After dropping Ava home, Leo headed to a nearby airstrip where his private jet awaited to take him back to Monaco. He hadn't had much time to relax lately— except yesterday.
Who knew spending that much time with someone without it leading to intercourse was actually possible. Literally opened his eyes. Now, he craved something deeper. He had to make Ava his, all while juggling his packed schedule. His phone buzzed—James had sent his itinerary for the week.
Tuesday: Interview with F1 News and a meeting with James Maddon and the crew.
Wednesday: Interview with AutoSport and a photoshoot.
Thursday: Meetings with Mercedes and McLaren.
Friday: Interview with Red Bull.
At least he had Saturday and Sunday free before flying to Montreal for race preparations. Leo tried his best to text or call Ava whenever he could. He was serious about making her his girlfriend, but this was the most crucial part of his season.
As he was preparing for his interview with F1 News, a message from La Galerie Noire popped up:
"The painting 'Flotante' has been sold back to us at the original price—€30,000. Interested?"
His heart skipped a beat. Flotante. Without hesitation, he replied: "Yes."
Another good thing this week. He had won the Monaco Grand Prix, had an amazing date with Ava at Lake Como, and now, he was about to own a second painting by Celeste Nocturne—aka Stars.
That was the surprise he had planned for Ava. Excited, he texted her about their Friday night date. She replied with a wink emoji. Smirking, he booked a restaurant in Monaco, where they would spend the weekend together.
Tuesday had been long from the very start. Leo Vargas-Clairmont sat with his engineers in the strategy room of the James Maddon Training Centre, the walls lit with screens showing every curve of the Montreal circuit. They weren't even there yet, but the track already felt close—alive in the data scrolling across their monitors. They studied tire degradation charts, fuel strategies, and how the weather in Montreal could twist their plans in a heartbeat.
Every small detail mattered: the right gear ratio for the hairpins, the braking points in wet conditions, how the car's balance would change if the temperature dropped by just a few degrees. They argued, recalculated, adjusted, and tested setups in the simulator until the clock slid past midnight. By the time Leo stepped out of the sim at 1 a.m., his muscles ached from the focus, his mind still replaying every corner in his head.
The building was quiet now, most lights dimmed, but Leo lingered a moment in the empty training bay. He could already picture himself on the grid in Montreal—engine rumbling, hands steady, heart ready. Tuesday had stolen his sleep, but in return, it had given him confidence.
Wednesday began at a pace almost as relentless as the track itself. By 11 a.m., Leo Vargas-Clairmont was seated under the glare of studio lights, answering back-to-back questions for a string of media outlets. Some wanted to know about his thoughts on the upcoming Montreal Grand Prix, others pressed about his season so far, the changes to the car, and how he handled the pressure of racing for one of the most talked-about teams in the paddock.
His answers came with the polished ease of a man used to the spotlight, though behind the charm was the constant mental calculation of what to reveal and what to keep to himself.
The final interview wrapped around 3 p.m., and he joined his crew for a late lunch—nothing heavy, just enough to keep him fueled. They spoke in between bites about simulator feedback, tire choices, and a few technical tweaks that could be made before race week. But there was no real downtime; almost immediately, he was whisked away to the photoshoot.
The set was packed with cameras, stylists, and creative directors, each with their own vision. One moment he was in his race suit, helmet under his arm, the next he was dressed in a tailored jacket for a lifestyle shot. The hours blurred together—flash, pose, adjust, repeat—until the clock inched toward midnight.
By the time he got back to his hotel room, he didn't even bother to unpack his bag. He collapsed onto the bed by 9 p.m., his body aching from the day's demands, his mind already on Thursday. It wasn't a race day yet, but he could feel it approaching, and in the world of Formula 1, the buildup was almost as exhausting as the race itself.
Thursday started early for Leo Vargas-Clairmont. His first stop was a closed-door meeting with Mercedes, where engineers walked him through their latest tech upgrades and even let him get hands-on with some of their gear. By the end of the session, just before lunch, they slid their offer across the table—€30 million. Leo kept his expression calm, nodding and saying he'd consider it.
