Chapter Text
Margaret Ryan was never the girl people expected. Too energetic. Too weird. Too loud. She was the kind of girl who made teachers sigh, fashion photographers flinch, and engines purr. Born into a family that glowed in the limelight of the modeling world, Margaret stood out—not for her beauty or grace, but for the oil-stained jeans and the wild ideas she carried like a second skin.
She never cared for catwalks or designer shoes. What thrilled her heart were stripped-down engines, busted-up bumpers, and the smell of gasoline. Her mother considered it her worst trait—"unladylike" and "embarrassing." But to Margaret, it was the only thing that ever made sense.
Her father had understood—but she lost him at the age of five. The memory faded over the years, but the ache remained, like a gear that would never quite fit. What she did remember, with painful clarity, was the day her mother remarried—exactly one month later. A hollow blur of white dresses and forced smiles.
Strangely enough, Margaret never hated her stepfather. In fact, she believed—deep down—he might have been just a poor man who foolishly fell in love with her mother, the ice queen. He wasn't perfect, but he believed in her. And when he gifted her a broken-down junkyard for her tenth birthday—complete with rusted-out cars and faded dreams—she knew he understood her better than anyone ever had.
Well, almost anyone.
That title belonged to Max Verstappen—or, as she liked to call him, her Maxiee.
~ Flashback~
She was six years old, tagging along on one of her stepfather's business trips to Limberg, Belgium. Her mother and siblings were off again at another fashion show, leaving her behind—not that she minded. After hours of relentless pleading, her stepfather finally agreed to take her to the nearby karting track. "Only for a few minutes," he warned.
Everything was going smoothly—until a sudden delay forced the event to a halt. Needing a bathroom break, she tugged at his sleeve and darted off. He followed her, waiting just outside the bathroom door, his eyes shifting nervously between the hallway and the pit area.
But Margaret, being Margaret, wandered.
And that's when she found him.
A blond boy sat alone, clutching his helmet tightly to his chest. His face was flushed, eyes shadowed with frustration, and a scraped knee peeked from beneath his racing suit.
Margaret didn't hesitate.
She plopped down beside him, cross-legged, like she belonged there.
He didn't look up.
"Hey..." she said softly, pulling a tiny red race car–shaped bandaid from her pocket. "What happened to you?"
He flinched. "Why do you care? Just leave me alone. I don't even know you," he snapped in Dutch-accented English.
She held out the bandaid. "Here. You need it more than I do."
He stared, surprised. "...Is that a car?"
"Obviously," she replied with a grin. "Limited edition. Like a turbocharger for your leg."
Still, he didn't move.
Without waiting, she gently pressed the bandaid over his scrape.
"Hey! What are you—?"
"Relax," she said, smiling. "Quick fix."
He looked at her, confused by her boldness and the soft way she cared.
"You know about cars?" he finally asked.
"Of course. They're my favorite people."
He snorted, but the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Suddenly, a sharp voice echoed from down the hallway.
"Margaret!"
She turned, eyes wide, and started to run.
But just as she rounded the corner, a loud, flustered voice yelled after her,
"Margaret"! MAX VERSTAPPEN!!!"
Her cheeks lifted in a mischievous grin as she called back over her shoulder,
"Bye, Maxiee!"
Max's face turned bright red, the boldness of shouting his full name catching him off guard, as he watched her disappear.
From that day on, Margaret found every excuse to visit Max at the track. She'd tell jokes in kilometers per hour, challenge him to imaginary races, and somehow always find a way to tweak his kart—tightening a bolt here, adjusting the brakes there—making it just a little faster, a little smoother.
Max didn't like her at first. She was loud, weird, and far too energetic for his quiet focus. But slowly, her crazy enthusiasm and endless curiosity started to grow on him. She became his wild card, the only person who could get under his skin and make him laugh at the same time.
Their friendship, fueled by engines and laughter, was just beginning