Chapter Text
The neon glow of the Vegas skyline spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the hotel room. The air hums with the distant pulse of the Strip—basslines from clubs below, the occasional honk of a cab, laughter trailing down hallways.
Somewhere between the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand and the mess of clothes on the floor, the line between past and present blurs. A breathless laugh, hushed and fleeting. Fingers ghosting over skin, tracing old scars, new bruises. A dare murmured against a collarbone, answered with teeth and the slow drag of nails down a spine.
The sheets are ruined, tangled past the point of fixing, the room thick with heat and something unspoken. A promise, maybe. Or just another gamble in a city built on them.
Outside, Vegas keeps spinning. Inside, neither of them care. Not yet.
_____________________________
(Some months later)
It started as a small thing—just a little off. At first, Charles brushed it aside. The season had started again, and he chalked up the exhaustion to pre-season testing, endless media duties, and the relentless travel schedule. It wasn’t unusual to feel tired after the break. But then, the nausea started. It would hit him at random times—during briefings, in the garage, sometimes even right before getting into the car. At first, he ignored it, pushing through like he always did. Maybe it was just nerves, maybe he had eaten something bad.
But it wasn’t just nausea.
His body felt off. Heavy in a way that didn’t make sense, like his energy was being drained faster than usual. During a practice session, he climbed out of the car and the world tilted for a second. He gripped the halo tightly, breathing deeply through his nose before stepping onto the floor of the garage.
The team barely noticed, busy with their usual routine. But it didn’t stop. The nausea got worse. The exhaustion lingered. His body felt warm in a way that made his instincts prickle with unease. Then came the smell. It wasn’t something anyone else would notice, but Charles felt different. His scent was changing—just slightly, just enough that when Pierre leaned in for a casual conversation, his nose twitched in confusion before he shrugged it off. Charles tried not to panic.
He tried to tell himself it was nothing. But deep down, a thought began to form. A possibility that made his stomach churn in a way that had nothing to do with nausea.
_____________________________
Charles sat curled up on the couch in his hotel room, knees pulled to his chest, phone clutched in his slightly trembling hands. His heart was racing, his stomach twisting in knots that had nothing to do with the nausea he'd been battling for weeks now. He stared at his phone screen, thumb hovering over his brother’s contact. He could call Max. He should call Max. But the thought of saying the words out loud made his throat close up. It was just a night in vegas, a drucken blur.
So he called Lorenzo instead. It barely rang before his brother picked up.
“Charles? What’s wrong?”
Charles licked his lips, trying to steady his voice, but it still wobbled when he spoke. “Lorenzo, I—I need you to do something for me. Please.”
There was a pause, then a sigh. “What did you do?” Charles made an impatient sound.
“Nothing! Just—can you go to a pharmacy? Buy me some—” He hesitated, pressing his knuckles to his mouth, voice dropping to a whisper. “Some pregnancy tests?”
Silence.
“…Excuse me?”
Charles squeezed his eyes shut. “Lorenzo, please. I can’t—I can’t go buy them myself. People will see, and then the media will find out, and I just—” His voice broke slightly, and he bit his lip hard to stop it from trembling.
Lorenzo groaned on the other end. “Mon Dieu. Charles—” “Please, Enzo,” Charles begged, pressing his forehead against his knees. “Just—just get them, bring them to my room. I need to know.”
Another long pause. Then, a resigned sigh. “Fine. Give me twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes felt like an eternity. Charles paced the length of his room, stomach in knots, ears ringing. When a knock finally came at his door, he practically sprinted to open it. Lorenzo stood there, a pharmacy bag in hand, looking half-exasperated, half-worried. “You owe me,” he muttered, stepping inside and handing over the bag.
Charles grabbed it with slightly shaky hands and disappeared into the bathroom without another word. It was nerve-wracking. Three tests. Three long, agonizing waits.
Then— Positive.
One by one, every single test turned positive. Charles sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at them lined up on the counter, his breath shallow, hands gripping his thighs. His vision blurred slightly, chest rising and falling unevenly. He felt Lorenzo before he heard him. A hand landed on his shoulder, grounding and warm.
“Charles?” His brother’s voice was softer now, careful. Charles swallowed hard. “They’re all positive.” His voice was barely a whisper. Lorenzo exhaled slowly. “Okay,” he said, giving his shoulder a small squeeze. “Breathe, Charlie.” But Charles couldn't. Because this was real. This was happening. Charles’ breath came fast and shallow, his vision swimming.
This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening.
But the three tests lined up on the counter said otherwise.
Lorenzo crouched down in front of him, hands firm on Charles’ shoulders, trying to ground him. “Charlie,” he said, voice low and steady. “Look at me.”
