𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri ✔

ALTERNATE EPILOGUE

What if I told you there's gonna be three parts to this Epilogue and then I'm done with this fic for once and for all? </3

Word count; 4,173

Tomás

— November 2nd, 2024. São Paulo, Brazil.

Two hours locked up in this board room and I was already getting a headache. The air was stale, the clicking of pens monotonous, and god Denise's voice was getting on my nerves.

"One of our other options," She pointed at the whiteboard at the back of the room. "Flat Out For Tomorrow."

There was a hum of consideration, of possible agreement. I glanced at my watch, growing more impatient with each minute that passed.

"Taz?" Denise probed, "What do you think?"

Heads turned in my direction. I sucked in a breath, readjusting my posture, and cleared my throat, pretending that I was actually paying attention to the meeting.

"It's okay." I said simply.

Denise exhaled, and attention landed back on her. My foot began to tap incessantly on the floor, and I picked a pack of chewing gum from my pocket, fingers starting to twitch.

"What about this one?"

Once again, I realised Denise was talking to me, and I regarded the whiteboard. I frowned.

The Palms Project.

"Seriously?" I raised a brow.

"What's wrong with it?"

"What wrong with it?" I mimicked. "No. Next."

"What? Why?"

"Next." I reiterated.

After all, it was supposed to be a charity that helped mentor underprivileged karters, not rehabilitate teenagers who had cigarettes put out on their hands.

"This one-" She began, only to be interrupted.

I revealed my phone, the ringtone piercing the atmosphere. I didn't even hesitate in accepting the call.

"Hola?"

"I'm outside."

"On my way down."

I stood up, chair scraping across the floor.

"Wait-" Denise persisted, "Taz-"

"Sorry, baby, I have dinner plans." I shrugged, heading for the door.

"But what about-"

I looked over my shoulder briefly, a new label adorning the whiteboard.

The Facundo Foundation.

"I like that one." I said, shutting the door behind me.

Practically running down the stairwell, I burst into the humid air, the rumble of a McLaren Artura disrupting the carpark. I jumped into the passenger seat.

"How was the meeting?" Oscar asked, watching me clip in my seatbelt.

"Boring."

"Did you decide on a name?"

"I'll find out tomorrow."

He rolled his eyes, shifting into gear. On the main road, he wasted no time in accelerating up to speed, and I grinned; the Artura was a gift from McLaren's IndyCar sector for the weekend, usually claimed by Lando in former years, but Oscar was leading the championship, and therefore had first dibs.