𝘽𝙄𝙏𝙏𝙀𝙍, max verstappen

chapter twenty-five.

having sleepless nights was practically part of camila's routine now.

it was now saturday, so today was qualifying.

the change of atmosphere when camila entered the paddock didn't go unnoticed. everyone gave her a look, a look that said 'sorry your career is falling apart'

however it was obvious to camila that there was very few people that actually felt sorry for her — most people just blaming her for the state she was in right now. it was as though camila was carrying a disease, and if she got too close to anyone else, it would spread. she was a sickness.

not only was camila being named as a slut, but now she was an 'addict' too. there were plenty of other drivers that had smoked before, but of course, as soon as camila had been photographed doing it she was labeled a 'sad addict who was disrespecting the sport.'

the photo of her and max had been dealt with. the media now thought it was not max in the photo, thanks to his pr team. meanwhile, camila's team hadn't said a word on the matter. thanks to twitter however, the world had just now assumed that camila was some kind of party animal, hanging out with multiple men each night.

thanks meg.

and not only were the media treating her as some sick disease, but so were some of the drivers. it was as if everyone didn't want to talk to her anyone — afraid they'd accidentally bring up what was going on and camila would snap, which was another thing the media was saying she did nowadays.

it was now quali, and camila eased through q1 and q2 easily, the real challenge being q3. she needed to start in pole, she needed this win after what happened in mexico.

camila weaved through the circuit, adrenaline coursing through her veins, the car feeling strong, her lap time even stronger.

"that's pole — however we are under investigation" james spoke, whilst camila was now on her in-lap.

"for what!?" camila snapped, trying to recall if she had impeded or done anything wrong, but she was certain she hadn't.

"calm down, we will find out once you've completed your in lap" james responded, his tone much softer than camila's, attempting to reassure her.

camila parked behind the p1 sign, however she clearly had no reason to celebrate, instead pulling off her helmet and immediately making her way to the garage.

"we've got a engine penalty, you'll be starting from the back of the grid. sorry camila" james spoke, camila huffing in frustration. the back of the fucking grid. great.

she rolled her eyes — turning away from the team and grabbing some water. her chest heaving in anger.

a win this weekend was going to be ten times more difficult than it already was.

after an excruciating day, all camila now wanted to do was rot in her hotel room.

her footsteps fastening against the pavement, matching the sounds of her rapid heartbeat with each step, guided camila to the car.

and camila did exactly what she planned that night, rotting away in her hotel room, the memories of the hell that was this week remaining like a tattoo in her mind.

enragement boiled inside of her soul — hot, fiery, red flames of anger. towards everyone. but especially towards herself. because maybe the world was right about camila rivera, maybe she wasn't the star that mercedes had to follow for their true destiny. maybe she held much less value in the system — maybe she wasn't the star, like jupiter, meant to be a star, but failed. was that what camila really was?