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Chapter Text

Charles Leclerc had long learned how to smile for the cameras even when his head wasn’t in the right place. Being Ferrari’s golden boy meant living in the spotlight, every step measured, every word dissected. Usually, he could handle it. But lately, something was off. Something followed him even when the cameras weren’t rolling.

The first time it happened, it was just a note slipped under his hotel door in Monaco.

I see you. I always see you.

He thought it was a prank—probably Carlos, his teammate, or maybe even Lando Norris, who loved to wind him up. He had laughed it off, tossed the note in the bin, and gone out to dinner with Pierre Gasly.

But the second note came two days later, in Budapest. Same handwriting. Same words, just sharper this time.

You belong to me.

That one, he didn’t laugh off.

Still, he didn’t tell anyone. Not Carlos, not his brothers, not even Joris, his manager. Charles convinced himself it would stop. But instead, the notes kept coming. At every race, every hotel, sometimes even inside the paddock.

And now, in Zandvoort, the stalker had found a new trick: texting.

Charles was scrolling through his phone in the Ferrari hospitality when he froze. An unknown number. The message read:

Nice suit today. Red is my favorite. Just like your car.

He dropped the phone so fast it clattered against the table. Carlos, sitting across from him with his usual easy grin, looked up from his plate of pasta.

“You okay, mate?”

Charles forced a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Just… bad news from home.”

Carlos nodded, distracted, and returned to twirling his pasta. Charles picked his phone up again, pretending nothing happened, but his palms were sweaty.

He needed air.

Outside, the Dutch fans were a wall of orange and noise. Charles slipped through the crowd of mechanics and team staff, pulling his cap lower to shield his face. That was when he heard a voice.

“Leclerc! You look like you’re running from a crime scene.”

Max Verstappen was leaning against the Red Bull garage entrance, arms folded, smirk firmly in place.

Charles scowled. “I’m not in the mood, Max.”

“You’re never in the mood,” Max replied, pushing himself off the wall. “What’s wrong with you? Someone beat you at chess again? Oh wait—that was me.”

Charles turned to walk away, but Max caught the flash of tension in his eyes. It wasn’t the usual annoyance. This was something else. Something heavier.

Max’s smirk faded. “Hey. I was joking.”

Charles shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

But Max wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t great at reading people, but he’d been racing Charles long enough to recognize when something was off.

Before he could press further, a loud voice cut in.

“Boys!” Daniel Ricciardo bounced over, sunglasses perched on his nose, grinning like he owned the place. “Why do you two look like a married couple mid-divorce?”

Charles let out a breath, grateful for the interruption. “Because he’s impossible,” he said, jerking his head at Max.

Max rolled his eyes. “You’re dramatic.”

Daniel clapped both of them on the shoulders. “Well, drama suits you. But if you’re going to argue, at least do it with wine in hand. Monza’s next week—Italian romance vibes. Save it for then.”

Charles forced a laugh, but inside, his phone buzzed again. He didn’t dare check it in front of them.

—

That night, in his hotel room, Charles sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the glowing screen. Another message.

Don’t let him distract you. He doesn’t deserve you. I do.

Charles swallowed hard. His instinct was to call someone—Carlos, Pierre, even Arthur back home. But he stopped himself. Telling meant admitting how bad it had gotten. Telling meant worrying people. He didn’t want that.

Instead, he shoved the phone into the drawer, lay back, and tried to sleep.

But the dreams came. The sound of footsteps behind him, a shadow in the corner of his room, the weight of unseen eyes.

And when morning came, the texts hadn’t stopped.

—

By the time Sunday’s race ended, Charles was drained. He finished P4, just off the podium. Max, of course, had won—again. As Charles trudged back through the paddock, the celebrations around him felt distant, muffled.

Then he heard his name.

“Charles!”

He turned. It was Lewis Hamilton, still in his race suit, helmet tucked under his arm. His calm, grounded energy was a stark contrast to Charles’s frazzled nerves.

“You alright?” Lewis asked. “You looked… distracted out there.”

Charles hesitated. Of all people, Lewis was the one he could maybe confide in. But the words stuck in his throat.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

Lewis studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”

Charles managed a smile. “Merci.”

But later, as he packed his things, another message came.

Lewis won’t protect you. None of them will. Only me.

Charles’s chest tightened. His hands trembled.

For the first time, he wondered if he was in real danger.

And for the first time, he realized he might not be able to face it alone.

—

The following week, in Monza, everything would change.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Italy was supposed to feel like home.

The tifosi filled Monza with red flags, flares, and chants of “Forza Ferrari!” Charles Leclerc loved this race more than any other, even more than Monaco. Here, every cheer seemed meant for him. Every banner carried his name.

But that morning, while slipping into his iconic red Ferrari suit, his phone lit up again.

You look so pretty in your race suit, Charles. But imagine how much prettier you’d be in lingerie. Just for me.

The message made his stomach turn. He dropped the phone on the counter, shaking his head as if the words could fall out of his mind.

Ignore it. Ignore it. Don’t let them get to you.

He zipped up his suit, staring at himself in the mirror. To everyone else, he would look like Ferrari’s confident, smiling star. But inside, his pulse hammered, and his throat felt tight.

When he stepped into the paddock, the crowd erupted. Charles forced a smile, waving, but his eyes flicked left and right. He half-expected to catch someone staring too hard, following too closely. Every shadow looked suspicious.

“Mate, you look like you saw a ghost,” Carlos said, falling into step beside him. His teammate was always sharp-eyed when it came to Charles’s moods.

“I’m fine,” Charles muttered.

Carlos gave him a look. “You always say that before you’re not fine.”

Before Charles could reply, a voice broke in.

“LandosCar incoming!”

Lando Norris bounded over, Oscar Piastri trailing more quietly behind him. Lando grinned, slinging an arm around Charles’s shoulders. “Ferrari boy looking nervous at his home race? What happened—forgot how to drive?”

Charles shoved him off with a small smile. “I’m not nervous.”

“You’re lying,” Lando teased. “Oscar, tell him he’s lying.”

Oscar shrugged, awkward as ever. “You… do look nervous.”

Charles laughed lightly, but it was strained. Carlos caught it, his frown deepening.

Still, Charles kept moving. He couldn’t let them see. He couldn’t let anyone see.

—

Qualifying went badly. Charles pushed too hard, clipped a kerb, and ruined his lap. He ended up P7, which for Monza and Ferrari felt like a disaster.

In the garage, he pulled off his helmet, chest heaving. He felt Max Verstappen’s eyes on him from across parc fermé—cool, steady, unreadable.

Later, Max found him outside the paddock, sitting on a concrete barrier, staring at his phone.

“You drove like shit,” Max said bluntly.

Charles didn’t even flinch. “Thanks, Max. Very supportive.”

Max leaned against the barrier next to him. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

Charles turned to glare at him. “Why do you even care?”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Because you’re not yourself. And when you’re not yourself, you’re not fun to race against. I like beating the real you, not this distracted version.”

Charles almost laughed, except his phone buzzed again. His blood ran cold. He turned the screen away so Max couldn’t see.

Max caught the movement. “Who’s texting you?”

“No one.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of ‘no ones’ lately.”

Charles shoved the phone into his pocket, standing up abruptly. “I have to go.”

He didn’t look back as he walked away, leaving Max frowning after him.

—

That evening, Ferrari hosted a small dinner in Milan for the drivers and staff. The room buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses. Charles sat at the edge of the table between Pierre Gasly and Esteban Ocon.

Pierre was halfway through an animated story about French food when Charles’s phone buzzed again. He glanced down under the table.

Why are you hiding behind your friends? You’re mine. They don’t deserve your smile. Save it for me. Save everything for me.

His throat closed. He quickly locked the phone.

“Charles?” Pierre asked, leaning closer. “You okay?”

Charles forced a smile. “Yes, sorry. Just tired.”

Pierre narrowed his eyes but didn’t press further.

At the other end of the table, Lewis Hamilton and George Russell were in deep conversation with Toto Wolff. Yuki Tsunoda and Daniel Ricciardo were laughing over some inside joke, Alex Albon and Logan Sargeant arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza, Zhou Guanyu scrolling through his phone with a calm smile. Everyone seemed so carefree, so normal.

And Charles sat there, silently suffocating.

When the dinner ended, he slipped away quickly, ignoring Carlos calling after him.

Back in his hotel room, he locked the door, double-checked the windows, and sat on the edge of his bed. His phone lit up again.

Did you like my little compliment this morning? I can picture it—red suit on the floor, lace instead. Just for me. Only me.

Charles’s hands shook as he dropped the phone. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to breathe.

For the first time, he thought about calling the police. But then he pictured the headlines: Ferrari’s Golden Boy Targeted by Stalker. The press would eat him alive. His family would worry. His team would panic.

No. He couldn’t tell anyone.

And yet, the thought crept in—unwelcome but persistent.

If anyone noticed, if anyone figured it out without him saying a word… it would be Max.

—

Sunday arrived with the roar of tifosi filling the air. Charles strapped into his Ferrari, his heart pounding, but this time not just from adrenaline. As the lights went out, he drove like a man hunted—fast, reckless, desperate to outrun the invisible shadow at his back.

By the end, he scraped a podium, finishing P3. The crowd roared, the team cheered, Carlos clapped him on the back, but Charles’s smile was thin.

Because when he checked his phone later, there was another message waiting.

That podium was beautiful. But you’d be more beautiful if you celebrated only with me.

Charles exhaled shakily, staring at the words.

The nightmare wasn’t stopping.

And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep it all inside.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Singapore nights were suffocating. The heat pressed in from all sides, heavy and sticky, even after the sun went down. The Marina Bay lights glittered against the black water, but to Charles, they felt like spotlights, catching every crack in his composure.

He should have been focused on the night race. Ferrari had hopes for a podium, maybe even a win if the strategy gods were kind. Instead, he sat on the edge of his hotel bed, staring at the glowing screen in his hand.

The message was worse this time.

You’d be so pretty if you spread your legs for me. I can imagine it already. Don’t you dare tell anyone. If you do, it’ll end badly. For you. For them.

Charles’s stomach lurched. His breath came short and shallow. He dropped the phone onto the bed like it burned him, running his hands through his hair.

This wasn’t just flattery twisted into obsession anymore. This was dangerous.

For the first time, the fear wasn’t just for himself. The them in the message—it could mean anyone. His family. His friends. His team. Maybe even the other drivers.

He thought of Lorenzo and Arthur, his brothers. He thought of his mother in Monaco. He thought of Carlos, joking over pasta. Of Pierre, checking in on him at dinner. Of Max, watching him too closely.

The walls of the hotel room felt like they were closing in. He wanted to scream, to smash the phone, to do something. Instead, he shoved the device into the nightstand drawer and slammed it shut.

But the words still echoed in his head.

—

The paddock was buzzing the next evening. Under the bright artificial lights, the teams moved like clockwork, mechanics shouting, tires rolling, cameras flashing. The smell of fuel and humidity hung in the air.

Charles pulled his cap low, trying to look composed, but his nerves betrayed him. His eyes darted from face to face in the crowd. Anyone could be the stalker. A photographer. A mechanic. A fan with a credential badge.

“Charles!”

He turned. Lando Norris jogged over, grinning as usual. “Mate, you look like you’re about to faint. Too hot for you?”

Charles forced a smile. “Just tired.”

“You’ve been tired for three races straight,” Lando said, frowning. “Seriously, what’s going on? You look like a zombie. Even Oscar’s more alive than you, and that guy barely speaks.”

Oscar, standing a few feet behind, blinked at the sudden callout. “Uh. Thanks?”

Charles chuckled weakly, grateful for the banter, but he couldn’t meet Lando’s eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Before Lando could press, Max appeared, expression sharp. “Norris. Go bother someone else.”

Lando raised his hands innocently. “Touchy. Fine.” He shot Charles one more suspicious look before jogging back to Oscar.

Max waited until they were out of earshot. “He’s right, you look like shit.”

Charles sighed. “Merci, Max. Very kind.”

Max didn’t budge. “You’re hiding something.”

Charles’s jaw clenched. “I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Max leaned closer, voice low. “You think I don’t notice? You’re jumpy, distracted. You’re not sleeping. If it’s something with the car, fine, but this isn’t the car. This is you.”

Charles swallowed, heart racing. For a moment, he wanted to tell him everything. To dump the fear and the messages into Max’s hands, just to stop carrying it alone.

But then he heard the stalker’s threat in his mind.

Don’t you dare tell anyone. If you do, it’ll end badly.

So he forced a smile. “Maybe I’m just scared of you winning again.”

Max’s eyes narrowed, but before he could push further, Sergio Pérez called him from the garage. Max gave Charles one last searching look before turning away.

Charles let out a shaky breath.

—

The race was brutal. Heat, sweat, and exhaustion blurred together. Charles drove on instinct, but the mistakes piled up—locking brakes, sliding wide, losing positions he couldn’t claw back. He finished P6.

When he pulled into parc fermé, he could barely breathe. The Ferrari crew patted his back, Carlos tried to joke about it, but Charles’s chest was tight, his thoughts miles away.

He ducked out quickly, avoiding the media pen, heading for the back exit of the paddock.

And that was when his phone buzzed again.

I saw you tonight. Even sweating, you’re beautiful. Imagine sweating for me instead. On your knees. If you tell anyone, I’ll make sure you regret it.

Charles stopped in his tracks, bile rising in his throat. He pressed himself against a shadowed wall, trying to steady his breathing.

He wanted to throw up. He wanted to disappear.

“Charles?”

The voice made him jump. It was George Russell, still in his Mercedes gear, carrying a water bottle. He frowned, tilting his head. “Are you alright? You look—”

“I’m fine,” Charles blurted, too quickly.

George studied him for a moment, his concern obvious. “If you ever need to talk—”

“I said I’m fine.” The words came out sharper than he intended. George looked taken aback but didn’t push. He nodded slowly and walked on.

Charles pressed his forehead against the wall, eyes closed. His pulse thundered in his ears.

