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eccentricallygothic · 9 months ago

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Divorced Dad!Captain Syverson who experiences a real time brain short-circuit when he sees how well you get along with his kids during your first meeting with them…

Warning(s): Breeding kink, size kink, old man!Sy, age gap, manhandling, groping, fluff, boob play, unprotected p-in-v, I added plot to it TT. MDNI.

. . .

After the messy divorce that followed his turbulent marriage, Sy was not looking forward to any relations with the opposite sex, if possible. With his former profession a constant hurdle to his life as part of a unionized pair and marital bliss, what had started as a promising relationship had turned out to be one of those unfortunate marriages where children were sought as a last resort to perhaps save the remnants of the already rotten love between man and wife. Though being someone from a background that held family in the highest esteem and always having been fond of the idea of his own lot, Sy loved his children more than life itself and there was not a thing in the world he would trade for them. And that was the reason why he had preferred to opt for an early retirement so custody would not be an issue between him and his ex-wife who was more than eager to shed off everything affiliated with the name Syverson like an illness.

You, on the other hand, though not much experienced with the opposite sex were not too warm to the idea of children. Being a student in her last year of higher education and only so old as you were, your attitude hardly deserved to be subjected to scrutiny. That, and the fact that you hadn't really had many young ones around you while growing up as an only child, calling you a foreigner to the scene would not qualify as an exaggeration and hence it can be said that it is more indifference than contempt on your part.

So naturally, when it happened, it was strictly unplanned. And very fateful. With a rather traumatized Sy in a sort of an emotional limbo who had more than enough reason to keep to himself, and a stressed with soon approaching future endeavors as well as disillusioned with the opposite sex you, the night you had bumped into each other outside the bar restrooms where Sy had been dragged to cheer up by his friends and you to loosen up by yours, the rather fast yet steady rate at which the two of you had woven into each other had been unexpected to say the least.

But now, as Sy fires up the grill in his backyard to begin the little BBQ he has planned for today when you meet his children for the first time, the prided and much experienced grill expert nearly burns his hand because he is so busy inwardly fawning over how quickly his rugrats have warmed up to you. And you, Sy will swear on anything that you are just the most perfect woman— person alive. Everything is just right with you. Even on days when the world seems to press down on him, your mere presence is there to help his spirits back up and elate as well as support him in every sense.

Though he had been honest about his condition since the beginning, after his initial reluctance to get with you as you were so much younger and inexperienced compared to him, children weren't peculiarly a topic that came up between the two of you except occasions where Sy wanted to share a little victory or rant with you. So as you keep his toddler on one hip with a protective arm around her, your perfect body -Sy's words- clad in a bonny bright coloured sundress, and hold the hand of his 5 year old who excitedly shows you around the mini patio of the modern farmhouse, memories of his own mother scarce if any, your making conversation with the boy and giggling along to his lisp droning flutters Sy's heart in a way that he thought he had outgrown.

It also excites him with a kind of boyish heat that the former military Captain had thought he had shed off with his adolescent youth.

And so he just has to have you by yielding to a similar impatience and desperation, the musical sound of your giggles faintly fluttering its melodies upon his flush and thumping ears as he gets to it.

“God, Sy!” The huff in your words fires him up even more and he cannot hold back any longer. “You’re such a brute!” His coarse and scarred paws heavily pull at your dress with a crazed desperation to help you find the restroom, as he had told one of the farm hands that he had left the children under. “Oof!” The whine you let out before instinctively craning your head to try and ease the way his thick beard tickles the tender skin of the curve of your neck makes him growl into your carotid pulse that he worships with his hot lips, the pressure of your pressing your face into his as well as the soft pants you let out, your chest bumping into his with each heave of your lungs, only lithifies his bulging erection even more.

“Gon' fatten up your pretty lil’ pussy with my cum, baby” Sy's breaths scorch your clammy skin with their burning weight. His hands grope and expose you everywhere they can reach, and they can do so everywhere because of how much smaller hence ragdoll-like you are compared to him. “Wouldja like that, angel?” Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he boosts your thighs up his tall legs and around his waist, the fat and leaking tip of his cock grazing against your holes from how he is kissing you everywhere he can reach. “Me stuffing that cute tummy full of siblings for Tim and Bethy, huh?” You know he would never actually do something as serious so callously without a prior discussion so you breathlessly nod, pushing your oral muscles to gulp down the thick bile in your throat and tip your head against the wall to prepare yourself to withstand his intrusion of your pussy that thanks to his girth always feels like not only your first time with him but your very deflowering in general.

“Yes” your mouth falls open as he reaches below the hold with which he has your whole body propped up. “Yes, please~” his balmy tip finds its destination in the tiny, drenched and quivering closed up band that leads to your reproductive cavern. “Please fimme with your babies, Sy~” when the stretch makes your tiny hole burn around his girth, your mouth lets loose all the obscene words of vulgar desire.

“Yeah, baby?” Sy's fingers flex over your ass and caress their way up your side before coming down and repeating the action, his thumb stealing strokes of your nipples as he does. “Wanna make me a Daddy, yeah?” A hiss leaves your mouth and your back arches at the feeling of your walls sheathing him deep within themselves. His breathtaking urgency nearly puts a dent in your innards. “Want me to make you all round and heavy here?” Your pussy clenches around the hilt of his cock when he suddenly gropes your naval into a greedy handful.

“Yes, please, Sy!” Your whole form bounces up in the air when the man gives you a thrust so powerful that has you mewling and digging your nails in his shoulders. “Wanna make you a Daddy so bad, Sy!” His dick has always had a hypnotic effect on you, for the minute it's in the vicinity of any of your holes, you become a brain dead parrot for him.

“Atta girl~” he cooes, tossing your body further up with a strong stab of his hips so he can clamp his teeth down on one of your boobs.

MASTERLIST

. . .

I am MAD for this man. Like I am not even hot on kids. WHAT—

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 1 year ago

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Beneath a Dragon's Gaze

Summary: With Madame Sylvi indisposed on the evening Prince Aemond comes to visit, he requests someone different | Word Count: 1.7k~ | Warnings: sex work, smut, hair pulling, biting, titty sucking, darkish Aemond

A/N: saw ep 3 and felt silly 😁 not proofread an inch

“The Prince has asked for you.”

She could not help the wide-eyed look and the familiar flipping of her stomach, now feeling entirely different with the words that had come from her fellow woman’s lips. The Prince. Well, it could have meant either of them only weeks before, but no longer. They frequented this establishment quite often, as an upper-class brothel, with only the finest whores and service, it was only natural, and they had the coin to pay for it.

Suddenly, she felt quite cold in the sheer dress she had chosen that evening, doing very little to conceal the flesh that hid beneath, her nipples having formed peaks against the satin. What could she possibly say to that? There was no possibility of refusing.

“Very well,” she responded, knowing it was not her place to question. There was no question as to which now, it was most certainly the very same who frequented for the warm embrace and soothing voice of Madame Sylvi, who spent hours in her company and paid her a hefty price for it. For secrecy. But she knew just as well that the only reason Aemond had requested her instead, was because on this night, his usual appointment was indisposed.

Her heart raced as she slalomed through the scantily clad crowd, each step bringing her closer to the corner where the prince awaited. The halls were dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows that danced along the walls, alongside those of curved figures, twisted with pleasure. She could hear the muted sounds of such from the other rooms, but they did little to quell the nervousness that gripped her.

