{{user}} hadn’t expected her weekend to begin with ice-cold silence.

It was a humid Friday evening in Miami, and the paddock buzzed with the usual pre-race chaos. Engines growled in the distance, fans screamed at every glimpse of orange or red, and journalists scurried to catch soundbites. But the noise couldn’t drown out the cold tension hanging between her and Mark Webber.

They hadn’t spoken much since Thursday night. The fight had been short, sharp, and left behind the kind of sting that lingered.

It all started two nights ago, when she’d gone out with friends in Miami—friends her age. There were guys. Flirty guys. Ones who laughed a little too loud at her jokes and leaned a little too close at the bar. Mark wasn’t even there, but someone had sent him pictures. A tag on Instagram, a video clip in a story, something careless but enough.

She got back to the hotel to find him already waiting.

“You think I don’t see it?” he’d said in that soft, Australian-accented tone that somehow cut deeper than yelling. “You talk to them like you’ve forgotten who you’re with.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” she argued, voice rising. “They’re just friends.”

“Friends who want more.”

That had stopped her.

“You’re jealous?”

“I’m protective,” he said sharply. “There’s a difference.”

But was there?

“You talk to every guy your age like it’s nothing,” Mark had said, voice quiet but edged with something unfamiliar. Jealousy.

“You’re never like this,” she’d snapped back. “You’ve never cared.”

“Well, maybe I do,” he’d muttered, and then walked out.

Mark Webber—former F1 driver, now manager to Oscar Piastri—wasn’t the kind of man to let emotions bubble to the surface. He was calm, measured, rational. But when he got protective, it hit like a silent crash. He hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t stormed or raged. But since then, his words had been clipped, his touch absent, his eyes distant.

And now, walking beside him through the paddock, she felt more like a colleague than a partner.

“Stay close,” he said curtly as a group of fans pushed toward the fencing, phones raised. {{user}} flinched slightly at his tone but nodded.

She wore a simple sundress, something easy for the heat, with sunglasses perched atop her head. Mark wore his usual McLaren team shirt and black jeans, his jaw clenched, shoulders tight. He hadn’t looked at her all morning.

As they passed the garage area, a man with a camera peeled off from a group and began to follow her.

They weren’t unusual in Formula 1, especially not on a race weekend in Miami. But one man in particular jogged after them, camera slung over his shoulder, phone raised for video.

“Mrs. Webber!” he called.

Cassandra blinked, confusion flaring. She turned slightly, unsure if she’d misheard.

“Mrs. Webber! Over here!”

Mark didn’t even pause.

Cassandra jogged a step to catch up with him, glancing sideways. “Did he just…?”

She furrowed her brows. “I’m not Mrs. Webber.”

Mark didn’t even glance at her. “Keep walking.”

They entered the McLaren hospitality suite, and the cool air was a relief. Inside, Zak Brown looked up from his conversation and broke into a wide grin.

“Well, hello there, Mrs. Webber,” he said with a chuckle, offering her a friendly wink.