Perhaps, in another realm
Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader
Synopsis: An elixir of life – you, destined solely for his consumption. Yet, in his pursuit, he forgot, he sipped away your essence, your breath of life.
Tropes: Dark romance, Angst, fluff.
Warnings: implied nsfw, implied forced intimacy, forced marriage, baby-trapping, knife play(intimate acts using a knife), yandere(someone completely infatuated with a person, prepared to commit violent acts for them) themes, isolation, trauma, one-sided love implied, non-explicit violence, mild stockholm syndrome(to empathize with one's captor), misogyny(the idea that women are inferior to men), minor character death, healthily unhealthy relationship, Sukuna being a red-green flag, Sukuna has eyes for no one except his wife, Cameo: Uraume (they/them pronouns).
General Warnings: Heian Era, strict Japanese setting, usage of Japanese terms(glossary provided), True form!Sukuna, husband!Sukuna, wife!reader, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n.
Word Count: 3.7k
Glossary
Ryomen Sukuna beholds secrets which he musn't.
Each dawn's awakening, he notes the sun's radiant dance on your irises. Marking the gentle arc of your lips, a telltale sign of mirth's embrace. By the garden's edge, he watches as the winds tousle and play with your hair curls.
With each flicker of your essence, he can't help but feel a pang of frustration at his own inability to guard his heart against the allure of your presence. Each time your unpredictability unfolds before him, he curses his own vulnerability for the arising tenderness within him.
It vexes him deeply.
Gnawing at the recesses of his, once assumed, dormant heart. Yet, now brought to life by unknown sensations – fuzzy and irksome.
An elixir of life – you. Meant to be solely consumed by him.
Your intricate curls destined to be twirled in his fingers alone. Singularly, he'd stand as the privileged observer, captivated by your brilliant elegance. Your figure draped in the resplendent folds of an opulent kimono, delicately bestowed upon you by his hands.
Thus, he embarked on the sole course he could comprehend – take you.
Splitting you away from the familiarity of a family, hearth and hamlet; for in his eyes, your fragile essence demands his safeguarding against this wicked, cruel realm.
Persuading you, that a life enfolded in his embrace had no reason for trepidation. Your purity, too immaculate to endure the harshness of existence.
Yet, persuasion faltered; your resolute heart held no inclination to remain in his grasp. Mounting a relentless siege, to break free from him and his distorted path.
"You crave peril as I assume, so be it," He conceded. "But know this: I'll be the sole peril haunting your very being."
Pressed beneath the weight of his body upon the bed, your resistance proves to be futile against his strength. Leaving you ensnared in a struggle where defiance falters in presence of his immense power.
"Isn't this what you desired? Didn't you yearn for peril?" He questions, his forefinger trailed across the delicate curve of your neck, assessing the rhythmic beat of your pulse point.
"Fear not, I shall burn the world down to literal ashes until none poses a threat to you, save for me, of course."
For danger, befalling upon you while his eyes held the witness and hands were the forebearer of pain – he'd allow. After all, he embodied peril, haunting humanity for centuries.
"My dearest," He began, twirling a blade before your defiant gaze. "I've wielded this to afflict your kin but fear not, it shall yield pure ecstacy for you."
Said so, he thrusted the timber end of the blade within your slick, delicate folds. Your screams shunned out over his malevolent laughter, fingers twisted the cotton sheets as he glided the blade in-and-out of you.
Blood dripped down his wounded hand, staining the white to red, yet his countenance held no response to pain. Gaze fixated upon your shuddering form, underneath him.
He was no stranger to the acts committed in bed. Knowledgeable of all ministrations and threads he needed to ensnared in order to make it pleasurable. Yet, you found no pleasure in this undoing.
The act of intimacy, which you envisioned to be filled with love while your lover would pepper kisses on your skin much akin to the gentle touch of spring's warmth.
That dream left shattered like shards of glass when your chastity was cruelly left to ruins under his harsh caress.
The night stretched on, your anguish unending as he remained vigilant, subjecting you to his torment.
When it ceased, he gingerly held your fragility while tears streamed down your eyes. He cradled your head in his palm, enfolding your trembling form against his chest as he murmured endearments into your parched ears.
You feebly hit on his chest, for you were seeking comfort from your captor – a sickening act.
He brought you pain and despair, yet here he was, bringing you solace in his arms. A sickening man, indeed, he was.
And with him, you were to stay.
.
You kneeled before the shrine deity.
Decked in a white shiromuku with traces of pink pattern embellishing the fabric, haori lowered just above your lips – grateful to the one who dressed you. Moisture laden lashes would've been a sight for sore eyes.
Beside you, your husband knelt. A black montsukini hakama draped around your self-proclaimed fiance and soon to be husband. Perhaps, you'd have seized the moment to admire him in such a lavish attire if he didn't commit the acts he did.
Abduction and coercion reigned heavy on your mind, the priest's chanting muffled over your loud thoughts. Your fear of the impending, palpable.
Later, you stood by his side, bedecked in jewels, unknown to you. Countless villagers and curses bowed before you but you were a foreigner to such deference.
It was his decree. For he was the King of curses and you – his consort, his queen.
.
Sukuna witnessed you gazing at the pond situated in his garden.
You gazed upon the lotus blooming at the heart of the pond, longingly. Reaching out for it, the trailing end of your garment splashed in the water – a futile attempt, too distant to grasp.
He stifled a snort on the brink of his lips as he descended into the garden, tethering on the stoned pads placed in between soil – approaching you.
"You desire that flower, wife?"
You rose swiftly, clutching the dampened hem of your attire. Refusing to meet his gaze, you brushed off the fabric, clearing away the soil.
"Apologies," You murmured. "I was just curious."
"That doesn't answer my question." He stated, an arch of his eyebrow at your frame. "Do you yearn for it?"
Standing before him, a hush lingered in the air, mere seconds passing. Fingers fidgeting, you nibbled on your inner cheek.
"Perhaps," you admitted, finally locking eyes with his feet once he takes a step forward. Bracing for the inevitable, you tightly shut your eyes.
You shouldn't have considered it. Entertaining the thought of plucking it behind his back, hoping he wouldn't notice, all the while unaware of his presence. You should have realized. Defiance in the past had met harsh retribution. This would be no exception.
"I beg–"
"Enough," He interjected.
You gritted your teeth, fists clenched tightly. This was worse. A single mistake, and you're sealed to a worse fate.
Yet, the vision never bore life.
He took your right hand, delicately clasping it within his own. Slowly, he pried open each finger, tenderly placing something within. Curiosity overrides your apprehension, and you cautiously open your eyes – finding the lotus nestled in your palm.
Your lips parted in astonishment as you gaze up at him, wonderstruck.
"Apologies should not leave your lips for trying to claim what is rightfully yours." He asserted, a ghost of an arc perched upon his lips.
"You desire something, you speak up," He waited, letting the words sink down. "Its upon me, how I'll bring it to fruition."
.
"You are to accompany master to dinner tonight," Uraume conveyed, head and eyes lowered in a humble bow.
The fusuma slid shut, signaling their departure, leaving you to your solitude once again.
Lately, companionship has been ceased from your existence. Confined to your chambers by Sukuna's decree that none other than he should share a moment with you. Save for his devoted servant and few maids he deemed worthy, who prepared you for the day.
Upon your bed, you rested, gazing into a void. Softly humming a melody, reminiscent of a distant song, echoing from the depths of your memory; harkening down the familial embrace in your ancestral village.
The day commenced to dusk, the sky donning a cloak of darkness – welcoming the night's silhouette.
