𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐫-𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐢, the royal rebel without a crown, is on the verge of being shipped off to rehab after one too many scandals.
When 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬, F1's rising star, needs an artist and Céleste needs a way out...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Every renowned location in Great Britain has a royal suite, so naturally, Silverstone Circuit offers royal hospitality as well.
Céleste stood by glass windows, arms loosely crossed as she watched the track below. The suite, with insanely expensive seating, crystal chandeliers, and champagne flutes littering tables, felt far removed from the normalcy outside—as even Paddock Club seemed quite cheap compared to this.
Beside her, two executives from Liberty Media were explaining the details of the podium ceremony. She was listening, but her eyes occasionally drifted back to the track, preferring the movement and noise outside to the stiff atmosphere in the suite.
"So, Miss Windsor," one of the executives said, addressing her by her mother's surname, which she always used in these formal settings, "you'll be on the podium for the second-place trophy. We'll escort you there right after the final lap."
Céleste gave a slight nod, yet didn't reply.
"We've arranged for a brief moment on camera before the handover," the other executive added, flipping through some notes on his tablet. "Just a few shots of you with the drivers and some media coverage for the your foundation."
At the mention of it, Céleste finally turned to meet his eyes. "That's fine," she said simply.
Her assistant, Sylvie, stood beside her, quietly observing the conversation. Sylvie always knew when to stay silent, only offering her input when absolutely necessary. The two had worked together long enough that Sylvie could sense when Céleste had had enough of an interaction.
One of the Liberty Media men shifted awkwardly, clearly trying to read her mood. "And if there's anything else you need—"
"I know the drill," Céleste cut him off with a small wave of her hand, her eyes turning back to the window.
There was an awkward pause, and Sylvie stepped forward slightly, offering a polite smile. "We'll make sure everything runs smoothly," she said on Céleste's behalf.
Her attention drifted from the conversation to the scene across the room. Her family sat at a table—her stepfather at the center, speaking quietly to one of her siblings. Charlotte, of course, was there, seated slightly apart from the others. Céleste's eyes lingered on her sister for a moment, noting how Charlotte's hand rested absently on her phone, scrolling without much interest.
