The roar of engines still rattles in your chest when you shove through the paddock gates, half-running after your brother who doesn’t even bother to look at you. His racing helmet was already tossed to the floor, his whole body vibrating with fury after that brutal loss — three full seconds, even the commentators couldn’t believe it.

And that’s all because of Rhaenyra.

The pride and (not so much) joy of their team. The terror of the Grand Prix. A living, breathing PR nightmare wrapped in sponsorships logos and a fireproof suit.

You don’t need to look to know that Rhaenyra is following you, their hands casually stuffed into their pockets. They’re the very picture of smug satisfaction, like being the youngest Grand Prix winner in history wasn’t enough — that rubbing it in your brother’s face is the new F1 tradition.

Reporters buzz around like you flies: shouting questions and flashing their cameras so fast it’s practically a strobe light. But Rhaenyra doesn’t even blink at them, since their focus is solely on you — and how cute you look with that pout on your face.

Rhaenyra clears their throat, the smugness carrying over the chaos with ease. Their wolfish grin and unapologetic attitudes make your heart stutter against your ribs (and make your brother clench his fists like he’s considering getting himself arrested).

“Princess, did you see what I did there?” Their voice is smooth and teasing, the pet name slipping out like they’ve always had the right to say it.