ʀᴏsᴇs ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴄᴇᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ

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She came from where the air smelled like salt and magnolias.

Where fireflies lit porches and girls weren't supposed to dream past the county fair. But Juno never stayed in her lane.

Raised outside Charleston, South Carolina, she learned to drive before she learned to braid her hair. Her daddy called her his little stock car queen, and even after he passed, his words lived in every engine roar "Drive it like it owes you something."

Now she's here.

Formula One.

The first female driver in decades.
The first American girl in Ferrari red.
The outsider. The underdog. The storm with honeyed eyes and calloused hands.

The world didn't know what to do with her.

But Charles Leclerc did.

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He was Monaco's golden boy-polished, poised, born into elegance.

She was Southern grit-barefoot in the garage, denim, boots, and rebellion.

He spoke French like poetry.
She said y'all like a promise.
They weren't supposed to fit.

But they did.

At 200 mph, there's no language but speed-and just enough time between laps for something dangerous to bloom.

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This isn't a love story.

Not yet.

It's a story about rage, resilience, and rewriting the rules. About bleeding on the track so no one else has to.

And when Juno Delaney finally stands on the podium, Ferrari suit zipped, accent thick, Charles beside her-

The world will know:

She wasn't just meant to race.
She was made to make history.

This is Roses on the Racetrack.
And it starts with her.

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