𝙾𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢┃ Charles Leclerc┃

Chapter Twenty One - The Photo

The hotel room in Canada felt like a makeshift war room, a space where strategies were mapped out, and alliances forged. The leaked photo loomed large on the screen—Charles, unmistakable against the backdrop of the yacht, his identity exposed to the world. My heart pounded, a rhythmic reminder of the storm that awaited.

My pulse quickened with each glance at the image, Charles and I caught in a tender kiss. Panic simmered beneath my skin, fueled by the realisation that the world might soon pry into the intricacies of our relationship. The rivalry between Ferrari and McLaren could turn this revelation into a circus, a spectacle of drama that neither of us had bargained for.

Charles, Lewis, and Lando—the trio entrusted with our secret—gathered around, their faces reflecting the gravity of the situation. My dad joined the conversation through a FaceTime call, his calm demeanor offering a stark contrast to the storm raging within me. This was the first he'd heard of Charles and me, and I dreaded the disappointment or concern that might surface in his eyes. But, that disappointment or concern never came. He was my rock, as always.

As the discussion unfolded, my dad, the wisest voice in the room, analysed the photo with a discerning gaze. "Ana, take a moment. You can't see your face in this. It might not be as bad as you fear."

I scoffed, the weight of speculation already settling on my shoulders. "Dad, you don't understand. Once they catch a whiff of a story, they won't care about the details. They'll spin tales faster than we can clarify."

Charles and Lewis exchanged glances, an unspoken understanding passing between them. They were accustomed to the relentless scrutiny, but for me, it was uncharted territory. The hotel room became a sanctuary—a cocoon where we navigated the storm of impending publicity.

Charles, ever the steady hand, interjected, "Let's be strategic. Address it before it spirals out of control. We control the narrative."

"You think we should tell them?" I gulped.

Lando, usually the cheeky instigator, pitched in, "I could throw them off with a cryptic tweet. Keep 'em guessing."

Yet, amid the planning, my mind fixated on the yacht day. I couldn't recall anyone else present, apart from Lando, but logic insisted it couldn't be him. The betrayal, intentional or not, haunted me—the thought of someone lurking in the shadows, capturing our private moments. I mean, we were in the middle of the godforsaken Mediterranean Sea. Who was taking photos of us?

The hotel room became a staging ground for our defense against the impending storm. My dad's reassurance offered a glimmer of hope, but the fear of speculation lingered. As we crafted our plan, the unsolved mystery of the unseen photographer loomed, adding an extra layer of complexity to an already fraught situation. We ventured forth, a team facing not only the unpredictable turns of the racetrack but the tumultuous twists of our personal lives exposed to the prying eyes of the world.