「 ⩩ 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 Liliana swore off F1 drivers after a situationship gone wrong-until Ni-ki, the coldest racer on the grid, offers her a fake relationship she should have said no to.」
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He loo...
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"Red Bull gives you wings," Lily muttered to her phone screen, her thumb hovering over the 'publish' button. She stared at the sleek, silver can in her hand, as if willing it to defy the laws of physics and launch her straight out of the manicured, ridiculously expensive Red Bull headquarters.
Yet, right then, she felt like she had everything but wings. Not even a sad, deflated set of cardboard props, let alone the kind that could airlift her to Honolulu, where the only thing anyone knew about her was whether she preferred extra pineapple on her pizza.
Maybe there, amongst the swaying palms and suspiciously happy tourists, the internet, the F1 press, and a certain childhood friend who'd clearly graduated from "friend" to "public humiliation," would finally, mercifully, forget her.
A sour taste, not entirely from the questionable energy drink, bloomed on her tongue. Had she really been that bold just a few days ago, standing up to Sunghoon?
Now, watching the immaculate Red Bull garage hum with a controlled frenzy, she was slowly, excruciatingly, regretting every single, impulsive syllable. The place smelled of high-octane fuel, ambition, and probably regret-induced anxiety, too.
She was surrounded by a phalanx of focused mechanics, their jumpsuits crisp enough to cut diamonds, and engineers who looked like they'd solve the meaning of life on a napkin if given enough caffeine.
Lily, meanwhile, was armed with a lukewarm Red Bull and the sinking feeling that she'd accidentally waddled into a highly competitive, incredibly expensive aviary of eagles. Eagles who, unlike her, definitely had wings.
Still, if this whole ridiculous fake-dating charade—a secret pact, for now, confined to this inner F1 circle—meant the public would finally, blessedly, stop linking her to Sunghoon, then so be it.
She took a deep breath, the digital "Publish" button on her screen daring her. "Fuck it," she breathed, hitting send. The virtual thunk of her story going live felt strangely final, like signing her soul away for a really good parking spot.
She knew the Italians, her beloved Tifosis, would light her up like a Roman candle. Ferrari fans didn't do Red Bull. They certainly didn't date Red Bull drivers, fake or otherwise. But honestly? Right now, she was grappling with things far worse than the public's preferences for her choice of racing allegiance.
Like, for instance, how she was going to survive the next ten minutes without accidentally setting off a very expensive, very red, fire alarm. Or, worse, spilling this sticky, carbonated shame-liquid all over some crucial, multi-million dollar piece of racing equipment.
Her gaze drifted, sweeping past a group of intense-looking strategists huddled around a touchscreen. They were dissecting race data, probably deciding whether to shave off a millisecond or sacrifice a small child for better tire wear.
