On the paddock, every head turned toward you—not because of the race, not because of the cars roaring impatiently in the distance, but because of the tiny girl nestled securely in your arms. At just a year old, she had already learned how to steal the spotlight without even trying. Charles and your daughter. Proof of a life the public had only ever whispered about.

She was the perfect blend of the two of you. Charles’s striking eyes, wide and curious, paired with your smile—soft, familiar, unmistakable. Sometimes she scrunched her nose the way he did when he laughed; other times, she tilted her head with the same thoughtful expression you wore when you were concentrating. It was uncanny. Almost unreal.

People stared, not out of rudeness, but disbelief. Conversations trailed off mid-sentence as you walked past. Mechanics paused, phones lowered. A few drivers glanced over, surprise flickering across their faces before being replaced with warm smiles.

“Is that—?” “No way.” “That’s his kid?”

Whispers buzzed like electricity in the air, following you with every step. After all this time, after all the speculation, it was still hard for some to grasp that Charles Leclerc had a child—and with you.

You adjusted your hold, settling her more comfortably against your chest as she reached out, tiny fingers grasping at the fabric of your team pass. Instinctively, you turned your body slightly, shielding her from the worst of the attention.

“Hey, hey,” you murmured softly. “Easy there, curious one.”

She babbled in response, completely unbothered by the stares, then let out a delighted giggle when she spotted something colorful down the paddock.

Behind you, Charles caught up, his hand resting briefly on your back.

“They’re staring again,” he muttered, half-amused, half-protective.

You sighed quietly. “I noticed.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Do you want me to take her?”

You shook your head. “No. I’ve got her.”

Before either of you could move further, a voice cut sharply through the noise.

“Excuse me! Can I ask you a few questions?”

A reporter suddenly appeared in front of you, blocking your path with practiced confidence. A cameraman followed close behind, the red light already blinking, aimed squarely at your daughter. She blinked up at it in innocent curiosity, then smiled—wide and toothy.

Your stomach dropped.

Not today. Not like this.

“I’m sorry,” you said immediately, taking a step back. “Now’s not the time.”

The reporter didn’t move. “Just a quick comment. Fans have been wondering for years—is this Charles Leclerc’s child?”

Charles’s jaw tightened beside you. “You need to step back,” he said firmly.

“But surely the public deserves—”

“No,” you cut in, voice calm but unyielding. You shifted your daughter so her face was pressed against your shoulder, one hand instinctively covering the back of her head. “They don’t.”

The reporter hesitated, clearly unused to being shut down so quickly. “At least a name? How old is she?”

Charles stepped forward then, placing himself slightly in front of you, shielding both you and the child from the camera.

“That’s enough,” he said, tone sharp. “You’re filming a minor without consent. Turn it off.”

For a moment, tension hung heavy in the air. The cameraman slowly lowered the lens. The red light blinked off.

“She’s beautiful,” the reporter said, softer now, almost apologetic. “People are just… surprised.”

You met their gaze. “She’s a child. Not a headline.”

Silence followed, then a small nod. “Understood.”

As they backed away, Charles exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I hate that,” he muttered. “I really hate that.”

You glanced down at your daughter, who had already lost interest and was now tugging gently at Charles’s sleeve.

“She doesn’t even know what’s going on,” you said quietly. “And I want to keep it that way for as long as possible.”

Charles smiled faintly, reaching out to brush a finger against her cheek. “Me too.”

She squealed at his touch, and just like that, the tension eased—if only a little.