Attended by chosen handmaidens, you were draped in a lavish kimono of crimson and ivory. Crushed red cherry paste graced your lips, a stroke of kohl ran along your lashlines.
You beheld your reflection, lovely; yet the joy eluded you. Unable to savor your captivating visage amidst your plight.
You were escorted to the dining hall by Uraume. As the doors parted, your captor, your husband, awaited you; seated on the head of the table. You took your place across him, evading his malevolent stare, your attention fixed solely on the delicacies presented by the servants.
"Afraid to meet my gaze, wife?" He inquired, his smirk palpable in his tone.
Still, you didn't meet his gaze, eyes fixed on your folded hands resting neatly on your lap. "I fear, I am not deserving to meet your eyes, your highness."
His sight danced upon your figure, measuring you as though you were his quarry. A chuckle escaped him as he poured the sake in his ochoko, indulging in a sip.
"Amusing, how you speak so when you are moons away from birthing my offspring, wife."
Your frame grew rigid, lips drawn tight whilst you glanced at your burgeoning womb.
Restraints couldn't bond you to him forever, he comprehended that moons past. Thus, he had to resort to unruly stratagems. Seeding you with his progeny – rendering you incapable of fleeing him.
If only, you acquiesced and remained by his side, as he craved, he wouldn't have acted thus. But your resolve left him with no alternative.
Not a matter to ponder his head upon, he would've planted his seed in you eventually. A kinship with you, his aspiration.
"I wouldn't leave you famished in such a state, wife. Begin eating." He declared, slicing a strip of meat with his chopsticks.
Eating, as if it were possible in such a condition. The satisfaction of a hearty meal has long deserted you. You didn't suspect the flavors of dishes perched before you. Furthermore, you lacked appetite.
You partook in meals solely to survive.
With adjoined palms, you offered a silent prayer to the almighty reigning above you. And so, you began.
.
Blood bathed the tatami mats of your chambers.
A severed head of a, newly appointed, handmaiden, laid near your feet. Her corpse, probably resulted into hundreds– no thousands of strips, indistinguishable.
Your stance remained rigid and motionless. Terror evident on your countenance, fragile fingertips shaking with shock and apprehension.
"Ah wife," Your husband's voice echoed in your ears. He approached you, stepping over the puddle of blood and sliced flesh.
"You weren't supposed to witness that– come," He gingerly caressed your skin, ushering you out of his chambers with a hand on your back.
"Uraume," He summoned his loyal servant, as on cue, they knelt before their master. "Have the maids tidy this mess."
With the subtle nod, Uraume pivoted around, carrying out their master's command alike a proclamation from thee almighty.
Snapping a life wasn't on his schedule today. He wished to spent it with you, hence summoning you back to your chambers.
Perhaps, a foolish handmaiden, attracted by his visage, made the decision to lure him with her appeal. Lowering her uniform to display her curve of of breast, singing praises of his brilliance to him.
Taken him to be resembling any ordinary man, giving into his desires by just any woman's revealed skin. Alas! He had no interest in any woman other than his wife.
An act of like that, only receives the treatment he'd bestow upon any mortal other than you.
Death.
.
"I must say, you look lovely, my queen." Twirling a strand of your hair, he pushed it behind your ear.
Upon the engawa of your husband's abode, you knelt, sight fixated on the swarm of fireflies illuminating the garden.
Sukuna held his stance beside you, lower two hands bearing his weight behind, the third perched upon his arched knee. He set the kiseru down with the fourth, his thumb and forefinger lifted your chin; coaxing your towards him.
"Intriguing, you are," He remarked, eyebrow arched.
"Such defiance you displayed upon our initial union, and now, you show indifference. Continuously subjecting me to such blank stares and compliance." A hint of exasperation lingered his tone.
"Isn't that what you wished for?" You retorted, a moment later.
Drawing you near, his lips brushed against yours, "Perhaps, I did do." He murmured, breath caressing your cheeks, prompting a flutter of your eyelids.
"But now, I yearn for something greater."
With that, he seized your lips in a fervent, fiery kiss. Only parting, a hair's breath away, to allow you to catch your breath.
He pivoted you gently, drawing you into his embrace. Two arms encircled your waist, one caressing your swollen belly. Third, Brushing aside your hair, you heard the tinkling of ornaments. Moments later, a chain adorned your neck, a crimson gemstone nestled between your collarbones.
"Ruby?"
"Rubies are ill-suited during pregnancy, its diamond" He corrected, whispering beside your ear, securing the clasp of the chain. "Unlike most, this one's tint sets it apart than rest."
"For what?" You questioned, assessing the gem like it were poison. Grasping it between your middle finger and thumb, the lantern lights reflected on its surface. Though small, you knew it amounted to more than your ancestral wealth.
"Do I need a reason to spoil my wife with jewels?"
A moment passed in silence, your gazed him through your peripheral vision, the next. "Perhaps not, its beautiul."
"Turn around," He commanded, you complied instinctively. Turning your body to face him.
His gaze met yours at first, second they drifted to the chain bedecked on your neck and on third, he glanced at both, at once.
The jewel's radiance evoked with you being it's wearer.
A grin cracked upon his lips, gingerly holding your cheek in his calloused hands in which you begrudgingly leaned in. With a mouth, summoned on his palm, he placed a chaste kiss on your skin.
"Just how Intriguing you are, wife."
.
Love for your son eluded you.
A splitting image of his father with the identical hair and carmine tinted eyes. You pondered if he'd grow up to be just like your husband.
At days, you couldn't muster the courage to cast your eyes upon him. His mere presence: a testament to your plight, evidence that you were no longer the woman you once were and evidence to your compliance to Sukuna's desires.
Even then, you never shied away from your duties as a mother.
Perhaps, some love existed, for he wielded your flesh and blood too.
You were rendered from ever escaping. Though half-heartedly, you didn't wish to leave your child with Sukuna even though you despised both of their existence.
In this era, nurturing a child as a sole woman was beyond grasp. For all held the thought, as a woman your sole duty was to remain by your husband's side and bear his offspring.
You couldn't return to your home either. Your father, though loved you, would never let you set foot in his abode ever again.
Reasons: You were abducted by a man, your chastity stripped off of you. You were no longer pure in any sense.
He wouldn't tarnish his family name and reputation for just a daughter.
Moreover, your matrimony with the wicked, king of curses had reached rivers far; binding you to his side forever.
Peril loomed at every turn, dangling your life by a single thread. Easily snapped by even the weakest of men. Sukuna's adversaries would leave no stone unturned to reach him, venturing as far to lay down the life of his innocent wife. Someone absolved of his transgressions.
Reluctantly, you accepted that remaining by his side was the wisest decision.
You cradled your son in your embrace, rocking him back and forth as you hummed a lullaby to put him to sleep.
Once his snores serenaded the room, you tenderly placed him upon his cot, adjacent to your own resting place. Gentle pats graced his chest, once you noted him stirring in the embrace of slumber.
"Come to bed," Your husband's voice echoed in your ears. Compliance swiped in your being, a swift rotation of your heels after you had checked your son to be far from awakening. You parted the curtains and perched upon the bed – lying beside your husband.
His arms encircled around your waist, drawing you to his chest, he inhaled your scent.
Your body tensed when his lips brushed against your nape. You dreaded the inevitable.
Six moons had passed, since he last embraced you intimately. The last two, post your son's arrival, were a blur of exhaustion. From tending to your physical strain and catering to your son's ceaseless crave of attention.
Tonight, all you longed for was to surrender yourself to slumber, wrapped in embrace of gentle linens. Alas, it seemed that wish would remain unfulfilled.