After lunch, James quietly reminded him not to mention salary when they visited McLaren. The team's headquarters was sleek and full of cutting-edge tools, their engineers sharp and confident. Their pitch was strong, but their base salary—€25 million—didn't quite match Mercedes. Leo gave the same measured nod, promising to think it over.
The rest of the day blurred into back-to-back calls, technical briefings, and a quick simulator session to clear his head. By the time he left the James Maddon Training Centre that evening, the weight of two massive offers hung in his mind. It wasn't just about the money—it was about the machine, the team, and the path to the podium. Later that night, he called Ava, but she didn't pick up. 'Probably busy.' He sent her a couple of texts: "I miss you." But they remained unread.
Friday started with a curveball—not from a rival driver, but from Red Bull. They didn't want him for a race seat; they wanted him for their next global campaign. "We like your image, your personality, your… hair," the marketing guy had said, grinning across the table.
The deal? €10 million upfront, plus 0.05% royalty on global Red Bull sales. That royalty clause alone could pay for a new yacht. Easy yes. No overthinking. "Where do I sign?" Leo said, already picturing himself on billboards holding a can.
By late morning, he was in a good mood. He told his driver to prep the jet—destination Milan. He'd already texted Ava the time and place for dinner. No interviews, no simulator, no late-night briefings tonight—just her. He even caught himself smiling in the rear-view mirror.
Then, at noon, his phone lit up. James.
Once. Twice. Six times in a row.
Leo groaned, picking up. "What? I'm heading to Milan."
"Stop whatever you're doing," James said, voice sharp but almost smug. "Ferrari wants to meet you… today."
Leo blinked. "Today as now? James, I have a dinner date at seven. I'm wheeling up at five."
James didn't even flinch. "The meeting is after lunch. Won't end before four, but you still have time."
Leo narrowed his eyes. "You're telling me to blow off Ava for—wait—Ferrari actually called me?"
James laughed. "Get over here, kid. Claim your reward."
Leo's stomach flipped. Ferrari. His dream team. The one he'd idolized since karting. "Driver, change course. Monaco. Ferrari's office," he ordered, heart already racing.
When they pulled up, James was waiting at the door, grinning like a man who'd just won a bet. "You're welcome," he said as Leo stepped out.
Inside, a sharply dressed man extended his hand. "Mr. Vargas-Clairmont, welcome to Ferrari. I'm Rafael Timur. I'll be assisting you."
Leo followed Rafael into a sleek meeting room. A small army of team members sat around the table, all business.
"Ferrari only wants the best," Rafael began. "And you're the best. We're offering a base salary of €32 million, plus bonuses."
Leo's eyes darted to James in the corner, who gave him a subtle nod like, don't screw this up.
He hesitated.
Rafael smiled faintly. "Fine. €33 million."
Leo opened his mouth, but Rafael cut him off. "€35 million. Final offer. Take it or leave it."
Leo sat back, pulse quickening. "Did you just say €35 million?"
Rafael nodded. "That's our highest for a starter. Do we have a deal?"
Leo glanced at James, who just smirked and mouthed, saying yes.
Leo stood, shook Rafael's hand. "Deal."
Rafael grinned. "Good. Let's make it official—you'll start in Montreal as Ferrari's driver."
Leo exhaled, still processing. "Alright. Let's do this."
Without missing a beat, Rafael said, "Perfect. Let's go—your jet is ready."
Leo froze. "Wait… where are we going?"
"Ferrari HQ, of course," Rafael replied. "James didn't tell you?"
Leo's head whipped toward James. "James. My date. In Milan. Tonight."
James strolled over, completely unfazed. "Relax. I'll tell Ava."
Leo groaned. "You can't be serious. She's going to kill me if I don't explain it myself."
"Then call her," James shrugged.
Leo patted his pocket… and froze. "Oh, for—my phone's in the hotel room. I left it charging because I thought this meeting would take an hour."
James grinned. "See? Perfect. I'll handle it."
Leo pointed at him. "If she's mad, I'm blaming you."
"It's not my fault Ferrari called," James said, already walking toward the jet. "It's fate."
