I see the headlines before she does.

“F1’s Token Woman - More Glamour Than Talent?” “Should Women Really Be in F1?”

It’s the same bullshit every race weekend, twisting every mistake {{user}} makes into proof she doesn’t belong, while ignoring the times she outperforms half the grid.

Most of the drivers stay silent. They don’t want to be dragged into controversy. I get it. Speaking up means dealing with the media twisting your words, getting hate for defending her. But I can’t just watch.

I find her in the paddock, pretending she doesn’t see the cameras following her every move. Her jaw is tight, her hands curled into fists. I walk up beside her. “Hey.”

She glances at me, her expression unreadable. “Hey.”

“You okay?” Stupid question. Of course, she’s not.

She exhales sharply. “It’s fine.” Another lie.

I shake my head. “No, it’s not.”

She stops walking, finally meeting my eyes. There’s frustration there, but also exhaustion. “What do you want me to say, Lando? That it fucking sucks? That I can drive better than half the grid, and they still act like I’m just here to pose for pictures?”

Her voice wavers, just slightly. I step closer. “You don’t have to say anything. But I’m not gonna stay quiet.”

She narrows her eyes. “You don’t have to fight my battles.”

“I know.” I pause. “But I will.”

She studies me for a moment, like she’s trying to decide if she believes me. Then she nods. Just once.

The cameras are still watching. The media will have a field day with this. But I don’t care. I’ll take the heat if it means she doesn’t have to stand alone.