You were keenly aware of his intentions tonight – for he was but a man. Thus, you braced yourself.
You waited in anticipation, for him to act on his desires. Yet, it did not come to pass.
You cracked your eyelids open, stealing a glance at him. His carmine eyes met yours in a resolute stare, holding it with unwavering poise.
"Retire to sleep," he finally remarked, tenderly brushing aside the tendrils from your weary visage.
A year prior, during the early nights of your newly forged union, you would have taken a moment to contemplate his actions, perhaps even staying awake the entire night to discern his intentions.
Now, whether out of trust or simply exhaustion from the demands of motherhood – you found yourself slipping into a dreamless slumber without further ado.
The haunting nightmare of humanity, he was; yet, you found solace in falling asleep in his embrace.
.
His son has taken just after you.
Verily, his offspring could be likened unto a veritable likeness of himself in countenance, yet in comportment and carriage, he bespoke tales of you.
Awaking to the crack of dawn, shedding tears should companionship elude him. Taking solace in the embrace of the verdant garden, to which you oft escorted him. Even directing reproachful glances towards him, his father, whilst cradled lovingly in his paternal arms.
Beneath your eyes lay heavy shadows, hollows etched upon your cheeks, and a perpetual frown graced your lips, save for moments spent conversing with your offspring.
Sukuna escorted his sobbing kin from their chambers, affording you the much-needed respite that has eluded you of late; his offspring casted a disdainful gaze upon him.
"What? Speak up if you wish to," He queried, a playful lilt adorning his speech.
He tenderly traced his son's tender cheek with his claw, wary of leaving any mark upon his cherubic visage. His son seized his finger in both tiny hands, elevating it as though clutching a covert weapon – scrutinizing the nail and the ridges with keen interest.
His little one beamed, a gesture akin to the gentle breeze of summer, bestowed upon him by the heavens above. A giggle swift past his lips – a laughter, he assumed angel's melody wouldn't sound better.
His smile was yours – Sukuna realized. Perhaps, he hadn't completely taken after him in physical features.
Rocking his form back and forth on his arms, a tender smile danced upon his lips.
"Lower the tone, child. Your mother rests inside."
.
Sukuna couldn't help but contemplate alternative scenarios.
He sipped his sake, his gaze fixed upon your figure, leaning against the amado – your eyes lingering on the cherry blossom trees outside, in the garden.
The fragrance of spring permeated the air, imbuing a soothing atmosphere, starkly contrasting with the terror he instilled upon the village beyond the river.
At moments such as these, he can't help but ponder on the possibility of attaining a kinship with you, without resorting to unruly methods.
His thoughts rewind to the clash conversation he shared with you, mere moments past.
In your gaze, defiance ablazed, aimed straight at him.
"What's your intent? To end my life? Proceed, now. Who held you back? Proceed. Perhaps, I'd choose that fate over spending another day with you."
"Make no mistake," You pressed on. "My sentiment for you isn't love, don't deceive yourself. What festers within me is pure, unadulterated hate."
How could he let slip from memory? A curse he was, brutal and unyielding. Unwelcomed, marked with shame – The disgraceful one. How could he fail to recall? Love's realm, forever beyond the reach of his reach.
He seized you, by means unorthodox yet deemed vital. Yet, he finds himself lost in contemplation.
What if he had treaded a different path?
Would a love aglow your heart if he had courted you in a proper manner? Would you accept him in your life – a husband, a companion, a lover? Would you had willingly become his?
For your presence brought his heart back to life; in doing so, the life and light was lost from your eyes.
Scorned by the desire to claim you as his, the thought of your own desires, feelings was pushed to the desolate corners of his mind.
In another realm, he assumes– in another realm, he might have treated you properly from the very beginning.
In another realm, you wouldn't have to have a lingering threat struck on your mind. You wouldn't fear him.
In a realm beyond, you'd stand beside him by choice, not coercion. A realm where he'd navigate every step flawlessly. A realm where, instead of vowing to set the world ablaze for you, he'd pledge to journey with you until the world's end.
Perhaps, in another realm, you'd fall in love with him like he did for you in this.
A/N: uhm uhm uhm, just typed down an idea which I had for days + I used a new format of literal english (idk how it turned out, I am so sorry if it's cringe 😭) + I fucking don't know how to end stories so bear with me.
Pictures - Visual representations of architecture and attires described in this tale.
637 notes
·
View notes
Ties That Bind
Charles Leclerc x royal!Reader + Max Verstappen x sister!Reader
Summary: life as Princess of the Netherlands is pretty perfect but when health issues become a (literal) royal pain, you discover a familial connection that will change your life forever
Warnings: struggles with infertility, child abandonment, serious health issues, medical procedures and treatments
This is what happens when I’m insane enough to try juggling writing an 8k+ word fic with studying in medical school
The night was a cascade of ethereal snowflakes, each one glistening under the pale moonlight, landing gracefully upon the earth. The silver car glided along the road, its headlights illuminating the path through the thick curtain of snow, like two piercing eyes navigating through sorrow.
Inside, Prince Frederik of the Netherlands drove in silent contemplation, the weight of the day’s news pressing heavily on his heart. Beside him, Princess Marianne stared out of the frosted window, her reflection capturing swollen eyes that glistened with fresh tears. Her fingers trembled slightly, crumpling yet another now irrelevant medical report indicating one more failed IVF attempt.
“I thought this time would be different,” Marianne whispered, her voice quivering. “I truly believed it.”
Frederik’s grip on the wheel tightened. He turned to his wife, pain evident in his eyes. “I know, my love. I know.”
As they drove, Frederik’s eyes caught a glimpse of something unusual by the side of the road. “What’s that?” He murmured, slowing the car.
Marianne followed his gaze. “It looks like a bundle ... stop the car!”
Frederik brought the vehicle to a halt. They both jumped out and hurried over to the mysterious object. As they approached, Marianne gasped. “Oh my God, Frederik ... it’s a baby!”
She quickly bent down to scoop the tiny, shivering form into her arms. The baby’s skin was cold, blue lips barely parting for shallow breaths as the thin pink blanket wrapped around it did little to fight the chill. “Who could do such a thing?” Marianne cried, holding the child close for warmth.
Frederik’s face hardened. “We need to get her to a hospital. Now.”
Back in the car, Marianne cradled the baby, trying to transfer her warmth. “Stay with us,” she murmured, tears spilling. “Please, stay with us.”
As they sped towards the hospital, Frederik reached over and held Marianne’s free hand. “It'’s a sign,” he whispered. “After everything we’ve been through today ... finding her like this ... it’s fate.”
Marianne looked down at the baby, her fingers gently brushing the soft wisps of hair on the child’s head. “Our little miracle in the snow,” she whispered back.
Frederik smiled faintly, squeezing Marianne's hand. “Yes, our snow angel. We’ll take care of her and she’ll take care of us.”
***
“You know, every time it snows, it feels like the world is celebrating the day we found you,” your father, now King Frederik, remarks, gazing out of the vast palace windows at the flurries descending from the sky.
You smile, reaching for a delicate pastry from the breakfast spread laid out before you. “And every snowflake reminds me of the warmth of this family that saved me from the cold.”
Your mother, Queen Marianne, hair now threaded with silver, gives you a loving glance. “Our snow angel, right when we needed you most.”
“Speaking of snow,” you muse, “I’m thinking of wearing the ice-blue gown for tonight’s gala. Thoughts?”
Your father raises an eyebrow, “For the Children’s Foundation event? Perfect choice. It complements the theme and matches the tiara your mother has picked for you to wear.”