When she reached the curtain, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady herself. The Prince. Aemond Targaryen. Known for his fierce demeanour and sharp intellect, he was not a man to be trifled with. Yet, beneath that cold exterior, she had heard whispers of a man burdened by the weight of his family.

Sliding the curtain across, met with the Prince, eyepatch already discarded and down only to his breeches, sat with cup in hand on the plush settee, his lone eye raising to her as she dipped for a curtsy. She felt her throat close at the sight of the sapphire, somewhat mirroring what was happening between her thighs.

"Madame Sylvi sends her apologies, my prince. She is unable to attend to you this evening."

Aemond's gaze lingered on her for a moment, and she felt her cheeks flush under his scrutiny. "I did not call for Sylvi tonight," he said finally, his tone giving nothing away. "I called for you."

Her lips parted to question. But she dare not let the words free. She was not one to ask about his intentions, a mere whore.

“Undress.”

The Prince’s eye never wavered as he watched, flesh revealed as she bared herself to him. He stood as if uncurling himself, finishing what was left in his cup before moving his hands to unlace his breeches, his head gesturing to the settee.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

His commanding tone made those flutters awaken once more. She had been employed at this establishment for so long, of course being naked and bared to an abundance of men was second nature. But there was something about the way he wanted her, the way it seemed not spurred by desire of any kind, but a need, like air, that ignited her nerves that she had not felt since her first few days in this line of work.

Still, bare arsed and exposed to a Prince, was a different matter entirely.

She felt his presence behind her, knowing he was naked as his thighs brushed against hers. He nudged her knees apart and pushed gently on her spine, encouraging her to arch her back. Though she could not see his face, the rippled design of the copper in front of her reflected enough for her to sense the detachment in his actions. So, she remained silent.

Prince Aemond guided himself to her centre, barely wet, and pushed his cockhead inside. He had barely breached her when his hands gripped the flesh of her buttocks, watching intently as his cock slowly slid deeper into her cunt, being swallowed by her body. She closed her eyes, the lack of preparation making the act more uncomfortable than pleasurable, but she hoped that with time, her arousal would ease the discomfort.

As Prince Aemond continued to push himself inside her, she focused on her breathing, trying to relax her body and ease the discomfort. The room was silent except for their breaths, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced on the walls. Each inch he gained felt like a stretch, a challenge to her body's readiness, but she bit her lip, determined to endure.

His hands, firm on her buttocks, began to knead her flesh, his grip alternating between gentle caresses and possessive squeezes. The friction built steadily, her body slowly acclimating to his presence. The initial pain started to fade, replaced by a growing warmth and the stirrings of pleasure.

Aemond moved with a deliberate pace, his thrusts measured and controlled. He seemed intent on watching every inch of his cock as it disappeared inside her, his breathing heavy and laboured. She could feel his intensity, the way he held back his own urges to maintain that slow, torturous rhythm.

Despite the initial discomfort, her arousal began to build. Her body responded to his movements, her inner walls slickening and accommodating his length with increasing ease. Soft moans escaped her lips, unbidden but honest, as pleasure began to mix with the remnants of pain.

Aemond's hands slid from her buttocks to her hips, pulling her back against him with each thrust. The new angle allowed him to go deeper, hitting spots inside her that sent jolts of pleasure through her body. Her fingers clenched the sheets beneath her, seeking some anchor as the sensations intensified.

He leaned forward, his breath hot against her ear. "Do you feel that?" he murmured, his voice husky and edged with restraint. "Do you feel how you take me in?"

"Yes, my prince," she gasped, her voice trembling with the effort to maintain composure. "I feel it."

Aemond's pace quickened slightly, his control slipping as his own desire took precedence. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, a rhythmic, primal music that spoke of need and release. Her moans grew louder, her body arching and pushing to meet his thrusts, seeking the pleasure that now consumed her.

With a sudden, possessive grip, Aemond's hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck. His lips found her skin, teeth grazing lightly before he bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to claim. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine, her body responding with an involuntary clench around his cock.

He groaned against her neck, the sound vibrating through her. "Take me, all of me," he whispered, his voice filled with approval and satisfaction.

She surrendered to the sensations, her body melting into his as pleasure overwhelmed her. Every thrust, every touch, every whispered word from Aemond drove her closer to the edge. The discomfort was a distant memory now, replaced by a wave of ecstasy that built with each passing second. His movements so erratic, his stones clapped against her womanhood with every harsh push, slapping against her bud in a steady, unyielding rhythm.

The sensation pushed her over the edge, her own climax washing over her in a powerful, all-consuming wave. She cried out, her body convulsing around him, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. Finally, with a deep, guttural moan, Aemond drove himself to the hilt inside her once more, his body shuddering and then withdrawing quickly as he found his release and coated her buttocks and thighs with his pearly spend.

They stayed like that for a moment, both catching their breath, their bodies still joined. Slowly, Aemond released his grip on her hair and hips, his hands soothing over the marks he'd left. He pulled out of her velvety walls gently, leaving her feeling both spent and fulfilled.

She expected him to leave, to gather his clothes and slip away into the night, as most men often do with a flick of their coin into her lap. But instead, Aemond surprised her. He curled into her body, his head resting against her chest. His lips found her breast, mouthing at her skin with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity of their earlier encounter. His hand moved to her other breast, caressing it with a gentle, almost reverent touch.

She looked down at him, her fingers threading through his silver, moonlit hair. He seemed to take more pleasure in this simple intimacy than she did, as if seeking comfort rather than mere satisfaction. His eyes were closed, his breathing steadying as he continued to nuzzle her chest.

"I hate it," he murmured after a long silence, his voice muffled against her skin.

She blinked, unsure of his meaning. "Hate what, my prince?"

Aemond shifted slightly, his hand stilling on her breast. "Sometimes, I think Madame Sylvi just says anything to appease me. She tells me what she thinks I want to hear, not what she truly believes."

There was a bitterness in his tone that caught her off guard. "Why do you think that?" she asked softly, her thumb stroking the back of his neck.

Aemond's grip on her breast tightened slightly, and she felt a shiver of unease. His lips brushed against her nipple, then his teeth grazed it, sending a jolt through her body. "Because it's easier for her," he said, his voice lower, more dangerous. "Because I'm a prince, and she fears offending me."

She gasped softly at the sensation, the mix of pleasure and pain reminding her of the precarious balance between comfort and control. "But you deserve honesty, my prince," she managed to say, her voice trembling.

He bit down a little harder, enough to make her wince. "Do I?" he asked, his tone a warning. "Or do I deserve the truth, no matter how it feels?"

Her heart raced, the threat in his words unmistakable. "The truth, my prince," she whispered, trying to maintain her composure. "Always the truth."

Aemond's teeth released her nipple, his tongue soothing the sting. He looked up at her, his eye fierce and unyielding. The sapphire lodged in the other piercing and dark.

"Good," he said, his voice a soft growl. "Because I have no patience for lies, no matter how pretty they are."