Charles shook his head, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “No, no, no—this can’t be happening,” he gasped, rocking slightly where he sat. “It’s—it’s not possible. It has to be wrong. They’re wrong.”
Lorenzo’s grip on his shoulders tightened slightly. “Charles. Breathe.”
Charles tried, he really did, but his lungs weren’t cooperating. His entire body was trembling, a sickly cold sweat clinging to his skin. His stomach churned violently, and for a second, he thought he might throw up.
Lorenzo exhaled through his nose, his face tense but patient. “Okay. First things first—are you sure? I mean, I’m not questioning the tests, but—have you been feeling…?”
Charles nodded frantically, voice barely above a whisper. “For weeks. I—I thought it was just the season, or stress, or—” He let out a shaky breath. “I ignored it. I wanted to ignore it.”
Lorenzo ran a hand down his face. “Mon Dieu.” Then, after a moment, he asked, carefully, “Do you know who the father is?”
Charles flinched like he’d been struck. His breath hitched, his hands clenching into fists against his knees.
The night in Vegas flashed through his mind—flashes of neon lights, laughter, hands on his waist, lips at his throat. The way his head had spun, the way he’d felt warm and safe in strong arms. The way he’d woken up the next morning with a pounding headache and him still in bed beside him.
His stomach twisted violently.
Lorenzo must have noticed the way his face drained of color because his brows furrowed, and his voice sharpened. “Charles.”
Charles’ breath shuddered out of him. “I—I think…” He swallowed hard, fingers twisting together. “Max.”
Lorenzo blinked. “Max?”
Charles nodded stiffly. “It—it was just one night. A stupid, drunken night. I didn’t think—” His voice broke, and he shook his head. “I didn’t think.”
Lorenzo sat back on his heels, exhaling slowly. “Okay,” he said, his voice carefully even. “Okay. We’ll figure this out.”
Charles let out a wet, shaky laugh, burying his face in his hands. “How, Enzo? How do we figure this out?”
Lorenzo didn’t have an answer. But he squeezed Charles’ shoulder again, firm and steady. “One step at a time. Maybe tell Max about this?,” he murmured.
Charles sucked in a trembling breath, staring at the tests again. He shook his head violently, pushing himself up from the bathtub’s edge and backing away from Lorenzo as if his brother had suggested something truly horrifying. His pulse thundered in his ears, his chest tightening until it felt impossible to breathe.
“No,” he said, voice sharp, almost panicked. “I—I can’t tell him.”
Lorenzo’s brows pulled together. “Charles—”
“No.” Charles cut him off, shaking his head again. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “I mean it, Enzo. I can’t tell him.”
Lorenzo exhaled slowly, leveling him with a look that was both exasperated and deeply concerned. “Charlie, this isn’t something you can just hide.”
Charles let out a sharp, humorless laugh, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Why not? It’s my body. My problem.”
Lorenzo sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s not just your problem.”
“It is,” Charles insisted, his voice rising. “Max—Max doesn’t need to know. It was one night, Enzo. That’s all it was supposed to be. Just—just a mistake. A stupid mistake.”
Lorenzo flinched at the way Charles’ voice cracked on the last word. “A mistake?” he repeated, quieter now.
Charles clenched his jaw, looking away. He felt sick. He pressed a hand to his stomach, barely breathing.
“Doesn’t change the fact that it happened,” Lorenzo said gently. “And it doesn’t change the fact that Max deserves to know.”
Charles shook his head again, frantic. “If I tell him, everything changes.”
“Everything has already changed.”
Charles squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing down the lump rising in his throat. “I just—I don’t want things to be different,” he admitted, voice small. “I don’t want him to look at me like—like I’ve ruined everything.”
Lorenzo’s expression softened. “You haven’t ruined anything, Charlie.”
“You don’t know that,” Charles whispered.
Lorenzo was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “So what’s your plan? Just—never tell him? Go through this alone?”
Charles’ stomach twisted at the thought. He didn’t want to be alone. But the alternative—telling Max, watching his expression shift, seeing the weight of this settle between them like an immovable force—was somehow worse.
“I don’t know,” Charles admitted, pressing his fingers to his temple. “I just—I need time.”
Lorenzo sighed but didn’t push further. Instead, he gave Charles’ shoulder one last reassuring squeeze.
“Okay,” he said softly. “But not forever, Charlie.”
Charles didn’t respond. He just stared at the tests on the counter, heart pounding, feeling the weight of a secret that was already too heavy to bear.
_____________________________
Charles sat in the cold, impersonal meeting room deep inside Ferrari’s headquarters, his hands clasped tightly in his lap to keep them from trembling. Across the table, the team principal and a couple of high-ranking executives watched him with unreadable expressions.
He had barely gotten the words out—barely managed to say I’m pregnant—before the atmosphere in the room shifted into something suffocating.