Leo muttered something under his breath, but followed. Maranello, Italy was waiting. He could only hope Ava understood… though deep down, he knew she probably wouldn't.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ava's POV - Milan
Ava had been standing outside the restaurant since 7 p.m. Now it was 9:30. No text. No call.
She tried calling again. Straight to voicemail.
The knot in her stomach tightened.
Did he really stand her up?
No. Leo wasn't like that. He wouldn't..…Right?
But doubt crept in, cold and cruel.
The night air was getting colder, her heels were starting to ache, and her fingers were numb from clutching her phone. Every minute that ticked by chipped away at the excuses she'd been building for him.
She'd imagined tonight so clearly—his smile when he saw her, the way he'd probably say something cocky about her dress, how they'd laugh over pasta and wine. Instead, she was staring at the cracks in the pavement, wondering if she was the punchline.
Defeated, she wandered toward the nearest bus stop and sat down. Her dress was too thin for the night breeze. Her pride was thinner still.
Then came the low, polished hum of an engine—deep, unmistakable. A sleek, black Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of her.
The tinted window slid down.
Ethan.
His brows knit the moment he saw her. "Ava?" His voice was sharp with concern. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
He was already out of the car, striding over. Without asking, he sat beside her on the bench, the scent of his cologne grounding her like an anchor.
She exhaled, looking away. "I had dinner plans."
He glanced at his watch. "At nine-thirty?"
"Seven," she whispered.
His jaw tightened, but he masked it with a breath. "Leo?"
A single nod from her.
Ethan's voice softened. "You've been waiting all this time?"
"I thought…" She swallowed, her voice breaking just enough for her to notice. "…maybe something happened. Or he got stuck. I kept telling myself he'd come. I called him but straight to voicemail."
A long silence stretched between them, the kind where both knew exactly what wasn't being said. Then he reached over and took her hand—gentle, steady.
She looked at him, startled.
"Come with me," he said quietly.
"Where?"
"Work."
She blinked. "Seriously?"
He gave a half-smile, almost sad. "You always say designing calms you down. And you're not going home like this. Not tonight."
Ava stared at him for a moment, then let out a shaky laugh. "You really do have a weird way of cheering me up."
He stood, still holding her hand. "Maybe. But I'm here. That's got to count for something."
She hesitated, then rose to her feet. Their fingers didn't let go. And for the first time that night, the ache in her chest dulled—just a little.
Ethan's POV
Ethan stepped into Ava's office for the first time. It was cozy and neat, the kind of space that felt lived in, with a large table in the center and a pin board filled with design sketches, swatches, and scribbled notes.
"You've been hiding this place from me," he said, glancing around.
"I'm pretty sure I've invited you before," Ava replied, kicking off her heels. "You were just too busy being the big CEO."
He smirked, setting his briefcase down as she switched on the lights and set water to boil for drinks.
Ethan pulled out his laptop and began checking emails. Ava peeked over his shoulder, balancing two glasses—hot tea in her right hand, hot chocolate in her left.
"Which one do you want?" she asked.
Ethan eyed the drinks, then reached for the tea. "I would've preferred coffee, but I'll take tea. I'm allergic to chocolate."
Ava's eyes widened. "You're kidding. You're allergic to chocolate?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Nothing," she said, grinning faintly. "It just means you're missing the taste of a warm hug and also more for me."
For the next hour, they worked in an easy silence, the only sound being the soft hum of a playlist they'd argued over for five minutes before settling on something in the middle.
A knock on the door eventually broke the quiet. The delivery guy had arrived—Ava's order was Chinese takeout, Ethan's was a burger and fries.
They sat side by side, eating and trading small jokes. Ethan stole one of her dumplings; she stole half his fries without asking.
At one point, she set her chopsticks down. "Thank you, Ethan… for understanding. I'm really glad we can still be friends even after…"
She trailed off, staring at her food.
"Even after you rejected me for Leo?" Ethan finished for her with a dry chuckle.
Ava winced. "You make it sound so cruel."
"It's fine," he said lightly, though there was a flicker in his eyes that said it wasn't entirely fine. "Yeah, it hurts. But honestly, I'm just glad we can still be friends. I've never really had someone I could talk to like this."