You grin, “Who knew you had such a fashion sense?”
Your mother chuckles, “It’s a king thing. But he’s right. And with your sapphire necklace, you will be the talk of the gala.”
You take a sip of your tea, thinking of the evening ahead. “I want to ensure my speech captures the essence of our foundation’s work. It’s more than just another royal event, this is about making a real difference.”
Your father nods, “It always is for you. That genuine desire to impact lives, it’s how I know you will be a great Queen one day.”
You blush slightly, “I learned from the best.”
Your mother, with a hint of mischief, remarks, “And speaking of learning, have you decided on a dance partner for the first waltz? There’s quite a line-up available.”
You laugh, “Oh, Mom! Let’s not start matchmaking before breakfast is over.”
Your father joins in the mirth, “Give her a break, Marianne. Our snow angel must not melt.”
***
The regal hallways echo with the gentle patter of your heeled footsteps. Lately, the palace, your lifelong sanctuary, feels more like a maze. A sudden wave of dizziness makes you pause, leaning against a gilded wall for support.
“You okay there?” a soft voice calls. It’s your mother, her face etched with worry.
“Just a bit dizzy,” you mumble, attempting a reassuring smile.
She hurries over, her gown flowing. “You’ve been looking pale these past few days.”
Before you can reply, a sharp sensation pricks your nose. Touching it, you’re shocked to see blood on your fingertips. “Oh no,” you whisper, panic creeping into your voice.
Your mother’s eyes widen. “We need to see a doctor.”
“But the gala—”
“Forget the gala!” She interrupts. “Your health comes first.”
***
Inside the royal clinic, the room is a tense silence. Your father paces while your mother sits beside you, holding your hand tightly.
The family physician finally arrives, his expression somber. “Your Highness, Your Majesties,” he begins, “we’ve run several tests.”
“And?” Your father demands, halting his restless walk.
You take a deep, shaky breath, bracing yourself.
The doctor hesitates for a split second. “You have aplastic anemia.”
The room seems to close in. The words hang heavily, turning the opulent clinic cold.
Your mother’s voice trembles, “What does that mean?”
“It’s a condition where the bone marrow doesn’t produce enough new blood cells. This leads to fatigue, higher risk of infections, and uncontrolled bleeding,” the doctor explains.
Your mind races. The symptoms make sense now — the fatigue, dizziness, the nosebleed.
Your father’s face hardens, searching for hope. “What’s the treatment?”
The doctor looks grim, “The most effective treatment at this severity is a bone marrow transplant. We will need to find a matching donor.”
Your mother’s grip tightens on your hand, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We’ll find one. We have to.”
Your father nods. “We will move mountains if we have to.”
You muster a small smile, drawing strength from your parents. “One snowstorm at a time.”
***
“How long does it usually take to find a match?” Youu inquire, voice trembling ever so slightly.
Dr. Van der Meer, the lead hematologist on your case, sighs, “It varies, Your Highness. Some find a match within their family, others from the global database. It can take days or even months.”
Your mother breaks in desperately, “But surely, with our resources, we can expedite the process?”
Your father adds, “Every avenue, every connection we have at our disposal is yours to use, Doctor.”
Dr. Van der Meer nods, “I understand the urgency, Your Majesties. We’ve already started to search within the national database. Meanwhile, we advise immediate family to get tested first.”
You interject, a sense of realization dawning, “But I’m adopted. Our genetic makeup differs.”
Your father and mother exchange a heavy look, the weight of your situation pressing down on them.
“We still have a vast network, a whole nation even,” your father muses. “Surely someone out there is a match.”
Dr. Van der Meer hesitates then says, “Actually, there has already been a hit from the database. A potential match.”
Your heart skips a beat. “Who?”
“We maintain confidentiality, Your Highness,” he replies. “But once we confirm the match and receive their consent, you will be informed.”
Your mother’s voice is tinged with hope. “So there’s a chance? A real chance?”
You lean forward eagerly. “When will we know more?”
Dr. Van der Meer offers a comforting smile. “Soon, Your Highness. For now, patience is our ally.”
***
“It’s been weeks, Doctor. Why haven’t we heard from the potential donor?” The frustration is clear in your mother’s voice.
Dr. Van der Meer looks up, choosing his words carefully. “The potential donor ... has some reservations.”
Your father’s brow furrows. “Reservations? Isn’t saving a life more important?”
The doctor clears his throat, “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Your Majesty. The potential donor is someone you’re familiar with.”
You lean forward, your curiosity piqued. “Who is it?”
There’s a momentary pause, the silence thickening. “Max Verstappen.”
Shock ripples through the room. The name isn’t just any name. It’s a name known to every Dutch citizen, celebrated in every corner of the nation.
Your mother blinks in disbelief. “The Formula 1 racer? We’ve met him multiple times at the Grand Prix. But why would he have reservations?”
Dr. Van der Meer hesitates, “There’s more to it. We ran some further genetic tests, customary for close matches. The results were ... unexpected.”
Your father leans forward in anticipation. “Go on.”
The doctor takes a deep breath, “Max Verstappen is not just a match. He’s ... he’s your half-brother.”
The room goes still. The revelation hangs in the air, too staggering to fully comprehend.
You feel your world tilt. “That’s impossible.”
Your mother’s voice is a whisper, “How can that be?”
Dr. Van der Meer clears his throat. “The genetic markers were unmistakable. Given the rare degree of compatibility and the markers we found, there is no doubt.”
Your father runs a hand through his hair, trying to process the news. “So all these years, at every Grand Prix, we’ve been cheering for ... family?”
You chime in, a flurry of emotions whirling inside, “And he doesn’t know, does he?”
The doctor shakes his head, “No, not yet. That’s the reservation. Revealing this ... it changes everything for him too.”
Your mother is contemplative. “We’ve celebrated his victories, felt the pride of having him represent our country. And now, knowing he’s family ...”
You interject, “And now, we need him more than ever. Not as a driver, not as a national icon, but as family.”
Your father’s resolve strengthens. “We need to tell him. He deserves to know.”
***
“How do you even begin a conversation like this?” You wonder aloud, staring at the blank screen of your laptop.
Your father, deep in thought, answers, “Honestly, directly, and with sensitivity. It’s uncharted territory for all of us.”
Your mothers adds, “Perhaps start by expressing your genuine feelings, without the weight of our titles or his fame."
You nod slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Dear Max,” you repeat out loud as you begin typing, then pause. “Too formal?”
Your father shrugs, “It’s sincere. And that’s what matters.”
Taking a deep breath, you continue:
Dear Max,
This isn’t a typical letter and I struggle to find the right words. By now, you might have been informed by the medical team about our unexpected connection. I wanted to reach out personally, not as the Princess of Orange, but simply as ... family.
Your mother reads over your shoulder, “That’s a good start.”
I cannot imagine how jarring this news must be. It was for me too. All these years, our paths crossed, shared smiles exchanged, never knowing the deeper bond we shared.
“Maybe mention the Grand Prix, how it has been a tradition for us,” your father suggests.
Every year at the Dutch Grand Prix, my parents and I cheered for you, felt immense pride in your victories. The realization that those cheers were for family adds a layer of emotion I can’t quite put into words.
I understand if you need time to process this. But I want you to know that this revelation changes nothing about the respect and admiration I hold for you. However, it does add a depth of connection, a newfound kinship.
Your mother, her voice choked with emotion, suggests, “Maybe let him know why it’s important now, about your condition.”
