Chapter Text
01
Miss Georgia Russell of the UCL Faculty of Arts & Humanities was a well-known influencer in her elite circles. To her Instagram and TikTok followers, she was the epitome of the "expensive" art student—polished, untouchable, and perpetually overachieving.
Technically, Media wasn't Fine Art, but that distinction didn't matter when you had a face that stopped traffic, signature bombshell waves, and a height that commanded the room even without heels.
Georgia was the walking personification of a high-end stereotype—provided you ignored the student loan balance hidden in her desk
Her Instagram, @GeorgiaRussell63, was a meticulously curated masterpiece:
- Leaning against the Roman columns of the Wilkins Building, caught in a moment of "accidental" study (golden hour hair glow, naturally).
- Posing with a coffee cup by the Thames—always at the exact cafe currently trending.
- The occasional snippet of coursework, because a G5 student needs to look as cerebral as she is chic.
Combined with her childhood history of karting and a few junior trophies to her name, Georgia had a unique edge. This "personality hire" trait separated her from the sea of generic pretty girls and secured the brand deals that kept her lifestyle afloat.
With a steady 36k followers, she had enough clout to filter through high-end "stealth" sponsorships without looking cheap or like a "typical influencer."
The university’s wealthy elite swarmed her, from supercar drivers to heirs of private islands.
But Georgia knew that "free" was always the most expensive price. She was goal-oriented: no quick cash, only the kind of prestige that could be etched into a LinkedIn profile or boost her personal brand value.
She spent her time grinding for top-tier internships, attending charity galas, and carefully planning every digital appearance. She managed herself like a work of art—beautiful, tasteful, and just a little bit brilliant.
Georgia hurried through the corridor, clutching her MacBook and a reference book as thick as a brick. Her stilettos clicked sharply against the polished marble.
A group of boys approached, their eyes unashamedly glued to her. One slowed his pace intentionally.
"Hey, Georgia. There’s a party in the West End tonight, I heard the band is incredible..." He tilted his chin, his tone carrying that usual hint of condescending entitlement.
Georgia didn’t stop. She simply tilted her head, her lips curving into a flawless but chilly smile.
"Thanks, Lance. But I’ve got a paper on visual storytelling in social media due. Deadlines wait for no one." She flashed the art book in her hand—a graceful, airtight rejection.
Lance’s smile faltered. He shrugged and moved on. Georgia kept her gaze fixed forward, though her nerves remained taut.
She knew exactly what strings were attached to the favors of boys born with silver spoons. She refused to let herself become the currency.
Her phone buzzed in a quiet corner. It was a photo from Logan: two VIP passes to the McLaren team for the British Grand Prix.
-“I know you used to kart, figured you’d like this?”
[Image]
-“Let’s go to the race next weekend? 🥺”
Logan was smarter than Lance; at least he’d done his research. Georgia stared at the passes.
A McLaren paddock tour... the team was starving for engagement. The chances of a VIP photo op were 100%.
If she played her cards right, she’d get a repost from the official account. This was organic growth on a silver platter.
A photo with Lando Norris at Silverstone was enough to make her engagement skyrocket—maybe even double her rates for future ads.
As for the risk? Logan’s obvious intentions were a risk, sure. But Georgia had absolute confidence in her ability to manage men like him.
Logan valued his reputation too much to make things messy. She typed a quick "OK," tucked her phone away, and stepped into the cool London breeze with a predatory, winning smile.
02
The roar of Silverstone was loud enough to lift the roof. The air was a thick cocktail of burnt rubber, engine screams, and the manic energy of the crowd.
Georgia had dressed to kill.
A vibrant papaya-orange tube top highlighted her collarbones, paired with low-rise jeans that made her legs look miles long. A cropped black jacket hung loosely off her shoulders—effortless, yet perfectly framing her proportions.
Her hair was voluminous and glossy, her "no-makeup" makeup look radiating a literal spotlight effect.
She and Logan sat in the designated VIP area outside the McLaren paddock. Lando had just finished a brief interview and was heading toward the hospitality unit.
When Logan waved, Lando walked over like he was greeting an old friend. After a bit of banter, Logan took a few photos of Georgia and Lando.
Georgia checked the shots and gave Logan an appreciative look. He actually had an eye for aesthetics.
In the photo, Georgia leaned slightly toward Lando. His hand rested naturally on the outside of her arm—a safe, respectful touch.
She had executed a subtle, practiced twist of her torso, a micro-movement that let her side-profile take center stage. From the line of her chest to her narrow waist and the sweep of her hips, the silhouette was as sharp and intentional as a fashion editorial.
Georgia tucked her phone away, told Logan she wanted to "soak up the atmosphere" on the track, and turned away without a second glance. She disappeared into the crowd like a clever fish, leaving only a striking silhouette behind.
She didn't notice that just a few feet away, at the Red Bull garage, a man in a navy team kit had just pulled off his headset. His gaze was locked on her like a tractor beam.
Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, had just finished his final pre-race strategy meeting. He’d intended to take a quick breather, glancing casually at the chaos of influencers near McLaren, when he was blindsided by Georgia’s smile.
Fuck. He was down bad.
He instinctively took a step forward, heading toward the McLaren side, but the flash of orange was already gone, swallowed by the crowd. Max stood there, headset still in hand. The deafening roar of the garage seemed to fade into the background.
He frustratedly ran a hand through his hair, flattened by his cap, and muttered a Dutch curse under his breath.
Who the hell was that girl?