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Someone noticed that after Verstappen broke up with whichever-number girlfriend it was this time, he seemed to have finally ended a dry spell that had lasted nearly five years — he had a new lover. The reason was simple, and not because these busybodies were exceptionally observant: he had followed a private account with his main Instagram account.
So the question now was obvious: who was @GeoWR63? The owner of the account clearly cared deeply about privacy. Her profile picture showed only her back, and aside from the British flag in the bio nothing else could be learned. For now, the only deduction possible was that the woman was tall and had light brown curls — and then the trail stopped there.
That night people also noticed he unfollowed and then followed the account again. Such inconsistency only fueled curiosity further. Fortunately, only half the season had passed; there was plenty of time to wait for Verstappen to appear together with this mysterious woman.
The mysterious lady herself, meanwhile, was busy being annoyed with her boyfriend. She didn’t mind grand gestures, but using an official account with nearly 18 million followers to follow her private account with barely 500? That was a bit excessive. The man in question didn’t see a problem. He loved the mysterious lady; he had nothing to hide. Yet the moment that thought appeared, he tugged her closer again.
"Georgie, are you unhappy about being my girlfriend? Do you not want me to introduce you to the world?"
The resulting scuffle became another story entirely.
Every athlete — no, every celebrity — usually goes through a PR phase after revealing a relationship. But this situation was puzzling. If it was PR, shouldn’t the partner be mutually beneficial? What benefit could Verstappen possibly gain from a woman with only 500 followers? So was it true love? Perhaps. Or perhaps she simply wanted his money and the fame he could bring.
The internet argued endlessly, as always.
More meticulous people began revisiting old chance-encounter news. Oh — he had been traveling to the UK frequently for years? Oh — he had stopped going to after-race parties and no longer smelled like nightclubs and alcohol? Oh — any line that sounded like flirting he now immediately deflected? Oh — he flew away immediately after races for her?
The balance began tipping toward true love. The next race weekend approached, and fans wondered whether she would finally appear.
She did.
Georgia appeared with Max at the British Grand Prix. Cameras instantly turned toward them. Georgia looked nervous, but she maintained poise and a smile. Max pulled her slightly into his arms protectively. Her face was even more striking than her silhouette: a champagne-pink silk blouse with rolled sleeves, dark brown tailored trousers, heels that made her slightly taller than Max, brown curly hair seemingly casually resting on her shoulders yet clearly styled strand by strand.
They held hands. On Georgia’s left wrist was a women’s watch matching Max’s model — less delicate than typical Omega watches, yet contrasting. Along the way she greeted other drivers and their families, clearly not new to the paddock. Max stood beside her politely smiling, occasionally speaking softly to her.
"So she’s the one Verstappen followed, unfollowed, then followed again? Interesting."
"Another WAG, another normal day. What’s the big deal?"
"But she seems familiar with everyone. Were they secretly dating already?"
Georgia apparently told a joke, because in the video Max burst into laughter, his hand sliding to her waist. She didn’t react — to her that was normal. It would be strange if he didn’t hold her waist.
"Girl, she can make Max laugh like that. What joke was that? No — who is she?!"
"Someone Google her!"
"Alright, found it! Her LinkedIn — Georgia Winnie Russell. Looks like she works at Goldman Sachs. Let’s bet when she quits to become a full-time WAG."
"I think this is just Red Bull PR to repair Max’s image."
"Oh please, this is motorsport — people with images two hundred times worse are still racing."
The chat exploded into argument.
P5. Not an ideal result.
After congratulating Lando and Oscar, Georgia saw someone walk over gloomily and sit beside her without a word. Without asking, she stretched her legs so Max could lie down.
"You were very quiet on the way back to the hotel," she said, fingers brushing through his hair. She disliked Red Bull’s toiletries smell, so he always showered again. His damp blond hair hung down as he kissed her palm.
"I didn’t win, Georgie," the Dutchman said.
"But it was still a brilliant race, wasn’t it? And in the rain — this is Britain."
"But I could have won."
"I don’t doubt that." She adjusted so he lay comfortably, fingers brushing his cheek and cheekbone, tucking loose strands behind his ear. "Winning is wonderful, but you shouldn’t give yourself all the pressure. That’s unfair to you."
"Aren’t you disappointed?" Max turned, burying his face against her stomach, dampening her shirt. "You said you liked how proud I looked after winning. I wanted to win for you."
"I also said I love you even when you lose. Love that depends on victory isn’t what I want. And you talk like every deal I’ve handled succeeded — luck matters too. Maybe someday you’ll even crash into someone out of frustration. Just bad luck," she laughed, ruffling his hair. "Come on. Let me dry it before you catch a cold."
In truth, they had first met long ago, as teenagers. Max knew of a karting driver as fearless as him but more cautious. He won his group, but the lower-category driver still impressed him.
Afterward he greeted her. "Nice driving, bro." He offered a hand. She ignored it, pushing up her visor and revealing ocean-blue eyes.
"Not 'bro'," she said, removing her helmet. It was a girl with a bob haircut — taller than him. "It’s 'sis'."
"Wow," was all Max said. "Uh, wait, I’m—"
"I know who you are. Jos Verstappen’s son. Who here wouldn’t?" she said, annoyed she hadn’t set the fastest lap. Her speech was slightly slurred. "Max Emilian Verstappen."
"And you?" he asked. "You know my name, but I don’t know yours."
She pouted, then answered: "Georgia Russell." Then ran back to her father.
Max watched her birdlike retreat until Jos’s voice rang out. "What the hell were you doing? Why did you hesitate in that corner? Does hesitation win championships?"
He said nothing.
"Don’t tell me it was because of that girl. She’s not even in your class. No one remembers losers. They won’t remember you — you’re useless."
