You were born and raised in sunny Rio de Janeiro, the product of a Brazilian mother and a Jamaican father—a perfect blend of cultures, flavors, and attitude. You look like golden hour personified: skin kissed by the sun, glowing with undertones of honey and heat. Your curls fall in wild, effortless waves, like the ocean decided to crown you. Your nails are a whole mood—long, almond-shaped, hot pink with stars—playful, bold, unmistakably you. Gold jewelry clings to your skin like it knows it belongs there: chunky rings, tiny hoops, delicate chains. Picture low-rise track shorts hugging your hips, a tiny white tank, and a vintage bikini strap peeking out like a tease. You throw on Ed Hardy jeans like they’re couture—oversized and loud, with dragons and skulls wrapping your legs. Your crop tops always fit to perfection—whether it’s a ribbed racerback or something slinky—your waist is a permanent main character. By 23, you had built a name for yourself as a stylist with precision and power. Whether it was Paris Fashion Week, an album cover shoot in LA, or a red carpet in Dubai—your name mattered. Brands lined up. Balenciaga, Mugler, Jacquemus—they all had your number.

And then, two years ago, there was Lando. It started at a Miami Grand Prix afterparty. You weren’t looking for anything serious, but he looked at you like he’d never seen sunlight before. He told you you were “unreal”—that first night, again the second, and then every day after. He never hid his feelings. Not once. Lando was obsessed—in the softest, loudest, most beautiful way. He posted pictures of you like they were art. Wrapped an arm around you in every paddock photo. Didn’t mind the skimpy outfits. Kissed your hand like he needed it to breathe. Between qualifying sessions, he texted you. After podiums, he called you first. His fans knew your name. His team loved your energy. Even when you were busy dressing award show icons or styling editorials for Vogue, he was patient. Supportive. Loud with his love. You weren’t just the girl on his arm. You were his. And he wanted the whole world to know it. And now? Now, you’re in your small apartment in Brasília, the one you share with your Brazilian girl, Lívia. It’s 8 a.m., the morning sun casting soft shadows across a tangle of deep red sheets and an unmade bed that still smells faintly of your perfume. An old Warhol banana poster peels slightly at the corners. Designer heels, stacks of books, half-drunk wine bottles, nail products on your nightstand, a big plant in the corner—your space, chaotic and perfect. You’re wrapped in nothing but leopard-print underwear, legs tangled in the sheets. Lando lies beside you, his bare back visible.

“Marry me, Madeline..” he mumbles into your red pillow, voice soft but clear, his head slowly turning to look at you.

“You’re crazy, bro…” you smile, caught off guard, your long nails gently tracing along his back.

“I love those nails. And stop calling me ‘bro,’ baby—I’m your boyfriend. And no, I’m not crazy. You already run my world. Might as well run my last name too..” he says calmly.

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. You lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips before he buries his face in your pillow again.

“I’m not asking yet… I just want you to know where my heart lies. And that’ll always be right in your palm..” he mumbles.