This was getting worse. The messages were filthier. The threats sharper. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t race, couldn’t even breathe without feeling those words around his neck.

And still—he said nothing.

Because if he told, someone could get hurt.

—

Back in his hotel room after midnight, Charles sat alone in the dark. His phone lay on the nightstand, the screen lighting up every few minutes with new messages he couldn’t bear to read.

He curled into himself, hands gripping his hair, whispering under his breath.

“I can’t do this.”

But no one was there to hear him.

And outside the window, the Singapore lights glittered like watchful eyes.

—

What Charles didn’t notice—what he couldn’t notice—was that Max had been watching him walk out of the paddock. Watching the way he froze when his phone buzzed. Watching the way he looked around, like prey sensing a predator.

Max didn’t know the details. Not yet.

But one thing was clear.

Charles Leclerc was in trouble.

And Max Verstappen wasn’t about to let it slide.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Japan was usually a sanctuary for Charles. Suzuka had a kind of magic—its twisting corners, the devoted fans, the way the paddock felt quieter than the chaos of Europe. Here, he could breathe a little easier.

Or so he thought.

After Singapore, Charles had made a decision. Enough was enough. If he couldn’t tell anyone, at least he could take control in some small way.

So, in his hotel room in Nagoya, he opened his phone, scrolled down to the unknown number, and pressed Block this caller.

For the first time in weeks, relief washed over him. His chest felt lighter, his head clearer. Maybe—just maybe—that would be the end of it.

He almost believed it.

Until the next morning.

When he woke up, there it was: a text from a different number.

How dare you block me, Charles. Do you think you can hide from me? You can’t. I’ll always find you. Always.

Charles’s hand shook so hard he nearly dropped the phone. His stomach knotted, dread heavier than ever. It wasn’t just obsession—it was persistence. This person wasn’t going away.

And Charles… was running out of strength to pretend.

—

The Suzuka paddock was buzzing with anticipation. Japanese fans lined up with flags, drawings, and gifts. Yuki Tsunoda was practically glowing, back in his home country, signing everything in sight, laughing loudly.

Charles tried to match that energy, but he couldn’t stop glancing at his phone, at every new notification that might not be from Ferrari or Joris.

“Charles! Sign this, please!”

A group of fans handed him a model car. He smiled, scribbled his signature, handed it back with a practiced thank-you. But inside, he was unraveling.

“Mate, you look like a robot,” Daniel Ricciardo’s voice teased from behind. “Smile like you mean it, or they’ll think you’re me on a bad day.”

Charles turned, forcing a laugh. “Sorry. Long morning.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes, uncharacteristically serious. “You’ve had a lot of long mornings lately.”

Before Charles could answer, Yuki appeared, grinning. “Leave him alone, Daniel. Maybe Ferrari feeds him bad breakfast.”

Daniel chuckled, but his gaze lingered on Charles, too sharp, too observant.

Charles quickly excused himself, muttering something about needing to check with his engineer. He ducked into the Ferrari garage, heart hammering.

His phone buzzed.

You look beautiful today. I love how tired you look—it means you think of me at night.

Charles nearly slammed the device against the wall. His throat closed, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

He shoved it into his pocket just as Carlos walked up.

“Charles, strategy meeting in ten.” Carlos squinted at him. “You alright?”

“Yes,” Charles said quickly. “Fine.”

But Carlos didn’t look convinced.

—

Qualifying was chaos. The Red Bulls dominated as usual, Max untouchable at the front. Charles managed P5, but his focus wavered. Every time he came into the garage, he found himself checking his phone, bracing for another message.

And every time, there it was.

I saw that mistake in sector two. You’re thinking of me instead of racing, aren’t you? Good. Keep thinking of me.

By the time the session ended, Charles was pale and sweating. He pulled off his helmet, trying to steady his breathing.

Across the way, Max was watching. Again.

Later, as Charles slipped out of the Ferrari garage, Max intercepted him in the narrow corridor behind the hospitality units.

“Enough,” Max said flatly.

Charles blinked. “What?”

“I don’t care what you say—it’s not nothing. You’re not sleeping, you’re shaking, and you’re driving like your head is somewhere else. So tell me, what is it?”

Charles’s chest tightened. He wanted to push past, to escape, but Max stepped into his path, blocking him.

“It’s personal,” Charles muttered.

Max’s eyes sharpened. “Then maybe you should stop carrying it alone before it breaks you.”

Charles’s lips parted, the truth hovering at the edge of his tongue. The late-night messages. The threats. The way the stalker seemed to be everywhere at once.

But then, like poison, the words returned to him.

If you tell anyone, it’ll end badly.

His stomach dropped.

“I can handle it,” Charles forced out.

Max stared at him, frustration clear. But before he could push again, Sergio called his name from the Red Bull side. Max gave Charles one last look, sharp and unrelenting, before walking away.

Charles exhaled shakily, leaning against the wall.

—

Race day at Suzuka was brutal. The heat, the corners, the unrelenting pace. Charles wrestled the Ferrari into P4, but it felt hollow.

When he climbed out of the car, exhausted and drenched in sweat, his phone was waiting in his locker.

Another message.

Blocking me was cute. But don’t do it again. You’ll regret it. I’ll make sure you regret it.

Charles sat on the bench, head in his hands, chest rising and falling too fast.

This wasn’t just harassment anymore. This was control.

And the worst part? He was too scared to tell a soul.

—

That evening, the drivers gathered in the paddock lounge—an informal tradition at some races. Pizza boxes, sodas, and banter filled the room.

Yuki was telling a story that had everyone laughing. Pierre Gasly was teasing Esteban Ocon about a clumsy overtake. Lando was pretending to throw a slice of pizza at Oscar.

Charles sat in the corner, smiling weakly when someone looked his way, but otherwise silent.

Max noticed.

Daniel noticed.

Pierre noticed.

Carlos noticed.

And while the laughter continued, the three of them exchanged quiet, uneasy glances.

Because Charles Leclerc was cracking.

And whatever was breaking him—it wasn’t going away.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Qatar was unbearable. The heat didn’t just hang in the air, it smothered. Even at night, stepping outside the paddock felt like walking into an oven. Drivers wilted under the weight of fireproofs, sweat dripping long before they climbed into their cars.

Charles was used to racing in extreme conditions, but this weekend, it wasn’t the heat that was killing him.

It was the messages.

He had barely slept since Suzuka. Every night his phone buzzed, dragging him from the edge of exhausted dreams. Sometimes it was just words. Sometimes threats. And now… images.

That morning, as he sat on the edge of his hotel bed, his phone vibrated again. Against his better judgment, he opened it.

It was a photo.

A red lingerie set, lacy and delicate, spread out on what looked like a hotel bed.

The caption made his stomach flip.

You will like this. Imagine yourself in it. Imagine me doing you down there while you wear it.

Charles nearly gagged. He dropped the phone onto the carpet, his hands shaking violently. His chest tightened, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, whispering, “Stop, stop, stop…”

But the messages never stopped.

And no matter how far he ran, they always found him.

—

At the track, Charles plastered on his Ferrari smile, but it cracked at the edges. The heat made his suit cling uncomfortably, sweat running down his back. His head pounded from lack of sleep.

Carlos noticed. Of course he did.

“You look like death, mate,” Carlos muttered as they reviewed strategy sheets in the garage. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been off since Zandvoort.”

Charles forced a chuckle. “I’m fine. Just the heat.”

Carlos gave him a long look but didn’t push further.

Elsewhere in the paddock, however, Charles wasn’t so lucky.

“Leclerc.”

Max’s voice cut through the noise as he cornered him outside the FIA briefing room. His arms were crossed, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

“You’re worse than in Japan,” Max said bluntly. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Thank you for your concern.”

“I’m serious.”

“I told you—it’s nothing.”

Max stepped closer, his voice dropping. “If it’s nothing, why do you flinch every time your phone buzzes?”

Charles froze. His blood went cold.

“You’ve been watching me?” he asked quietly.

Max’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Charles’s throat tightened. He wanted to shout at Max, to push him away, but part of him—the exhausted, terrified part—felt dangerously close to spilling everything.

But then he remembered the message.

If you tell anyone, it’ll end badly.

He clenched his fists. “Stay out of it, Max.”

He brushed past him, heading down the corridor before his expression gave him away.

Max stayed where he was, jaw tightening, suspicion deepening.

—

Qualifying was chaos. The desert air was thick, and drivers wrestled their cars in the punishing heat. Charles made mistakes—locking up twice, running wide once. He still salvaged P6, but his frustration showed.

When he came back into the Ferrari garage, he ripped off his helmet and gloves, throwing them harder than necessary. Mechanics gave him a wide berth.

Pierre Gasly, who’d been walking past, raised an eyebrow. “Bad day, Charles?”

Charles muttered something in French, too quiet to hear, and grabbed a water bottle.

Pierre watched him for a moment, then leaned against the wall. “You’ve been… off. More than just racing stuff. You okay?”

Charles forced a smile, sipping his water. “Yes. Just tired.”

Pierre studied him like he didn’t believe a word, but he didn’t push. He only said, “Well, if you need someone… I’m here. Don’t forget that.”

Charles nodded, swallowing hard. He didn’t deserve Pierre’s kindness. Not when he was hiding so much.

—

That night, Charles lay awake in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above him. His phone sat on the nightstand, screen glowing faintly with new notifications.

He couldn’t bring himself to look.

But ignoring it was worse. His chest tightened, his skin crawled. He reached out with trembling fingers, unlocking the phone.

Another message.

I bet you’d look better in that lingerie than in your race suit. Don’t make me wait too long, Charles. I’ll make you mine.

Charles pressed the phone to his chest, curling in on himself. His eyes burned, but no tears came. He was too tired to cry. Too tired to fight.

—

Race day was brutal. Drivers collapsed in the heat, the desert night providing little relief. Charles pushed himself to the edge, his body screaming for water, for air, for rest. He stumbled out of the car at the finish, drenched in sweat, his legs barely holding him up.

Carlos caught him before he fell, concern etched across his face. “Charles, you need the doctor.”

Charles shook his head weakly. “I’m fine.”

But his trembling legs betrayed him.

Nearby, Daniel Ricciardo and Yuki Tsunoda exchanged worried glances. Max, standing with his crew, didn’t look away for a second.

Later, as Charles sat in the Ferrari motorhome, sipping water, Daniel popped his head in.

“Hey, mate. You sure you’re alright? You scared the hell out of us out there.”

Charles forced a tired smile. “I’ll live.”

Daniel stepped closer, his usual grin gone. “No, seriously. You’ve not been yourself. If something’s going on, you don’t have to carry it alone. You’ve got… people. Even me.”

Charles’s throat tightened. He wanted to believe him. He wanted to tell him everything.

But then his phone buzzed.

Another message.

Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare tell him. You’re mine, Charles. Only mine.

Charles’s blood ran cold. His eyes flicked up to Daniel’s, then back down.

“I’m fine,” he lied again, voice barely steady.

Daniel didn’t look convinced. But he didn’t push. He only patted Charles on the shoulder, quietly saying, “Take care of yourself, mate.”

When he left, Charles finally looked at the phone again, hands trembling.

The stalker had sent another picture of the lingerie. This time, with a message beneath it.

Soon, Charles. Very soon.

Charles shut his eyes, his chest aching.

Because no matter how much he lied to everyone else… he knew the truth.

He was running out of time.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Austin should have been fun.

The American fans were loud, energetic, buzzing with cowboy hats and BBQ smoke drifting from the circuit stands. Most of the drivers loved this weekend—the parties, the atmosphere, the spectacle.

Charles tried to join in, smiling at the fans, signing hats, even posing with a cowboy hat someone shoved on his head. On the surface, he looked fine. The Ferrari golden boy.

But inside? He was cracking.

Because the stalker wasn’t playing games anymore.

—

It happened on Friday night. Charles returned to his hotel after media day, exhaustion weighing on him. He tossed his bag on the bed, kicked off his shoes, and froze.

There, on the neatly made sheets, was a package.

Not from Ferrari. Not from the hotel.

Slowly, hands trembling, Charles unwrapped it.

Inside was lingerie.

Red lace. Delicate. His size.

And tucked underneath, a note written in the same scrawled handwriting he’d seen too many times.

Wear it and send me a picture. Or I’ll ruin your career.

Charles’s stomach dropped. His vision blurred. He stumbled back a step, clutching the bedframe to keep from collapsing.

This wasn’t just texts anymore. This was physical. Real. The stalker wasn’t some distant shadow—they were close enough to leave something in his private space.

His sanctuary was gone.

Charles’s breath came in ragged bursts as panic clawed at his chest. He grabbed the lingerie and the note, shoving them into the drawer as if hiding them could make them disappear.

Then he locked the door. Checked the windows. Double-checked the lock again.

But no matter how many times he checked, he couldn’t stop shaking.

He couldn’t tell anyone. If the stalker could get into his room, what else could they do? If they were serious about ruining his career… the risk was too high.

So Charles sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, whispering over and over.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

—

The next day, during practice, Charles made mistakes he never made. Overshot corners. Misjudged braking points. His engineer’s voice crackled with concern in his ear, but Charles could barely focus. The image of that lingerie haunted him, the words of the note echoing like poison.

When he pulled into the garage, Carlos leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“Okay, tell me the truth. What the hell is going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Charles muttered, unstrapping himself.

“Bullshit,” Carlos snapped. “You’re driving like you don’t care if you crash. That’s not you. Talk to me.”

Charles forced a smile, slipping out of the cockpit. “It’s just the heat. I’m fine.”

Carlos stared at him, clearly unconvinced, but let it drop—for now.

Others noticed too.

At lunch, Pierre slid into the seat next to Charles in the Ferrari hospitality. “You know, you don’t have to keep pretending with us.”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Pierre lowered his voice. “Everyone sees it. You’re not yourself. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Charles’s throat tightened. He looked down at his food, untouched, and whispered, “Merci.”

But that was all he said.