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch

@castellomargot @emmaisafictionwhore @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @primonizzutto

@qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince

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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

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Glass Girl — MV1 + OP81

Summary — Maya Horner was raised to be perfect — polished, silent, smiling. The daughter of a pop star and a motorsport legend, she learned early that love was conditional and softness was weakness. Then came two drivers: one all fire, the other quiet steadiness. Neither asked her to perform. They just saw her for who she really was, and chose her despite it all.

Pairing — Max Verstappen x Maya Horner (OFC) x Oscar Piastri (MMF)

Warnings — Bad parenting, TW disordered eating (encouraged from childhood), throuple (mmf), D/S dynamics, non-consensual touching (not between the main characters), strong language, time jumps.

Word Count — 9.5k

My Masterlist

The hotel bathroom is marble and chrome; and it’s really cold. Maya sits on the edge of the bath with a white towel wrapped around her, makeup absolutely perfect. Always perfect.

Her phone buzzes where it’s facedown on the sink vanity. Probably her mother. Maybe a stylist update. Probably a reminder not to eat before the party so the dress fits the way it’s supposed to.

She hasn’t eaten all day.

Not because she forgot.

It’s one of the only things that’s completely hers—this control. Everything else; her schedule, her wardrobe, her smile, her voice—is curated by committee. But this? What she puts into her body, or doesn’t?

That’s hers. And it’s hers alone.

She stands and looks at her reflection. The daughter of a motorsport king and a pop legend. She knows exactly what she’s supposed to be. Shiny. Sculpted. Successful. A walking billboard of two very different empires.

She touches the necklace at her throat. A gift from her dad, probably chosen by an assistant. She can’t ever remembering being hugged by him for longer than three seconds at a time. She’s never cried in front of him without being sent out of the room.

The girl in the mirror is flawless.

She hates her.

Maya wraps her arms around herself. Not for warmth, there’s never enough of that, but for pressure. To feel something and grounding. She digs her fingernails into her skin just to feel the pinch.

Tonight, she’ll smile. She’ll flirt with men twice her age in tailored suits who call her darling and look at her like she’s a prize to be won. She’ll be photographed beside champagne towers, caught mid-laugh for magazines that will call her “elegant” or “high-value,”. She’ll laugh with billionaires she barely knows, play the role so well no one will question whether she even likes the game.

Her mother will press an air kiss to both cheeks — careful, performative — and murmur, “Good girl,” because it’s the highest compliment she knows how to give.

Maya turns to face the dress laid out on the bed.

Gold. Strapless. Short in the front, ankle-length in the back. Something the stylist said would make her look “regal and expensive.”

She hates it.

It isn’t her.

She likes soft things. Silk. Blush pinks and pale pastels. She likes feathers, maybe, or beading that glitters softly under warm lights — not this loud, metallic glare. She wants to feel delicate, not displayed. She wants to feel like a girl, not a product.

But no one ever asks what she likes.

No one ever has.

—

The car door opens, and the flash hits before her heel touches the ground.

She steps out like she’s done this a thousand times—because she has. One leg, then the other. Chin lifted. Shoulders back. Smile soft but controlled. The driver offers a hand. She doesn’t take it. She never does.

Behind her, the red carpet glitters with a curated selection of Monaco’s elite — racers, musicians, heirs, actresses who always laugh a little too loudly when the photographers call their names. Everyone knows the rules here. Everyone plays their part.

And she is very good at hers.

The gold dress catches the light like flame, like money, like something she’s been told she should be. She smiles for the cameras. Tilts her head to the side, the way the photographers like. She even gives a little wave. Not too big. Just enough.

Her mother is already inside.

Her father is on the terrace talking shop with someone from Liberty Media.

She walks alone.

People turn to look at her — and not just the paparazzi. She sees the way some women measure her, the way some men assess. But none of it touches her. It can’t. She won’t let it.

She moves through the party like a ghost in gold, offered flutes of champagne she doesn’t drink, compliments she doesn’t believe, questions she doesn’t want to answer.

“Who are you wearing?”

“Will you be at the paddock this weekend?”

“Is it true you’re seeing Lando Norris?”

Smile. Nod. Laugh. Deflect.

All of it is noise.

Until she feels it — not a sound, but a pull. Like gravity, sudden and unwanted.

Two sets of eyes.

Across the room.

Watching her.

One pair of eyes is storm-dark — intense, unblinking, charged like thunder held just behind his pupils. Max Verstappen. The lion. Known for his fire, his brutal honesty, his refusal to play nice for the cameras.

The other pair is cooler. Quieter. Greenish-gold and devastatingly observant. Oscar Piastri. Reserved but impossible to ignore. The kind of quiet that makes people lean in closer — and underestimate him at their own peril.

They’re standing close. Not touching, but close enough. Close enough for the rumors to feel real.

Because everyone’s heard them by now.

The whispers. The speculation. The way they were always together — in the paddock, in hotel lobbies, spotted at private dinners where the other drivers weren’t invited. The tabloids were spinning theories like silk; rivals turned lovers, lovers turned something else. No one knows for sure.

But the photos don’t lie.

Max, leaning into Oscar’s space, laughing like only he can. Oscar, looking at Max like he already belongs to him.

A scandal. A headline. A PR nightmare.

And they’re both looking at her.

Not like a party guest. Not like a name. Not like a legacy.

But like a secret they’re dying to unfold.

She feels it—how their attention cuts through everything. Through the cameras, the noise, the men in suits who want her because of who her parents are. Through the dress she hates and the face she’s painted on.

They’re not seeing her image.

They’re seeing her.

And it terrifies her.

Because she wants to let them.

God, she wants it so badly it makes her stomach twist — to drop the smile, to let her shoulders fall, to go to them and say, please, just hold me for a while. Just let me rest.

But she doesn’t move.

She stands there, still and golden and trembling beneath it all.

Because not a single person has ever looked at her like that before.

And now, there’s two of them.

—

The Oxfordshire house is quiet in the way big houses often are — not peaceful, just empty. Too many rooms. Too much space. Not enough love.

She sits at the breakfast bar, the marble countertop cool beneath her bare arms. Outside, the countryside rolls out in perfect green waves. Inside, everything is polished and still. Museum-like.

Her father stands by the espresso machine, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand, half-listening. She used to love mornings like this. Before she understood how many of their conversations were just… PR briefings in disguise.

“You’ll be traveling with me this year,” Christian says, like it’s already been decided. No smile. Just a sip of coffee, a glance at his calendar. “Full season. We’ll do media prep in Milton Keynes for you.”

She blinks. “Why?”

He looks up, frowns at her like she’s somehow missed the obvious. “Because it makes sense. You photograph well. You’re part of the family—might as well show the world what that means.”

She lets that sit between them. Part of the family.

The Red Bull family. The Horner family. The brand.

Not the daughter.

Not the girl.

“Is that… what you want?” She asks, softer.

Christian’s brows furrow slightly. Not with cruelty — just confusion. Like he doesn’t understand the question. “It’s what’s best,” he says, putting down his cup. “The more attention on the team, the better.”

She nods slowly. Her hand curls slightly around her glass. “Okay. I didn’t have anything else planned for this year anyway.”

He gives a tight, approving smile. Then he’s already moving on — into emails, logistics, contracts. His affection is efficient. Conditional. Not unkind, but not enough.

Her mother is nowhere to be seen. Probably in London. Or LA. Or at a spa with someone from Vogue magazine.

