SHIRT, charles leclerc (REWRITING)

SEVEN, in the heart of maranello

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CHAPTER SEVEN,
in the heart of maranello

Juliette had done exceptionally well for a rookie in the past two Grand Prix races. A P6 finish in Australia and an impressive P5 in China had solidified her place on the grid.

She was silencing her critics—the ones who had scoffed at her presence in Formula 1, dismissing her as a publicity stunt or a name without substance. Slowly, she had learned to block out the noise and focus on the one thing that truly mattered: her performance.

Now, she was in Maranello, the beating heart of Ferrari, where the Scuderia had provided her a residence. Her home was a charming two-bedroom villa with terracotta rooftops, pale stucco walls, and ivy curling along its edges—a quintessential Tuscan retreat.

Although Maranello wasn't her hometown, there was something familiar in its quiet streets and golden sunlight. Her mother, Giulia Armani, was from Sardegna, and her father—long estranged and no longer present in her life—was from Nice. For much of her childhood, the family had lived in the French Riviera, perfectly situated between Monaco and Italy to accommodate the relentless schedule of her and her brother Jules's karting careers. The Riviera had been their launching pad, but Maranello felt like her new beginning.

On that April day, the usual drizzle and gloom had given way to an unexpected warmth. The sun blazed in a cloudless sky, and the temperature had climbed to 27 degrees—unseasonably pleasant for spring.

Juliette decided to take advantage of the rare sunshine. Donning a baby blue bikini and matching sunglasses, she stretched out on a pool chair by her villa's modest but pristine pool. The still water mirrored the azure of the sky, and the warmth on her skin was a welcome change from the chill of China's circuits.

She let out a deep breath, savoring the calm. For once, there was no engine roaring, no paddock hustle, and no journalists hounding her for interviews. It was just her, the sun, and the quiet.

But the quiet didn't last.

The faint sound of the villa's side gate creaking open went unnoticed. The intruder moved stealthily, slipping past the open patio doors and into the cool shade of the house. Arthur Leclerc was a master of mischief, and today was no different.

Arthur had been staying at Charles's villa, which conveniently stood right next door to Juliette's.

Barefoot and grinning, he tiptoed through her kitchen, snagging an apple from the fruit bowl as he passed. The crunch of his first bite betrayed him, though, and Juliette's ears perked up.

She didn't bother to move. "Arthur," she called lazily, her voice carrying an edge of mock annoyance. "If you're going to sneak into my house, at least have the decency to bring me a snack."

This was approximately the third time Arthur snuck into her villa in the past week.

Arthur rounded the corner, holding the apple up like a trophy, his grin boyish and unapologetic. "Consider it a housewarming gift," he quipped, plopping down into the lounge chair beside hers.

Juliette tilted her sunglasses down to glare at him playfully. "What are you even doing here? Shouldn't you be bothering Charles?"

Arthur stretched out, arms behind his head, the picture of smug relaxation. "Charles is boring. You, on the other hand, are always entertaining. Besides," he added with a smirk, "I couldn't let you sunbathe in peace. What kind of friend would I be?"

She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the smile tugging at her lips. "You're impossible."

"That's why you love me," he shot back, winking.