Hate to race lestappen

Monza Through Singapore

Monza was supposed to be magic.

It was the one weekend that always meant something extra, a place where legends were made and tifosi roared like gods. But this time, Charles walked in carrying pain in every step.

His ribs ached under the fireproofs — bandaged up, covered in a compress, numbed just enough to do his job. Every breath had felt like swallowing broken glass, but he had told no one.

The weight of red surrounded Charles from the second he set foot in the paddock. Flags waved like warnings. Tifosi pressed in from every side, chanting his name, screaming for Ferrari, for glory, for perfection.

But Charles couldn't breathe.

He smiled where he had to, nodded at reporters, raised a hand in the motorcade, but everything in him was splintered. And the worst part?

He didn't even know if he was more angry or heartbroken.

Because Charles would've done everything for Max. No hesitation. No excuse.

He would've stood between Max and the entire fucking world if it came to that.

He had, in a hundred small ways Max never even saw.

He would've burned himself alive just to give Max light.

And Max hadn't even lit a match.

Maybe he didn't want to. Maybe what Charles thought they had—that thing that pulsed between them in silence, in glances, in all the unsaid things—maybe it was never real. Not to Max.

And yet—he still loved him.

God help him, he still loved him.

He hated it. Hated the weakness of it, the tenderness that bloomed inside him even now, the way his body still missed Max in the quiet moments.

He hated being mad at him, because it wasn't the kind of anger you could hold without it eating you alive.

He wasn't even sure he was angry at Max, not really.

He was angry Max hadn't trusted him. That he hadn't fought harder. That he hadn't said anything—not really.

He was angry at the silence. At being left behind. At being treated like something too fragile to fight for.

And now Monza. The crown jewel. The pressure cooker. The worst possible place to be cracked down the middle.

Daniel had tried reaching out—calls, texts, even a knock on the door the night before—but Charles ignored all of it. He didn't want comfort. He didn't want to explain. Not to someone who looked at him with pity in their eyes.

Arthur was here, at least. His little brother stayed close, didn't ask questions. He sat with Charles at dinner, walked beside him into the paddock.

And still, Charles felt alone.

The moment he stepped into the paddock Friday morning, he was swallowed whole by fans. They pressed close, waving flags, shouting his name, phones out, voices eager. Security held them back, kept him safe in a ring of professionalism—but it wasn't enough.

Because what Charles craved wasn't safety.

It was comfort. A hand on his back. A quiet word in his ear. The warmth of someone standing behind him, reminding him he wasn't alone.

He suddenly felt like he could cry, right there in the middle of the crowd. Surrounded by thousands, he had never felt more alone.

The rest of the weekend blurred into sharp, clinical focus. Charles let the pain fuel him. He barely spoke in briefings, nodded through strategy meetings, and drove like a man possessed.