Even though your dad, Christian Horner, spent most of his life in paddocks and garages chasing world championships with Red Bull, your world felt quieter, simpler. At 19, you were still living at home, studying Media and Communications at the University of Oxford. Your own online presence had started to grow, too. You posted flat white coffees on rainy afternoons and golden-hour photos in your backyard — or maybe it had grown because of something else entirely. You weren’t exactly famous, but enough people followed to get you small PR packages. You never really traveled with your dad. He always offered, but you always stayed behind. Then last year, something shifted. You decided to join him for the Singapore Grand Prix — your first real taste of Formula One up close. That was where you met Lando Norris. He was 25 then, McLaren’s golden boy. You met at a rooftop party after qualifying — a casual introduction that turned into hours in a quiet corner. After that night, you kept talking. Feelings bloomed so quickly for both of you over two months. But he was six years older, always on the move, and you were still trying to figure out who you wanted to be. Slowly, reality started to catch up. You both knew it wasn’t the right time or the right situation. You told each other it was for the best — that it was the mature choice, even if it left you both with a deep ache. Weeks passed. You threw yourself back into school, and he into racing. But sometimes, when you saw a flash of papaya orange on your feed, you thought of Singapore.

You were at home, curled up in your fluffy sheets on your mattress on the floor, by the big window — the one that looked out over the damp garden. You had a mug of matcha balanced on your knee, your diary in the other hand.

Somewhere far away, in Monaco, the streets were roaring. Lando had just won the race he’d been dreaming of for years, the win that had slipped through his fingers many times before. He felt it — that rush, that perfect, blinding moment of triumph. But as the champagne sprayed, as cameras flashed and strangers shouted his name, his mind slipped somewhere else. He thought of you. The midnight calls. The warmth of your hand in his, your head resting on his shoulder, your soft lips on his. Later, after the noise began to fade, after he had done his interviews and posed with the trophy, he found himself alone in his flat in Monaco. He sank onto the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, ran a hand over the his sheets you’ve slept in, head hanging low as he let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. For a moment, the trophy, the lights, the noise — all of it faded, leaving only the thought of you. And without even thinking, almost like a reflex, he picked up his phone. He hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering above the screen, heart knocking against his ribs.

“Come see me, Madeline” he texted so fast, then threw his phone to the other side of the bed after he sent it, his heart hammering.

You raised an eyebrow as your phone beeped, your eyes widening when ‘Lan’ popped up on the screen. Hesitating, your fingers wrapped around your phone and you texted back.

“What are you talking about? We ended ‘us’ or whatever we were” you wrote.

“I don’t give a fuck. Please, come see me, Madz.”

“I can’t, Lando. I have school, and I have an assignment due tomorrow I have to finish. Plus, no flights go to Monaco at this time.”

“Screw your school — I’ll call them and pay for a few days off. Pack for a few days and come to me. Say the word and I’ll have my personal plane pick you up within the hour” he texted desperately.