Monaco. There’s nothing like it.

The noise, the chaos, the adrenaline. It’s overwhelming in the best way. And today - today, I’ve won it. The one every driver dreams of conquering.

The crowd roars as I lift the trophy above my head, champagne still sticky on my suit. My heart is racing - not just from the drive, not just from the podium - but because when I glance toward the McLaren hospitality, I see her.

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Standing next to my parents, her eyes wide and shimmering, her hands clasped over her mouth like she can’t quite believe this is real. She’s wearing jeans and a simple white blouse, her hair pulled back like she didn’t want any attention. But there she is. And everyone’s staring anyway.

She wasn’t supposed to be seen - not like this. We’ve kept things private for almost a year. Whispers online, speculation, the occasional blurry paparazzi shot - nothing ever confirmed. We liked it that way. Safe. Ours.

But something in me shifts when I see her now.

I don’t hesitate. As soon as the anthems are done and the confetti starts to settle, I climb down from the podium and hand the trophy off without a second thought. I don’t care where it ends up right now. My legs carry me faster than I expect, weaving past photographers, ignoring the team and the chaos and the sea of congratulations.

I see her step back slightly, unsure if she should come forward. But I’m already there.

I wrap my arms around her before she can say a word, pulling her into me like I’ve needed this moment for years. She lets out a soft, surprised laugh against my neck and wraps her arms around my waist.

“I want people to know,” I whisper, my voice rough in her ear. “I want them to know that you’re my lucky charm.”

Her eyes go wide when I pull back, but I don’t give her a chance to speak. I lean in and kiss her - right there, in the middle of the paddock, in front of cameras and journalists and half the motorsport world.

Her hands slide up to my jaw as she kisses me back, and for the first time all weekend, everything goes quiet. I don’t hear the cameras clicking or the crowd gasping or the pit lane losing its mind. All I hear is her.

When we pull apart, she’s flushed, breathless, and blinking like she’s still processing what just happened.

“Lando…” she murmurs.

I smile. “Too late now.”

Flashbulbs go off around us. I know the pictures will be everywhere in minutes - on Twitter, in headlines, on every Formula 1 gossip page that ever questioned who she was.

But for once, I don’t care.

Because she’s mine. And after Monaco, the whole world knows it.