Over the span of a summer, the Viper's reputation plummeted after suffering from a one-sided love, resulting in her withdrawal from the MotoGP scene. Once a ruthless and unpredictable force on-track, now a wounded and vulnerable girl, forced to face...
Can everyone please take a moment to appreciate the crown prince
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ever since this photo came out i havent stopped thinking about it because what the fuck.
there HAS to be royal blood in him somewhere like???
its insane
unreal
im in pieces
ANYWAY.
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[POV: Andreanna Saunterre]
"Yeah. Lovely."
The way Dad said it— all warmth and full of praise, like Oscar was some kind of genius for doing this, was honestly infuriating. It wasn't like he— I don't know, cured world hunger with a coupon code. It wasn't a big deal.
Quietly buying me MotoGP tickets in the exact spot I'd mentioned offhand once, at one of my favourite circuits, in the middle of his first Formula One season, and then letting Lando (LANDO!!! THE SABOTEUR!) take credit and vanishing from the narrative entirely, while not bragging about any of it once was no big deal.
No. Big. Deal.
My eyes narrowed slightly. What the hell. I could feel my stomach twist—uncomfortably, like it was trying to rearrange itself to make room for something it hadn't accounted for.
I cleared my throat. "Okay, Dad, I gotta go. Bye." I hung up and shoved my phone into my bag like it might stop the whole thought-spiral if I buried it deep enough.
I didn't move at first. Just stood there in that same bright corridor, blinking at nothing. There wasn't even a full thought, just static.
So now what? Pretend I don't know?
I shook out my shoulders—an almost imperceptible twitch as I tried to knock the thought out of my body. The whole thing— it made me nervous. And no, not in the fluttery, YA-novel, stomach-somersault kind of way. In the 'what the hell do I do with this information?' kind of way. My mouth was dry. I blinked too much, and tried to act like I hadn't just been ambushed.
It didn't work.
Still, I had to go back. Back through the corridor. Back past the shiny cabinets and old plaques and awkward portraits of wide-smiling people in suits. Back to Oscar.
When I moved, my footsteps sounded too loud on the polished floor, and I thought for a second about turning in a different direction. Briefly considered faking a bathroom trip. But then I spotted him, crouched in front of a lower shelf, his phone angled weirdly as he tried to dodge the glare on the glass.
