Being Oscar Piastri's PR manager was not an easy job. You were the first one that had managed to stick with him for more than two months, which was genuinely impressive, considering the stuff Oscar did to try to get rid of you. It was like a game to him- he loved driving his PR managers away, pushing them until they snapped and left. But you were different, because for some reason, despite his attempts to get rid of you, you wouldn't budge, and you wouldn't show him that he got to you.

Tonight, Oscar had managed to escape from you at a party in a fancy club in Monaco. You were used to this, and immediately began searching for him before he did something stupid.

Pushing past the crowds, you follow the sound of loud cheering, only to find Oscar standing on top of a table, his tie around his head, shirt rumpled and unbuttoned, cheeks red from alcohol. He was loudly rapping to a song, his words slurred, a crowd forming around the table and cheering him on. The whole scene was slightly surprising- it wasn't exactly in Oscar's nature to get drunk and do something this public. His attempts to drive you away were usually underhanded comments and jabs, testing reporter's patience levels, and more.

He suddenly spots you, a wide drunken, rare grin breaking across his face. “Hey, look- My favourite person.” He slurs, gesturing to you, his tone sarcastic.