He paused, then added with a smirk, "Don't count Luca. He's paid to put up with my bullshit."
Ava laughed—loud, genuine, the kind that pulled her shoulders back from the slump they'd been in all night.
"See?" Ethan said, grinning. "Still got it."
She shook her head, smiling. And for the first time that night, she felt like maybe, just maybe, she hadn't been completely abandoned.
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Leo's POV - Maranello
Leo left the Ferrari meeting walking on air. The crew had treated him like he was already part of the family—engineers swapping ideas with him like old colleagues, strategists scribbling plans for the Montreal circuit on whiteboards, even the pit crew cracking jokes about how they'd shave milliseconds off his stops.
For hours, he'd been in his element—talking tire compounds, fuel strategies, aerodynamics. It felt less like work and more like destiny.
When Rafael Timur finally glanced at the clock, his brow lifted. "Vargas-Clairmont, do you know it's nearly eight?"
Leo blinked, then swore under his breath. "Shit—Ava."
He was supposed to have been in Milan hours ago. Dinner at seven. Their first proper date in weeks. And James had promised to let her know he'd be late.
"Relax," Rafael said with a smile. "Take the team jet to Monaco? Milan?. You'll be there in no time."
Leo's relief lasted all of two minutes—until a thought hit him like a loose gearbox at 200 kph. James. The man was a genius when it came to racing… but in every other department? A walking hazard. He could misplace a message between one sentence and the next. The last time Leo trusted him to pass on a note, it ended up under a stack of old racing magazines for three months.
And now Leo was relying on him to tell Ava—someone who didn't forgive easily—that he wouldn't make it on time?
By the time the jet touched down in Monaco, Leo was practically vibrating with nerves. He bolted into his penthouse, grabbed his phone—no texts from Ava.
None.
He called. Straight to voicemail.
Again. Same thing.
His gut sank. Either her phone was off… or James hadn't told her a damn thing.
"Unbelievable," Leo muttered.
It wasn't enough to just show up late with an apology. This was Ava. She deserved a gesture—a big one. Something that said I didn't forget you. I just got a deal with Ferrari.
So he stopped at the only florist still open, buying the most dramatic bouquet in sight—blood-red roses, baby's breath, wrapped in satin. Then he told his pilots they were flying to Milan. Tonight.
They exchanged looks like he is serious? but one quiet "Yes." from Leo settled it.
When they landed, it was just past ten. He headed straight to her apartment, bouquet in hand, heart pounding in his throat. Lights off. Curtains drawn.
He called again. Voicemail.
He refused to give up. Pulling up her office address on his phone—still saved from that time he requested someone deliver her flower for the first time—he sped across the city.
The street was quiet, her office lit with warm yellow light spilling through the big front windows. Leo parked, bouquet resting on the passenger seat, and rehearsed in his head: 'No excuses, just honesty. Maybe a joke about Ferrari kidnapping me. She'll roll her eyes, I'll apologize, and we'll fix this.'
Then he saw her.
Through Ava's office..
Leaning over a wide table covered in blueprints, Ava's head tilted toward a tall, broad-shouldered man. Their faces were close—too close. She was laughing. The kind of laugh he hadn't heard ever yet.
Leo's chest tightened. 'She didn't wait for him.'
The man shifted slightly, pointing at something on the paper. Ava leaned in again, her hand brushing his arm casually, naturally—like it wasn't the first time. 'They're definitely close.'
The stems in Leo's hand bent under his grip.
Every part of him wanted to storm in, demanding who the hell this guy was, why she was smiling at him like that. But he didn't. He just stood there, the warmth of his earlier excitement draining into something cold.
He had come here to apologize. To explain. To make things right. But now?
All he could see was Ava laughing with another man while he had been killing himself to get here.
Without another word, he walked back to the car. Tossed the bouquet into the nearest trash bin without looking. Drove to the airport in silence.
By the time his jet lifted off, the Milan skyline shrinking into the dark, Leo was staring out the window, jaw tight.
How could she do this to me?