—

That evening, Charles sat on the balcony of his hotel room, staring at the dark Texas skyline. His phone buzzed on the table beside him.

He didn’t want to look. But he did.

Did you like my gift? I want to see you in it. Don’t make me wait. Or your perfect Ferrari image will burn.

Charles dropped the phone, his whole body trembling. His chest hurt, his breath shallow.

How long could he keep this up?

—

The race weekend didn’t get better. In qualifying, Charles lost focus again, ending up only P8. Ferrari engineers were frustrated, the tifosi in the stands confused. Charles just kept his head down, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

But Max noticed.

He always noticed.

After qualifying, Max found him in the hallway behind the media pen.

“Leclerc.”

Charles stiffened. “What?”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t just tiredness. Or heat. Or bad luck. Something’s happening. And if you don’t tell me, I’ll find out myself.”

Charles’s heart lurched. His first instinct was anger. “Why do you care?”

“Because I do.” Max’s voice was sharp, certain. “And because you’re driving like a man who wants to crash. I don’t want to race against that. I want to race against you.”

Charles’s breath hitched. He wanted to believe Max. He wanted to hand him everything, to finally stop carrying the weight.

But the note burned in his memory.

Wear it and send me a picture, or I’ll ruin your career.

His voice came out brittle. “Stay out of it, Max.”

Max’s jaw clenched. “No.”

But before he could say more, Ferrari staff called Charles away. He escaped without looking back.

—

Sunday. Race day.

The heat was crushing. Charles forced himself into the Ferrari, pulling the visor down like armor. He told himself he could forget, just for two hours.

But even on the track, he wasn’t free. Every time he hit a straight, every time he checked his mirrors, the image of that lingerie flashed in his mind. The words—ruin your career—echoed louder than the engine.

He finished P5. Respectable, but hollow.

When he climbed out of the car, drenched in sweat, fans cheered, cameras flashed. Charles smiled weakly, waved, and went through the motions.

But later, in the quiet of the Ferrari motorhome, he pulled out his phone.

Another message.

Still waiting. Don’t make me angry, Charles. You won’t like me angry.

His hands trembled. He dropped into a chair, burying his face in his palms.

Because no matter how much he lied, no matter how much he smiled, no matter how much he pretended…

He couldn’t keep this secret much longer.

And someone was going to get hurt when it broke.

—

But what Charles didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that Max wasn’t letting this go.

Not now.

Not ever.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Mexico was loud. Deafeningly loud. The Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez vibrated with drums, chants, trumpets, and endless shouts of “Checo! Checo!” The atmosphere was pure chaos, a fiesta painted in green, white, and red.

For most drivers, it was intoxicating. For Charles, it was suffocating.

Because this time, the stalker didn’t just send words or lingerie.

They sent blood.

—

Charles opened his hotel room door Friday night after media duties, expecting maybe another fan letter slipped under the door, maybe another empty hallway. Instead, his shoe hit something soft.

He looked down.

A rat.

Dead.

Its fur matted, blood still fresh, staining the carpet.

Charles stumbled back, hand clapping over his mouth. His stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat. He dropped to his knees, heart pounding, and saw the note pinned under the rat’s paw.

His hands shook as he unfolded it.

Wear that lingerie and send me a picture with pose, or I will send you more than this. Don’t tell anyone, Charles. You don’t want them to hurt, don’t you?

His vision blurred. He could barely breathe. He slammed the door shut and locked it, pressing his back against the wood as his chest heaved.

The lingerie still hid in the drawer. Now, with the rat’s blood staining his memory, it felt like poison waiting to crawl out.

Charles slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, head in his hands. For the first time since this nightmare began, he felt like crying. But the tears wouldn’t come. Only numbness.

—

The next morning in the paddock, Charles wore sunglasses to hide the sleepless shadows under his eyes. His smile was brittle as he walked past cheering fans. Carlos caught up to him quickly.

“Mate, you look worse than Qatar. What the hell is happening with you?” Carlos whispered sharply, grabbing his arm.

“I’m fine,” Charles muttered, pulling free.

“No, you’re not. You’re—”

“Carlos.” Charles’s voice was sharper than intended. “Please. Not now.”

Carlos froze, watching him walk away, confusion and worry battling on his face.

—

Practice was a disaster. Charles missed braking points, slid wide in corners, even spun once. His radio was a storm of frustration, his engineer asking if something was wrong with the car. Charles lied—again—saying it was just oversteer.

When he came back into the garage, sweat dripping down his neck, he found Max leaning against the wall across from Ferrari, arms crossed.

Charles tried to walk past, but Max stepped in front of him.

“You can’t keep saying you’re fine,” Max said bluntly.

Charles’s jaw tightened. “Move.”

“No.” Max’s gaze was unwavering. “Whatever this is, it’s not small. And if you don’t tell someone soon, it’s going to eat you alive.”

Charles swallowed hard, his throat aching. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand,” Max shot back.

For a moment, Charles almost did. He almost told Max everything—the texts, the lingerie, the blood on the carpet. But then the stalker’s words echoed again.

Don’t tell anyone, Charles. You don’t want them to hurt, don’t you?

His lips trembled, but nothing came out. Finally, he pushed past Max, leaving him standing there with frustration carved across his face.

—

That evening, the drivers gathered in the paddock lounge. Sergio’s home race brought energy, and most of the grid had piled in—pizza boxes on the table, soda cans scattered, laughter filling the room.

Lando was teasing Oscar for losing a game of FIFA. Daniel was dancing terribly to a mariachi band playing outside. Yuki was loudly demanding more food.

Charles sat in the corner, silent, his phone hidden under the table.

It buzzed.

He glanced down.

Did you like my gift? There will be more if you disobey me again. Don’t forget—you’re mine. And if you tell anyone, maybe the next thing bleeds louder.

Charles’s hands shook under the table. He typed, deleted, typed again. Finally, he shoved the phone into his pocket and forced his lips into a smile when Lando called across the room.

“Hey, Charles! You alive over there? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Everyone laughed. Charles managed a weak grin, but his chest felt hollow.

Pierre leaned close, lowering his voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “You’re scaring people, Charles. Talk to me. Please.”

Charles froze, his eyes flicking to Pierre’s—warm, concerned, steady. He wanted to break, to spill everything right there in the middle of pizza boxes and jokes.

But then the warning clawed through his skull again.

Don’t tell anyone… you don’t want them to hurt.

Charles forced a smile. “I’m just tired.”

Pierre’s frown deepened, but he let it go.

—

Saturday’s qualifying went better—P4—but it didn’t matter. Charles drove on autopilot, his mind still in that hotel room, staring at blood on the carpet.

Afterwards, Max cornered him again in the paddock tunnel, away from cameras and fans.

“This isn’t just stress, is it?” Max said. His voice was low, but sharp. “Someone’s messing with you.”

Charles froze. His whole body went cold.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Max stepped closer, lowering his voice further. “I know the signs. I’ve seen them before. You’re scared, Charles. Of something. Or someone.”

Charles’s breath caught. His eyes stung. He wanted to nod, to say yes, to beg Max for help.

But the threat held him prisoner.

He shook his head quickly, whispering, “You’re wrong.”

And then he walked away before Max could stop him.

—

That night, Charles returned to his hotel, dread pooling in his stomach. He hesitated before opening the door, half-expecting another package, another horror.

The room was empty.

For now.

But on the nightstand, his phone buzzed again.

You’re still not obeying. I’ll give you one more chance, Charles. Wear it. Send me a picture. Or next time, it won’t just be a rat.

Charles sat on the edge of the bed, phone trembling in his hand.

And for the first time, he whispered out loud—broken, defeated.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

—

What Charles didn’t know was that Max, Pierre, Carlos, and Daniel had quietly started comparing notes.

And all four of them agreed on one thing.

Whatever Charles was hiding… it was killing him.

And they weren’t going to stand by much longer.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

São Paulo was electric. The Brazilian Grand Prix was always one of the most anticipated weekends of the season—chaotic fans, unpredictable weather, the Interlagos circuit that punished mistakes and rewarded bravery.

The paddock pulsed with excitement. But Charles wasn’t part of it.

Because Charles had just done the one thing he swore he’d never do.

—

It started on Thursday night, in his hotel room.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Another message.

I’m very patient. But my patience is running thin. Send the photo now, pretty boy.

Charles’s chest tightened. His palms went clammy. He whispered to himself, “No, no, no.”

Another buzz.

Don’t make me ask again. You know what happens if you disobey me. People get hurt. Careers get ruined. Do you want that, Charles? Or will you be good for me?

Charles squeezed his eyes shut. His breaths came shallow, ragged. The note pinned under the dead rat flashed in his mind. The lingerie in the drawer burned like fire against his chest.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

But the words burrowed deep. Do you want them to hurt?

Carlos. Pierre. Max. His brothers. His mother. Anyone. The stalker hadn’t specified who. That made it worse. Everyone felt like a target.

Charles’s hand trembled as he reached for the drawer. The red lace mocked him.

He pressed it against himself, staring in the mirror, his reflection blurred by tears he refused to shed. His face was pale, hollow.

He hated himself.

But he lifted his phone.

Snap.

He didn’t pose. He didn’t smile. He didn’t breathe. He just pressed send.

A second later, the reply came.

Good boy. I knew you’d listen. So pretty. So mine.

Charles collapsed onto the bed, dropping the phone. His chest heaved. The room spun.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to smash the phone to pieces. He wanted to claw his skin off and erase the filth.

Instead, he curled into himself, whispering into the pillow.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

And for the first time in years, Charles Leclerc cried himself to sleep.

—

Friday practice was a blur. His driving was erratic—fast in one lap, sloppy the next. His engineer’s voice was sharp in his ear, asking if the car felt off, but Charles barely heard. His helmet felt like a prison. His body felt heavy, like every limb carried chains.

When he came back to the garage, Carlos studied him with a frown.

“You’re pale. You look sick.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” Charles muttered, tugging off his gloves.

Carlos leaned closer. “If something’s happening—”

“Not now,” Charles snapped. His voice cracked, betraying the strain.

Carlos pulled back, startled.

—

That evening, the drivers gathered for dinner at the paddock club. Lewis held court at one end of the table, telling stories about his first time racing in Brazil. Lando and Oscar were bickering about football. Daniel was cracking jokes, making Yuki snort soda out of his nose.

Everyone was loud. Everyone was relaxed. Everyone except Charles.

He sat in silence, picking at his food. His phone burned in his pocket like a brand.

He could feel Max’s eyes on him. He didn’t look up.

Later, as the group dispersed, Max cornered him by the exit.

“You’re worse than last week,” Max said flatly. “Don’t tell me you’re fine.”

Charles’s throat closed. He couldn’t speak. He wanted to confess, but shame wrapped around him like barbed wire.

Max’s gaze softened, though his voice stayed firm. “Charles, whatever this is, you don’t have to—”

“I can’t,” Charles whispered, barely audible.

Max blinked. “Can’t what?”

Charles shook his head violently. His eyes burned, his chest heaving. “Just… leave it.”

And he fled before Max could push further.

—

Saturday sprint qualifying. Charles sat in the Ferrari, helmet on, heart racing—not from adrenaline, but from dread. He could still see the picture in his mind. The one he had sent. The one that now existed on someone else’s phone. The one that could destroy him if released.

He almost stalled leaving the pits. His hands shook on the wheel. Every lap blurred. His engineer’s voice tried to guide him, but Charles wasn’t there. Not fully.

When he came back to the garage, Carlos was furious.

“You’re driving like a rookie! What the hell is going on?”

Charles ripped off his helmet, glaring at the floor. His voice was hollow. “I said I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not fine!” Carlos shot back, voice rising. “Stop saying that. We’re not blind!”

The room fell silent. Mechanics glanced up, tension thick. Charles’s stomach twisted, shame flooding him.

Before Carlos could press more, Charles stormed out.

—

That night, alone in his hotel room, Charles stared at his phone. Another message.

That was perfect. You belong to me now. Remember that, pretty boy. And remember what happens if you ever tell anyone.

Charles dropped the phone onto the nightstand, burying his face in his hands. His chest ached so hard it hurt to breathe.

He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t run.

He was trapped.

And no one could know.

—

But across the paddock, Max sat in his own hotel room, scrolling through his phone. He had spent days watching Charles unravel—each week worse than the last. He’d seen fear in Charles’s eyes that no rival should ever wear.

Max clenched his jaw.

Whatever secret Charles was hiding… it wasn’t going away.

And Max was done waiting.

—

Sunday loomed. The Brazilian Grand Prix.

The world would see Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s shining hope.

But behind the smile, behind the helmet, behind the visor—

He was broken.

And the stalker knew it.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Las Vegas was supposed to be a spectacle. Neon lights, fireworks, showgirls, Elvis impersonators, casinos pumping oxygen into the air to keep gamblers awake. For Formula 1, it was the grand show of the season — a night race in the heart of the Strip, hyped to the heavens.

The city buzzed with energy. Cameras followed every step of the drivers, lights flashing in their faces, celebrities crowding the paddock.

But Charles felt none of it.

He was living in a nightmare.

—

The message came at midnight, after Thursday’s festivities. Charles had just stepped out of the shower in his hotel suite, water dripping down his hair, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He felt tired but safe for the briefest moment, steam fogging the mirror.

Then his phone buzzed.

He wiped condensation from his fingers and picked it up.

You are so beautiful in the shower. I can’t wait to touch you.

Charles froze. His blood ran cold.

No. No, no, no.

His heart pounded as he slowly turned toward the window. The blinds were closed, but what if—?

He rushed forward, yanking them shut tighter, his breath coming fast and shallow. His hands shook so hard the phone nearly slipped from his grasp.

The stalker wasn’t just messaging him. They were watching him.

Charles backed against the wall, chest heaving. He scanned the room: behind the TV, the lamps, the smoke detector, the corners of the ceiling. His mind raced with paranoia.

There could be a camera. There could be someone outside the door. He wasn’t safe anywhere.

