VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 102

[POV: Andreanna Saunterre]

Oscar and I had been seated at this outdoor café for roughly three minutes before the first photographer noticed us. And by "noticed," I mean literally shouted from across the street. Oscar didn't even flinch. Just lifted his menu up a little higher to block himself.

I, meanwhile, did the smart thing and inhaled my croissant in one bite, chugged the entirety of my mimosa like it was a frat party, and then yanked Oscar out of his chair by the wrist before the waiter could bring us water.

I don't know why I bothered leaving the house.

I just hoped Oscar didn't mind that I was clutching his hand like it was a floatation device and I was actively drowning.

By the time we got back home, I had a blister on one toe, crumbs in weird places, and Oscar was still holding my hand — even though we were several stories above ground and well out of telephoto lens range.

He wouldn't stop doing things for me after that.

Opening doors. Carrying my bag. Making me tea like an elderly housewife. Hovering every time I lifted so much as a napkin with my — apparently — still-very-injured wrist. Which, if you couldn't tell by my tone, wasn't injured at all and had closed up entirely.

I honestly sometimes forgot it was there.

So I made the mistake of getting a glass of water on my own.

THE HORROR!!

And then Oscar went and got the idea that that meant I was in pain, and insisted I go get it checked out.

"Okay," he said, taking my water away. Which, if I actually was in pain, wouldn't have been a very nice thing to do. "Now will you go to a doctor?"

"For what?"

He gave me a long look.

"Oh, you mean this?" I waved my hand, and wiggled it about to prove that I felt nothing. "Right. I forgot it was there, because it hurts such a minimal amount that I can't tell which hand it was on. Can you?! You tell me which one it was," I held out both my hands. "This one? Or this one?"

He didn't take part in my gameshow.

Instead he launched into a full rant; A whole thing about internal infections, tears, fractures, nerve damage— for god's sake.

I listened to all of it with a blank expression, nodding slowly like he was trying to sell me life insurance.

When he finally stopped to breathe, I said, "You wanna know why I won't go?"

"Yes!" he said, throwing his hands up. "Why won't you go?"

"I just—" I hesitated, knowing the second I said it he'd look at me crazy. "I would prefer to avoid the Monaco General Hospital at all times. Preferably."

"...What?" His voice flattened. "Why would you—"

"Because it's a scam!"

"How is healthcare a scam?!"

"Listen. You don't live here. You don't know the half of it," I said, holding up a finger. "Ever since 2018, there have been several. documented. incidents. Overcharging. Fake billing. One woman went in for a sprained ankle and left with a €9,000 invoice and a headshot for modelling work." I took a breath, "And there's more," I continued. "The Yelp reviews are full of conspiracy claims. Someone said the MRI room door was made of cardboard. And someone else said their doctor left mid-surgery to take a call from someone who sounded much, much too mob-ish. There's, like, whole Reddit threads talking about it. I don't know how credible any of it is, but the French mafia might own it."