Hate to race lestappen

Spilled Wine Truths

The sun was starting its descent over Monaco, painting everything in that warm, glowing gold that always made Charles feel a little nostalgic. He wandered through the house he'd grown up in, fingers trailing over the wooden railing as he walked the same steps he had a million times before.

Everything was familiar—the creak in the third stair, the faint sound of a bird outside the open window, the hum of the fridge downstairs, always a little too loud.

His maman was out. Arthur was somewhere, probably bothering Lorenzo about dinner plans or bragging about something completely random. The house wasn't silent, not exactly. But it was quiet enough to hear the thoughts when they started whispering.

He wasn't really doing anything this break besides the Ibiza trip. Not anything interesting anyway. A couple of PR events. Some filming for a new sponsor. He'd smiled at the right moments, worn the right clothes, said all the right things. He'd trained, of course—he always trained. Practiced piano in the evenings. Saw a few friends when the calendar allowed. It was enough to keep him occupied, but not enough to quiet the buzz in his chest that came back every time he stopped moving.

He walked slowly, his bare feet soft against the wood, hand trailing along the wall like he was twelve again, bored on a summer day, waiting for something to happen.

He passed by the photo without realizing he was walking toward it. There was something in his throat again, like it hadn't ever left.

He slowed to a stop, standing there in front of it like he always did. It was silly, really. The way he kept ending up in front of the same frame. But it was also inevitable.

It was a picture of Papa, one Charles had seen a thousand times. Always the same calm, steady expression, arms folded as he stood next to a much-younger version of himself in a too-big karting suit, all fire and ambition and nothing to lose.

He looked into those eyes now—his father's. Then his own, beside him. His father looked proud. Like the entire world fit right in his son's hands. And maybe back then, it felt like it could. The memory of that day was hazy now, just the feeling of it really—the heat of the sun, the sharp smell of fuel, the sound of tires and cheering and someone calling his name.

"What would you think now, huh?" he whispered. "Would you still be proud?"

He knew what Papa would say. About staying focused. About giving everything for the dream. About how distractions don't win championships. But then again, would he say that now? Would he still be so strict, so certain, now that Charles had already made it?

Or would he tell him to take a breath? To live?

Would he tell him to stop thinking about stupid parties and people who complicated everything?

He'd never know the answer.
And the silence didn't offer one

He blinked and stepped away, dragging a hand through his hair and heading up the stairs. He still hadn't decided about the party. But he was leaning toward it now—at least trying. Just a drink. Just a night out before the season started again. He didn't have any reason not to go.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand just as he walked into the room.

Danny Ric
"Alright, mate. Party's at 8. Yacht's at the usual port. Don't you dare be late."

Charles huffed out a laugh through his nose, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

He didn't reply. He just dropped the phone onto the bed, standing in the center of the room as the late sun bled through the curtains. It made the mess of open suitcases and flung jackets look prettier than they deserved.