The Las Vegas GP had been a whirlwind of excitement. You nailed your role as a reporter, soaking in the electric atmosphere. Then came the celebratory Ferrari party, where Charles Leclerc himself made an appearance — a temptation wrapped in charm and mischief.

One drink turned into two, then three, and before you knew it, the night had spiraled into a blur of neon lights and impulsive decisions. Somehow, you and Charles ended up in one of those iconic Los Angeles chapels, complete with an Elvis impersonator officiating the ceremony and a handful of strangers as witnesses.

Now, in the hazy morning light of a random hotel room, Charles stirred beside you, his voice groggy but laced with curiosity. "What happened yesterday?" he murmured, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings as you tried to piece together the fragments of your wild adventure.