It’s fine, Max told himself. Just let it pass.
But someone heard.
"Sir, I don’t think that’s something a father should say to his child," Georgia said, still in her suit. She had come to call him but overheard.
"You understand Dutch?" Jos didn’t look at her.
She didn’t — but tone, expression, body language were enough. She ignored him and said to Max, "Come on. The team manager is looking for us."
Jos grabbed Max and tried to shove her aside, but Mr. Russell stepped in first, pushing Jos back.
"You bastard. How dare you touch my daughter?"
The tension drew attention. Staff gathered; parents pulled children away.
Georgia stood straight behind her father, still holding her helmet, eyes fixed on Jos. She even tried pulling Max with her.
"Max, we’re leaving."
He hesitated, lips moving — apologizing.
Finally they stood on the podium together. During photos he hesitated where to put his hand, eventually resting it lightly at her waist. Afterward she handed him a note — numbers and letters.
"You know how to find me," she winked.
She never returned to the paddock afterward. There was no F1 Academy yet. She didn’t become a professional driver; she buried that dream and pursued another path.
Max followed her private social media. He watched her graduate, become prom queen with her date — she wore a navy silk halter dress, sapphire earrings, hair in braided updo, pale pink roses in hand.
He left a normal congratulatory emoji. They weren’t close enough to comment casually like Alex or Lando, but she still replied with a wink.
For years they spoke online occasionally. She encouraged his racing; he asked about university life. When he met her again — now as Alex’s teammate — he wasn’t surprised to see her in the paddock.
He had seen many photos of her, yet what stayed in his mind was still the girl in a racing suit arguing with his father. So seeing her wearing a guest pass in the Red Bull garage — and the man beside her — made him truly realize she had changed.
She waved and hugged him. "Long time no see! You got this, Max." Her speech was clearer now. Then she skipped over to Alex.
Her boyfriend introduced himself. Max didn’t bother to remember the name — only the claim that he "had" Georgia. Max laughed and patted his shoulder, telling himself jealousy was ridiculous. How could she love someone like that?
That night they celebrated Max’s championship in a nightclub. Everyone tried to make him drink. Her boyfriend wasn’t there; she came with Alex, relaxed.
She sat across from Max. Suddenly he didn’t want alcohol. He declined drinks and instead drank her with his eyes.
Soon she prepared to leave. Alex tried escorting her, but Max stopped him.
"I’ll take her."
They walked in silence until she turned into an alley.
"Did Alex tell you? Is this some prank?" she asked.
Max didn’t understand.
"I admit I like you a little," she said. "But you just broke up. That’s not an excuse to play with my feelings."
He stepped closer. She didn’t even flinch.
He held her face. "I actually just wanted to catch up. Seeing you is wonderful. But what if I told you I’ve liked you since fourteen?"
"Do I have the permission to kiss you, princess?"
They kissed in the dim alley — nothing else, just a kiss.
She laughed afterward. "This one’s free. The next one you’ll have to earn, Maxie boy."
She fixed his collar and left.
He stared, confused — Dutch brains couldn’t process British restraint.
Meanwhile she was texting Alex:
He kissed me, Albono!! HE kissed me!!
So when Alex punched him later, he was even more confused.
Max sat on the bed while Georgia dried his hair. Warmth made him sleepy, so he hugged her waist and buried his face in her chest. Her new perfume — citrus and black tea — filled his nose. He sniffed deeper and got his hair tugged.
"Okay Mr. Four-time World Champion, don’t get horny while I’m drying your hair," she teased. "Hair’s dry. Let go."
"No." He held tighter. She sighed and kissed his hair repeatedly.
Like a puppy, she thought, kissing harder. He looked up to indicate that’s the wrong spot. She laughed and pushed him onto the bed, kissing him everywhere on the face.
"I can’t go to Belgium. I have a deal in London," she said, lying on him. "But I’ll be in Hungary, okay?"
"It’s fine, Georgie. You have your life. I have mine."
She hummed, tracing his collarbone.
"You’re too obedient. It makes me uneasy."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You didn’t even complain. You used to text if I was fifteen minutes late."
"Punctuality is a virtue," he said weakly, then softly. "I don’t want you to sacrifice anything."
Her expression softened.
"I’m not sacrificing," she murmured. "I want you beside me too — just don’t fly over to spy on my meetings again."
"That was once!"
"Three times," she pinched him.
He lifted her onto his lap. "Then tell me — do you want me to ask you to stay?"
"Ask me."
"Georgie… please stay."
She touched his forehead to hers. "I still have to go to London. But I’ll be in Hungary before FP1. And don’t say stupid things to the media."
"And don’t shave your beard without my permission."
Throughout the season she appeared occasionally. People went from curiosity about what she did to whether she would appear at all. Many still called it PR or guessed when she would quit her job.
But it didn’t trouble them.
In Abu Dhabi they appeared again — closer than ever. This time Max was the one holding hands, glaring at anyone approaching — except Alex.
Lily pulled Georgia away, leaving Max sulking until she turned and smiled at him to follow. His expression melted instantly.
She dressed low-key navy, with an orange hair ribbon.
"Jealous?" she teased.
"No."
"Oh? Then I’ll keep talking to them." She reached for his chin and pretended to leave.
He grabbed her wrist. They intertwined fingers — the photo later titled The Queen and Her Fish.
Inside the Red Bull garage she released his hand only to cup his face.
"Come closer."
He did.
She removed her sunglasses.
"Good luck."
She kissed his cheek, temple, and forehead — like a knighting.
Max looked at her. Fire burned in her eyes, making the blue glow brighter that you can find the soul of Caesar in her eyes.
"Win for me, Verstappen."