VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 87

pls excuse any mistakes ive just got back from a festival im #donefor but alas i provide
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POV: Narrator]

The venue was more low-key than Andi had expected.

It was all warm light and hazy ambiance; The kind you get from string lights that were draped across high ceilings. It was a tent, of sorts. Fancier than a tent. It was expensive in a subtle, curated way — polished wooden floors, white tablecloths, tasteful centrepieces. Round tables scattered the floor like lily pads, each one marked with neat little name-cards and flickering candles.

Technically, it was called an "awards dinner." But it felt more like a wedding reception. A sleek, under-the-radar one.

There was a constant low chatter and the occasional clink of glass, undercut by a jazzy cover of some 2010s pop song that made the whole thing feel slightly surreal.

Drivers were already grouping off, some from MotoGP, some F1, and others from all corners of motorsport. All of them were slick in their suits, shiny shoes and bow ties.

Andi arrived with Max. She'd thought it'd be inappropriate to ask Charles to take her, and she didn't love the idea of third wheeling with him and Alex again. So she'd asked Max, and he'd said yes with no issue — though not before teasing her with far too much interest about why Oscar wasn't taking her. She'd mumbled something vague, half-lied through her teeth about him being busy with Mclaren. Max bought it, or at least pretended to.

Either way, it felt weirdly wholesome seeing Max Verstappen in something other than a Red Bull team shirt. He cleaned up well.

Still, that didn't ease the tension low in her gut.

This was her announcement. The soft launch. Andi didn't want to talk. She just wanted to sit down and get through the damn night.

She was stood alone by her assigned table, fingers looped through the stem of a champagne flute. It was full. Untouched. Her other hand fidgeted with the small folded card with her name on it, which she kept reading every few minutes to be absolutely sure it was hers.

She kept checking the two either side of her, too.
Oscar, obviously, and Charles.

Neither person had arrived yet.

So she waited; minutes passed, and the venue began to slowly fill out — the noise rising in swells, more and more faces sifting through her mental 'do I know them' filing system. At 7:00 p.m., the place was practically full. At 7:15, Andi gave up waiting and drifted over to a few MotoGP drivers she'd spotted — some old friends, a couple of team personnel who still called her "Miss Boss" out of habit.

By 7:30, Charles had arrived. He complimented her on her dress after Alex did so first — a polite echo, with a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. The dress was floor-length, black, and high-necked — sleek, clean but not jaw-dropping. Paired with dark winged liner and loose hair, Andi thought it was a decent effort. Assertive. She liked it, anyway.

And then, finally, at 8:00, Oscar arrived.

He walked in beside Lando, who looked vaguely ticked off about something. Nothing new, there. Oscar's tie wasn't done up properly, and his jacket hung loose, like it had been flung over his shoulders last minute. His hair was messy, like he'd run his hands through it a dozen times, and his face matched Lando's.

He spotted her before she spotted him.

Before he crossed the room, he tugged his tie into something resembling neatness and brushed down the front of his suit. Straightened up. Exhaled. When he got close, he cleared his throat.