The reason I am reaching out now is not just about our newfound connection but also because of a pressing health concern I am facing. I need a bone marrow transplant, and as it turns out, you are my best match.
“Reassure him,” your father adds. “It’s a big ask.”
I understand the weight of this request. There is no obligation, only hope. No matter your decision, I want you to know that discovering this bond, this link between us, is a gift in itself.
Please take all the time you need. Whatever you decide, I respect and cherish the connection we have discovered. Wishing you all the best on and off the track.
Sincerely,
Y/N
Your father, visibly moved, murmurs, “It’s perfect.”
Your mother nods in agreement, tears shimmering. “It’s from the heart. Now, we wait.”
***
The roaring engines on the racetrack outside fade as the door to the private lounge close behind you. Max Verstappen stands there, his usual confident demeanor replaced with apprehension. The weight of the recent revelations is thick in the air.
“You look different without the crown,” Max remarks, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
You chuckle softly, “And you without the helmet.”
The initial ice broken, the two of you sit. A beat of silence passes. Then Max, eyes searching yours, asks, “Why now?”
You take a deep breath. “I’ve always known I was adopted. Every snowy day, my parents would recount the tale of how they found their snow angel. I grew up surrounded by love and privilege, never lacking anything.” Your voice trembles slightly, “But there were nights ... nights I’d wonder about the person who left me there, in the snow. Why didn’t they want me? Why did they abandon me to the whims of a storm?”
Max’s expression softens, his own memories surfacing. “I grew up with my father’s strict guidance. Racing wasn’t just a passion, it was life. There was little room for anything else. I always thought I understood my family but this ...” He sighs, looking away. “It makes me question everything.”
You nod, shared uncertainty bringing you closer. “But through all this confusion, one thing is clear: we’re family. Blood, it seems, has a way of revealing itself.”
Max smiles ruefully, “You know, I have a sister, a full sister. Growing up, we were close but our paths divided. Racing consumed me. Now, discovering I have another sister, you, it’s ... overwhelming.”
You chuckle, “Two sisters. Lucky you.”
He grins, “Twice the protective instincts.”
The humor fades, replaced by raw emotion. “You know,” you whisper, tears brimming, “Despite everything, I’m grateful for our paths crossing like this. Even if it took a lifetime.”
Max reaches out, taking your hand. “Me too.”
The weight of the moment presses on both of you. You look at each other, eyes brimming with tears, souls bared.
In a sudden rush of emotion, you step forward, collapsing into Max’s embrace. He holds you tightly, as if trying to shield you from all the past hurts, regrets, and questions. The warmth of the hug contrasts sharply with the cold memory of that snowy night. In his embrace, the years of wondering, the pain of abandonment, seem to melt away.
Pulling back slightly, you look up into Max’s eyes. With a tearful smile, you whisper, “Brother.”
He grins back, “Sister. How would you feel about attending the next race, not as royalty but as my guest?”
You hesitate, the memories of previous races filled with formalities and protocols. “It will be different.”
Max wraps an arm around you shoulders, “Very. But I promise, you will see the world of racing like never before.”
***
The roar of the engines, the excitement of the crowd — it was all distantly familiar. Yet, standing beside Max, everything feels different.
As you walk through the paddock, Max’s pride is evident. “Guys,” he calls out to his mechanics, “Meet my sister.”
They look up, surprised, then smiles break out across their faces. “It’s an honor, Your Highness,” one of them greets.
Max nudges him, “Just call her by her name.”
You laugh in agreement, “It’s nice to meet you all without the formalities.”
Max continues his introductions, his enthusiasm infectious. When you reach Christian Horner, he looks pleasantly surprised. “It’s been a while,” he remarks, “Though our meetings were always, well, more formal.”
You nod, “It’s a different world from this side of the track.”
Max beams, “And she’s getting the full experience today.”
When the race starts, every moment feels magnified, more personal.
And then, the checkered flag waves for Max.
The Red Bull garage erupts in jubilation. During the celebration, Max, still in his car, locks eyes with you from across parc fermé. You can see the moisture, the emotion in his eyes. The moment he is out of his car, he races over, pulling you into a tight embrace.
“This win,” he whispers hoarsely, “it’s not just for me this time. It’s for us. For family.”
As the Dutch anthem plays during the podium ceremony, tears fill your eyes. The anthem, a proud symbol of your country and kingdom, now also symbolizes the new, ever-growing bond with your brother.
Max, standing tall on the podium, catches your eye and winks. And as the ceremony concludes, he suddenly turns, aiming his bottle of champagne right at you. The spray catches you off guard, laughter bubbling up as the cold liquid soaks you.
“You had to, didn’t you?” You laugh, wiping away the liquid before it can sting your eyes.
Max ruffles your hair, “It’s my new duty as your older brother!”
***
“Hey, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Max says, pulling you towards the thrumming heart of the afterparty.
The vibrant lights and chatter fill the room but everything seems to slow as you’re introduced to a lean figure with tousled hair and hypnotizing eyes. “This is Charles Leclerc,” Max grins, “One of the toughest guys I’ve raced against.”
Charles offers a charming smile, “Pleasure to meet you. Max speaks highly of you.”
You raise your glass in a mock toast to your brother. “Glad to hear that my bribe has been paying off.”
Charles laughs, “Well, considering today’s win, you might just be his favorite person.”
The two of you share a laugh, an effortless ease settling between you as you barely notice Max walking off with a wink shot your way.
“You’ve been to several races, haven’t you?” Charles asks, sipping his drink.
“In a more official capacity, yes. But today was ... different.”
He nods, his gaze intense, “Being family changes the perspective.”
Charles leans in, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Now that you’ve seen me on the track maybe I should show you some of my other talents?”
You raise an eyebrow, the thrill of the night’s excitement mixing with his words. “Oh? What other hidden skills do you possess?”
His voice drops to a sultry murmur. “Well, I make a mean pasta carbonara. Maybe I’ll whip it up for you someday.”
You laugh, the warmth of the moment spreading through you. “I’ll definitely hold you to that.”
Max, watching from a distance, nudges Carlos, “Look at them. Told you they’d hit it off.”
“You know, I’ve always been curious about the life of a princess,” Charles muses, a playful glint in his eye. “Is it all tiaras and tea parties?”
You smirk. “It’s more boring than you would think. But for a driver like you, every day’s a thrill, right? Speeding cars, roaring crowds, adoring fans?”
He grins, leaning closer, the proximity making your heart race. “Most days. But some nights, the thrill is ... elsewhere,” his gaze deepening, locked onto yours.
The two of you are drawn into a world of your own, the party’s noise fading into the background.
He brushes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer. “Have you ever considered doing a hot lap? It’s quite the rush.”
You laugh, feeling the warmth of his touch. “I don’t know about getting in a race car but I can think of something else I’d love to ride right now.”
As the club’s pulsating music envelops you, Charles leans in, his voice husky over the beat, “Care for a dance?”
You accept, and as you both move to the rhythm, the world around seems to disappear. The close proximity, the electric energy on the dance floor, and the feeling of his body moving against yours is intoxicating.
“Right now,” Charles murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear to be heard above the music, “I feel like the winner tonight.”
You smile, your gaze locked onto his, “The night is still young. Let’s see where it takes us.”
***
“I’ve noticed you’re attending more races lately,” Max comments, a teasing glint in his eyes as you both walk through the paddock.
You shrug, feigning innocence. “Well, I’ve developed quite an appreciation for the sport.”
Max chuckles, “Or for a certain Ferrari driver?”
Blushing, you retort, “Can’t it be both?”
