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Summary
“Jesus Christ,” Lando whispered. “I just told Max Verstappen to fuck off. On camera. In a wedding skirt. To protect my—” He froze, gesturing helplessly at the Aussie still watching him with infuriating calm. “—my husband.”
Oscar raised a single eyebrow. He looked about as hungover as Lando felt, but there was a wry tilt to his mouth.
“Well,” he said flatly. “At least you were committed.”
Alternatively:
Lando Norris went to Vegas to celebrate taking the lead in the WDC. He left with a hangover, a husband, and a skirt.
It's not a PR nightmare if you never sober up.
