The black V-Class pulled up to the Barcelona Corporate Aviation Terminal. Beyond the glass doors, the tarmac was a playground of white aluminum and carbon fiber.
Dominik stepped out, swinging his backpack over one shoulder. He scanned the line of parked aircraft with a practiced eye: a Bombardier Global 6000, a couple of Citation Latitudes, and there, gleaming in the Spanish sun, a Dassault Falcon 7X with the tail number ending in 16-CL.
Instinctively, Dominik turned toward the FBO reception desk.
"Habit," he muttered to himself, reaching for his passport to file a flight plan—a reflex from years of managing his family's corporate travel logistics.
A hand clamped around his wrist.
"Where are you going? The plane is waiting," Leclerc said, pulling him toward the security gate. "My pilots have everything filed. Relax, you're off the clock."
Russell, adjusting his sunglasses, smirked. "Let him go, Charles. He's probably trying to negotiate the landing fees. Once a shipping magnate, always a shipping magnate."
Dominik rolled his eyes but let himself be led onto the tarmac. "I just like to know the manifest, George. It's called efficiency."
Suddenly, Dominik stopped. He fished his phone from his pocket.
Dominik: Change of plans. Kidnapped by Ferrari and Merc. Dinner in Bahrain instead?
Piastri: No worries. I'm eating pasta alone. Enjoy the jet.
Dominik locked the phone, relieved.
As they walked toward the jet, they were spotted. A group of fans near the perimeter fence started shouting. The "God of War" save had made Dominik a sudden icon, and walking next to Leclerc and Russell only amplified the attention.
A small electric shuttle cart zoomed over from the terminal to rescue them. The driver, a young Spanish airport staffer, looked like he'd won the lottery.
He floored the accelerator, dodging luggage carts and cones with surprising aggression to get them away from the fence.
Dominik, sitting in the front passenger seat, grinned. "Nice racing line. You clipped the apex on that cone."
The driver beamed. "I watch F1! I try to drive fast like you!"
Dominik looked at the steering wheel of the golf cart. A mischievous thought crossed his mind.
"Can I try?"
Leclerc and Russell, squeezed in the back seat with the luggage, froze.
"Dominik, no," Russell warned, clutching his designer weekend bag.
"Dominik, yes," Dominik countered.
Minutes later, the FBO ground crew watched in bewilderment as their shuttle cart drifted sideways around the nose gear of a parked Gulfstream. A Williams driver was at the wheel, cackling, while a Ferrari driver screamed in French in the back seat.
"BRAKE! BRAKE!" Russell yelled, bracing himself against the roof supports.
Dominik flicked the wheel, corrected the slide, and brought the cart to a perfectly smooth halt right at the stairs of the Falcon 7X.
"See?" Dominik said, tossing the keys back to the stunned driver. "Smooth. Delivery complete."
Leclerc hopped out, looking shaken but laughing. "You are never driving my car. Ever. Stick to your cargo ships."
They boarded the jet. The interior was a sanctuary of beige leather and mahogany. Dominik dropped his bag and collapsed into a plush swivel seat. He had flown private plenty of times with his father, but there was something different about flying with peers—no board members, no business talk, just the hum of the APU.
His phone rang. It was O'Connor.
"Not bad, kid. You're good at creating hype," O'Connor said, his tone amused. "Check Instagram. Search your name."
Dominik opened the app.
The photo taken by the fan at breakfast—the one Russell had forced them into—had gone viral.
It showed the three of them: Russell striking a "blue steel" pose, Leclerc looking effortlessly charming, and Dominik looking slightly confused but undeniably part of the elite circle.
The caption from a major F1 account read: The Prince, The Reserve, and The Shipping Heir. #F1Testing.
But the top comment was what caught his eye. It was from Taylor Swift's official account: Okay, the grid is looking good this year. 👀
"Holy sh*t," Dominik muttered.
"What?" Russell leaned over. When he saw the comment, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. He immediately started typing a reply, trying to be witty.
Dominik noticed his follower count had jumped again. He was over 2.5 million now. The comments section was a war zone, but the narrative was shifting. He wasn't just a pay driver; he was a personality.
Dominik smirked. They call it riding coattails? I call it networking.
He turned to Leclerc and Russell. "Hey, one more photo. For the haters."
They posed again in the cabin, holding their drinks. Dominik posted it with the caption: Off to Monaco. No gravel traps allowed.
The phone rang again. This time, the screen flashed "Hanna".
Dominik answered cautiously. "Hello?"
"I saw the photo," Hanna's voice crackled, sounding slightly breathless. "You are on the plane with Charles?"
"Yes..."
"Listen to me very carefully, Dominik Corvinus. Next time I come to a race, I want a photo with him. The one in the red shirt. If you don't make this happen, I will tell the press about the time you fell into the Danube trying to impress a girl."
Dominik rubbed his temples. "You are a terror, you know that?"
"I am motivated. Make it happen." She hung up.
Dominik looked at Leclerc, who was settling into the seat across from him. "Hey, Charles. My friend... she's a big fan. She wants a photo next time she visits."
Leclerc smiled effortlessly. "Of course. Any friend of yours."
Dominik sighed. If only he knew.
"Air traffic control has cleared us," the pilot announced.
The Falcon 7X taxied to the runway. As the three engines roared to life, pressing Dominik back into the soft leather, he felt a thrill. He wasn't just a driver anymore; he was part of the inner circle.
He looked out the window as Barcelona fell away. The stress of the test, the crash, the politics—it all faded into the clouds.
He turned back to the cabin. Russell had reclined his seat and put on an eye mask. Leclerc was already asleep, clutching a pillow.
Dominik felt his own eyelids drooping. The "magnetic field" of three exhausted drivers took over. Within minutes, the future of Formula 1 was sound asleep at 40,000 feet.
An hour later, the gentle chime of the seatbelt sign woke them.
Below them, the azure waters of the Côte d'Azur sparkled. They were descending into Nice.
Dominik looked down at the coastline. Somewhere down there was the twisting street circuit where legends were made. And in a few months, he wouldn't just be visiting; he would be racing through it.