Chapter Text
After the race, Georgia went straight home. She took off her makeup while opening her photo-editing app, adjusting the color, smoothing her skin, and tweaking the light and shadow—refusing to settle until every single detail was absolutely perfect. Then she posted four photos :
[@GeorgiaRussell63：🇬🇧 Silverstone. Back again, Grateful for the invitation. #Formula1 #Silverstone #BritishGP #McLaren #LandoNorris #GirlsInsport]
For the next few hours, Georgia flipped through her art history papers completely absentmindedly, unable to stop refreshing her Instagram page every couple of minutes.
Her likes skyrocketed like a rocket, and the notification pings for comments and DMs kept buzzing nonstop.
- “OMG! Georgia and Lando are in a photo together!!”
- “Is this body even real? Queen, you’re killing me 😍”
- “Love the papaya vibe! Where’s the orange tube top from?”
But some subtle, shady comments also popped up:
- “An art student with this much money?”
- “We all know what’s going on. Pretty girls from top universities always have so many rich ‘friends’ 🍉”
- “So obviously staged. Does she really think she’s a grid girl?”
The sour, jealous comments appeared exactly as she’d expected. Georgia glanced at them, feeling nothing at all—she even wanted to laugh.
Drama was just traffic, and being controversial was still being famous.
With a few quick, sharp taps, she deleted and blocked the most passive‑aggressive comments. Her follower count had already jumped by 3,000 in two hours. She curled her mouth into a satisfied smile. Plan succeeded.
Meanwhile,
Inside a five‑star hotel suite in Milton Keynes, freshly raced Verstappen was glued to his phone.
The intense Grand Prix hadn’t stolen his attention at all. After his adrenaline rush, all he could think about was that graceful figure in orange.
He didn’t want to ask Lando—too much back‑and‑forth, too much hassle. But his brain worked better than his other impulses. Any pretty model McLaren invited would definitely post photos.
He searched Instagram with keywords: Silverstone, Lando, McLaren…
“Found you.”
Verstappen opened her profile and scrolled through photo after photo—library shots, café snaps, art exhibition pictures, karting track moments… every single one was polished like a magazine editorial.
He opened his DM box, his finger hovering over the screen for ages, typing and deleting over and over again. Finally, he sent one message:
- “Hi Georgia, this is my WhatsApp: xxxxxxx”
Sent.
Then he began the longest wait of his life. One minute, five minutes, ten minutes… his phone stayed dead silent.
Georgia did see that message. She stared at the orange profile picture and the account name “Maxverstappen1” and felt mildly annoyed.
What kind of fake fan account was this? Or some new kind of hookup scam? Scammers these days really went all out—even dared to pretend to be the F1 world champion.
She scoffed, swiped left to delete it immediately without even opening it.
She was busy anyway. Once she finished her finals, she needed to take more photos. Or she could even take some while writing essays in the library.
Either way, she planned to ride the F1 clout wave and post more new content to keep her followers engaged.
Georgia was jolted awake by her phone notifications buzzing wildly.
She was stunned to see over 99+ unread messages on WhatsApp. At least nine out of ten people were sending her the exact same post:
[@F1Gossip：❗️BREAKING: Max Verstappen liked a girl's photo with Lando late at night! Accidental like… or something more? 👀]
The post already racked up over 200 comments, mostly debating whether she was Lando’s new rumored girlfriend and how they met.
Georgia blinked twice, convinced she was seeing things. Her follower count had jumped to 100k.
And right there in the like list of her latest post, a verified blue‑tick account stood out sharply: @MaxVerstappen1.
A wave of absurdity washed over her. Did he just accidentally like it…? Or did some PR person forget to switch accounts?
Georgia rolled her eyes and closed the profile right away. Whoever he was, Georgia Russell’s attitude toward free luck was simple:
take all the good, ignore all the bad.
She kept refreshing her homepage, watching her follower count and likes climb nonstop, then packed her bag cheerfully to head to the library and fight her cursed finals—while snapping another set of selfies:
laptop, coffee cup, bare face with glasses, and a faint glimpse of her long legs stretched out under the desk.
[@GeorgiaRussell63：Keep going ✍️ #UCL #finalweek #studymotivation]
Twenty minutes later, @MaxVerstappen1 liked it again.
[@F1Gossip：❗️Verstappen likes the same girl twice. Is a new WAG entering the paddock? 🚨]
Georgia’s Instagram completely blew up. Her phone pinged nonstop from morning to night, and her DM box was completely flooded.
Verstappen didn’t send another message, so Georgia had no idea what his constant liking was supposed to mean.
But it didn’t matter. Once finals ended, she’d be back to being a stunning it‑girl full time. Her posting frequency skyrocketed.
One day, a dreamy backlit silhouette by the River Thames. The next, sweating on the incline trainer at the gym in Lululemon. Then a check‑in post at the UCL art department final exhibition…
Whatever she posted, he liked.
Punctual as a clock. Every single like dropped like cold water into boiling hot oil, triggering a new round of explosive viral attention and wild internet digging.
F1Gossip lost its mind completely, posting over a dozen stories.
Other gossip accounts flooded in too, spreading all kinds of real and fake news.
Georgia’s old photos, her university, even the events she’d attended and the promotions she’d done—everything was dug up.
Her comment section turned into a battlefield, with fans, haters, racing fans, and curious bystanders arguing nonstop.
Georgia was genuinely confused and annoyed now. One like to boost her account was fine, but liking every single post?
What was that supposed to mean? Sure, she was thrilled her follower count hit 330k, but the current hype and attention were starting to disturb her real life.
She forced herself to calm down, opened Instagram’s DM page, and found that annoying, blue‑verified name.
She typed furiously at the screen, every letter burning with attitude:
- “@MaxVerstappen1 Keep your 'fat fingers' to yourself!!!.”