She’s used to it.

She’s always been told she has everything — the bloodline, the platform, the wardrobe, the name.

But none of it has ever felt like hers.

Not the legacy. Not the house. Not even her own future.

Outside, the wind brushes softly against the tall hedges in the garden, making them sway like they’re bowing to something. Or someone. Even nature bends here.

She looks at her father.

Really looks at him.

The sharp lines of his profile. The calm efficiency in his movements. The way he speaks with confidence not because he’s certain, but because he knows certainty is power.

And for a moment — a breath, a blink — she wonders; ‘Is this what it feels like to hate someone?’

The thought startles her. It’s not sharp, not violent. It’s worse. It’s cold. Hollow. A slow, creeping realization that maybe love was never given freely — only traded. That every nod of approval, every plane ticket, every high-end dress was just… currency.

She doesn’t hate him the way people hate villains in stories. She doesn’t want to scream or shatter anything. No, it’s quieter than that.

She hates that he doesn’t see her. Has never tried to.

Nausea clings to her skin. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then gets up and goes back to her bedroom.

—

The air in the stables smells like cedar shavings, hay, and early summer rain. It’s the only place on the estate that ever feels real.

She walks past the stalls in her boots and riding coat.

In the far stall, ears flicking at the sound of her footsteps, is a tall dapple grey mare with a proud gait and watchful eyes. The stable plaque says Blue Echo, a name chosen by some branding consultant years ago. Something elegant. Powerfully feminine.

But to her?

She’s just Princess Daisy.

“Hi, baby,” she murmurs, stepping into the stall. “Miss me?”

Princess Daisy nudges her gently in reply, warm breath puffing against her shoulder.

She buries her fingers in the horse’s mane and rests her forehead against the soft arch of Princess Daisy’s neck. The mare shifts slightly but doesn’t move away.

She closes her eyes.

And for a few rare, precious seconds—she can just be a girl with a horse.

A girl who likes silly names and soft animals and the wet hay smells in the rain.

Tomorrow, she’d be on a plane to Bahrain.

The reminder settles over her like a shadow.

Bahrain is heat and concrete and lights that don’t go out. Her father will walk ahead of her through the paddock like he always does — brisk, focused, already talking strategy. She’ll trail behind in heels she didn’t choose, in outfits pre-approved by someone from marketing, her paddock passes swinging from her neck like a collar and chain.

They’ll call her the Red Bull princess. They’ll talk about how lucky she is.

She’s learned not to flinch at that word anymore.

She hasn’t felt lucky in a long time.

But… Bahrain also means them.

Max. Oscar.

She hasn’t stopped thinking about them for weeks — not since the event in London.

She doesn’t know what it means; the way they look at her. She doesn’t even know what she wants from them. Not really.

But tomorrow, she’ll be on a plane to Bahrain.

—

It’s 3:12 AM.

Maya walks barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, ghosting past closed doors and floral arrangements that all smell the same. The nightmares had been bad tonight — hot hands around her ribs, a voice telling her to smile while she couldn’t breathe. She’d woken up gasping. Like always. Like clockwork.

This is what she does.

Walks until the world quiets enough to let her sleep.

But tonight, she’s not alone.

At the end of the hallway, two figures step out of the elevator — laughing, low and quiet, until they see her.

Max. Shirt half-buttoned, curls still damp.

Oscar beside him, hands in his pockets, always slightly behind, always watching.

All three of them stop.

She doesn’t say a word. Couldn’t find them even if she tried.

Max’s eyes darken. His jaw tenses. He’s already scanning her — not like other men do, not with hunger. With concern. With sharp, unapologetic focus.

Oscar tips his head slightly. Reading her, quietly.

“You okay?” Max asks, as they approach. His voice is low, rough around the edges.

She hesitates. Then nods.

They don’t believe her.

She should say something cool. Flirty. Maybe bring up the race weekend. That’s what she’s been trained to do.

But she’s so tired.

“I get nightmares sometimes,” she says instead. “I walk them off. It’s not a big deal.”

Oscar steps closer, voice soft, steady. “Every night?”

She shrugs. Doesn’t answer. That’s enough.

Max’s fists curl at his sides — not angry at her. Frustrated. Protective.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you back.”

She should say no. Insist she’s fine. She’s an adult, she’s capable.

But she doesn’t. She just nods.

And it’s strange — how easy it is. How they move with her like they’ve done it before. Max takes the lead, always scanning. Oscar stays beside her, not touching, but close.

They don’t talk. Don’t ask stupid questions.

They’re just there.

At her door, Max leans against the frame. “Do you know when it’s going to be a bad night?”

She nods.

Oscar meets her eyes, calm and unwavering. “Text us. Doesn’t matter what time.”

Us, he says. Like they’re one unit. A package deal.

She blinks. “I… don’t have your numbers.”

Oscar holds out his hand. She fishes out her phone — bubblegum pink case, a sparkly charm hanging off it.

He frowns when he sees there’s no passcode. Doesn’t comment. Just types.

Max watches. Then tips his head. “Don’t walk alone at night again, liefje. I mean it.”

She swallows. She should argue. Be sharp, defensive. Strong.

Instead, she just wavers. “Okay,” she whispers.

Max starts to reach for her — then pulls back.

Oscar doesn’t. He brushes a strand of hair from her face, featherlight. Like touching something breakable.

She closes the door gently behind her.

Then leans against it, heartbeat still uneven.

For a moment, she thinks, ‘maybe I could’ve asked them to stay.’

Not to sleep with her. Not for anything like that. Just… to be there.

To sit beside her in the dark until the world felt safe again.

But she didn’t.

She never could.

Instead, she crawls into bed.

And, for the first time in a long time—she sleeps without nightmares.

—

The paddock smells like heat and asphalt and engine oil — familiar and choking.

Maya walks two steps behind her father, sunglasses shielding her face. Every movement is rehearsed. Casual, but camera-ready. Effortless, but flawless.

She hasn’t eaten today. Not really. A half spoonful of yogurt, picked apart like a battlefield.

It’s not hunger, exactly. It’s just pain, now. But it’s familiar. She likes it, in a way. Craves it.

“Chin up,” the press officer mutters beside her, clipboard in hand, headset pressed to one ear. “And smile. Not the polite smile — the good one. The Geri smile.”

Maya’s lips curve on command.

“You’ll be shadowing the team today, then joining your father for the press walk at two. BBC wants a short segment on ‘Red Bull’s focus on family and legacy.’ Don’t make it about yourself. Make it about the team. Say something about grit and heritage. Try not to blink too much.”

She nods like she’s listening. Like she cares.

They pause outside the hospitality suite. A photographer raises his lens.

“Angle your shoulders a little—yes. That’s it. Beautiful,” the press officer says, voice like lacquer. “Your mum’s bringing back the Spice Girls for the anniversary next month. You’ll probably be part of that too, so start thinking about your wardrobe. No feathers.”

No feathers.

She loves feathers.

Her stomach turns.

Inside, Max is already sat near the coffee station, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. His eyes flick to hers as she steps in — just a second. Just enough.

Oscar isn’t Red Bull. He shouldn’t even be in this part of the paddock. But he’s here, standing in the far corner with a drink in hand, casual as anything. Somehow, no one questions it.

