The Ambassador's Daughter • Max Verstappen

The Gala

I'd been staring out the window behind a random member of parliament for about 10 minutes, oblivious and deaf to the noise and commotion of yet another stuffy, fancy gala I was obligated to be attending as the only child to the American ambassador within England.

It wasn't that I hated everything about the endless stream of galas, fancy dinners, and even the occasional traditional ball, the dresses and the shoes were always the upside, but I had no taste for the food and had trouble watching what I said to ambassadors for other countries, members of parliament, the prime minister, and even once the Queen.

My mother said I was just precocious and that the guests found my directness enchanting, my father said that the charm had worn off now I was 20. So I was expect to keep my answers short, my questions trivial, and my smile wide. As the daughter of an ambassador, I had grown up surrounded by and deeply interested by the politics that governed the world, with endless questions about religions, cultures, and war. My father never failed to answer my questions unless we were with company, so I had resorted to gazing out the window.

The flash of cameras outside caught my attention and broke my moment of self pity. Turning my face to my father's, I raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the window. My father shook his head and motioned for me to sit back straight in my chair. I rolled my eyes but followed suit, the heavy and restrictive gown I'd be laced into tonight, although one of the more gorgeous I'd worn, was tugging to sit back properly.

I focused instead on the plate in front of me, picking at the tiny portions of fancy food I really had no interest in eating. I didn't glance up, knowing my father would be glaring in my direction. But my head snapped up when I heard the doors open and the room fall silent as a newcomer was gestured towards our table and to the seat beside me. How had I managed to not notice the empty chair to my right?

I knew the boy as soon as he settled down beside me, smiling warmly at the entire table while apologizing for his lateness. My father, never one to forgive lateness, waved away the apologies with a carefree hand and a word of welcome.

"Max Verstappen, why are you at a gala?" I asked before I could catch myself, "you could have opted out, it's god awfully boring and stuffy, plus the food is absolute shit." I heard my father's exasperated sigh accompanied by my mother's gasp of horror. I tried to suppress a laugh, but failed to, at the stunned look on Max's face, his blue eyes wide in surprise and his mouth hanging slightly open.

Everyone at the table stared him down, waiting in silence for his reaction when he threw his head back and let out a loud laugh, and continued to laugh until he was close to tears. The rest of the table had returned to talking once the possibility of an offended celebrity had abated but I had crossed my arms and frowned at the brown haired, surprisingly bright eyed driver.

"What's the frown for?" Max asked, as he wiped away tears and tried to stop laughing.

"You're laughing at me. I don't like being laughed at," I said irritably. That only made him laugh again.

"Bloody hell, I'm not laughing at you, I've just never heard a truer statement made at a gala before," he said, offering me his hand. "I'm Max, but I guess you already know that."

"Yeah, I do, I'm-" I started to say before Max interrupted.

"I know who you are, you're the American ambassador's daughter." I raised my eyebrow at him.

"And why in the hell do you know that?" I asked, a little taken aback. He just pointed at the name card in front of me.

"Same last names, it's not rocket science to put the two together. Plus, the papers love you. But lord, your father is the most mild-mannered person I've ever met and you, you're a little hellion."