Monaco glittered under the early evening sky, the energy from the race still buzzing in the air as celebrations erupted all around. Pierre stood atop the podium, his face flushed with the thrill of his second-place finish. Champagne sprayed over the crowd, cameras flashed, and the roar of fans filled the air. But amid the excitement, his eyes kept searching for one person—Y/N.
Y/N stood in the shadows, watching the moment she knew he’d been chasing for years. She felt a hollow ache in her chest, knowing she couldn’t be a part of it. Her article, now live, was spreading across the internet like wildfire, and she could already see the headlines: Pierre Gasly: The Driver Behind the Mask.
She had written the truth. About his struggles, his insecurities, his need for redemption in a sport that didn’t forgive mistakes. It was raw, personal, and revealing—exactly what the world wanted, and exactly what Pierre had confided in her during their moments of vulnerability. She had hoped to show his humanity, to give the world a glimpse of the man she had come to care for. But she knew that Pierre might see it as a betrayal.
The podium ceremony ended, and Pierre made his way down to the pit lane. Reporters swarmed him, microphones and cameras in his face, questions flying. But Y/N couldn’t hear any of it. Her heart pounded, her hands clenched into fists as she stood back, unsure of what to do next.
When he finally caught sight of her, his expression softened for just a moment. He made his way through the throng of people, his steps quickening as he neared her.
“Hey,” he said, slightly out of breath, his eyes still gleaming from the race. “We did it.”
Y/N forced a smile, but the lump in her throat made it hard to speak. “You did it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise around them.
His smile faltered as he looked at her more closely. “What’s wrong?”
Before she could answer, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his brows furrowing as he scanned the screen. Y/N’s stomach dropped as she watched his expression change—the smile fading, replaced by confusion and then a slow realization. He was reading the article.
Pierre’s hand lowered, his phone still in his grasp, but his gaze shifted to Y/N, searching her face for answers. “You... you wrote this?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, drowned by the celebratory chaos around them.
Y/N nodded, her throat tightening. “I had to,” she said softly, the weight of her words heavy between them. “It was my job.”
Pierre’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he couldn’t seem to find the right words. He glanced away, his eyes flicking to the crowd, the cars, anywhere but at her. “Your job,” he repeated, his voice harder now. “So everything I told you—everything we shared—was just for this? For your story?”
“No,” Y/N said quickly, stepping toward him, her hands reaching for him but stopping short. “It wasn’t like that. I tried to tell your story, the real you. Not the one everyone sees on TV. I wanted people to understand what you go through.”
Pierre shook his head, his hands running through his hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “You should’ve asked me, Y/N. You should’ve told me. This—this wasn’t your story to tell.”
“I know,” she whispered, feeling tears prick at her eyes. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Pierre. But I had a deadline, and I thought—” She stopped herself, realizing how hollow her words sounded. She had thought about her career, about how big this story could be. But in the process, she hadn’t thought about how it would affect him, or what it might cost them.
“I trusted you,” he said, his voice low, laced with hurt. His eyes finally met hers, but they were filled with a sadness that cut deeper than she could have imagined. “I let you in because I thought you were different.”
Y/N swallowed hard, her heart shattering at the look on his face. She had spent the entire season watching him battle for respect, fighting to prove himself in a sport that constantly tested him. And now, she had become just another person who had let him down.
“I didn’t want to be like the others,” she said, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I just— I thought people needed to see the real you.”
Pierre shook his head again, stepping back from her, his expression unreadable now. “The real me?” he echoed. “What about the part of me that trusted you with everything? Did you tell them that?”
Y/N didn’t know what to say. She wanted to explain, to make him understand, but no words could take back what she had done. She had crossed a line, and now they were both paying the price.
Pierre took a deep breath, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing as he looked at her one last time. “I thought we were in this together,” he said, his voice soft but filled with finality. “But I guess you had a different race to win.”
Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of people and cameras. Y/N watched him go, her heart breaking with every step he took.
---
That night, the streets of Monaco were alive with celebration, but Y/N sat alone in her hotel room, the noise from the city below muffled by the thick walls. Her laptop sat open on the desk, the article now shared across countless platforms, generating buzz and praise from editors and readers alike. It was the story of her career, the one that would solidify her reputation as a top-tier journalist.
But it was also the story that had cost her everything.
She clicked through the comments, some praising her for her insight, others marveling at Pierre’s journey. But none of it mattered. The article had done what it was supposed to—it had revealed the truth about Pierre Gasly. But in the process, she had lost him.
A knock on the door broke her thoughts. For a moment, she hoped it might be Pierre. But when she opened it, there was no one there—just a small envelope on the floor. She picked it up, her heart racing as she tore it open.
Inside was a single slip of paper, Pierre’s handwriting scrawled in messy black ink.
"I wish you had let me be part of the story too."
Y/N stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes filling with tears once again. She had told his story, but in doing so, she had silenced his voice.
And as the city celebrated beneath her, Y/N realized that not all stories had happy endings.
Some victories, no matter how great, still felt like a loss.