When Maya passes them, Max’s hand brushes lightly against hers. On purpose. Just once.

She doesn’t flinch. But she feels it all the way up her spine.

The press officer pulls her aside before she can speak.

“You’ve got two minutes before your father goes live. Repeat after me — ‘It’s about legacy, about excellence, and about pushing beyond limits.’ Again.”

Maya says it like a spell.

Legacy. Excellence. Limits.

They clap her on the back and smile like she’s done something brilliant.

But all she can think about is the yogurt she didn’t finish, and the way Oscar looked at her like she didn’t have to say anything at all, and the warm tingle that shot straight to her heart from Max’s touch.

—

She finds him by the McLaren garages, perched on a flight case, nursing a protein bar and a can of Monster.

“Oh hi, Princess Red Bull,” Lando grins, hopping down. “Gracing me with your royal presence?”

Maya huffs a laugh. “Sir McLaren. Still pretending to like those things?” She nods at the protein bar.

“I like the idea of them,” he says. “It’s the never-ending chewing I can’t get behind.”

She smiles.

Lando has always been like this — irreverent and bright and just enough of a nuisance to keep her grounded. Like an older brother who knows all your secrets and still thinks you’re worth teasing.

He ruffles her hair, because he knows it’ll mess up the look the press team spent twenty minutes on. “You look tired.”

“I’m always tired.” She sighs.

He stops, looks at her properly. “Bad night?”

She nods, and his hand drops from her hair to squeeze her shoulder. Gentle. No pressure to talk. Just knowing. Just safe.

But then someone calls her name — loud, exaggerated — and when she turns, there’s a camera pointed straight at them. A pap, just beyond the fence, zoom lens already snapping. Another angle for the internet to twist.

Lando sees it too. His jaw tightens.

“Great,” he mutters. “Tomorrow’s headline: ‘Horner Heiress and Lando Norris—Mid-Paddock Rendezvous or Something More?’”

“Why can’t they just leave me alone?” Maya looks away, eyebrows drawn, stomach clenching tight.

Lando gives the camera crew a shitty look. “Wish I could tell them to fuck off without losing my job.”

She shrugs, suddenly cold. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, well… fuck ‘em.” He spits.

She blinks at him. Wants to hug him — wants to let him hold her and kiss her forehead the way he does when there isn’t any cameras around to take something viciously innocent and turn it into a sexually charged headline.

Instead she just gives him a tight smile and mutters a quiet, “See you later,” and puts the persona back on. Poised. Perfect.

A complete lie.

—

Engineers crisscross with tools and telemetry, mechanics crouch low beside the car. They’re five races into the season, and tensions are sky-high.

Maya’s off to the side, as always. The silent mascot. Polished, painted, press-ready. Her hair’s done. Her makeup’s perfect. There’s a microphone waiting for her just beyond the paddock cameras.

She hasn’t eaten since Wednesday — fasting was healthy, that’s what her mother had told her a million times as a teenager.

She’s dizzy.

And then it happens.

A hand — not anyone she trusts — brushes too close to her waist. Too familiar. A laugh follows. Low, sleazy. One of Checo’s engineers, older, always looking a little too long, a little too interested. His voice cuts through the buzz. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re going to cause even more of a ruckus than usual in that dress.”

It’s not the worst thing she’s ever heard. Not even close. But today, it breaks something.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice slices out, louder than she meant. Louder than anyone’s ever heard from her.

People turn. Eyes shift.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Easy, princess—”

“I said don’t fucking touch me!”

Silence crashes over the garage like a dropped wrench. Everything stops.

She’s shaking. Her breath is ragged. She can feel it happening — the panic, the heat in her chest, the cold in her fingertips.

And then she’s crying.

In front of everyone.

Mascara streaking. Breath stuttering. Completely, heartbreakingly exposed.

Christian’s voice cuts through the tension. Cold. Humiliated. “Maya. Now is not the time.”

It feels like a slap.

She stares at him. At everyone. At their shock, their discomfort. She’s made them uncomfortable.

Of course she has.

And so—she runs.

Out of the garage. Past the cameras. Past the clicking lenses and the whispering media handlers scrambling after her. She can’t breathe. She can’t think. She doesn’t know where she’s going until—

“Lando!”

His name is barely a sound, but he hears it. Sees her stumbling through the paddock, heels in her hand, tears on her face.

“Oh shit,” he breathes. “Hey, hey, come here—”

But she’s already moving past him, too far gone.

It’s Oscar who catches her.

He’s just stepped out of his driver’s room when she crashes into him, trembling and breathless and half-sobbing.

“Maya—”

She clings to him, fists curled in the front of his hoodie, crying so hard it hurts to breathe. Oscar doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate. Just wraps his arms around her and pulls her inside, closing the door behind them.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

She folds into him like paper.

“I— I just—”

“I know,” he murmurs, already reaching for his phone.

He calls Max.

“She’s with me,” he says, voice tight with something sharp. Protective. “Something happened. She needs you. Now, Max.”

—

Maya feels smaller than usual. A fragile thing, curled into herself on the narrow cot bed in Oscar’s driver’s room, her head resting against his chest, tucked beneath his chin. She’s not crying anymore, not really, but her eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, blinking slowly like she’s afraid that if she lets the tears fall again, they might never stop.

Oscar holds her gently, like he knows exactly how close she is to splintering again. Like if he breathes too loud, she might vanish.

Max had arrived in a blur — storm-bright eyes, clenched jaw, voice hushed but heavy with concern. Now, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough for her to feel the quiet thrum of his presence, but not close enough to crowd her. Max always knows when to be heat and when to be shelter.

“You okay?” Oscar asks, his voice low, careful. He doesn’t expect an answer. The question isn’t for her, not really. It’s for himself. For Max. For the quiet ache in both their chests at seeing her like this.

Maya nods — a twitch more than a motion — as if the truth is too loud to say aloud. She curls her fingers tighter into the fabric of Oscar’s hoodie, her knuckles pale. It smells like him. She thinks she could fall asleep like this. If her body would let her. If her mind would stop shaking.

“You know,” Max says after a beat, casually, like they’re talking about the weather and not the way her skin is stretched too tight across her frame, “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything in two days.”

Her stomach twists. “Dunno,” she mumbles. “Not hungry.”

Not a lie. Just a truth she’s learned to live inside of. The empty ache of it is more familiar than the weight of food in her body. Hunger feels like control. Like safety.

“You’re not doing that anymore,” Max says, firmer now. He reaches over, lays a hand gently on her shoulder. The heat of him sinks through the cotton of her oversized hoodie. “You hear me? We’re not going to let this happen.”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say she’s fine. She isn’t. And she’s too tired to pretend. Too tired to wear the perfect smile or make excuses.

Max exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair, tension simmering beneath his skin. “Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath — not at her, never at her — just at the mess of it. The pain she’s been carrying alone. The silence she’s been drowning in.

His tone softens again, the sharp edge blunted by tenderness. “No more making your own calls if this is what they look like. No more hurting yourself just to keep up the act. We’ll decide things now.”

Oscar shifts, his arm around her waist tightening slightly. He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking her arm in slow, calming circles. Then he speaks, gentle but firm. “From now on, we’ll take care of you. That’s the deal. That’s what you need, I think.”

