SHIRT, charles leclerc (REWRITING)

NINE, behind the lens

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CHAPTER NINE,
behind the lens

The morning in Maranello was picture-perfect, the kind of day that seemed to reflect the prestige of Ferrari itself. The sun climbed steadily into a flawless blue sky, casting long, golden rays over the sprawling Ferrari headquarters. The air hummed with the faint but ever-present energy of the factory: the rhythmic clatter of tools, the quiet whirring of machinery, and the occasional rumble of engines being tested in nearby bays.

Amid this symphony of engineering stood the heart of the day's excitement—Ferrari's star drivers, Charles Leclerc and Juliette Bianchi, poised for their highly anticipated GQ feature.

The journalist arrived early, notebook in hand, camera slung over one shoulder, and a mixture of curiosity and excitement glimmering in their eyes. Their task was simple but monumental: capture the essence of these two drivers.

It wasn't just about their skill on the track—it was about who they were, how they worked together, and what made them tick. Following them from the start of the day to its close, the journalist hoped to peel back the layers of their partnership, revealing what made this duo so captivating both on and off the track.

Inside one of the quieter studio rooms in the Ferrari complex, the stylists were already hard at work. A full-length mirror stood against one wall, its surface reflecting racks of sleek clothing in Ferrari's signature red and black. Makeup artists flitted about like bees in a hive, armed with brushes and palettes, fussing over every last detail. Juliette sat in front of the mirror, a stylist carefully curling strands of her dark hair into soft waves. Her racing suit hung nearby, its bold red fabric glinting in the light.

She tapped her fingers lightly against her knee, her usual confidence tinged with a hint of nervous energy. She wasn't unfamiliar with cameras, but something about today felt different—bigger, somehow.

Charles, meanwhile, had already escaped the stylists' clutches. Dressed in his race suit, unzipped slightly to reveal a tight white shirt underneath, he lounged on a nearby chair with a small espresso cup in hand. Ever the picture of ease, he seemed utterly unbothered by the flurry of activity around him.

Noticing Juliette's fidgeting, he set his cup down and ambled over, hands in his pockets. "Hey, Juli," he said, leaning casually against the edge of the table. "Are you nervous, or are you just plotting world domination over there?"

Juliette glanced at him in the mirror, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Neither. Just mentally preparing to deal with your unique brand of humor all day."

Charles chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Before she could reply, the stylist interrupted, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "There, perfect. Now, don't touch it."

Juliette rolled her eyes but obeyed, standing to inspect herself in the mirror. She then turned to the stylist, politely thanking her.

"You know," she said, turning to Charles, "I think they should've let you wear makeup too. Even the playing field a bit."

Charles raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Are you saying I need it?"

She tilted her head, pretending to think it over. "Well, a little concealer wouldn't hurt."

Their banter drew a quiet laugh from the journalist, who was scribbling notes furiously in the corner. They were beginning to see the dynamic that made these two so engaging: Juliette's quick wit, Charles's laid-back charm, and the way they both seemed to thrive on teasing each other.