He dropped to the floor, curling his knees against his chest, gripping his hair.

Tears threatened to spill, but he bit them back, shaking violently.

He wanted to scream for help. To run to Carlos, to Max, to anyone.

But the threat was carved into his bones now. Don’t tell anyone, Charles. You don’t want them to hurt.

His phone buzzed again.

Did you like that thought? Me watching you, touching you? One day soon, it won’t just be a thought.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to his knees. His body trembled with silent sobs.

—

The next morning in the paddock, the world saw Ferrari’s star in sunglasses, head down, face pale. Fans shouted his name, cameras clicked, but Charles barely reacted.

Carlos caught his arm near the hospitality entrance.

“Mate, you look worse than Brazil. What’s going on?”

Charles shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that!” Carlos hissed. His dark eyes bored into Charles’s. “This isn’t normal. I’ve known you too long. You’re—”

“Carlos,” Charles whispered, voice breaking. “Please. Drop it.”

Carlos blinked, stunned by the fragility in his voice. He let him go, but his frown deepened.

—

Practice was chaos. Charles clipped a wall, locked up, and radioed a flat, “Sorry. My mistake.”

Back in the garage, his head dropped into his hands. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, his body trembling.

Max appeared in the Ferrari garage doorway, ignoring the team’s glares.

“Leclerc,” Max called firmly.

Charles didn’t look up.

Max stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I know you’re scared. I don’t know of what, but I’m not blind. This isn’t you.”

Charles’s lips parted, but no words came. His throat closed, his body rigid. He wanted to tell Max. He needed to. But fear shackled him.

Max’s hand brushed his shoulder. “Whoever’s doing this to you—because I know someone is—you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Charles jerked away, whispering harshly, “I can’t.”

Max’s brows furrowed. But before he could push further, Charles stood and walked away, leaving his gloves behind.

—

That night, the drivers gathered at the casino for a sponsor event. Glittering lights, poker tables, champagne. Cameras followed them, capturing smiles and laughter.

Charles wore the smile too. Forced. Fragile.

Lando nudged him playfully. “You look like you lost a million bucks already, mate.”

Charles managed a weak chuckle. “Maybe I did.”

But his phone buzzed in his pocket. He stiffened.

He slipped away to the bathroom, locking the door. His hands shook as he pulled the phone out.

You looked nervous today. Cute. Were you thinking of me watching you again?

Charles’s stomach lurched. He nearly vomited into the sink. His reflection stared back at him, pale and broken.

He typed, hands trembling.

Please. Stop.

The reply came instantly.

No. You’re mine. You’ll see me soon.

Charles’s breath hitched. His chest tightened painfully. He dropped the phone into the sink and gripped the edge, whispering desperately, “Why me? Why me?”

Someone knocked on the door. “Charles? You good, mate?” It was George.

Charles wiped his face quickly, forcing his voice steady. “Yeah. Just a minute.”

He pocketed the phone, plastered on a smile, and walked out.

But inside, he was cracking.

—

Qualifying on Saturday night under the Vegas lights was a blur of neon and noise. Charles put the Ferrari on the front row, somehow channeling his fear into speed. Fans screamed, fireworks lit the sky.

But when he stepped out of the car, Max was there, watching him closely.

“You drive like a man with a death wish,” Max muttered.

Charles forced a laugh. “Isn’t that all of us?”

But Max didn’t laugh. His eyes narrowed.

“Whatever this is… it won’t stay hidden much longer,” Max said. “And when it breaks, you’d better hope you’re not alone.”

Charles’s smile faltered. His chest tightened. He wanted to scream that he was alone—that the stalker had him in a stranglehold and he couldn’t escape.

Instead, he turned away, swallowing the sob clawing at his throat.

—

That night, alone in his hotel room, Charles sat in the dark, knees pulled to his chest, phone clutched in his hand.

Another message flashed on the screen.

Soon, Charles. I’ll touch you soon. Sweet dreams, pretty boy.

Charles buried his face in his arms, shaking violently. His breath came in broken gasps.

For the first time, he thought—really thought—that he couldn’t survive this.

And in another hotel across town, Max Verstappen lay awake, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

Because he had made a decision.

Whatever secret Charles was hiding, Max was going to drag it into the light.

Even if Charles hated him for it.

—

The Las Vegas Strip glittered outside.

But for Charles, it was nothing but shadows.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Abu Dhabi. Yas Marina Circuit. The season’s grand finale.

Palm trees swayed in the dry desert air, and the paddock shimmered with sunset light reflecting off the marina waters. For everyone else, it was the closing act of a long season — the last push, the last fight, before a winter’s rest.

For Charles Leclerc, it felt like the last chapter of a horror story he couldn’t escape.

—

It began the night he landed in Abu Dhabi. Alone in his hotel suite, he lay on the bed, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He didn’t want to look. He knew it would be them. But he couldn’t ignore it. Not when he knew what ignoring cost.

With a trembling hand, he picked it up.

Send me a naked picture now, darling. Don’t make me wait. You won’t like it if you do.

Charles’s stomach dropped. His hands went cold.

He shook his head violently, whispering to himself. “No. No, please, no…”

Another buzz.

Take it off. You belong to me. Don’t keep me waiting.

Charles’s breath came shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly. He stood, pacing the room, tugging at his hair. He wanted to throw the phone out the window, smash it against the wall, scream.

But the words echoed in his skull. You won’t like it. He pictured another dead rat. Or worse. He pictured his family. His friends. His teammates. Max. Carlos. Anyone.

Shaking, he dropped to the edge of the bed. His vision blurred with tears. He hated himself. He hated this. He hated that he was even considering it.

His finger hovered over the camera icon.

And then — a knock at his door.

Charles froze.

The knock came again, firmer this time. “Charles? It’s Carlos.”

Charles’s heart leapt into his throat. He shoved the phone under the pillow, wiping at his face quickly.

“Uh—coming!” he croaked, forcing his voice steady.

He opened the door. Carlos stood there in casual clothes, frowning. “You disappeared after dinner. Thought I’d check in.”

“I was just… tired,” Charles said, forcing a small smile.

Carlos studied him. His friend’s eyes lingered on the redness around Charles’s eyes, the slight tremor in his hands.

“You don’t look tired. You look wrecked.”

Charles laughed weakly. “End of season, no?”

Carlos didn’t buy it. He stepped inside without waiting, closing the door behind him. “Charles, I’ve been patient, but this is insane. You’ve been spiraling since Austin. Brazil was bad. Vegas was worse. Now here? I can’t keep pretending nothing’s wrong.”

Charles’s throat tightened. He shook his head. “Carlos, please…”

Carlos crossed his arms. “If you won’t talk to me, at least talk to someone.”

“I can’t!” The word ripped from Charles’s chest, raw and broken. His eyes filled with tears.

Carlos’s anger faltered. He stepped closer, voice softening. “Why not?”

Charles’s lips parted, but no sound came. His whole body shook. He pressed his fists to his mouth, fighting sobs.

Carlos reached out, gripping his shoulder. “Whoever’s doing this to you—you don’t have to face it alone. You think I wouldn’t fight for you? You think Max wouldn’t? Pierre? Any of us?”

Charles flinched at Max’s name. His breath hitched, tears spilling over.

Carlos’s heart cracked. He pulled Charles into a hug. Charles resisted for a moment, then collapsed against him, trembling violently.

But even as he clung to his teammate, Charles whispered, “They’ll hurt you. They’ll hurt everyone.”

Carlos frowned, confused, but before he could ask, Charles’s phone buzzed loudly from under the pillow.

Both men froze.

Carlos moved, but Charles darted forward, snatching the phone before he could see. His hands shook violently as he shoved it into his pocket.

“Who was that?” Carlos demanded.

“No one,” Charles muttered, eyes wide, voice cracking.

“Bullshit!” Carlos snapped. “You don’t get this wrecked over no one.”

Charles shook his head desperately. “I can’t. Please, Carlos. If you care about me, don’t ask.”

Carlos stared at him, torn between fury and heartbreak. He wanted to rip the phone out of Charles’s hands and see for himself. But the sheer terror in Charles’s eyes stopped him.

Carlos’s jaw clenched. He nodded slowly. “Fine. But I’m not leaving you alone anymore.”

Charles’s lips trembled. His chest heaved. But he nodded faintly, too exhausted to fight.

—

The weekend passed in a haze. Charles drove like a ghost through practice. His engineer’s calls went unanswered. His mechanics whispered to each other, worried. Ferrari tried to spin it as fatigue, but the truth was written all over Charles’s face.

Max cornered him in the drivers’ lounge before qualifying.

“You’re at your limit,” Max said flatly. “Don’t deny it.”

Charles didn’t look up from his phone, though his hand trembled against it.

Max crouched down, eyes sharp. “Tell me what’s happening. If you don’t, I will find out anyway.”

Charles finally looked at him, eyes red, hollow. “Don’t. Please, Max. If you knew… it could destroy you too.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “Then let it. I’m not watching you rot from the inside while pretending it’s fine.”

Charles’s lips parted, but before he could speak, his phone buzzed again. He flinched, stuffing it in his pocket, standing abruptly.

“Charles—” Max started.

“I need to go,” Charles muttered, fleeing.

Max watched him go, fury rising. Whoever was doing this was going to regret it.

—

Qualifying night. Yas Marina glowed under the floodlights. The grandstands roared. Engines screamed down the straights.

Charles somehow wrestled the Ferrari onto the front row beside Max. Cameras flashed as the two drivers climbed out, helmets off, faces illuminated by the fireworks.

The world saw two rivals, smiling stiffly in front of the press.

But behind Charles’s forced grin, his phone buzzed again in his pocket.

You didn’t send me the picture. You’re disobeying. Naughty boy. After the race, you’ll pay.

Charles’s smile faltered. His heart plummeted.

The crowd cheered. Fireworks lit the sky.

But Charles Leclerc stood frozen, terrified of the night to come.

—

Back in the garage, Max watched him from a distance, narrowing his eyes.

He knew Charles was hiding something.

And tomorrow, after the chequered flag, Max decided — he was going to tear the truth out of him.

No matter what it took.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The desert sun beat down on Yas Marina Circuit. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation: the season’s final showdown. Cameras flashed, fans waved flags, engines revved in the garages. The world was watching.

But Charles Leclerc was on the verge of collapse.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. His body shook from exhaustion and terror. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the message again.

Send me the picture. Or Carlos suffers. Or Max. Or your family in Monaco. Your choice.

The stalker had finally gone for the jugular — not just him, but the people he loved. His mother. His brothers. His teammates. The two men who hovered around him like worried shadows: Carlos and Max.

It wasn’t a choice. It was a command. And Charles had no weapons to fight back.

—

The morning passed in a blur. Media sessions, strategy briefings, the anthem rehearsal — all meaningless noise. His Ferrari suit felt heavy on his shoulders, like chains.

His phone stayed in his pocket, a constant reminder. Every vibration made his chest clench.

During the drivers’ parade, he forced a smile for the fans, waving from the classic car as it circled the circuit. Max sat in the car behind him, eyes locked on Charles’s stiff frame.

Later, in the garage, Carlos cornered him again.

“You didn’t eat breakfast. You didn’t eat lunch. You barely spoke in the meeting. What the hell is happening to you?”

Charles shook his head, pulling on his gloves. “Just nerves.”

“Stop lying.” Carlos’s voice cracked, frustration laced with fear. “I know you, Charles. I’ve seen you nervous. This isn’t it. This is something worse.”

Charles avoided his gaze, tugging the balaclava down over his face. The mask hid his tears.

—

The race itself was brutal.

Max was untouchable at the front. Charles fought with George, with Lando, with Checo, throwing the Ferrari into corners like a man possessed. His radio messages were clipped, almost unhinged.

“Charles, manage tyres—”

“I am managing them!”

By the chequered flag, Max won easily. Charles dragged the Ferrari to P2. The crowd cheered. Fireworks exploded. Commentators praised his determination.

But when he climbed out of the car, his hands shook so violently he could barely remove the steering wheel.

Cameras zoomed in on his smile. Nobody saw the tears stinging behind it.

—

Later, in the quiet of his hotel room, reality came crashing down.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He stared at it, dread coiling in his gut.

Well done, pretty boy. Second place. But I asked you for something. You don’t want me to get impatient, do you?

Charles’s hands trembled. He whispered, “No… please…”

Another buzz.

Think of your maman. Think of Arthur. Think of Lorenzo. Think of Max. Think of Carlos. Do you want their blood on your hands?

Charles broke.

With tears streaming down his face, he stripped, clutching the phone like a weapon aimed at him. His whole body shook as he positioned the camera. He hated himself. He hated the stalker. He hated that he couldn’t fight back.

The flash went off. His sob echoed in the silence.

A minute later, he sent the photo.

His hands fell to his sides. The phone slipped from his grasp onto the carpet. Charles collapsed onto the bed, curling into himself, sobbing into the pillow until his chest hurt.

He felt dirty. Violated. Empty.

But at least — at least — they were safe.

—

The next morning, Charles sat at breakfast with the other drivers, sunglasses hiding his swollen eyes. He picked at a croissant without eating.

Carlos watched him carefully. Max sat across, gaze sharp, never leaving Charles’s face.

“Big plans for the off-season?” George asked casually.

The table filled with chatter. Lando joked about beaches. Pierre talked about skiing. Yuki complained about the cold.

Charles forced a smile. “Maybe home. Monaco.”

But his voice cracked.

Max caught it. His jaw tightened.

After breakfast, Max intercepted him outside. He grabbed Charles’s wrist, pulling him aside.

“Enough,” Max said, low and firm. “You can’t keep this up.”

Charles flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop lying to me!” Max hissed. His grip tightened, not painful, but grounding. “You’re breaking in front of everyone. You think we don’t see it? You think I don’t?”

Charles’s lips trembled. His eyes filled with tears he couldn’t blink away fast enough.

Max’s expression softened, but his voice stayed steady. “Tell me who it is. Tell me what they’re doing to you. Let me fight with you.”

