𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝟑 - 𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘

CHAPTER THREE

AT YOUR MERCY

BRITISH GRAND PRIX

Max's feelings were a tangled mess. He couldn't deny the attraction he felt towards Marc, but it was more than that—it was a need, a craving for the peace that Marc's music brought him. But as much as he was drawn to Marc, there was a part of him that couldn't fully trust the pianist. He felt just out of reach, an elusive quality that made Max wary. He appreciated Marc's companionship, his music, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Marc was hiding something.

Every step he took echoed with the weight of his childhood, the relentless drive to meet and exceed expectations. The memories of long hours spent at the karting tracks, the stern scoldings he got for each mistake, and other punishments whose reminders still linger on his body, not letting him ever forget.

He felt a pang of guilt for not opening up as Marc had done with him. But how could he? How could he reveal the depth of his struggles, the weight of his burdens? To confess, to acknowledge what he went through, felt like giving his life away. His career was everything, and every detail people knew about his upbringing sharpened the knife sitting at his throat, ready to put an end to his carefully carved path to success.

But he couldn't help but feel that he was worshipping a shrine of lies. Every moment he spent with Marc, every smile, every shared glance, was built on a foundation of deceit. How could he trust Marc when he couldn't even trust himself to be honest?

The roar of the engines echoed through the Silverstone paddock, a familiar symphony that usually steadied Max's nerves. But today, something was off. He stood by his Red Bull car, helmet in hand, but his thoughts were miles away from the track, lost in the echo of a piano's haunting melody. The excitement of the race weekend felt muted compared to the turbulence inside him.

"Max, you ready?" His engineer's voice crackled through the earpiece, snapping him back to the present.

"Yeah," Max muttered, sliding into the cockpit. He took a deep breath, trying to focus on the upcoming session, but his mind kept drifting. The distraction of Marc's music had become almost unbearable, a persistent hum that refused to quiet.

The qualifying session was a struggle. Max pushed his car to its limits, fighting against the disjointed thoughts that clouded his mind. Every corner felt like a battle, each lap a struggle to suppress the intrusive memories and emotions. Charles Leclerc had been in impeccable form, however, his Ferrari showing remarkable improvement with the new upgrade package.

Max could see Charles's name at the top of the timing sheets, a painful reminder of his own subpar performance. The frustration boiled over as he tore off his helmet and slammed it against the side of his car. He looked up just in time to see Charles strolling past, the Monegasque's expression calm and unreadable except for a slight smirk.

"Nice lap," He said as he walked by, his tone polite but laced with something that grated on Max's nerves.

"Yeah, well, enjoy it while you can," Max shot back, his voice dripping with frustration. Charles paused, meeting Max's gaze with a look that seemed to cut through the surface, revealing a depth that Max couldn't quite understand. There was no arrogance, no gloating—just a quiet intensity that made Max's frustration burn even hotter.

The moment passed quickly, Charles nodding slightly before walking away. Max watched him go, feeling a knot of unresolved emotions tighten in his chest. It wasn't just about the race anymore; the tension with Charles was adding another layer to his growing confusion about Marc.

The race was a blur of adrenaline and frustration. Max fought hard, pushing his car to its limits, but Charles's performance was flawless. Lap after lap, Charles maintained his lead, and with each passing lap, Max's frustration grew. The defeat wasn't just about losing to Charles—it was about everything that had been going on in his mind.

As the checkered flag waved, Charles crossed the finish line first, securing a hard-fought victory for Ferrari. Max finished second, his car roaring across the line in a cloud of disappointment. He climbed out of the car, the cheers of the crowd feeling distant and hollow. The noise of the race weekend seemed muted, overshadowed by the storm of emotions churning inside him.

Later, in his motorhome, Max was alone with his thoughts. The silence pressed in around him, amplifying the turmoil he felt. He leaned against the wall, staring at his reflection in the mirror, trying to make sense of the tangled mess of feelings. The frustration from the race was still raw, but it was the confusion about Marc that weighed most heavily on him.

Max's frustration was palpable, a seething storm that refused to dissipate. He was haunted by the memory of Charles's reaction following the qualifying session—a moment that had shaken him more deeply than he cared to admit. Charles's calm, almost serene demeanour stood in stark contrast to Max's turbulent emotions. The smirk on his face, the way his eyes had held an unreadable intensity, had pierced through Max's façade of control. It was as if Charles's gaze had peeled back the layers of Max's carefully constructed armour, exposing the raw nerves beneath. The nonchalant confidence that he exuded felt like a personal affront, a stark reminder of Max's own shortcomings. The encounter had left him unsettled, not just because of the loss but because of the profound, disquieting effect Charles's look had on him. It was a silent challenge, an unspoken question that Max couldn't escape: Why did Charles's presence affect him so deeply, and what did it mean for his understanding of himself and his place in the world?

Throughout his career, Max had prided himself on his unshakeable focus, his ability to keep emotions at bay and shield himself from anything that might jeopardise his performance. He had always been impervious to the jabs and taunts of rivals, never letting anyone get under his skin. Yet, Charles's reaction after the qualifying session had breached that fortress of composure. The serene confidence and subtle challenge in Charles's eyes had unravelled something within Max, exposing him to a vulnerability he had never experienced before. It was more than just a competitive setback; it was an emotional intrusion that shook his sense of self. Max found himself grappling with the disconcerting reality that Charles had managed to pierce through his carefully constructed defences, stirring feelings and insecurities he had always kept suppressed. The seemingly effortless way Charles had unsettled him was both infuriating and bewildering, leaving Max to question why, for the first time, someone could affect him so deeply and what that meant for his perception of control and strength.

In complete opposition, but just as disturbing, were Max's feelings towards Marc. Their encounters had stirred something within him that went far beyond the superficial attractions he had experienced before. He had always kept emotions at arm's length, relegating them to brief, physical connections that never meant anything deeper. Love, in his mind, was an abstract concept, an enigma his father had rendered irrelevant by denying him any real affection or understanding of its nature. Max had never known what love felt like, had never allowed himself to believe that he could be worthy of it. Now, faced with the intensity of his feelings for Marc, he felt adrift, struggling to reconcile these unfamiliar emotions with the rigid, emotionally detached persona he had cultivated over years of relentless ambition. The very foundation of his identity seemed to be crumbling under the weight of a truth he had never wanted to confront: that he might be capable of feeling something profound and genuine, and that this realisation was shaking the core of who he believed he was.

So there he sat, staring at himself in the mirror, no longer understanding who he was. His mind didn't feel like his own, as if he was a stranger in his body.The reflection staring back at him was familiar, yet somehow foreign—a paradox that left him feeling disconnected and adrift. The sharp lines of his face, once markers of his resolute ambition and unwavering focus, now seemed like the remnants of a man he no longer recognized. The eyes that had always burned with a fierce, unyielding drive now flickered with confusion and doubt, haunted by the emotions he had never allowed himself to feel before. Each passing moment only deepened the chasm between the person he thought he was and the person he was becoming.