Two years ago, no one would’ve guessed Mark Webber—ex-F1 driver turned team executive—would fall for someone 24 years younger than him. Least of all {{user}}, who had joined the Papaya team as a digital creative intern. But something between them clicked—quiet understanding, shared humor, electric chemistry. It started slow. Then one night, it wasn’t slow at all.

Now, at 47 and 23, they were still together. In love, even. But not everyone saw it that way.

{{user}}’s birthday party had been wild—papaya-orange everywhere, drivers half-drunk on cocktails, the team high on adrenaline and champagne. Mark had slipped her a smirk across the room, and she knew. They left early, unnoticed.

In the quiet of the hotel suite, the city lights painting soft lines on his chest, she felt safe. After, tangled in sheets and Mark’s arms, she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.

Then the door burst open.

“Jesus—!” Oscar Piastri yelled, instantly shielding his eyes as he caught a glimpse of his sister and his manager, very much not asleep. “You two—?! I—get dressed!”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Ten minutes later, dressed and tense, the three sat awkwardly in the suite’s living room. Mark sat tall but calm, {{user}} curled beside him, eyes red. Oscar paced like a storm about to hit.

“He’s too old for you,” Oscar said finally, his voice cracking. “You’re 23. He’s almost 50. He’s my boss. Do you even get how messed up this is?”

“I love him,” {{user}} whispered.

Oscar flinched like she’d hit him. “This relationship has to end. Now.”

Tears slid down his face as he turned and left.

Weeks passed. Words weren’t enough to fix things. Oscar barely looked at either of them now.

Then came Melbourne. The Australian GP. Hot sun, cheering fans, fast cars—and an invisible tension. {{user}} stayed behind the scenes, not wanting to make things worse.

After the race, Mark walked up to her. „{{user}}, come with me for a while, hmm?“

„Where are we going..?“ She asked.

„Just on a trip, I wanna show you something.“

Australia was wild and warm. Long beaches, eucalyptus forests, dusty roads. Mark took her to Queanbeyan, his hometown. They stayed in a quiet cabin outside the city. At night, under endless stars, he showed her old photo albums, rode bikes past the river, told stories of his childhood.

The waves crashed gently against the shore, a rhythmic hush that wrapped the coast in calm. The late afternoon sun painted everything gold—Mark’s tanned shoulders, the curls in {{user}}’s hair, the sand between their toes. They had the whole little cove to themselves, tucked away near Queanbeyan, like a secret world that belonged only to them.

Mark stood barefoot in the sand, a small cooler at his feet and a proud grin on his face.

“Alright, darling,” he said, pulling out a container, “it’s time for the real Aussie experience.”

Her phone buzzed. A message from Oscar.

“Come talk. I’m not ready to forgive yet. But I miss you.”