She finally looks up at him. Blinking, broken, her expression so raw it almost hurts to see. There’s no mask here. No practiced smile. Just Maya — stripped of every performance, every expectation. She looks so young. So exhausted. So desperate to be loved right.

“Yeah,” she whispers, voice barely audible. “Yeah, I—please.”

Her voice cracks mid-word. It breaks something in both of them.

Max’s breath catches, his eyes softening as he reaches for her. “Come here, Maya.”

Oscar helps her shift, and she slides out of his lap, her whole body trembling with the effort. She lets Max pull her in, lets him hold her like something precious — not because she asked him to, but because he knows she needs it. She always needs it.

He gathers her against his chest, one arm around her back, the other curled protectively over her legs as he cradles her in his lap like she weighs nothing. Like she’s something delicate and treasured.

Max mutters something sharp and aching in Dutch against her hair, lips barely touching her temple. His voice breaks on the last syllable.

“Niks van jou over, baby.” There’s nothing left of you.

Not accusation. Just sorrow. Truth. She’s a whisper of herself now, and it’s killing him to see it.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, so quietly they almost miss it. “I’m sorry.” Her voice catches again, frays at the edges. She says it like a reflex. Like she’s used to apologizing for her own existence.

“Don’t,” Oscar says gently. “You don’t need to be sorry. Not ever.”

Max holds her tighter, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’re going to fix everything. You hear me? No more of this… act. No more acting. You’re going to be exactly who you are, Maya, and that’s exactly who we want.”

She believes him.

Not because of the words.

But because of how he said them.

Like he meant it.

Like his word was law.

—

Max’s suite is warm, lights dimmed low. Maya’s curled up on the plush couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of Oscar’s cologne. She hasn’t said much since they brought her back, just let herself be gently guided, repositioned, and reassured. Max and Oscar have made it almost effortless—wordless, even.

Oscar sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, carefully unwrapping takeout containers from room service. He opens each one slowly, as if not to overwhelm her, arranging little piles of food like offerings: soup in a delicate ceramic bowl, plain rice, soft bread rolls, slices of mango she’d admitted were the only fruit she actually liked.

“You don’t have to eat a lot,” he says softly, eyes flicking up to her. “Just something. Okay?”

Max, standing behind the couch, rubs a hand down the back of his neck. “It’s a good start,” he adds, “but we have no expectations.”

Maya nods, small and silent, and takes the spoon Oscar offers. She eats slowly, every bite like a whisper, like her body doesn’t quite know what to do with being taken care of. But she eats.

Max disappears into the bedroom for a few minutes, and when he returns, he’s holding something carefully folded in his hands. “Here,” he says, offering the bundle. “Figured you might want something to sleep in.”

She blinks, takes it from him with trembling fingers. It’s soft. Pale pink. Satin. The cuffs and ankle hems are feathered, delicate and girlish in a way that sends a jolt through her chest.

She sucks in a silent gasp.

Because she’s seen this before. This exact set. A matching top and bottom with candy-colored buttons and wispy little ankle feathers. It’s one of the first things she ever pinned to her secret “want want want” board on Pinterest. She’s stared at that set more times than she can count. Longed for it in that way she’s learned to bury—sweet, soft things that felt too childish, too indulgent for the life her parents demanded she perform.

She looks up, wide-eyed, confused. “How—?”

Oscar, still cross-legged at the table, doesn’t even pretend to look guilty. “You left your laptop open a few weeks ago. Your Pinterest tab was still up.”

Max shrugs, unbothered. “You said you never get to want things. Thought we’d start with these.”

Her throat closes up.

She presses the satin close to her chest and covers her mouth with her hand, and to her horror, the tears come fast. Her shoulders shake, and she ducks her head, trying to hide it, to shove the reaction down where all her emotions usually go—but she can’t.

Oscar is on his feet in seconds, next to her before she can move. “Hey, hey—it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Max crouches in front of her, brushing a thumb under her eye, catching one of the tears. “You’re allowed to cry, baby. Doesn’t make you weak.”

“I just…” She tries to speak but it breaks apart in her throat. “It’s stupid, it’s just pyjamas—”

“It’s not stupid,” Oscar cuts in gently.

She clutches the fabric tighter and gives in to the sob stuck in her throat. For the first time, the tears don’t feel like shame. They feel like a release.

Later, she changes into the pyjamas, and they’re a little big, and the sleeves fall past her wrists, and the feathered cuffs brush her ankles with every step. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt more like herself. Not the Red Bull princess. Not Horner’s daughter or Geri’s publicity machine.

Just Maya.

Soft. Girly. A little fragile, but held together by hands that want to protect, not mold.

When she walks out of the bathroom, Max is already under the covers. Oscar’s flipping through TV channels with the volume low, but both of them look up the second they see her.

Max whistles under his breath, lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There she is.”

Oscar doesn’t even smile—just stares at her like she’s something holy. “You look exactly how I thought you would.”

“Like what?” she whispers.

“Like yourself,” Oscar says.

—

Over the next few weeks, they fulfil their promise in tender, small ways.

Maya stands behind Max, a quiet shadow in a branded cap. The sun is relentless, and her skin’s too pale for this heat. Oscar’s the one who notices first.

“You’re squinting,” he murmurs, sliding a pair of sunglasses onto her nose. “Take mine.”

She starts to shake her head, but he’s already pulling his hat lower to shield his own eyes. She doesn’t give them back.

Max passes her his water bottle without looking, like it’s muscle memory to provide for her.

No one comments. But the cameras do catch it. And people start to talk.

—

They’re at a grid dinner before the summer break.

She barely eats.

Max doesn’t call her out on it, doesn’t lecture. He just cuts his steak into bite-sized pieces and nudges his plate toward her, like it’s hers, like it’s obvious.

Oscar orders her a dessert she once said she liked in a half-forgotten conversation, and when it arrives, he says nothing — just waits. She takes a spoonful and doesn’t realise she’s smiling until he smiles back.

—

Oscar presses a soft kiss to her temple before the elevator closes, like it’s second nature. Max trails a knuckle down her spine with a look that promises he’s always watching over her. It’s subtle. Intimate.

They don’t need to say the word ours. Everyone sees it.

And people continue to talk.

—

She shows up late to media training, lashes clumped from crying, collarbone sharper than it was two weeks ago. The press officer says, “Try to smile more, Maya, you look ungrateful.”

Max hears it. He’s across the room in two strides.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” he says flatly. “Have some fucking humility.”

The room goes silent.

—

It’s after qualifying in Singapore. She’s in the garage corridor, still wearing Max’s fireproof jacket draped over her shoulders when her father finds her.

He’s quiet at first. Scarily calm. “This thing you’re doing,” he says, tone cold and precise, “with Max and the McLaren kid—it ends now.”

Maya doesn’t flinch.

“You’re embarrassing your mother. You’re embarrassing me. Do you understand? You look needy. Weak. Do you want the press to call you a liability? Is that what you want?”

Her throat closes. Her fingers tremble. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lets the words keep hitting. Like they always have.

He steps closer. “You were meant to carry your surname with grace. And instead you’ve latched onto two drivers like—”

“Like what?” Max’s voice cuts in, sharp and deadly.

Christian turns. Max is already standing between them.