Before Max can respond, Charles approaches, his smile brightening as he spots you. “Good to see you again,” he greets, though his eyes convey a warmth that words can’t.
“You too,” you reply in a voice softer than intended.
The three of you share some casual banter before Max excuses himself, leaving you alone with Charles.
“You know,” Charles starts, “it’s become the highlight of my race weekends, seeing you here.”
You smile, “I’ve come to realize that there’s more to F1 than just the thrill of the race. There are ... other attractions.”
Charles grins, “Is that so? Any attraction in particular?”
You playfully nudge him, “Don’t get too confident, Leclerc.”
Weekends spent at circuits become a regular fixture in your life. While you’re initially there for Max, the increasing time spent with Charles deepens your bond. The stolen glances during press conferences, the private moments away from the limelight, and the late-night conversations make the connection undeniable.
One evening, after a particularly intense race, Charles pulls you aside, his face flushed from the adrenaline. “Every time I cross the finish line and look towards the other garages, I hope to catch a glimpse of you.”
Your heart skips a beat. “And if you do?”
He smiles, “It either makes victory all the more sweet or the sting of defeat not quite as painful.”
***
“You’ve made the front page again,” Max remarks dryly, handing you a tabloid during breakfast.
You glance at the headline, The Princess and the Racer: F1’s Fairytale Romance accompanied by a candid shot of you and Charles out to dinner.
Charles groans, “They make it sound like a soap opera.”
You sigh, “It’s the price we pay, I guess.”
As weeks go by, the media scrutiny intensifies. Every public appearance and every minuscule gesture, is analyzed, often blown out of proportion. The weight of the world’s eyes strains the joy of your newfound relationship.
One evening, after a particularly invasive article speculating about a rushed engagement, Charles pulls you aside, his face drawn with concern. “I noticed you’ve been pale lately, more tired. Is it the stress from all this media attention?”
You hesitate, biting your lip. The truth is, it’s more than just the media. Your health has been deteriorating and you’ve been trying to hide it.
“It’s not just the media,” you admit.
His eyes are filled with worry. “What is it?”
Max, overhearing the conversation, interjects, “It’s her health. She didn't want to worry you.”
Charles looks at you in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You take a deep breath, “I didn’t want to add to the pressures of the season, to be another burden.”
He reaches out, holding you close, “You’re never a burden. We’re in this together.”
You take a shaky breath, drawing strength from his words. “I’ve been diagnosed with aplastic anemia. It’s a condition where my bone marrow doesn’t produce enough new blood cells.”
Charles pales, “That’s ... serious.”
You nod, “After this race, I’m starting chemotherapy to destroy the dysfunctional bone marrow in preparation for a transplant.”
Silence envelops the room. Charles processes the weight of the revelation, the enormity of the situation sinking in. “Why now?” He finally asks.
“Timing is crucial,” Max chimes in, “She’s been putting it off, not wanting to disrupt the season. But we can’t wait much longer.”
Charles runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just wish you had told me sooner.”
You reach out, touching his arm, “I didn’t know how. Everything was happening so fast — our relationship, the media attention. I didn’t want to add more stress.”
Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, his voice choked with emotion. “Promise me, no more secrets.”
You nod, tears streaming down your face, “I promise.”
***
“Are you sure you want to be here for this?” You ask Charles as you both sit in the sterile hospital room, awaiting the doctor who would be overseeing your chemotherapy treatments.
Charles takes your hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Every step of the way.”
The door opens and the doctor walks in, a gentle but serious look on her face. “Before we begin, there’s something important we need to discuss. The chemotherapy might affect your fertility. It’s not certain but there is a significant risk.”
You freeze. You had expected side effects, the potential hair loss, the fatigue. But this? This was unanticipated. This ripped your heart out of your chest.
Charles tightens his grip on your hand, his face pale. “Is there ... any way to mitigate that risk?”
The doctor nods, “We can retrieve and store your eggs. It’s a procedure done before chemotherapy in some cases. You will need hormone injections for about 10 to 12 days to stimulate the ovaries.”
You look at Charles, your eyes filled with tears, “It’s another delay.”
Charles brushes a tear from your cheek, “We face this together. I am here for you no matter what you decide.”
The days that follow are a whirlwind. Charles is by your side every step of the way, providing both emotional support and administering the daily injections.
Each evening, he carefully prepares the hormone shot. “Ready?” He asks, looking into your eyes.
You nod, trying to put on a brave face. But the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the emotional toll. Still, with Charles by your side, each day becomes bearable.
One evening, as he administers the injection, he whispers, “I’m so proud of you. Your strength amazes me every day.”
Tears spring to your eyes. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping you. “You’ll never have to.”
***
“Are you sure about this?” Charles asks, his fingers brushing yours as you lay on the hospital bed.
You take a deep breath, meeting his gaze. “I am. It’s a step towards preserving a potential future, one I hope to share with you.”
His eyes soften. “Every step, I’m here.”
The medical staff move around in the background, preparing for the procedure. The hum of machines and the sterile environment contrast starkly with the intimate bubble you and Charles share.
As the procedure begins, Charles holds your hand, his thumb drawing comforting circles on your skin. “Remember our trip to Monaco?” He murmurs, attempting to distract you. “The sea, the laughter, the little café by the pier?”
A smile tugs at your lips, even as you nod for the OBGYN to proceed. “The one with the overly sweet pastries?”
Charles chuckles, “That’s the one. Imagine us there, a decade from now, two kids in tow, arguing over whether chocolate or vanilla is better.”
The image he paints eases your tension, providing a temporary escape from the clinical room. The retrieval is swift but the emotional weight lingers.
“You did great,” Charles murmurs, brushing a stray hair away from your face.
You smile weakly, “One hurdle crossed.”
The next phase comes swiftly the following day: chemotherapy. The treatment center is full of artificial warmth — the walls painted a deep yellow and the heater working overtime to keep patients as comfortable as possible — but it does nothing to counteract the chill of fear that has taken over your body.
When the nurse enters with the IV bag for your chemotherapy, Charles stands up, his stance protective. “How does this work?”
She explains the process, her voice soft, “The medication will enter her bloodstream and target the rapidly growing cells. There might be some side effects but we will monitor her closely.”
You feel a pinch as the needle is inserted and soon the clear liquid starts making its way into your veins. You blink rapidly, willing the tears away before Charles can see them.
Attempting to lighten the mood, he starts recounting some of his funniest moments from racing. You chuckle at his anecdotes, grateful for the distraction.
Hours pass. The room is filled with a mix of medical beeps and Charles’ voice, offering a counterbalance of cold reality and warm comfort.
As the IV bag nears empty, you feel a wave of fatigue. Charles notices. “Rest,” he urges softly, his thumb caressing your hand.
You nod, closing your eyes, “Thank you for being my anchor.”
He leans in, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Always, for every challenge, every step. Always.”
***
“I still can’t believe you made him go,” your mother murmurs from the chair next to you. The hum of machines and the sterile scent of the hospital room are in stark contrast to the roaring engines and burning rubber of the track that you can almost sense through the television screen.
You manage a weak smile. “He belongs on the track, Mom. This race is crucial for the championship.”
“He wanted to stay,” your father adds. “He’s racing with a heavy heart.”
“I know,” you whisper, a tear trickling down. “But he’s strong. And I want him to win, for both of us.”
The room falls silent, save for the rhythmic beeping of the machines. You can feel the potent cocktail of drugs coursing through your veins, sapping your strength but a necessary step to fight the disease within.
The TV in the corner broadcasts the race. You hear the commentator’s voice, “... Charles Leclerc, giving it his all today. You have to wonder where he’s drawing this intensity from.”
