𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 | 𝐋𝐍𝟒

𝐗𝐗𝐗

It was race day, and Milaine could barely open her eyes. The events of yesterday—the conversation with Andrey, the painful clarity she'd found—still weighed heavy on her chest. She wasn't ready for the day. Not for the cameras, not for the smiles she'd have to fake. The idea of stepping into the chaos of the paddock, pretending everything was fine, felt unbearable.

But she didn't have a choice.

The door to her hotel room swung open with a sharp click. Before she could even register what was happening, Viv barged in, a whirlwind of sharp energy.

«Jesus, Milaine, get the fuck up!» Viv practically shouted. «People are expecting you, and I swear, if I have to drag you out of bed, I will.»

Milaine groaned, half hiding her face under the covers, wishing she could disappear into them. But Viv wasn't going anywhere. She yanked the blanket off with a sharp tug, clearly not in the mood for resistance.

«Get up. You have a race to attend. I don't get paid enough for this» Viv muttered, already rifling through the closet.

Milaine didn't even argue. She sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes, her body heavy with everything she didn't want to feel. She didn't want to go. Not today.

«I'm your manager, your alarm, and now apparently your stylist» Viv said with a huff, tossing a pile of clothes onto the bed.

Milaine took the outfit without a word and made her way to the bathroom. After a few quiet minutes under the hot spray of the shower, she returned—clean, composed, but still emotionally drained. Her hair was done, her makeup light but flawless. She slipped into the black blazer mini dress Viv had picked, paired with sheer black tights and casual black sneakers.

Viv handed her an orange Kelly bag to finish the look. Milaine rolled her eyes and took it anyway.

«Now, let's get going» Viv said, not waiting for her to protest.

The moment they stepped out and arrived at the paddock, the energy hit Milaine like a wave. The noise, the people, the flashing cameras—it was all too much.

«Smile» Viv whispered sharply in her ear.

Milaine forced herself to straighten her posture, slipping on a polite smile as cameras turned in her direction. She offered a few nods, small waves. The flashes were relentless.

Some fans called out her name from behind the barriers—kids, teens, adults—all wanting a piece of her. She pushed through the haze in her head and stopped briefly to take photos, to sign a few autographs. The kids' enthusiasm made her smile, genuinely, if only for a moment.

Then, without wasting another second, she made her way toward the McLaren garage.

She was late—she knew that—but what made her pause was the familiar figure near the entrance. Andrey.

He was already there. The moment their eyes met, his entire face lit up. Without hesitation, he walked toward her, wearing the same easy expression he always had—like yesterday hadn't happened at all.

«Dushenka» he said warmly, stepping in close.

His arms opened slightly, a casual motion that suggested he was about to hug her—like nothing had changed.

Her stomach turned.

But she didn't let it show. She couldn't afford to make a scene here, not in front of everyone. Not again.

She forced a small smile, keeping enough distance that the embrace never happened. A subtle shake of her head was enough. She hoped.

«Andrey» she said, her voice even, clipped. «I'm a little late, sorry.»