“She’s mine,” Max says, low and dangerous. “Ours. And if you don’t want the best driver on your team walking out mid-season, I suggest you shut the fuck up and stay out of this, Christian.”

Oscar’s there too now, not as loud, but just as present. Always behind, always backing her. “They like it,” Oscar says calmly. “The media. The public. They think it’s sweet — that she can finally be herself. That she’s finally being taken care of. Loved.”

Christian scoffs, mouth twitching, shaking his head and looking like he might explode.

Max doesn’t move. “You’re a fucking coward,” he says quietly. “You throw money at her instead of love and call it parenting. You ignore the fact that she’s killing herself because it’s an inconvenience to you. Well… she’s not yours to hurt anymore.”

Maya is shaking. Oscar’s hand is on her back. Max opens his arms wordlessly.

She steps into them without hesitation.

And when Christian walks away, furious and silent, she doesn’t look back.

—

It’s late. The city lights flicker below them like stars scattered across the sand.

There’s a linen-covered table set for three, candlelight dancing in the breeze. Oscar had picked the restaurant. Max had reserved the whole rooftop. She hadn’t even been told where they were going—just that she should wear something soft, and pink if she wanted.

She had. A silky dress with a bow at the back. Pearl earrings. Her heart on her sleeve.

They don’t rush dinner. Oscar orders for all of them, but always checks with her first. Max brushes her knuckles with his thumb every few minutes like he can’t quite believe she’s real and needs a reminder that she is.

There’s laughter. Champagne with fresh raspberries. A moment where she forgets to shrink herself.

After dessert, she leans back in her chair, barefoot now, cheeks warm from the alcohol. “So this is a date?” she asks, half-teasing, half-afraid of the answer.

Oscar glances at Max, then back at her. “Yes.”

“You didn’t ask,” she says, tilting her head.

Max’s voice is low, serious. “Because we weren’t going to give you room to say no. Not in the way you usually do. You say no to kindness. To care. Not because you don’t want it—because you think you’re not allowed to have it.”

She looks down. The vulnerability stretches between them like thread. Thin. Fragile. Shimmering.

“We’re in love with you, Maya,” Oscar says, steady and calm. “Have been for a while. Since Bahrain, since London, probably.”

Max reaches for her, puts his hand under her chin, tilts her head up. “You don’t have to do anything. Say anything. Be anything. Just… existing is enough, liefge.”

“We’re just asking you to let us love you,” Oscar finishes.

Her bottom lip trembles. She presses her hand over her mouth like that will stop it, but it doesn’t. “You don’t even know all the messy parts,” she whispers. “You think I’m sweet and good. But I’m—I’m so tired. And I’m not always good. I’m… I’m a lot.”

Max stands. Walks behind her. Presses a kiss to her hair and murmurs against her ear, “We want all of it.”

Oscar reaches across the table and holds her gaze. “You’ve just never been loved right, I think.”

She breaks.

Not in a loud way.

Just a slow inhale, a few tears slipping down her cheeks, her hands shaking as she lets Max pull her to her feet and into his arms. Oscar wraps his arms around both of them. They stand like that—on a rooftop above the desert, the girl they’re already in love with finally, finally starting to believe them.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says into Max’s chest. “The three of us. I’ve never—“

Oscar kisses her shoulder. “That’s okay.”

“We’ll show you,” Max promises, holding her tighter. “Every day. For as long as it takes.”

—

It’s raining in Barcelona.

Not a storm. Just a soft, endless drizzle.

They’re in Oscar’s hotel room. Max is asleep — sprawled sideways across the bed, one arm over his eyes, shirtless and worn out from media rounds. There’s a tiny freckle on his shoulder and Maya is struck with the urge to kiss it.

Oscar is sitting on the floor with her, both of them tucked against the wall by the window. She’s in one of Max’s old Red Bull hoodies, swimming in it. Her bare legs are tucked under her, knees touching Oscar’s. Her damp hair smells like jasmine.

They’re listening to the rain.

He’s been reading to her. Something calm. Poetic. He reads slowly, like the words are delicate things. She hasn’t really been paying attention. She’s just been watching his mouth move. Breathing.

She interrupts him with no warning.

“I love you.”

Oscar blinks. His lips part, then close again. He sets the book down slowly.

“I love you,” she says again, to make sure he knows it. “You and Max. It’s not new. It’s just—now it doesn’t feel too scary to admit.”

Oscar cups her cheek, gently pulling her gaze up to meet his. “We love you too.”

“I know.” She smiles, wobbly.

Max shifts on the bed with a sleepy groan, rubbing his eyes. “What’d I miss?”

Maya crawls over to him slowly, climbs into his arms, and says it again.

“I love you.”

Max stills. Then smiles. He cups her face and kisses her forehead. “Liefje,” he murmurs, kissing her again. “You’re everything.”

Oscar joins them, wrapping around both. The three of them curled into the sheets, quiet and close as the rain falls outside.

—

It’s late. The kind of late that wraps everything in a hush, the lights dim and warm, the air thick with stillness.

Maya is curled between them on the hotel sofa, tucked into Max’s side, her legs draped across Oscar’s lap. There’s a documentary playing, something about old race legends, but none of them are really watching.

Oscar’s hand traces absent circles on her calf. Max’s thumb brushes along her shoulder where her silk robe has slipped, and she doesn’t move to fix it. She feels safe like this. Weighted. Held.

“I like this,” she murmurs, the words barely louder than the hum of the TV.

Oscar looks down at her. “Like what?”

“This,” she says again, quieter now. “You. Him. Here.”

Max shifts just enough to lean in and press a kiss to her temple — tender, slow. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Then Oscar’s voice, soft but sure. “Never.”

She lifts her head, just enough to look at them both, and her heart stutters at the way Max is already watching Oscar. The fire and the calm. Always orbiting each other, always steady. Like they’d found something solid long before she was ever part of it.

And then — like they’ve done it a thousand times — Max leans in, fingers brushing Oscar’s jaw, and kisses him.

It’s unhurried. Familiar. The kind of kiss that feels like home, and she watches it happen with her chest aching in the best way.

When they pull back, Max glances at her, just a hint of a smirk curving his mouth. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed,” she whispers.

Oscar’s fingers find hers. “You’re ours.”

And just like that, her world tilts a little closer to whole.

—

The building is pale pink stucco with tall windows and soft gold accents. The sign reads The Princess Daisy Foundation.

Maya’s wearing a gown the colour of strawberry milk, with a tulle overlay and delicate pearls stitched into the bodice. Her heels sparkle. Her nails are glossy and pale. Her smile, for once, is real.

“They said it wouldn’t be taken seriously,” she says into the mic, voice calm but warm, “that no one would support a charity for underprivileged girls to study ballet. But they were wrong. People just had to be reminded what true, authentic beauty looks like.”

The crowd claps. Cameras flash. Oscar hands her the scissors. Max presses a kiss to her temple once it’s done. Neither are on the stage, but they’re close. Always close.

—

The magazine is high fashion. Not tabloid. Not gossip.

She’s not in a power suit. She’s not reinvented.

She’s herself.

Feathers. Lace. A sheer pink blouse with a velvet bow tied at the collar. Hair curled softly, glitter dusting her collarbones. The spread is titled Soft is Strong.

They call her a disruptor. A visionary. A symbol of femininity without apology.