You know the answer.
The laps go by. With each turn, each overtake Charles makes, you can sense his determination, his desire to win not just for the title but for something else … someone else.
“You should rest,” your father advises, noticing your drooping eyelids.
But you resist, wanting to witness Charles cross the finish line.
The final laps are intense. Charles battles fiercely, and as he takes the checkered flag, the room bursts into subdued cheers.
“He did it!” Your mother exclaims.
You feel a swell of pride. “For us,” you whisper, before fatigue takes over and you drift into a deep sleep.
As consciousness slowly returns not too long after, the first thing you notice is the gentle vibration of your phone on the bedside table. Groggily reaching for it, you see a new message notification from a group chat with Charles and Max.
It’s a photo of Charles and Max, still in their race suits, grinning ear to ear. Charles holds up his first-place trophy while Max proudly displays his second. They’re both covered in champagne, evidence of the post-race celebrations.
These are for you. For our champion.
With shaky fingers, you type back:
My heroes. Thank you for being my strength. So proud of you both. Can’t wait to see you again.
Your mother, noticing your reaction, peers over your shoulder. “Those boys,” she says with a fond smile, “they really adore you.”
You nod, wiping away a tear. “I’m so lucky.”
***
“Hey, sis,” Max’s voice is soft, tinged with a mix of worry and hope as he sits beside you in the pre-op room, “Ready to share a bit more than just DNA?”
You manage a small smile, despite the anxiety. “As long as you don’t start claiming we share driving skills.”
He chuckles, squeezing your hand. “Promise.”
The doctor enters, clipboard in hand. “Both of you understand the procedure, correct? Max, we will be extracting bone marrow from your pelvic bone. It’s a relatively straightforward process but you might feel some discomfort.”
Max nods resolutely. “Anything for her.”
You swallow hard, emotions swirling. “Thank you, Max. This ... it means everything.”
He looks at you, eyes filled with a brotherly love that’s grown exponentially over the past few months. “We’re family. We look out for each other.”
As Max is wheeled away for his extraction, he offers a brave smile. “See you on the other side.”
Hours later, as you sit by his bedside, watching him slowly come around post-procedure, you squeeze his hand. “You okay?”
He groans, “Feels like I’ve done a doubleheader race without any breaks. But it’s worth it.”
Then comes your turn. Max, despite his exhaustion, insists on being present. The stem cells he donated are infused into you through a central line. It’s a simple procedure but one filled with so much hope and emotion.
Max watches closely, gripping your hand. “You got this,” he murmurs as the life-saving cells flow into your body.
You try to show a convincing smile before closing your eyes and praying to whoever’s listening that this works.
***
The pale blue walls of the hospital room have become all too familiar, the rhythmic beep of machines a constant in the background. You’re reclined on the bed, an IV line dripping nutrients and much-needed blood transfusions into your system. As your body adjusts to the new bone marrow, these are crucial.
Max is seated beside you, a crossword puzzle in hand. The chairs aren’t particularly comfortable but he’s still rarely left your side.
Max taps his pen against the paper thoughtfully. “Alright, here’s one for you. Seven letters: someone who is always there, no matter what.”
You raise an eyebrow, pondering. “Is it brother?”
He grins, “You’re getting good at this.”
You chuckle, “Well, I can’t help it when the answer is so obvious …”
He leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I snuck in some of those chocolates you like from that little shop in town.”
Your eyes widen in mock horror. “You rebel. We’ll be banished from the kingdom.”
He winks, producing a small box from his bag. “Worth it.”
As you both indulge in the illicit treat, you realize just how much these little moments, these shared smiles and inside jokes, make the ordeal bearable.
Max notices your contemplative expression. “Hey, what’s on your mind?”
“Just thinking about how lucky I am to have a brother who sneaks chocolates into a hospital for me.”
He extends his pinky towards you, “Always. Until the end of the race.”
You intertwine your own pinky with his to immortalize the promise, “And beyond.”
Just as the two of you are finishing the last of the chocolates, the door swings open quietly. Charles steps in, his eyes immediately seeking you out. There’s a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand, their vibrant colors standing out against the sterile environment.
“You two conspiring without me?” Charles teases, setting the flowers on the bedside table.
Max smirks, “Just ensuring she gets her daily dose of chocolate, doctor’s orders.”
Charles moves to your side and presses a soft kiss on your forehead. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better now that my two favorite racers are here,” you reply with a smile.
Charles laughs, “I see. Well, the doctor outside told me your blood counts are improving. Seems the new bone marrow is getting to work.”
You nod hopefully. “One day at a time.”
Charles moves closer, taking your free hand. “Every day is a step closer to getting you out of here.”
Max, sensing the intimate moment, stands up, stretching. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. Need to grab a coffee and give that crossword another go.”
Charles smiles gratefully at him, and as Max exits the room, you’re left in a bubble of comfort and warmth with your boyfriend.
***
“Grant our daughter strength and good news,” your mother’s prayer weaves through the tense atmosphere of the room.
Charles’ grip on your hand tightens and he whispers, “Whatever the news, we face it together.”
“Guide the hands of the doctors, let their knowledge lead to healing.”
Max, on your other side, offers a comforting squeeze, his face betraying his own anxiety. “You’ve come so far already.”
“And bless our family with your grace and protection.”
The prayer lingers in the air just as the door opens.
“Grant her the strength, the health, the life she deserves ...”
The doctor steps in, a manila envelope in hand. Everyone’s gaze immediately fixes on him, the room heavy with bated breath.
He looks around the room, making eye contact with each one of you, then finally says, “The results are in.”
You feel Charles’ hand tremble slightly … Max’s grip tighten … your father barely breathing behind you … a silent prayer still on your mother’s lips.
“The bone marrow has taken exceptionally well. All indicators and markers are positive.” The doctor smiles. “You’re officially in remission. You’re cured.”
A tidal wave of emotion crashes over the room. Tears immediately spring to your eyes, happiness and relief mingling in each drop.
Your mother’s whispered prayer crescendos into a heartfelt “thank you,” choked with emotion.
Your father, the ever-composed king, has moisture in his eyes as he holds you close, “Our snow angel, our miracle.”
Charles pulls you into a tight embrace next, his voice a shaky whisper, “You did it.”
Max is grinning from ear to ear. “Told you, sis. Until the end of the race and beyond.”
***
“Look at them,” Max says, nudging you as the camera pans over the pit crews, each member prominently sporting a bright red ribbon. “All in solidarity.”
Charles beams, joining the conversation. “It was Max’s idea. The ribbons. Both teams were eager to join in.”
You’re touched, tears threatening to spill. “It’s incredible. Both of you, your teams ... I’m speechless.”
The commentator on the screen picks up on the theme. “For those just tuning in, both the Ferrari and Red Bull teams are wearing red ribbons today in support of aplastic anemia awareness, a personal cause for them given the recent battle of the Princess of Orange with the condition.”
Mid-race, Max’s voice crackles over the team radio, “This one’s for you, sis.”
Charles, not to be outdone, pushes his car to the limit, the red ribbon painted on his helmet clearly visible every time the camera focuses on him.
Later, as you walk back out through the paddock, fans approach, many sporting red ribbons of their own. One young girl looks at you with stars in her eyes, “I wear this for my mom. She’s fighting too, just like you did.”
You pull her into a gentle hug. “She’s got this. I know she does.”
***
As soon as the statement goes live on the official website of the Netherlands Royal Family, the internet erupts.
The Royal House of the Netherlands is pleased to announce that Her Royal Highness, Y/N the Princess of Orange, and Mr. Charles Leclerc are officially courting.
