Ellie Walsh never intended to fall for a Formula 1 driver.
She wasn't even supposed to be in the paddock that day in Monaco. She was just there for work—an up-and-coming sports PR manager shadowing her boss at Red Bull Racing. It was supposed to be a learning experience, not a life-altering encounter.
But then there was him. Max Verstappen.
He wasn't like she imagined. Sure, she'd seen him on TV—cool, ruthless, composed behind the wheel. But up close, he was surprisingly human. Smirking at something his engineer said, the corner of his lip tugged just a little higher on one side. His laugh was quiet but disarming.
Ellie had rolled her eyes, pretending not to notice. The last thing she needed was to fall for a driver. That was the golden rule of PR: don't mix business with the people you're managing. And definitely not with Max Verstappen.
But fate had other plans.
It started with a text.
"Need help. Can't get the press off my back. Where are you?"
She stared at the message on her phone, frowning. Max had gotten her number from her boss after a tense post-qualifying interview went viral for the wrong reasons. She was supposed to draft a statement. Not babysit him.
Yet she found herself slipping away from her group and heading to the quiet back of the paddock, where Max stood by the motorhome, arms crossed and jaw clenched.
"They're like vultures," he muttered. "I need you to fix this."
Ellie did. She was good at her job.
But she didn't expect what came after. How he thanked her. How he invited her to dinner—to say "thanks," he said.
And how, by the end of the night, he asked her something that shattered the boundary she'd been holding onto.
"Do you want to come back with me?"
She said no. At least, she thought she did.
But when she woke up in his suite the next morning, Monaco sunlight streaking across the bed, she realized everything had changed.
The problem with falling for Max Verstappen wasn't just the cameras or the fans or the constant flights across the globe. It was the silence between the noise—the quiet, stolen moments that felt too good to be real.
Ellie was good at keeping secrets. For a while, no one knew. Not her boss, not the other drivers, not even Max's team.
But secrets have a way of surfacing.
It started with a blurry photo in Baku—a grainy shot of her hand brushing his in a hotel lobby. Then came the rumors. Online forums picked it up, speculating who the "mystery woman" was. Ellie was called everything from a "distraction" to a "gold digger."
Then Christian Horner found out.
"I don't care who you are or how talented you are," he told her in a meeting that felt more like an execution. "You don't sleep with the talent."
She was suspended indefinitely.
Max was furious. "Why didn't you tell me they knew?"
Ellie could barely look at him. "I didn't want to drag you down."
He laughed, bitter and cold. "You think I care about the press? I care about you."
But caring didn't fix things. She lost her job. And suddenly, being with Max meant existing in his shadow. No title. No purpose. Just... his.
And Ellie Walsh didn't know how to be anyone's anything but her own.
The turning point came in Singapore.
Max didn't finish the race. A rare DNF. He was livid, storming into the garage, yelling at his engineer. Ellie waited outside, nerves in her throat.
When he finally emerged, he looked right through her.
"Not now."
It wasn't the first time he'd said that. But it was the first time it felt like he meant it.
She followed him back to the hotel anyway. She always did.
"You're pulling away from me," she whispered that night, lying next to him in bed.
"I'm under pressure, El. The championship's slipping. Everything's falling apart."
"I'm here," she said. "I've always been here."
But she felt him slipping like sand through her fingers.
And deep down, she knew: maybe he didn't want to be caught.
Two weeks later, the bomb dropped.
A photo surfaced. Max, in a London club, holding hands with another woman. The press ate it up. "Max Verstappen Moves On?" the headlines screamed.
Ellie didn't wait for him to explain. She packed her things in the Tokyo hotel they were staying in and left without a word.
He called. Once. She didn't answer.
She boarded a flight to New York the next day and started over.
New job. New apartment. New version of herself.
One that didn't revolve around him.
It was nearly a year later when Ellie returned to Formula 1—this time with Mercedes.
Her new client? George Russell.
The paddock whispered when she walked through it again, heels sharp against the pavement, hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail.
She saw Max in the distance. Older. Sharper. Still fast.
They didn't speak. Not yet.
But fate, once again, had its own ideas.
It was Silverstone. The chaos of a race weekend crackled in the air.
Ellie stood in the Mercedes garage, headset on, watching George battle it out with Max—wheel-to-wheel racing that had everyone on their feet.
Max took the win. George came second.
Later, at the press conference, Max looked directly at Ellie for the first time in a year.
"This season's been different," he said, eyes lingering. "Sometimes you don't realize what you had until it's gone."
The room was silent.
Afterwards, she found him in the hallway. Alone.
"You didn't have to say that," she said, crossing her arms.
"I meant it."
She shook her head. "It's too late, Max."
He stepped closer. "I never stopped loving you."
She laughed—soft, sad. "Love isn't enough when it costs everything else."
He didn't argue. He just stood there, in the silence.
And for the first time, Ellie realized she didn't need to be someone's story. She was already her own.
Months passed. Races were won. Others lost.
Ellie stayed with Mercedes, thriving in her role. She even smiled sometimes when Max won. Their story had ended, but the echoes of it lingered—like tire marks on a track.
Some nights, when the sky was dark and quiet, she'd think of Monaco. Of that first laugh. That first touch.
But Ellie Walsh wasn't waiting at the finish line anymore.
She was the one driving now.
