꒰ 🏁 ꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
» 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝟏 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴
𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇... ꒱ ↷🖇
rhiannon paris webber seeks revenge
on red bull and their
golden boy...
OR
max verstappen realizes
a five foot siren eyed
icy sharp tongued a...
[this chapter is not edited, i wanted to get it out before bed tonight. i hope you enjoy it. feel free to spam the comments because i know you guys are going to want to do that, and i want to hear from each and every one of you.
one more chapter after this before we get to volume two.
im so excited.
i love you guys so much.
cheers. x Vi ]
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Rhiannon stood in the garage, the hum of the engines vibrating through her chest as she observed the bustle of the team around her. The pressure was on, but she welcomed it. This was what Monaco always felt like, the crown jewel of the calendar, and FP3 was going to be the most crucial session if she wanted to fight for pole position.
Dressed in her Red Bull race suit, she hadn't yet pulled on her balaclava. Her helmet rested on a nearby bench, the Red Bull logo catching the light as she chatted with her performance engineer and Birdie. Despite the tension, she allowed herself a small smile for the cameras that zoomed in on her from across the garage. She knew how to play the game, how to keep the fans and media engaged.
The session began, and Rhiannon wasted no time. She climbed into the car, feeling the familiar weight of the steering wheel in her hands. The world outside the cockpit faded away as the car roared to life, the engine note sharp and aggressive. This was it—time to lay down some qualifying runs.
Her out-lap was smooth, focused, with Birdie feeding her information through the radio.
"Let's get some heat into those tires. We'll go for a push lap once they're up to temperature," Birdie advised.
"Copy," Rhiannon responded.
She weaved through the narrow circuit, feeling the tires grip more with each corner, the car settling beneath her. She knew every bump, every imperfection in the tarmac, and as she rounded the final corner onto the start-finish straight, she prepared herself for the first real push.
Her thoughts sharpened, narrowing down to the essentials. Braking points, throttle application, steering input—everything else faded away as she crossed the line to begin her hot lap.
The car darted through Sainte Dévote, the front end biting hard as she accelerated up the hill. The tight right-hander at Massenet demanded precision, the car skimming the barrier with just enough clearance to feel the rush of adrenaline. The Hotel Hairpin came next, the slowest corner on the circuit, but she nailed it, keeping her momentum up through Mirabeau and down to the hairpin.