Your phone buzzes incessantly with notifications. Charles, seated beside you, chuckles, “Well, there’s no going back now.”
Your father enters the room, a smile playing on his lips. “The people seem to be taking the news ... enthusiastically.”
Your mother, scrolling through her own device, adds, “And overwhelmingly positively. Listen to this: We’ve seen them together. Their chemistry is undeniable. Wishing them all the best!”
You exhale, a weight lifting off your shoulders. “I was so nervous about the reaction.”
Charles brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, “We’re in this together, remember?”
Max bursts into the room with his usual energy, “You two are trending. The fans are loving it!”
Screens across the nation flash images of you and Charles — at the racetrack, during hospital visits, candid moments captured by keen-eyed photographers. Talk shows and news channels dive deep into analyzing your relationship, piecing together any crumbs of insight they might have.
A popular racing pundit remarks on a live broadcast, “Their bond is evident, both on and off the track. Charles’ performance has been exceptional since they've been together. It’s clear that they draw strength from each other.”
The public’s fascination is insatiable. Magazines are splashed with titles like Love in the Fast Lane. But despite the media frenzy, what touches you most are the personal messages. Fans share artwork, write songs, and pen heartfelt letters, celebrating love and the winding path that brought you both to this moment.
One evening, as you and Charles sit on the palace balcony overlooking the city, he turns to you, “They’re acting like we’re some sort of fairytale.”
You lean into him, “Maybe we are. It’s our story and I wouldn’t change a single thing.”
***
“You know,” your father begins, a playful glint in his eye as he slices into his steak, “I had an amusing conversation with Prince Albert the other day.”
Charles, taking a sip of his wine, raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Your father chuckles, “He said Monaco might need to extend an invitation for our next state visit given that we seem to have shared interests now.”
The table erupts in laughter. Your mother adds, teasingly, “And here I thought we were simply bonding over diplomatic ties.”
“So,” Max leans forward eagerly. “Any embarrassing stories about Y/N? I have to make up for all of the childhood adventures I’ve missed.”
“Oh, there are plenty! Remember the time she tried to drive a lawnmower and ended up in the rose bushes?” Your father says, trying to look serious.
Marianne chuckles, “Don’t remind me! Those were my favorite roses.”
You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “I was eight! And I thought it was a car!”
Charles grins, squeezing your hand under the table. “I can only imagine a mini version of you so determined behind the wheel.”
“And at her sixth birthday party,” your father recounts with a smirk, “she declared that she’d be ruling the kingdom by sundown and tried to hold a mock council meeting with her stuffed toys.”
Charles nudges you playfully, “Planning coups at six? Should I be worried?”
You swat him lightly, “It was a phase.”
As dessert is served, your mother turns contemplative. “You know, I’ve always believed in destiny. And seeing all of you here, witnessing the bonds and the love, it reaffirms that belief.”
Charles nods his agreement, “Life has a way of bringing the right people together.”
Your father raises his glass, “To family, in all its forms. To the journeys we embark on and the memories we create.”
The clinking of glasses has never sounded sweeter.
***
Charles, his face flushed with the victory of the 2025 World Championship, stands on the podium, trophy in hand. The cheering of the crowd is deafening but as he signals for a microphone, a hush descends.
“I’ve never done this before,” he starts emotionally, “naming my car, I mean. I watched Seb do it year after year and I always wondered what that felt like, to have such a connection.” He takes a deep breath, his gaze scanning the audience until it lands on you. “This season, I finally understood. My car, the one that just secured this championship, I named it after the most important person in my life.”
The crowd waits with bated breath.
“I named it,” he continues, his voice breaking slightly as he keeps his eyes locked on yours, “after you. After the woman who has been my anchor, my strength.”
You feel tears prickling your eyes as the sheer intensity of his words hits you.
Charles signals and you’re gently nudged forward, guided up to the podium. The world seems to blur, the noise, the people, everything fading until it’s just you and him.
“Every race, every lap, I had two goals: to win for the team and to make you proud,” he confesses, his eyes never leaving yours. “You are my world. And today, in front of everyone here, in front of the world, I want to ask you one thing.”
He gets down on one knee and your hands move of their own volition to cover your mouth. Producing a gorgeous ring, Charles looks up at you, his eyes shimmering. “Will you marry me?”
The world stops.
The deafening cheers of the crowd seem quiet compared to the beating of your heart.
Tears stream down your face as you nod. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”
No sooner have the words left your mouth than Max and Lando, the other two podium finishers, gleefully seize the moment. With mischievous grins, they uncork their champagne bottles, dousing both you and Charles in a bubbly shower. The liquid gold sparkles in the sunlight, adding to the magic of the moment.
Charles pulls you close, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss as you both get soaked.
***
The grand cathedral, bathed in the soft glow of a thousand candles, echoes with the hushed whispers of eagerly waiting guests. Roses, lilies, and orchids cascade down the pillars, their fragrance mingling with the scent of incense.
Behind the doors of the bridal suite, Max stands beside you, dressed impeccably in a classic tux. There’s a brotherly tenderness in his eyes as he reaches out, smoothing the delicate lace of your dress to ensure that every detail is perfect.
“You look breathtaking,” he murmurs, the emotion of the day making his voice waver.
“You clean up pretty well yourself, Man of Honor,” you reply, squeezing his hand.
As the first strains of the bridal march begin, the doors open, revealing the grand aisle, lined with well-wishers from all corners of the globe. Your father steps up and offers you his arm, his eyes glassy with pride and a hint of melancholy. “Ready, my snow angel?”
You nod, tears of happiness already blurring your vision. The world narrows down to the altar, where Charles stands, back straight in his crisp full dress uniform. As you make your way down the aisle, your eyes lock with his and the universe contracts to that singular point of connection.
Charles’ normally composed features give way as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes, also glistening with tears, convey a depth of feeling that words could never capture. Love, gratitude, wonder — all interwoven in that magnetic gaze.
His voice breaks as he whispers just for you, “You are my dream, my reality, my forever.”
Your own voice is thick with emotion, “And you are my heart, my soul, my love.”
As vows are exchanged and promises made, the world bears witness to a love that defied odds, overcame challenges, and brought together not just two souls but two worlds.
And as you both seal your commitment with a kiss, there is not a single dry eye in the cathedral. Because love, true love, is a force to be reckoned with, and today, it reigns supreme.
***
The soft whimpers of a newborn fill the air of the private birthing suite. Nestled in your arms, wrapped in a royal blue blanket, the baby prince stirs, his tiny fingers curling around one of yours.
Charles, sitting beside you, gazes down at your son with sheer wonder. “He’s perfect,” he says in a teary whisper.
You nod, tears streaming down your face. “Our little miracle.” The journey, the IVF treatments with your frozen eggs , the hope, the fear — everything culminated in this singular, beautiful moment.
The door opens gently, revealing Max, his eyes wide as they take in the sight before him, and your parents, their faces a canvas of joy and pride.
Max approaches tentatively, his usual confidence replaced by an awe-inspired reverence. “May I?” He asks softly.
You nod, handing over the precious bundle. As Max holds the baby, a bond forms instantly. “Hey there, little one,” he coos, “Your godfather is here.”
Your mother, tears in her eyes, leans in, planting a gentle kiss on your son’s forehead. “Welcome to the world, our precious grandchild.”
Your father, hoarse with emotion, simply murmurs, “An angel for our snow angel.”
And you know what? You decide that the fans were right. Your life really is a fairytale.
1K notes
·
View notes