Charles shook his head violently, whispering, “They’ll hurt you. They’ll hurt Carlos. They’ll hurt my family.”

Max’s chest ached at the raw fear in his voice. He wanted to pull Charles into his arms right there.

But Charles yanked his wrist free, turning away. “Please, Max. Don’t make me lose you too.”

Max stood frozen, watching him walk away, a storm of rage building in his chest.

Whoever was doing this… whoever had reduced Charles Leclerc to this shattered shell… Max was going to find them.

And when he did, God help them.

—

That night, Charles sat alone on his hotel balcony, the lights of Yas Marina glowing across the water. His phone buzzed again.

Perfect, darling. I knew you’d give in. You’re mine now.

Charles closed his eyes, tears sliding silently down his cheeks.

Somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispered that maybe — just maybe — Max was right.

Maybe he couldn’t survive this alone.

But the fear was stronger.

For now.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The streets of Monaco glittered with Christmas lights, yachts decorated in gold and red along the harbor, families bundled up against the winter chill. Laughter drifted through the old town cafés. The festive season made everything look warm, alive, full of joy.

Charles Leclerc felt none of it.

He spent most of December locked away in his apartment overlooking the sea. Curtains drawn, lights dim, the sound of the waves muffled by thick glass. The only signs of life were the quiet hum of his piano and the glow of his phone screen.

Every day the messages came.

Send me another. Different pose this time. Smile.

Pretty boy, I own you. Don’t forget it.

If you refuse, maybe I take a trip to Monaco. I know where maman shops for her bread. I know where Arthur parks his car. I know where Lorenzo work.

Charles’s chest clenched every time. His fingers shook as he typed, as he lifted the phone, as he obeyed.

He told himself it was to protect them. His family. His teammates. His friends. If the price of their safety was his silence, then so be it.

But each photo, each humiliating submission, chipped away at him. By the end of January, Charles barely recognized the man staring back at him in the mirror.

Dark circles under his eyes. Cheeks hollow. Smile gone.

He avoided people. Only venturing out when necessary. To visit his mother. To grab groceries in quick, disguised trips. To Maranello, where he went through winter training like a ghost. Engineers whispered. Carlos watched him with worry.

Still, Charles never broke. He smiled when cameras pointed at him. He laughed softly when fans asked for autographs. He played the role.

But every night, behind locked doors, the nightmare continued.

—

February arrived. The 2024 season loomed. The first pre-season tests in Bahrain were approaching.

Ferrari released photos of Charles and Carlos in the new car, the SF-24, standing tall with arms crossed. The internet exploded with excitement, hashtags trending. “Charles looks sharp this year!” “He’s hungry for wins!”

But those who looked closely saw the strain. The tightness in his jaw. The stiffness in his eyes.

The paddock saw it too.

During a sponsor event in Milan, Charles sat at a roundtable with Carlos, Max, Lando, and George. Journalists asked questions, cameras flashed. Everyone joked, teased each other, gave careful PR answers.

Except Charles.

His answers were short, polite, hollow. His gaze often dropped to the phone on the table, screen face down but never far from his hand.

Max leaned back in his chair, studying him. He hadn’t stopped watching Charles since Abu Dhabi. And what he saw scared him.

After the event, Max cornered Carlos.

“He’s worse,” Max said bluntly.

Carlos sighed. “I know. I tried, but… he shuts down.”

Max’s eyes hardened. “Then we stop asking nicely.”

Carlos frowned. “What do you mean?”

Max didn’t answer, but Carlos didn’t like the look in his eyes.

—

The night before leaving for Bahrain, Charles sat on his sofa, staring out at the dark harbor. His phone buzzed on the coffee table.

He already knew what it said before he picked it up.

Smile, pretty boy. New season. I want to see you in the Ferrari suit again, but this time… with nothing underneath.

Charles’s hands trembled violently. He pressed the phone to his forehead, eyes burning with tears.

He couldn’t breathe.

He wanted to scream. To smash the phone. To run.

But instead, he stood. Walked to the bedroom. Closed the door.

Obedience had become his prison.

—

Bahrain. The start of a new season.

The desert sun beat down on the paddock. Teams rolled out shiny new cars, sponsors lined up for photos, fans waved flags from the grandstands. The smell of rubber and fuel filled the air again.

Everyone was excited.

Except Charles.

He looked pale under the Ferrari cap, his smile thin and tired. He moved through media day like a man underwater.

Journalists noted it. “Charles Leclerc looks tense this year,” one headline read.

Drivers noticed too. In the hospitality lounge, Lando leaned toward Oscar, whispering, “Mate, Charles looks… rough. Like, really rough.”

Oscar nodded quietly. “Yeah. Something’s wrong.”

Yuki wasn’t subtle. “Why Charles look like zombie?” he asked loudly, making Pierre elbow him.

But Max didn’t joke. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look away. His eyes followed Charles across the room, sharp and unyielding.

Because Max had made a decision.

Charles wasn’t going to fight this alone anymore.

Even if Charles hated him for it.

Even if Charles pushed him away.

Max would drag the truth out into the light.

No matter what it cost.

—

That night, after the first test session, Charles sat in his Bahrain hotel room, exhausted. His phone buzzed on the table.

He stared at it for a long time, dread pooling in his stomach.

Finally, he picked it up.

Still mine, pretty boy. Don’t forget. New season, new rules. You’ll give me more. Or they’ll pay.

Charles’s throat tightened. His chest ached.

He pressed the phone to his chest, curling up on the bed. Tears slid silently down his face.

He felt trapped. Alone.

But what he didn’t know was that across the hotel, Max Verstappen was sitting on his balcony, scrolling through his own phone, jaw tight.

And Max had just pulled up the number for a private investigator.

Because the game was about to change.

—

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The Bahrain night sky glowed with neon lights from the circuit. After testing wrapped, the drivers had decided to keep up a rare tradition — a dinner together before the real season started. No media, no fans, just them. A moment of humanity before weeks of competition tore them into rival corners again.

The restaurant was loud with laughter. Lando and Oscar tried to out-joke each other. Daniel ordered tequila shots “for bonding purposes.” Yuki demanded extra spicy food while Pierre complained dramatically. Lewis leaned back, amused, while George added witty one-liners.

Charles sat between Carlos and Alex. He smiled when spoken to, nodded along, even forced out a chuckle here and there. But he was quiet. His fork barely touched the food. His phone rested face down by his elbow, as it always did.

Max, across the table, noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed.

Halfway through the meal, Charles muttered, “Excuse me,” and slipped away to the restroom.

The table carried on. More teasing, more clinking glasses. But Carlos’s gaze fell on Charles’s abandoned phone.

It buzzed.

Once. Twice.

The screen lit up.

Carlos wasn’t nosy by nature. He respected privacy. But something in his gut twisted. For weeks, months, Charles had been different. Haunted. And now, the phone lit up again, screen showing just enough of the preview to freeze Carlos’s blood.

You’ll look beautiful in this lingerie, maybe with a little blood.

Carlos’s stomach dropped.

He grabbed the phone instinctively, shielding the screen from the others. His pulse hammered in his ears.

This wasn’t just stress. This wasn’t racing pressure. Someone was threatening him. Someone sick.

Carlos’s eyes darted toward the restroom. Any second, Charles would be back. He needed to act, and fast.

The phone buzzed again.

Don’t ignore me, pretty boy. You know what happens when you ignore me.

Carlos’s breath caught. He read the words twice, three times. It was undeniable now. Charles wasn’t just struggling — he was being terrorized.

“Carlos?” George leaned closer. “You okay?”

Carlos snapped the phone shut, sliding it back exactly where it had been. He forced a smile. “Sí, sí. Just thinking about strategy for Sunday.”

But inside, panic roared.

Charles returned, sitting down, offering a faint smile. He didn’t notice anything different. He didn’t know Carlos had just glimpsed the secret he’d guarded with his soul.

—

Dinner ended late. The group spilled out into the warm desert air, laughter echoing through the car park.

Charles kept close to Carlos, yawning into his sleeve. “I think I’ll just head back,” he said softly.

Carlos nodded, watching him climb into a taxi. Only when the car pulled away did Carlos’s smile fall.

Max approached from behind. “He’s worse,” Max muttered, almost like he’d read Carlos’s thoughts.

Carlos froze. His first instinct was to deny, to protect Charles’s privacy. But then he remembered the messages. The lingerie. The threat of blood.

He turned to Max, eyes dark. “We need to talk.”

—

Back in his hotel room, Charles collapsed on the bed. His phone buzzed again.

You shouldn’t leave your phone unattended, darling. What if someone saw?

His heart nearly stopped.

He sat bolt upright, staring at the glowing screen.

How?

How did they know?

His hands shook violently as he typed back.

You’re lying. Nobody saw.

The reply came instantly.

Are you sure?

Charles’s chest tightened, a sob rising in his throat. He hurled the phone across the room, curling up on the bed, pressing his fists to his temples.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

Because if the stalker was right… if someone had seen… everything was about to fall apart.

—

Meanwhile, two floors below, Max and Carlos sat in Carlos’s room, the air heavy with tension.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “You know something.”

Carlos hesitated, guilt clawing at his chest. Charles would hate him for this. But Max was right: he couldn’t keep pretending.

He exhaled shakily. “I saw his phone. Tonight. While he was gone.”

Max leaned forward sharply. “And?”

Carlos swallowed. “A message. From… someone. It wasn’t… it wasn’t normal, Max. They called him pretty boy. Said he’d look beautiful in lingerie. Then they said… maybe with a little blood.”

Max’s hands curled into fists on his knees. Rage flashed across his face, cold and lethal.

Carlos lowered his voice. “He’s being threatened. Blackmailed. I don’t know for how long, but… it explains everything. The weight loss. The silence. The way he clings to that phone like it’s chained to him.”

Max stood, pacing, running a hand through his hair. “I fucking knew it. I knew something was wrong. And he didn’t tell anyone—”

“Because he’s scared,” Carlos cut in. “Whoever it is… they’re dangerous. He thinks if he speaks, someone will get hurt.”

Max stopped pacing. His chest rose and fell sharply. His eyes burned with fury. “Then we protect him. We find this bastard, and we end it.”

Carlos nodded slowly, torn between fear and resolve. “But first… Charles has to trust us. Otherwise, he’ll keep pushing us away.”

Max’s gaze hardened. “He doesn’t have a choice anymore. Not if his life’s in danger.”

Silence filled the room.

For the first time, Charles’s secret wasn’t his alone.

And soon, the whole fragile façade he’d built was going to come crashing down.

—

In his room upstairs, Charles sat trembling, staring at the phone vibrating on the floor.

The stalker’s last message still burned in his mind: Are you sure?

He felt it in his bones.

Someone knew.

And when that truth came out, Charles wasn’t sure what scared him more — the stalker’s threats…

Or the people who loved him finally seeing how far he’d fallen.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The Bahrain paddock shimmered under harsh desert sun. Engines roared, fans waved flags, cameras clicked. It was race weekend, but for Charles, the world felt unreal — like a stage he was stumbling across, mask cracking with every step.

Ferrari’s garage buzzed with focus. Engineers murmured over data, Carlos bantered with mechanics, and Charles… Charles sat in the corner, helmet in hand, gaze hollow.

Qualifying ended with Max on pole, Charles P4, Carlos P5. The team clapped his back, congratulated him, but he only nodded faintly.

And then he felt it: eyes on him. Sharp. Unyielding.

Max.

And Carlos beside him.

Both of them watching him, like predators who’d scented blood.

Charles’s stomach dropped.

He slipped away, rushing toward the exit of the paddock, desperate for air. But footsteps followed.

“Charles.” Carlos’s voice. Steady, calm. Too calm.

Charles froze.

Max came up on the other side, arms crossed, expression hard as stone. “We need to talk.”

Charles shook his head. “Not now—”

“Yes. Now,” Max cut in.

The tension between them tightened like wire. Charles looked from one to the other, heart hammering. He tried to smile, to deflect, but the look in their eyes told him it was useless.

“Let’s go somewhere private,” Carlos said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Charles wanted to run. Instead, his body obeyed, numb, as they led him into an empty hospitality room.

The door shut. Silence fell.

Max stepped closer. “We know.”

Charles’s breath caught.

Carlos’s voice was softer. “We saw the messages. At dinner. When you left your phone.”

The world tilted. His chest tightened until he could barely breathe. His whole body shook as he backed toward the wall, shaking his head violently.

“No—no, you don’t understand—”

“Then make us understand,” Max snapped, voice low, furious but not at him. “Tell us who’s doing this to you.”

Tears welled in Charles’s eyes. “I can’t. I can’t. If I say anything—”

Carlos stepped closer, voice calm but firm. “Charles. They’re threatening you, aren’t they? That’s why you’ve been… like this. That’s why you’ve changed.”

Charles’s chest heaved. His nails dug into his palms. “They’ll hurt people. They said they’ll hurt my family, my friends—you.”

Max’s eyes darkened. “Let them try.”

Charles shook his head violently, tears spilling now. “You don’t get it! You don’t know what they’ve done—what they made me—” His voice broke, crumbling under the weight of shame.

Carlos’s hand gripped his shoulder firmly. “Listen to me. Whatever they’ve done, it’s not your fault. You didn’t deserve it. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

Charles’s knees buckled, and before he knew it, he was on the floor, sobbing into his hands.

Carlos knelt beside him, pulling him into a fierce hug. Max crouched in front, jaw tight, eyes blazing with rage — but not at Charles. Never at Charles.

“We’ve got you,” Max said firmly, voice leaving no room for doubt. “Whoever this sick bastard is, they’re finished. You hear me? Finished.”

Charles clung to Carlos, broken sobs tearing through him. For the first time in months, someone else knew. The secret wasn’t just his anymore.

But instead of relief, terror knifed through him.

Because now, if the stalker found out, everyone he loved was in danger.

—

Later that night, Charles sat in his hotel room, knees hugged to his chest. His phone glowed in the darkness.