The silence stretched unbearably until one of the men finally spoke. “And you’re sure?”
Charles nodded, his throat dry. “I took multiple tests.”
The team principal exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled together. “And who is the father?”
Charles hesitated. “Does that matter?”
The principal’s brows lifted. “It does if it will bring media attention.”
Charles swallowed. “Max,” he admitted quietly.
That made them sit up a little straighter, glances exchanged between them like calculations were already being made. The air felt colder, heavier.
Finally, one of the executives leaned forward. “Charles, let me be frank with you,” he said, voice sharp, businesslike. “This situation is… unprecedented. Formula 1 is a demanding sport. You know that better than anyone.”
Charles nodded stiffly.
“We cannot afford distractions. Your contract is built around performance, around your ability to commit fully to the team. If you were to go through with this… pregnancy, it would be impossible for you to compete at the level we require.”
Charles’ stomach twisted. “I—I can take time off, train to come back stronger.”
The man shook his head. “No. That’s not how this works. You would be out for months, possibly a season or more. We cannot have an inactive driver holding a seat, especially not with the championship at stake.”
Charles’ fingers dug into his palms. “So what are you saying?”
The team principal sighed, rubbing his temple. “We are saying that you have two choices, Charles.” He leveled him with a sharp, cutting stare. “You terminate the pregnancy and continue your career as planned—or your contract will be terminated instead.”
They weren’t giving him an option. Not really.
“Surely there’s another way—”
“There isn’t.” The executive’s voice was firm, unwavering. “This is Ferrari. This is Formula 1. There is no room for compromise.”
Charles’ heartbeat rang loud in his ears. His entire life had been built around this sport. Every sacrifice, every grueling hour of training, every moment spent chasing a dream that now hung in the balance.
“Take some time,” the team principal said, though there was no real kindness in his voice. “Think about what’s more important to you. But understand, Charles—if you don’t make the right choice, we will move on without you.”
The meeting was over.
Charles barely remembered standing, barely remembered walking out of the room. He just knew that by the time he reached his car, his hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t even get the key into the ignition.
They were asking him to give up everything.
Or… to give up this.
_____________________________
Charles barely made it back to his hotel room before the dam broke.
The second the door shut behind him, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor, his breath coming in sharp, broken gasps. His vision blurred, his hands shaking so violently he could barely unlock his phone.
He didn’t even think—his fingers found his mother’s contact on instinct.
The phone rang twice before she picked up. “Mon chéri!” Her voice was warm, familiar. Safe. “I was just about to call you. How are you, my love?”
Charles tried to answer, but the moment he opened his mouth, a choked sob tore from his throat instead.
There was a sharp inhale on the other end. “Charlie?” Her voice softened immediately, laced with concern. “What’s wrong?”
Charles pressed a hand over his mouth, trying to quiet himself, but it was useless. His entire body shook as tears streamed down his face, his breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts. “Maman,” he finally gasped, his voice barely there. “I—I don’t know what to do.”
“Oh, mon bébé,” she murmured, her voice aching with love. “Breathe for me, Charles. Just breathe, darling.”
He tried, but his chest felt too tight, like it was caving in. His free hand curled into his stomach, a protective, instinctive gesture. “They—they said I have to—” He couldn’t even say it. The words felt like knives in his throat.
“Who? Who said what?” Her voice was sharper now, edged with worry.
Charles squeezed his eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears spilling down his cheeks. “The team. Ferrari. They—they said I have to get rid of it. Or—or they’ll terminate my contract.”
Silence.
Then, a sharp, angry breath. “Ces bâtards…” she hissed under her breath.
Charles let out a broken laugh that turned into another sob. “Maman…”
“Oh, my sweet boy.” Her voice was full of sorrow and something fiercer underneath. “I am so sorry, mon cœur. They have no right.”
“But they do,” Charles whispered. “They can take everything away. Everything I worked for.” His voice cracked, raw and full of despair. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”
His mother was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was steady, sure. “Charles, listen to me.”
He sniffled, squeezing the phone tighter. “Okay.”
“No matter what happens, you are not alone,” she said firmly. “You have me. You have your brothers. You have people who love you, not for what you do, but for who you are.”
Charles let out a shaky breath.
“I know how much you love racing, how much you have given for this dream,” she continued, voice soft but unwavering. “But, mon chéri… what do you want? Not Ferrari. Not Formula 1. You.”
Charles’ chest ached. “I don’t know.” His voice was so small, so lost.
His mother sighed gently. “Then we will figure it out together, mon amour. You do not have to make this decision alone.”
Charles clutched the phone to his ear like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. For the first time since seeing those two pink lines, he allowed himself to lean into the warmth of her voice, into the safety of knowing that—no matter what—someone was on his side.