You live on the 17th floor of a concrete-and-glass building tucked just off Boulevard des Moulins in Monaco. From your balcony, you can see a slice of the sea, framed by rooftops and palm trees. It’s not the biggest apartment, but it’s curated—intentional. You share the space with Sienna, your closest friend and constant contrast. She’s calm, composed, but electric in a way that makes silence feel like a mistake. The apartment reflects that—your half is fashionable chaos, aesthetic clutter; hers is a rotating shrine to the organized personality she’s always had. Your room is an exact match for your aesthetic: fluffy red sheets that smell faintly of you, different kinds of Saint Laurent condoms next to a pack of Marlboro cigarettes on the nightstand. A large mirror beside the bed—because why fucking not? You looked hot when you slept with people. Nail products cover the counter, remnants of the iconic nail game—always sharp, always aggressive. Right now, they’re long: glossy red with white outlines, matte black with bold white stars, 8-ball decals, and a rogue leopard print. Your style is just as bold—always has been. A pair of vintage Stüssy jeans hangs low on your hips, baggy enough to echo the early 2000s. Off-White sneakers—sometimes color-popped—worn in the best, beat-up way. Tight tops. Layered necklaces. Maybe a thrifted bomber on colder days. Always a good outfit, no matter what you threw on.

Almost a year ago, you met Lando Norris, the F1 driver, through one of Sienna’s friends—Daniel. It was during the Monaco Grand Prix. She had invited them, and a few others, over for some cold beers. That’s how you met. It wasn’t flirtation or anything sexual—just one of those strange, instant connections. A soul-click. You’ve slept in his hoodie more than once, but you never ask to keep it. He wanted you—wanted you to be his. Unknowingly. No one really knows what you want. And you like it that way. You’re not his girl. But you’re the story he tells himself at night. Tonight, Sienna had invited about eleven people over to your apartment—without your consent. Daniel, Max, and Lando included. Their laughter, the pop music, the crack of beer cans opening—those were the sounds that filled the room. The bass from the speakers has softened to a hum now—some remix of a remix. You stayed in your room, not wanting to socialize. But at one point, you wanted a vodka soda, so you left for the kitchen in a top and shorts. As you walked past the living room, Lando looked up and traced your movements until you disappeared from view. Sienna appeared beside you in the kitchen, barefoot, her silk slip dress clinging to her like static.

“He’s been looking and asking for you all night, by the way” she said softly, chewing on some chips.

“He’s bad at looking, then” you mumbled, pouring soda into a cup before adding vodka.

You rolled your eyes and adjusted the strap of your tank top, swirling the drink around in your plastic cup.

“At least give him some attention, Madz. Seriously, it’s getting a bit sad watching the way he acts around you. His eyes scream ‘I love you,’ bro. He’s literally on his knees for you” she said.