He hadn’t wanted to pick it up. He knew what waited for him. But silence only made it worse.

And then the message came.

So. You told them.

His stomach lurched.

Another message followed.

I warned you, pretty boy. I told you what would happen if you betrayed me.

Charles’s hands shook violently as he typed. I didn’t—please, I didn’t say anything!

The reply came instantly.

You’re lying. They’ll look at you differently now. They’ll see how dirty you are. How weak. Do you really think they’ll still want to protect you, once they know what you’ve done?

Tears blurred his vision. Stop…

You let me use you. You sent me what I wanted. You obeyed. Do you think they’ll forgive that? Or will they look at you and see someone broken, filthy, pathetic?

Charles curled tighter into himself, rocking back and forth. His chest ached, his throat burned.

You’re mine, Charles. Only mine. No one else will want you now. They’ll pity you. Or worse… they’ll leave.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps.

The voices in his head echoed the words. Dirty. Broken. Weak.

Carlos’s hug, Max’s promise — they felt far away now, drowned out by the poison dripping through the screen.

The last message appeared.

Don’t forget, pretty boy. You belong to me. Always.

Charles’s phone slipped from his hands.

And in the suffocating silence of his hotel room, he believed it.

—

Meanwhile, in a different hotel room, Max stood at the window, fists clenched, staring at the glowing circuit in the distance.

“We’re going to find this bastard,” he muttered, venom in his tone.

Carlos sat behind him, arms crossed, equally grim. “And when we do?”

Max turned, eyes cold as steel. “I don’t care who it is. I don’t care how. But I’ll make sure they never touch him again.”

For the first time in months, Charles wasn’t alone.

But the war for his soul had only just begun.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The Bahrain GP was chaos. Max dominated, Red Bull untouchable. Charles fought with everything he had, but the Ferrari struggled. His body ached with exhaustion, his head fogged with fear. He dragged the car into the points, but his drive was lifeless. The Charles who once burned with fire was now a shadow of himself.

When the checkered flag fell, he barely acknowledged the team. No smiles, no radio celebrations. He just muttered a tired “merci” and rolled back into the garage.

Applause greeted him. Mechanics clapped his back, engineers congratulated him. But Charles forced a nod and slipped away, helmet under his arm, body on autopilot. He needed to disappear. He needed quiet.

He reached his driver room, pushed open the door, then walked in and turned to face the door, and he froze.

Someone was already inside.

The stalker.

Charles’s blood turned to ice.

Tall, ordinary clothes, but eyes alight with something wild. He smiled, slow and sharp. “Pretty boy.”

The door shut behind Charles with a click. A hand twisted the lock.

Charles’s throat closed. “You… how—how did you—”

“I told you,” the stalker murmured, stepping closer. “I’m always with you.”

Charles stumbled back, hitting the wall. His helmet slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor. His breath came in sharp, panicked gasps.

“You did so well today,” the stalker whispered, advancing. “All that sweat, all that focus. But I know the truth. You drive for me. You suffer for me.”

“Please—” Charles’s voice cracked. “Don’t—”

Fingers brushed his cheek, too close, too real. “You’re even prettier up close. I told you, didn’t I? No one else will have you. You’re mine.”

Charles tried to push him away, but the stalker’s grip tightened on his wrist, pinning him against the wall. Panic exploded in his chest, memories of months of torment crashing down all at once.

Outside, the paddock was buzzing, drivers and engineers celebrating, reporters swarming. No one could hear. No one knew.

Except—

“Charles?”

Carlos’s voice.

The door handle rattled.

“Charles, are you in there?”

Charles’s heart lurched. He opened his mouth, but the stalker clamped a hand over it, silencing him. 

The door didn’t open.

“Charles?” Carlos again, sharper this time. “Why is the door locked?”

The stalker’s smile twisted. “Shhh. You don’t want to make this messy, do you?”

Charles’s tears blurred his vision. He shook his head weakly, terror choking him. Charles couldn't move, as if his body was frozen.

But Carlos wasn’t moving.

He knocked once more, harder. “Charles. Answer me.”

Silence.

And Carlos knew. His gut clenched. He’d been right all along. Something was wrong.

“Security!” Carlos barked, waving urgently down the corridor. Within seconds, two guards jogged over.

“My teammate is inside. The door’s locked. Break it.”

“Señor Sainz—” one began cautiously.

“NOW!” Carlos snapped, voice breaking with urgency.

Inside the room, Charles flinched as the stalker hissed, “They won’t save you. They’ll see what a mess you are.”

A thud shook the door. Then another. The lock strained.

The stalker cursed, grip tightening on Charles.

The third slam burst it open.

Security stormed inside, followed by Carlos, eyes blazing.

The scene froze for a second: Charles pinned to the wall, the stalker clutching him and sucking Charles's neck, Charles’s face pale, streaked with tears.

“GET HIM OFF!” Carlos roared.

The guards lunged, ripping the stalker away. He fought, snarling, spitting, but they held him down, cuffing his wrists behind his back.

Charles crumpled to the floor, shaking uncontrollably.

Carlos was there in an instant, kneeling beside him, pulling him into his arms. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

Charles sobbed into Carlos’s chest, body trembling like a leaf. He could barely breathe, the reality of what had almost happened suffocating him.

Security dragged the stalker away, still shouting. “He’s mine! You can’t take him from me! He belongs to me!”

Carlos’s jaw clenched, fury burning in his veins. “No,” he muttered fiercely, holding Charles tighter. “He belongs to no one.”

—

News traveled fast. Within minutes, Ferrari staff swarmed the area. Team principal, mechanics, FIA security, even police. Drivers too — Max pushed through the crowd like a storm, eyes locked on Carlos and the trembling figure in his arms.

“Charles.” His voice was raw.

Charles lifted his head weakly, meeting Max’s gaze. The sight of him — strong, furious, safe — undid him completely. He burst into tears again, collapsing against Carlos.

Max’s fists curled at his sides, knuckles white. He wanted to break the stalker in half. He wanted to tear down every wall that had led them here.

Instead, he crouched, his hand firm on Charles’s back. “It’s over. He can’t touch you again.”

Charles shook his head, sobbing. “No… no, he’ll find a way, he’ll—”

Max cut him off. “He won’t. Not anymore. I promise.”

For the first time, Charles wasn’t alone in his nightmare. His tormentor was in handcuffs. The lies, the threats, the shadows — they were being dragged into the light.

But the damage was carved deep into him.

And as Carlos and Max stayed by his side, holding him, grounding him, they both knew: catching the stalker was only the beginning.

The harder fight was still ahead.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The paddock should have been winding down, the night filled with the usual laughter and celebrations after the opening race. But for Ferrari, the atmosphere was heavy, tense. Security buzzed around Charles’s driver room, uniformed police questioned staff, and word of the incident spread like wildfire.

The stalker was gone, dragged away screaming. But the echoes of his voice still lingered in Charles’s ears, crawling beneath his skin.

Charles sat slumped on a small couch, a blanket draped over his shoulders, though the desert air was still warm. His hands shook uncontrollably, no matter how tightly he clasped them together.

Max paced like a caged animal, jaw clenched, his fury too big for the small room. Carlos sat close beside Charles, one steady hand on his back, grounding him.

A knock on the door. A police officer stepped in, notebook in hand. His tone was careful, measured. “Mr. Leclerc, we understand this is difficult, but we’ll need a statement from you. Tonight, if possible.”

Charles flinched. His throat locked. “Now?” His voice was thin, almost childlike.

The officer nodded. “The sooner, the better. It will help us build the case. He had no credentials to be here — someone smuggled him in. We’ll find out how.”

Charles’s eyes dropped to the floor. Every muscle screamed no. The thought of repeating aloud what had happened — the messages, the photos, the gifts, the rat — bile rose in his throat.

Carlos spoke before Charles could. “He’s not in a state to talk about details right now.”

“We’ll be gentle,” the officer assured.

Charles’s lips trembled. He wanted to be strong, to cooperate. But shame sat on him like lead. “If I say it out loud,” he whispered, “everyone will know. The team… the media…”

Max stopped pacing, his glare cutting through the officer. “We’ll make sure this doesn’t leak. Not a single word gets out unless Charles wants it.”

The officer raised his hands, appeasing. “Of course. His privacy will be protected.”

Still, Charles’s chest heaved with panic. He gripped the blanket so tightly his knuckles went white.

Carlos leaned close, murmuring in Spanish so only Charles could hear. “Ya no estás en línea. Ya no.” You’re not alone. Not anymore.

Charles blinked hard, a tear sliding down his cheek. He gave a shaky nod.

The questioning was brutal, even if the officer stayed calm. He asked about the first messages, when it started, how the stalker had escalated. Every word dragged Charles back through the months of fear. He stumbled, stammered, struggled to breathe.

Max couldn’t stand still, running a hand through his hair every time Charles faltered. Carlos rubbed circles on his back, whispering reassurance.

By the time the officer closed the notebook, Charles was pale and trembling, his voice shredded.

“Merci,” Charles whispered automatically.

The officer nodded. “We’ll keep you updated. He’ll be held overnight.” With that, he left.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Charles buried his face in his hands. “I can’t do this. I can’t face anyone. When they find out—”

“They won’t,” Max cut him off sharply, stepping closer. “We’ll protect you. If anyone tries to use this against you, I’ll—” He stopped himself, fists tightening. His rage barely contained.

Carlos spoke softer. “Charles, hermano. None of this is your fault. You did nothing wrong.”

Charles laughed bitterly, brokenly. “I sent him pictures. I let him control me. How is that nothing?”

Max dropped to a crouch in front of him, forcing Charles to meet his eyes. “Because you didn’t have a choice. He threatened you, your family, all of us. That’s not consent. That’s survival. You hear me?”

Charles’s lips trembled. He wanted to believe him, but the stalker’s words still rang in his mind: dirty, broken, mine.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he whispered. “I don’t even feel like me.”

Carlos squeezed his shoulder. “Then we’ll help you find yourself again. Step by step.”

A knock interrupted. Fred Vasseur, Ferrari’s team principal, entered. His usually composed face was drawn tight. He looked at Charles for a long moment, eyes softening.

“You don’t need to worry about the press,” Fred said quietly. “We’re shutting this down. Official statement will be minimal: security breach, individual arrested, no injuries. That’s it.”

Charles nodded faintly, relief and dread colliding.

Fred placed a hand on his shoulder. “Take the time you need. The team is with you.”

When he left, Max exhaled sharply. “He’s right. You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”

Charles leaned back, exhausted. For months, he had carried the weight in silence. Now it was exposed, dragged into the light. It should have felt like freedom. Instead, it felt raw, unbearable.

His phone buzzed on the table. He froze.

Max grabbed it before Charles could. His jaw tightened. “Unknown number.”

Carlos cursed under his breath. “Already?”

Max deleted the notification without opening it. “Don’t look at it. Not now. Not ever again.”

Charles’s hands shook violently. “What if it’s him? What if—”

“He’s in custody,” Carlos said firmly. “He can’t reach you.”

But Charles wasn’t convinced. Fear had dug too deep.

Max stood, voice resolute. “From now on, you’re never alone. Not in the paddock, not in the hotel. One of us stays with you, always.”

Charles’s eyes widened. “You don’t have to—”

“We do,” Carlos interrupted. “Because we’re your family too.”

For the first time, the words cracked something in Charles. He didn’t feel clean, or safe, or strong. But he wasn’t completely alone in the darkness anymore.

As exhaustion finally pulled him under, Charles let himself lean into Carlos’s shoulder, Max a steady presence nearby.

The stalker was behind bars. The nightmare wasn’t over — not by far. But for the first time in months, Charles had hands holding him when he fell.

And maybe, just maybe, that could be the start of healing.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The flight to Jeddah was long, but for Charles, it felt endless. He spent the hours curled in his seat, hoodie pulled over his head, headphones in though no music played. He pretended to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t stop replaying the images: the locked door, the stalker’s hand on his face and mouth on his neck, the words whispered like poison.

Max sat across the aisle, arms crossed, pretending to scroll through his phone. In reality, his gaze flicked to Charles every few minutes, checking. Carlos, one row behind, hadn’t slept either. Between the two of them, they made an unspoken pact: Charles wouldn’t slip through their watch.

By the time they landed, the paddock was already buzzing. Security was tighter than usual, FIA officials stationed at every entrance. The word was “breach,” nothing more — but in Formula 1, rumors thrived where details lacked.

Charles felt every glance as they walked in. Engineers, staff, media, even some of the other drivers. He told himself they didn’t know, but paranoia twisted every look into suspicion. They’ve guessed. They can see what happened to you. They know you’re broken.

“Keep your head up,” Max muttered beside him, low enough only Charles heard. “Don’t let them eat you alive.”

Charles forced a nod, but his eyes stayed glued to the ground.

—

The Thursday drivers’ dinner was supposed to be relaxed, a ritual before race weekends. This time, Charles dreaded it.

The restaurant was loud, laughter bouncing off the walls as drivers sprawled across tables. Lando and Oscar joked with Zhou and Logan; Pierre argued good-naturedly with Esteban; Daniel’s laugh carried across the room.

When Charles arrived, the noise dipped for a moment. Just a heartbeat. Just long enough for Charles’s stomach to twist.

Carlos put a hand on his back, steering him toward an empty chair between himself and Max.

“Evening, mate!” Lando grinned, his voice too bright, too casual. “You look… tired. Long flight?”

Charles forced a smile. “Yes. Long flight.”

He barely touched his food, listening more than speaking. Every so often, he felt eyes flick his way. George’s careful curiosity. Alex’s worried frown. Yuki’s blunt stare.

Lewis, sitting at the far end, raised his glass toward him. “Good to see you here, Charles.”

It was kind. Simple. But Charles’s chest tightened. Did Lewis know? Did they all?

When he excused himself to the restroom, his hands trembled so badly he nearly dropped his phone.

Max leaned over to Carlos the moment he was gone. “They’re watching him like hawks.”

