrugged and scoped some more ice-cream into his mouth. "I bet Charles so I'm fine."

Your mouth fell open.

"You're not a reporter, I don't need to lie." Carlos elaborated and it took you a second to process the honesty.

"I... yeah. Fair enough."

"Oscar did well."

"Not well enough."

"I heard what you said to Max."

You bristled at his comment. Admittedly you hadn't had a lot of interaction with Carlos but you were unused to him calling things so straightforward. So, you deflected. "Was this after you were let out of choosing a PR relationship?"

"Yes. And thanks for that by the way. By bringing up the locals bit, Morena decided we can pick our own girls." He rolled his eyes. Then he looked at you and grinned. "Let me know if you decide to move to Madrid."

"Ha. Funny." You then decided to use his same tactic. "Carlos, I'm sorry I'm gonna be blunt."

"That's fine. I prefer that."

"I noticed." You said. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Do you want to go to the Real Madrid game next week?"

What? "What?"

"The game?" Carlos repeated, seeming very indifferent to the immediate change in conversation that was throwing you for a loop. He had brought you ice-cream and come to your personal home to ask you about a football game? "I can get us private flight tickets to Bernabéu. My dad has a box."

You stared at him. He continued to eat ice-cream. Innocently.

"Again, Carlos, I'm gonna ask... what?"

He put down the ice-cream and turned to you fully. It made you sit up a little and he stared at you. "I'm stuck at Ferrari. I thought it would be the next step up but I feel more stuck there than when I was with McLaren. My first season I went without a win and I knew Charles was going to be their priority but I didn't realise how bad it was going to be. I'm not going to stand out to them unless I really work for it."

"Okay." You said, trying to understand where he was going with this.

"And I don't want to be stuck in some PR relationship with someone I have nothing in common with. I heard you with Max. You want to get back at Red Bull and it looks like he's going to be the one to beat this year."

You were starting to see an angle here... but it was an angle that seemed far too ludicrous to accept.

"Carlos..." You were hesitant to ask, "what exactly are you saying?"

"Let me date you. Be my chosen PR girl. Come with me to Madrid and watch the game."

"And train you?" You added. "That's kind of what we're getting at here."

"Yes." He nodded. "And train me to beat Red Bull."

"And prove to Ferrari you're better than Charles." You reminded him. "It sounds like you get all the benefits. I mean, I'm training you and helping you out of a PR relationship."

"Yes but you forget Lando is my best friend. He can help us get you to still work alongside Oscar."

"Max told me Horner's got lawyers on my case."

"Yes but doesn't it say family? Romantic grounds? You'll be my girlfriend. And Horner can't say anything if my friend and his teammate happen to use the gym the same time as I'm there with my girlfriend."

You had to stand up. You couldn't sit there and think about this. You ran a hand through your hair as you thought over what Carlos was asking you, what he was offering.

Seeing you consider this, Carlos continued to speak, to sweeten the pot. "You can finally work in F1 without making the coffee."

Considering the day, this pissed you off. You stopped your pacing and glare at him. "I enjoy making coffee."

"I know you do." Carlos didn't skip a beat, "but you'll finally be able to do what you're really passionate about and prove everyone wrong."

"By making you win." You reminded him of that key part.

"Exactly." He grinned. "It's a win-win. If Oscar is going to break Charles' rule, then I might also." Carlos said it with a shrug but that caught you more than anything.

"What rule?" Carlos looked at you for and grimaced. "Out with it Sainz."

"Leclerc kind of put out a general ban on you. No one's really allowed to come near you."

For the second time tonight, you were floored. Except this time, you had to sit down. You put your head in your hands, elbows on the table as you processed this. This.

Charles had banned other drivers from engaging with you. That's why Alex stopped cracking jokes with you, it's why George stopped giving you the updates about Carmen, why Lando stopped saying hello and why Pierre all but pretended you didn't exist. Logan Sargeant had gone from always chatting with you in F2 to avoiding you like the plague when he arrived in F1. You found it off he refused your Congratulations! cake you'd sent to Williams.

For the first time in your life, you found yourself rooting for Charles to lose.

Because you had decided that you would do anything to make the man beside you win.

"We're versing Sevilla." You spoke.

Carlos' smile grew. He understood what you meant. "I know."

"You'll organise the tickets."

"Of course." He licked his spoon clear. Your ice-cream had since melted at all the revelations of the night. "I'll send someone to pick you up for the flight."

"My uncle will want to meet you." You added, thinking now about the reality of all the logistics.

"My dad also." Carlos added. "He might be there."

"That's fine." You had met Carlos Sainz Sr before when you worked in Torro Rosso. "Just please don't tell my uncle I have a Liverpool jersey."

"As my girlfriend, I do think we're going to have to do something about that. I may take the Don's side on that one."

Girlfriend. That was a word you hadn't had in a while. How long had it been since you were someone's girlfriend?

To think you had woken up thinking about the shitty protein powder in your breakfast to now going to sleep as Carlos Sainz' girlfriend.

"You look like your head is spinning." Said driver commented.

"That's because it is." You said. Needing something to do, you picked up the ice-cream contained and went to put the lid back on and put in the freezer. Carlos had brought the cups and spoons to the sink and you immediately reached for them.

"I can get that."

He tutted at you again and turned on the tap. "This is how a man treats his woman." You had to snort at the line.

"What corny romance novel did you get that from?"

"My father, actually." He said which made you tilt your head. You knew Carlos Sainz' dad played a big role in his career, a former rally driver himself, but you were starting to understand the level he played in Carlos' life.

By the door as he was putting his shoes on, you asked him. "Are you going to tell your dad, by the way, that you and I are PR." Suddenly, however, another thought arrived to you - one that took precedence above all. "Wait, if you and I are going to be in a relationship does this mean I have to attend all those Ferrari events are your WAG?"

"Yes, but fake boyfriend or not, I'm not going to allow today to happen to you."

"What?"

"Ricciardo, Verstappen, Leclerc." He listed. "No one will disrespect you like that again. I promise you. I won't let them."

You stared at him, stunned. "I... um. Thanks, Carlos."

He smiled at you. "Anytime, cariña." He reached up his hand and tucked a hair behind your ear. You blinked. Wasn't this the behaviour he was supposed to do when cameras were around. You said this and his smile grew. "Just getting my practice in. Sleep well."

You closed the door behind him and rested your head against it. Before you could process anything, you heard laughter behind you.

Dia stood there, an amused look on her face with her arms crossed. "Fake relationship with the hot Spanish driver? Yeah that doesn't sound a like a rom-com plot. I give it 6 months."

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