In one of the outtakes, she’s sitting on Max’s lap, Oscar’s hand on her thigh. It never runs, but she frames it in her home office anyway.

—

She’s barefoot in the paddock — her heels in one hand, the hem of her ruffled dress knotted up slightly to avoid engine grease. Max is arguing with GP about race strategy. Oscar is reviewing telemetry data on his phone.

Maya’s sipping an iced lavender latte when a tiny dot of a girl comes running up to her, flanked by two out-of-breath guardians.

“Hi Maya.” The girl says shyly. “I love your dress.”

Maya hands her latte to Oscar, who doesn’t even need to look up from his phone to take it. Then she crouches down and adjusts the girl’s glittery headband. “I love yours too,” she whispers, like it’s a secret between them. “You sparkle in the sunshine!”

When the photo of them gets posted by the girls parents, the caption goes viral: “She’s like if a cupcake had a heart (and two boyfriends).”

—

They’re at a party.

Christian is there.

So is Geri.

Maya greets them politely. She doesn’t flinch. She’s radiant in silk and diamonds and a matching custom clutch that says good girl in pink rhinestones — a reclamation, not a reminder.

Max is on her left. Oscar on her right.

When a journalist tries to bring up her rebellious phase, Max shuts it down with a single look. Oscar gently steers her away, murmuring, “You look like a dream,” and her laugh sounds like wind chimes.

—

There’s a photo on their kitchen fridge of a much younger Maya — awkward, unsure, all eyes and shadows.

Beside it, there’s one from just last week; she’s lounging on their balcony in a cloud of pastel robe, eating a croissant and reading French literature, Max kissing her shoulder, Oscar curled beside her with his nose in his phone.

In both photos, she’s looking at the camera.

She only recognises herself in the second one.

—

The house is quiet.

There’s birdsong from the trees outside the open windows, the soft hum of a coffee machine, the occasional sound of a little girl giggling.

It’s a peaceful quiet. The gentle kind.

Maya stands barefoot on the balcony, wrapped in a silk robe the color of rose quartz. The hem is trimmed in delicate feathers.

There’s a half-drunk cappuccino beside her. Her fingers are dusted with flour — she’s trying to bake something today, even if Oscar ends up taking over halfway through like always. Max is still asleep, she thinks, though she heard him stir when she slipped out of bed at dawn.

Below, the garden is blooming. Lavender and soft pink roses, a stone path that leads to the small dance studio she had built on a whim — or maybe not a whim at all. The ballet charity is doing well. Better than she imagined. Sometimes, when she visits classes and helps the girls with their ribbons, she feels like she’s rewriting her own childhood, one gentle hand at a time.

She turns as she hears the sliding door open.

Oscar steps out, barefoot, shirtless, wearing sleep-soft shorts and blinking into the light. He walks straight to her and presses a kiss to her shoulder. “You’re up early.”

“Had a dream,” she murmurs. “Not a bad one. Just… vivid.”

He rests his chin on her head. “Want to talk about it?”

She leans back into him. “No. Maybe later.”

Max appears a few minutes later, hair wild, expression fond and grumpy all at once. He kisses her without a word and steals the rest of her coffee.

They stand there together in the morning sun, warm and safe and quiet.

Oscar’s hand finds hers. Max’s arm settles around her waist.

There’s no performance.

No audience to entertain.

There’s just love.

A squeal — high-pitched and girly — splits the quiet morning like sunlight through lace. Then, the balcony doors burst open, and a blur of pink tulle and fluttering white feathers launches herself outside.

“Daddy!”

Oscar catches her mid-air like he was waiting, arms instinctively cradling her as she giggles and wriggles against his chest. She’s dressed like a ballerina — a soft pink leotard, satin slippers with little ribbons tied messily at her ankles, and a tiny feather boa draped around her shoulders.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, spinning her once, pressing kisses across her cheeks as she squeals with laughter. “What are you doing up so early, huh?”

“Had a dream,” she says seriously, parroting Maya’s earlier words. “That the kitchen turned into a castle and the fridge was made of cake!”

Oscar gasps. “A cake fridge? Why didn’t I dream that?”

“Because you’re boring, daddy,” she says with complete confidence.

Maya laughs and walks toward them, curling herself into Max’s side as he stands behind her, arms wrapped around her middle. His chin rests on her shoulder, his hair still a little wild from sleep. She feels his breath against her skin, hears the soft sound he makes when he sees his daughter light up in Oscar’s arms.

“She’s wearing feathers again,” Max says against her ear, his breath a tickle. “That’s your fault.”

Maya hums. Shrugs. “She wanted a ‘Mummy dress’ today. Couldn’t say no.”

Max kisses the curve of her neck. “I wouldn’t have, either.”

Gia, their tiny, perfect girl, reaches out one hand toward her mother. “Mummy, daddy said I could wear my crown to breakfast.”

Oscar looks betrayed. “No, I didn’t—!”

“You didn’t not say it,” she grins.

Max chuckles, the sound low and affectionate. “She’s got you beat, Osc. You’re hopeless.”

She has them all beat, is the thing. This little girl—drowning in love and affection and never wanting for anything.

—

Inside, the kitchen smells like cinnamon and sugar, something bubbling gently on the stove. Oscar sets their daughter on the counter, steadying her as she swings her legs in excitement, reaching for a tiny crown resting beside the fruit bowl. Max lifts it with two fingers, exaggeratedly serious as he places it on her head with a little bow. “Your Highness.”

She beams, the sunlight catching in her curls.

Maya watches them, heart aching with a kind of joy that still feels new sometimes. She leans against the doorway, arms folded loosely across her chest, letting herself stay in the moment a little longer.

On the fridge are photos. Lando, her brother in all ways but blood, had taken most of them.

Oscar’s mother, kneeling in the garden with Gia on her lap, both of them grinning wide. Max’s father teaching her how to drive a go-kart — a day that ended with a kart in the wall and a lot of apology ice cream. There’s one of Maya too, half-laughing, mid-spin in the living room, her daughter in her arms, both in matching pink feathered robes.

Maya’s daughter doesn’t know her maternal grandparents. Not really. They’ve met, yes. Christian had flown into Belgium once, uncomfortable in the stillness of their home, talking more about Max’s contract than about his granddaughter’s third birthday party. Geri had sent expensive, ridiculously expensive dresses by courier.

Maya only let Gia wear them in the garden, where they would get covered in mud and water and sand.

Maya never let them stay long—her parents.

She wouldn’t risk it. Not for a second.

She knows what inherited silence feels like. What praise laced with expectation can do to a child’s pure heart. She remembers being told to smile when she wanted to cry, to suck in her stomach and keep her chin up and never — ever — be soft.

She’d walk through fire before letting her daughter carry that same weight.

So instead, her little girl grows up in ballet slippers and glitter crowns, with two fathers who would rearrange the stars if she asked them to — who teach her strength isn’t silence, and kindness is power, and softness isn’t something to outgrow.

And Maya learns too. Every day.

Oscar hands her a mug of warm milk and honey; not breakfast, just something to warm her up. Max brushes a kiss across her temple before pulling their daughter into his arms and dancing her toward the dining table.

She closes her eyes for a second.

This is the life she built from the ruins of the one she survived.

And it’s hers. Every breath of it.

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