“They don’t know,” Carlos murmured. “But they sense something. He’s not hiding it well anymore.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “We’ll have to make sure they don’t push him.”

But fate had other plans.

On his way back, Charles froze as he overheard Logan whispering to Alex.

“…something happened in Bahrain. Security, police—”

Alex shot him a sharp look. “Logan, stop. Not our business.”

But Charles had already heard. His throat closed, panic clawing at him. He wanted to vanish.

By the time he sat back down, his appetite was gone completely.

—

The weekend only got harder. In the paddock, cameras followed his every step. In the garage, he caught engineers lowering their voices when he walked past. And on track, though the car was better, Charles’s mistakes piled up. Lockups. Missed apexes. His focus wavered, haunted by shadows that didn’t exist.

“Charles, calm down,” Bryan urged over radio after another lockup in FP2.

Charles bit back a curse, but his grip on the wheel hurt his hands.

After the session, he sat in the debrief silent, staring blankly at the laptop screen while engineers rattled through data.

Max found him later in the hospitality unit. Charles was slouched on a couch, hoodie pulled over his head again.

“You’re spiraling,” Max said bluntly, no sugar-coating.

Charles flinched. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine in months.”

Charles snapped, his voice sharp with desperation. “And what do you want me to do, Max? Forget it? Pretend it never happened?”

Max’s anger faltered. Beneath the frustration, his chest ached at the sight of Charles’s brokenness.

“No,” he said quietly. “I want you to stop carrying it alone.”

Charles looked away, throat burning.

Carlos joined them, sliding onto the couch beside Charles. “He’s right. You don’t have to explain to the whole grid. But you need to let us help you. Because if you keep running on empty, you’ll crash. And I don’t mean just in the car.”

Charles’s hands tightened in his lap. He hated that they saw him so clearly. He hated feeling weak.

But a part of him — the part that had been suffocating in silence for so long — felt the faintest relief.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, the words cracking.

Carlos’s hand found his shoulder. Max’s gaze softened.

“We know,” Max said. “That’s why we’re here.”

For the first time in Jeddah, Charles let himself breathe.

Not freely. Not easily. But enough.

Enough to believe, for a fleeting second, that maybe he wouldn’t drown.

—

That night, when Charles finally returned to his hotel room, he found Max sitting in the hallway outside his door, scrolling on his phone.

“What are you doing here?” Charles asked, startled.

“Making sure no one gets in,” Max said simply. “Go sleep. I’ll stay.”

Charles blinked, overwhelmed. “Max, you don’t have to—”

Max met his eyes. “I do.”

And Charles, for once, didn’t argue.

Inside, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. For months, the stalker’s presence had been the only constant. But tonight, outside his door, Max Verstappen was his shadow instead.

And maybe that was enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The Jeddah race was brutal. Fast straights, walls inches from the cars, no room for error. Charles usually thrived here, weaving through danger with a mix of precision and courage. But this year, he wasn’t the same.

His lap times were erratic. He pushed too hard into turn one, locked up, flat-spotted his tires. He brushed the wall in sector three, sparks flashing as carbon scraped the concrete.

“Stay focused, Charles,” Bryan’s voice crackled through the radio.

But Charles couldn’t focus. His head buzzed with voices — the stalker’s words, the jeers of imagined media, the weight of every gaze.

On the final stint, he clipped the curb too hard and the car snapped. He caught it, but lost three positions in two laps.

When the flag fell, he crossed the line in ninth.

The garage was quiet when he returned. Mechanics patted his shoulder, engineers mumbled “good effort.” But the air was heavy. Ferrari didn’t expect miracles, but they expected him. And tonight, Charles Leclerc looked like a ghost.

—

The Paddock lounge was thick with silence. Charles sat on the bench, helmet still on, staring at the floor. Sweat dripped down his face, but he didn’t move.

Max, who had finished second behind Checo, watched him carefully. Carlos, who’d retired with an engine issue, leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.

It wasn’t just them this time. George sat nearby, his brow furrowed. Lando whispered something to Oscar, who glanced at Charles with visible worry. Yuki frowned outright, muttering, “He’s not okay.”

Lewis, ever perceptive, broke the silence. “Charles.” His voice was calm, almost fatherly. “You don’t look well. You haven’t for a while.”

Charles’s head snapped up, panic in his eyes. “I’m fine,” he blurted, too quickly.

No one believed him.

Pierre leaned forward. “Mate, we’ve all seen it. Since Bahrain. You’re not yourself.”

“I said I’m fine!” Charles’s voice cracked, louder than he intended. His chest heaved, vision blurring. He wanted to disappear, but every driver was staring now. The walls were closing in.

He stood abruptly, muttering, “I need air,” and shoved past them, bolting out of the room.

Max’s jaw tightened. He was on his feet instantly. Carlos followed.

—

Fred Vasseur was waiting in the Ferrari hospitality unit. He’d seen enough. Two weekends, two broken versions of Charles. It wasn’t sustainable.

“Charles,” Fred said firmly as the driver walked in, shoulders shaking, eyes red. “Sit.”

Charles froze. “I—”

“Sit.”

Charles sat. His hands trembled in his lap.

Fred’s voice softened, but his words hit like stone. “You’re not fit to race right now. You’re exhausted. Distracted. And it’s not fair to you, or the team, or the others on track. I’m putting you on a temporary hiatus.”

The world crashed around Charles.

“No.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Please. Fred, no. I can still—”

“You can’t.” Fred’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “This isn’t punishment. It’s protection. You need to rest. You need help. Robert will step in as reserve until you’re ready.”

Charles’s throat closed. His entire identity — his career, his pride — was slipping through his fingers. Racing was the only place he felt alive. And now even that was gone.

“You’re telling me to quit,” he whispered, hollow.

Fred shook his head. “I’m telling you to survive. There’s a difference.”

—

That night, Charles sat in his hotel room, blinds drawn, lights off. His phone buzzed endlessly — messages from journalists, fans, even friends. He ignored them all.

Max knocked twice, then let himself in. Carlos trailed behind, carrying takeout.

Charles didn’t move from the bed. He stared at the wall, his body rigid.

“They’re replacing me,” he muttered. “I’m finished.”

“You’re not finished,” Carlos said firmly, setting the food down. “Fred’s giving you space to breathe. That’s all.”

Charles laughed bitterly. “Breathe? I haven’t been able to breathe for months.”

Max sat beside him, voice low but sharp. “That’s why you need this. You can’t keep running on fear. You need help, Charles. Real help. Professional help.”

Charles flinched. “You think I’m crazy.”

“No,” Max said, his eyes locked on him. “I think you’ve been through hell, and you’ve been forced to carry it alone. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

Carlos nodded. “You need someone who knows how to fix the damage. Psychologist, therapist — call it what you want. But you need it.”

Charles’s lip trembled. For months, he’d been drowning in silence. And now the lifeline was there, if only he had the strength to grab it.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he whispered.

Max reached into his pocket and slid a card onto the nightstand. “You start here. Ferrari’s got someone lined up already. All you have to do is show up.”

Charles stared at the card like it was a foreign object.

“I don’t know if I can,” he admitted.

“You can,” Carlos said gently. “And we’ll go with you, if that helps.”

Something cracked inside Charles then — the walls he’d built so high, the lies he’d told so often. For the first time, he didn’t fight. He just let himself cry, shoulders shaking, breath hitching.

And for the first time, he believed maybe healing wasn’t impossible.

—

A week later, Charles sat in a quiet office in Monaco. The psychologist was kind, her voice soft, her gaze steady.

“Why don’t you start by telling me what’s been happening?” she asked.

Charles’s throat tightened. His instinct was silence. But Max and Carlos were waiting outside, and Fred had told him this was the only way back.

So he took a breath.

And for the first time, he told the truth.

—

The words poured out in broken fragments: the messages, the threats, the photos, the rat, the night in Bahrain. Every shame, every fear, every scar he’d hidden.

By the time he finished, he felt hollow. Exposed.

But lighter, too.

The psychologist nodded. “Charles, what you’ve been through is trauma. It doesn’t define you, but it explains your pain. You’re not weak. You’re injured. And just like any injury, you need time and care to heal.”

Charles sat back, tears still wet on his cheeks. For the first time in months, the weight on his chest loosened just enough to breathe.

Maybe Fred was right. Maybe he wasn’t finished.

Maybe he was just beginning again.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The psychologist’s office smelled faintly of lavender. Charles sat in the same chair he had last week, his foot tapping against the carpet, his hands clenched tight.

The therapist, Dr. Moretti, smiled gently. “How have you been since our last session?”

Charles gave a vague shrug. “The same.”

“Still overwhelmed?”

“Yes.” He swallowed. “I… don’t sleep much.”

Dr. Moretti nodded. “Nightmares?”

Charles looked away. His jaw flexed. “…Yes.”

The silence stretched. He hated silence. He hated how it left him alone with the echoes of the stalker’s voice, the threats, the images that refused to leave his head.

Dr. Moretti leaned forward slightly. “Charles, nightmares are common with trauma. They’re your mind’s way of trying to process what happened. But you don’t have to go through this alone. Do you remember what we discussed last time? About grounding techniques?”

Charles nodded faintly. He’d tried them — the breathing, the naming of objects in the room, the touch of something solid. Sometimes they helped. Other times, nothing did.

She didn’t push. She never pushed too hard. “What I’d like to try today,” she said, “is helping you separate what belongs to the past from what’s happening now. You survived what was done to you. That’s already proof of your strength. But your brain is still reacting like you’re in danger, even when you’re not.”

Charles clenched his jaw. “But what if I am still in danger? What if… what if someone else tries again?”

“That fear is natural,” Dr. Moretti said. “But you’re not alone anymore. The others know. You have support. And the stalker is gone.”

The stalker is gone. The words sounded final, but they didn’t feel final. In the shadows of Charles’s mind, the threats lived on.

He sat rigid, but he didn’t run. That was something.

—

After the session, Max was waiting outside in the lobby, arms crossed, scrolling on his phone. He looked up the moment Charles stepped out.

“Well?” Max asked.

Charles hesitated. “It was… okay.”

Max studied him for a moment. “You look like you fought a war in there.”

Charles gave a weak laugh. “It feels like it.”

Max clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Good. Means you’re actually doing something. Come on, let’s get food.”

Charles raised a brow. “You don’t eat normal food, Max. You eat like a robot.”

“Better than you, who skips meals when you’re stressed,” Max shot back. But there was a softness in his tone.

—

Carlos joined them later at a small café in Monaco, sliding into the booth with a grin that was too forced to be natural. “Well, at least you look alive,” he teased, looking at Charles.

Charles rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Carlos. Always so subtle.”

Carlos’s grin faded, replaced by something gentler. “Seriously. I’m proud of you. For going. For trying.”

Charles stared down at his coffee. “I don’t feel proud. I feel… broken.”

“You’re not broken,” Carlos said firmly. “You’re hurt. There’s a difference.”

Max nodded in agreement, though his voice was less soft. “And even if you were broken, broken things can still be fixed.”

Charles looked between them, chest tightening. They believed in him even when he couldn’t believe in himself. That scared him. But it also kept him afloat.

—

The next race weekend was strange. Charles wasn’t racing — Ferrari’s reserve driver, Ollie Bearman, was in the car instead.

Charles watched from the garage, wearing his team gear, headset on. He smiled for the cameras, waved at fans, answered a few questions with careful words. But inside, it stung. Every lap Ollie drove felt like a reminder of what Charles had lost.

During the drivers’ parade, Charles walked alongside the others until they were about to get into his truck. Then Charles waited until they were finished. The crowd still cheered for him, maybe even louder than before. “Forza Charles!” banners waved in the stands. A little girl held a sign that said Ti vogliamo bene.

It should have been comforting. Instead, it brought tears to his eyes. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know.

After the parade, Lando sidled up beside him, hands shoved in his pockets. “Hey,” Lando said, quieter than usual. “You holding up?”

Charles blinked, caught off guard. “I… yes. Trying.”

Lando nodded. “Good. Don’t force yourself to be okay. Just… try.” He hesitated, then added, “We’ve all got your back, you know.”

Charles’s throat tightened. “Even you?” he teased weakly.

Lando smirked. “Especially me. I’m your favorite, admit it.”

The banter was light, but the warmth behind it was real. Charles felt the cracks in his armor widening, and for once, it didn’t feel like failure.

—

That night, Charles couldn’t sleep. He tossed, turned, checked his phone too many times. Finally, at 2 a.m., he gave up and went for a walk in the paddock.

To his surprise, he found Lewis sitting on the steps near the Mercedes motorhome, hoodie up, sipping tea.

“You too, huh?” Lewis asked, gesturing at him.

Charles gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

Lewis studied him quietly. “Nightmares?”

Charles froze. “…Yes.”

Lewis nodded knowingly. “I used to get them too. After crashes. After losing people. You think you’re fine, but then it comes back at night. Doesn’t let you go.”

Charles’s chest tightened. “How do you… make it stop?”

“You don’t,” Lewis said simply. “You learn to live with it. You learn to talk about it. To let people in, even when you want to hide. That’s the only way it loses power.”

Charles swallowed hard. “…That’s not easy.”

“Nothing worth doing ever is.”

The words lingered long after Charles walked back to his hotel. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel completely alone in the dark.

—

By the end of the weekend, Charles was exhausted, but different. The therapy sessions were still raw, painful. The races without him still hurt. But little by little, he felt the tiniest flickers of something he hadn’t felt in months.

Hope.

And though he didn’t quite believe it yet, he was starting to see what Max, Carlos, Lewis, and the others already knew:

Charles Leclerc wasn’t finished. He was still here. And maybe, just maybe, he was strong enough to come back.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The garage smelled of fuel, sweat, and fresh rubber. Charles stood at the entrance, helmet in hand, watching his Ferrari warm up. The noise thundered in his chest, alive and electric.

For months, he had thought this moment would never come. He had imagined himself walking away from Formula One, too broken, too stained by fear and shame. Yet here he was. His hands trembled, but not from terror. From anticipation.

Max was leaning against the barrier, arms folded. “You look like you’re about to cry,” he teased.

Charles shot him a glare. “I’m not.”

“You are. Your eyes are all glossy. Like a puppy.”

Carlos appeared beside Max, clapping Charles on the back. “Ignore him. You’re ready. We know it, the team knows it, even you know it.”

Charles’s lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. “That’s the first time you haven’t made a dramatic speech.”

Carlos grinned. “I’m saving it for the podium.”

The banter was light, but it grounded him. The weight in his chest eased.

—

His first session back was only Free Practice, low pressure, low stakes. But the moment Charles slid into the cockpit, his heart raced. The wheel fit perfectly in his hands, the harness tight against his chest. He closed his eyes for a brief second.

This is mine. This has always been mine.

The engine roared to life. The vibrations thrummed through him. For the first time in months, Charles felt whole.

He drove cautiously at first, testing, measuring, breathing through the nerves. Every corner carried ghosts of the stalker’s voice, whispers that he was broken, dirty, unworthy. But with every lap, those voices grew quieter. The track drowned them out.

By the end of the session, he was pushing. Aggressive. Hungry. Fast.

When he pulled into the garage, Fred Vasseur’s voice crackled through the radio, almost smiling: “Welcome back, Charles. That was… pretty good.”

The garage erupted in applause. Mechanics clapped his shoulders as he climbed out. Max was waiting, arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed but failing to hide a grin.

Carlos hugged him, squeezing hard enough to make Charles laugh. “You’re back, hermano. Really back.”

Charles felt tears sting his eyes, but this time he didn’t hide them.

—

Later that night, the drivers gathered for dinner — a tradition that had grown closer, tighter, since everything had come to light.

The long table was filled with chatter and laughter. Daniel cracked jokes, Yuki complained about portion sizes, Lando tried to steal food off Oscar’s plate, and Lewis raised a toast to “resilience and brotherhood.”

Charles sat between Carlos and Max, watching them all, heart swelling.

At one point, Alex leaned over. “You know, mate, we’ve all been talking.”

Charles blinked nervously. “About what?”

“About how bloody strong you are,” Alex said simply. “We’d all have crumbled. But you didn’t.”

Charles’s throat tightened. He looked down. “I did crumble. Many times.”

“Yeah,” George chimed in from across the table, “but you also stood back up. That’s the difference.”

The others nodded, quiet but firm.

Max, not one for sappy speeches, nudged him with his elbow. “They’re right. But don’t let it get to your head. You’re still annoying.”

Charles laughed, the sound freer than it had been in months.

—

Therapy continued. It wasn’t easy. Some days, Charles wanted to quit, to bury everything and pretend it had never happened. But Dr. Moretti kept guiding him, helping him find tools to cope, to rebuild.

“Recovery isn’t about erasing the past,” she told him one afternoon. “It’s about choosing how much power it holds over you.”

And slowly, Charles chose to reclaim that power. He practiced grounding exercises when the nightmares came. He leaned on Max and Carlos when the walls threatened to close in. He even allowed himself to laugh with the others, to feel like more than just a victim.

—

The breakthrough came weeks later, at Monza.

The tifosi roared as Charles stepped out onto the grid, Ferrari red shining in the sun. The Italian flags waved wildly, chants of Leclerc! Leclerc! shaking the air.

For a moment, the old fear tried to creep back in. The whispers of the stalker. The shadows. The blood.

But then Charles lifted his head. He looked at the sea of fans, at his family in the stands, at Max giving him a smirk, at Carlos clapping him on the back.

He wasn’t alone.

When the lights went out, Charles launched.

Lap after lap, he fought with everything he had. The car wasn’t perfect, the competition was fierce, but Charles didn’t care. He was alive in every turn, every straight, every battle wheel-to-wheel.

And when he crossed the line in second, the podium his, the crowd erupting in madness, Charles stood tall. The champagne sprayed, the anthem thundered, and for the first time in too long, Charles felt proud.

Not because he’d won. But because he’d survived. He’d endured. He’d come back.

—

That night, when he got home, he stood on his balcony, overlooking Monaco’s lights. Max leaned against the railing, sipping water. Carlos sat with his feet up on the chair, scrolling his phone.

“You know,” Max said casually, “for someone who thought he was finished, you did alright.”

Charles chuckled. “More than alright.”

Carlos looked up. “Better than alright. You proved something, Charles. To all of us. But mostly to yourself.”

Charles fell quiet. The wind was cool against his face. He thought about everything — the terror, the isolation, the lies, the brokenness. And then he thought about now. The laughter. The podium. The friends who refused to let him drown.

“I’m not the same as before,” Charles admitted softly.

“No,” Max said. “You’re stronger.”

Carlos raised his glass. “To the comeback of the century.”

Charles smiled, heart light. For the first time, he believed it. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t ruined.

He was Charles Leclerc — Ferrari driver, fighter, survivor.

And his story was only just beginning.

---

(End—To be continued for bonus epilogue...)

Chapter Text

The sea outside Monaco sparkled under the late summer sun. Charles leaned back in his chair on the balcony, bare feet up on the railing, a coffee cup in hand. It had been three years since the nightmare — three years of rebuilding, racing, and reclaiming his life.

“God, you’re useless in the mornings,” Max’s voice drifted out from inside. A moment later, the Dutchman stepped onto the balcony with his own mug, hair messy, shirt hanging half-open. He dropped into the chair next to Charles with a groan.

“I’m not useless,” Charles mumbled. “I’m enjoying peace.”

“You call staring into the distance like a sad poet ‘peace’?”

Charles smirked, eyes still on the sea. “Better than your grumpy face.”

Before Max could retort, Carlos appeared, balancing a tray of toast and fruit like some exasperated housekeeper. “You two are pathetic,” he said, setting the tray down. “I knew inviting you both to spend the week in Monaco was a mistake.”

Max raised a brow. “You literally invited yourself.”

“Details,” Carlos said, already stealing a piece of toast.

Charles chuckled. He never thought his life would look like this — shared breakfasts with two of the people who had dragged him through hell, now bickering like siblings. The tension and shadows that once clung to him had eased, replaced with warmth.

—

Later that day, they wandered down into the harbor, where a small boat was waiting. Not a yacht, nothing grand, just a sleek little thing perfect for the three of them. Charles had insisted on keeping it simple.

“I’m captain,” he declared proudly, climbing aboard.

“Absolutely not,” Max said immediately. “You’ll crash us into Italy.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “I vote for myself.”

“You can’t vote for yourself!” Charles argued.

Max smirked. “Then I’ll vote for Carlos. He’s the least likely to sink us.”

“Traitor,” Charles muttered.

By the time they were out on the open water, Carlos was at the wheel, Max stretched out shirtless on the bow, and Charles sulking good-naturedly with sunglasses perched on his nose.

It was absurd. It was perfect.

—

That evening, as the sky painted itself in pinks and golds, the three of them sat on the rocks overlooking the sea. Carlos was flipping through photos on his phone, occasionally snickering.

“Remember when you almost set the hotel coffee machine on fire in Austria?” Carlos said suddenly.

Charles groaned. “Why do you have to bring that up?”

“Because it’s hilarious,” Carlos replied. “You panicked and shouted for Max, and he just stood there laughing while the poor machine smoked.”

“I was not laughing,” Max protested. “I was… supervising.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You’re both impossible.”

The teasing was constant, but it never felt cruel. It was grounding. It reminded Charles that these men had seen him at his worst — and still wanted to be here.

—

Later, when Carlos went inside to take a call, Max and Charles remained on the balcony, silence settling between them. The cicadas buzzed in the background, waves lapping below.

“You’ve changed,” Max said finally, voice softer than usual.

Charles tilted his head. “For the worse?”

“For the better.” Max’s eyes lingered on him. “You smile more now. Real smiles. Not the fake ones you used to give when people asked if you were okay.”

Charles swallowed. For a moment, the shadows of the past flickered — the fear, the shame, the nights he thought he’d never escape. But then he looked at Max, and at the doorway where Carlos’s laughter drifted out, and the weight lifted.

“I thought I’d lost myself,” Charles admitted quietly. “But maybe I just… found a new version.”

Max nodded, reaching out to squeeze his hand briefly before leaning back with a casual shrug, as if the moment hadn’t just made Charles’s chest ache in the best way.

“You’re annoying either way,” Max said.

Charles laughed. “You too.”

—

A few days later, the whole grid gathered in Monaco for a reunion dinner. The tradition of “drivers’ dinners” had never stopped, even years later.

Lewis raised a toast to “brotherhood that survives rivalries.” Daniel cracked jokes so outrageous that Yuki nearly fell out of his chair. Lando and Oscar argued about who was more photogenic, while Pierre and Esteban bickered as usual.

Charles watched it all, heart swelling. These were his people. His family, chosen as much as inherited.

At one point, Alex leaned over and clinked glasses with him. “You know, mate, you really showed us what strength looks like. Not on the track, but off it.”

Charles felt his throat tighten, but this time he didn’t hide it. He raised his own glass. “I wouldn’t be here without all of you. Merci.”

The table erupted in cheers.

—

Later that night, Charles returned to his apartment, kicking off his shoes as Max and Carlos followed. They were tired, full, and still laughing at something stupid Lando had done with a bread roll.

Charles stepped onto the balcony one last time, looking out at the lights reflecting on the water. For years, this balcony had been a place of fear, of haunted nights. Now, it was peace.

Max and Carlos joined him, one on each side. For a long moment, none of them spoke.

Finally, Charles broke the silence. “I think… I’m happy.”

Carlos grinned. “About time.”

Max smirked. “Took you long enough.”

Charles laughed, genuine and unburdened. “Shut up, both of you.”

They stayed like that for hours — three friends, survivors, brothers-in-arms, watching the sea and the stars.

And for the first time in his life, Charles Leclerc wasn’t just a driver, or a survivor.

He was whole.

---

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

The night was still in Monaco, the kind of warm, velvety night where the air seemed to hum with quiet possibility. Charles sat at the grand piano in his apartment, fingers idly tracing keys without pressing them down. A glass of wine stood on the lid, untouched.

Behind him, Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching with an expression that shifted between fondness and frustration.

“You always play when you’re nervous,” Max said finally.

Charles glanced over his shoulder, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Or maybe I just like music.”

“Mm.” Max pushed off the wall, moving closer. “But tonight, you’re avoiding something.”

Charles turned back to the keys, pressing one softly so that a single note rang out and faded into silence. His chest tightened. Max wasn’t wrong.

They had spent the last two years pulling themselves back into the light — both as rivals on track and as… something else. Something Charles still couldn’t name.

Max stopped behind him, close enough that Charles could feel his presence like static in the air.

“Do you ever get tired of running?” Max asked quietly.

Charles froze. “What do you mean?”

Max sighed, walking past him to the balcony doors. He shoved them open and stepped outside, letting the night air spill in. “I mean you. Pretending everything’s fine. Smiling when you don’t want to. Acting like you don’t know.”

Charles rose slowly, heart pounding. “Know what?”

Max turned then, silhouetted by the glow of the city. His eyes were sharp, unflinching. The same eyes that had hunted him down on track, relentless, fearless.

“That I’m in love with you,” Max said simply.

The world tilted. Charles gripped the edge of the piano, breath caught in his throat.

Max said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it wasn’t a confession, but a fact.

“I’ve been in love with you for years,” Max continued, stepping back inside, closing the distance between them. “Through all of it. Even when you were breaking apart, even when you couldn’t look me in the eye. And I didn’t say anything because you weren’t ready. Because I thought maybe it would scare you more than comfort you.”

Charles’s chest ached. His hands trembled. “Max…”

Max stopped right in front of him. Close enough that Charles could see the flecks of green and brown in his eyes. Close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

“But I can’t keep it inside anymore,” Max said. His voice softened, dropping into something vulnerable, almost fragile. “I don’t want to be just the one who saves you. I want to be the one you choose.”

Charles swallowed hard. For years, he had convinced himself he didn’t deserve this — love, softness, a future that wasn’t weighed down by fear. The stalker’s words still whispered in his head sometimes, shadows of poison: dirty, broken, unwanted.

But Max’s words cut through them like sunlight.

“I don’t…” Charles’s voice cracked. He closed his eyes. “I don’t know if I can be what you need.”

“You don’t have to be anything,” Max said firmly. “Just be Charles.”

Charles let out a shaky laugh. “That’s the problem.”

“No,” Max whispered. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then brushed his fingers lightly against Charles’s cheek. “That’s the answer.”

Charles opened his eyes. And what he saw there — the unwavering steadiness, the patience, the love — nearly unraveled him completely.

“You’re serious,” Charles said, almost disbelieving.

Max smirked faintly. “When am I not?”

That made Charles laugh for real, a sudden burst that startled both of them. He pressed a hand to his face, shaking his head. “God, you’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Max said softly, thumb brushing Charles’s jaw. “But you still love me.”

The words slipped out so casually, so boldly, that Charles’s heart stopped.

Max didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

And in that moment, Charles realized he wasn’t afraid anymore.

He exhaled, long and trembling, and whispered, “I do.”

Max’s lips curved into the smallest, most dangerous smile. “Good.”

Then he leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t desperate, wasn’t rushed. It was steady, grounding, filled with everything Max had held back for years. A promise more than a question.

Charles melted. His hands found Max’s shoulders, holding on like he might disappear, like this was the only solid thing in the universe.

When they finally broke apart, Charles rested his forehead against Max’s, breathing hard. His laugh came out soft, disbelieving, filled with relief.

“You’re really bad for my career,” he murmured.

Max chuckled, brushing their noses together. “Please. I make you faster.”

Charles grinned, the weight in his chest finally gone. “Maybe you do.”

They stood there for a long time, the city glowing behind them, the sea whispering below, two rivals, two survivors, two men who had finally stopped running.

And for once, nothing was left unsaid.

---

(To be continued...)