Chapter Text
It ends like this:
Charles opening up X to see the news plastered everywhere—tweets, retweets, links, videos. It’s all there.
Carlos’s beautiful face bent down low, dark hair messy, tanned arms wrapped around a slim waist—one that’s not Charles’s—passionately kissing young up-and-coming DJ and pop-electronica singer Lando Norris. He cradles Lando like he once did with Charles, one hand tenderly cupping his cheek. Lando has no qualms—his own hands are tangled in Carlos’s thick, dark hair, his hold is possessive and greedy and wanting.
And Charles has see this on his timeline after a panicked call from his publicist asking is it true? Did you two break up? Charles you need to tell me these things—!
He wanted to laugh.
He wanted to cry.
How the fuck was he supposed to tell anyone if he didn’t know?
Carlos still hasn’t called. Or texted. Or even sent him a fucking Instagram message.
Charles guesses he doesn’t really have to.
Your boyfriend of four years publicly cheating on you sends the message loud and clear.
We’re done.
He spends the weekend locked away in his Los Angeles penthouse, heart aching for Monaco, the Mediterranean Sea, and the comforting arms of his mother. He misses Lorenzo’s dry quips and Arthur’s loud enthusiasm, he hasn’t seen his baby niece since she was born and if Charles closes his eyes, he isn’t sure if his favorite bakery is next to the cafe run by Madame Vallée or near the Delaunay flower shop.
It’s stupid, he thinks, as he buries himself beneath blankets and pillows. Some part of him recognizes that Carlos wasn’t the one but god, did Charles want him to be. He wanted to find his forever—his happily ever after—and have that one person who would understand and love him no matter what.
Charles has been searching for that kind of all encompassing love since he was eight years old and realized he liked boys, not girls. He’s built his entire career out of it—on capturing this mythical, elusive emotion called love.
Charles acknowledges that his breakup from Carlos is sad, but the thing that makes his heart ache is the realization that he still hasn’t found it. The kind of love his mama and papa had. The kind of love Lorenzo and Charlotte share.
Biting down on his lower lip, Charles squeezes his eyes shut and ducks underneath his comforter. Was he so hard to love that boyfriends would either leave him, ghost him, or in this case—just publicly cheat on him?
He’d put his phone on silent after Carlos had flooded him with apologies but no excuses.
I love him, Charles. I’m sorry I hurt you but I cannot apologize for loving Lando.
Well that’s fucking peachy, Charles had thought bitterly (he’d read a few of those messages in a fit of self-loathing). Wasn’t it just wonderful that the cheater got his happily ever after?
🦋🦋🦋 🦋🦋🦋
Charles climbs out of his Ferrari Pista looking like an absolute dream. His outfit is pristine, no hint of redness in his eyes, and his hair is perfectly tousled. He looks immaculate when he steps into his publicist’s office after she called, texted, and finally had a hand written letter delivered to his home address with the words: My office. 3 pm. No exceptions.
He walks through the white marble lobby that looks more like a mausoleum than an office building but to each their own. Some people were just really inspired by the Hollywood Forever cemetery and who was Charles to judge? It certainly fit his mood.
The death of love was radiating off of him.
(Yes, okay, he’s being a bit dramatic but he’s Charles Leclerc and he just got publicly cheated on. If there was ever a time to dramatically throw oneself on the nearest chaise lounge, it was now.)
He takes the shiny chrome elevator up 60 floors until he gets to an enormous reception, plush couches, a friendly, smiling secretary who tells Charles to go right in.
Silvia Hoffer Frangipane stands behind her enormous snowy marble desk (why is everything marble?) in a perfectly tailored Brooks Brothers pencil skirt, matching blazer, and sky high stilettos. Her blood red nails are tapping against the back of her white leather office chair as she watches Charles with an intensity that tells him he’s about to be forced into something whether he likes it or not.
“Good afternoon, Charles.” She greets smoothly, voice low and amused. “How nice of you to finally show up after ignoring my calls for 48 hours.”
“I was busy.” Charles smiles blankly, taking a seat in one of the puffy leather chairs across from her desk. He crosses his legs, expectant. “What can I do for you?”
“Ah, I know you may not think I have your best interests at heart Charles but trust me, I do. Your label pays me more than enough to ensure that my work keeps your name in mint condition.”
Yes, but I am the performing monkey who gets shipped out to the public, aren’t I?
Charles says nothing, only continues to give her a mild smile.
Silvia chuckles. “Your boyfriend has all but confirmed your breakup after publicly kissing Lando Norris.” His publicist says pointedly. She picks up the crisp manila folder by her desk, red nails tapping against the spine.
He scoffs. “That’s a nice PR way of saying ‘cheated on me like a coward.’”
“And that’s exactly what the public will think once we get the ball rolling, so to speak.” Her smile sharpens and the placid atmosphere of the room changes. “You are the wronged party here, Charles. You have everything in your favor. Now we just need to bring it home.”
“Bring it home? Bring what home?” He blinks in confusion. “If you want me to go into the studio and record angry breakup songs then I have to say, I’m way ahead of you on that.”
“Not quite.” Silvia’s painted lips curve into a smile that’s wider than Charles has ever seen. “What do the public love more than a devastating breakup? A phoenix rising from the ashes.”
“…I’m not following.”
“You need to be swept away in a new romance—only this time, it won’t be just any romance. You have found your true love after a devastating betrayal. Think Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce. Her breakup with Joe Alwyn was the best thing that happened to her.”
A slight shiver runs down Charles’s spine but he refuses to let his nerves show. “You want me to what, go fishing for an American football star?”
“No, no,” Silvia placates quickly, “nothing so mundane, Charles. When I do things, I do things right and for you…” She slides the folder forward with a satisfied nod of her head. “I took into account the favorite sport of your country.”
Charles reaches for the folder, Harry Winston rings gleaming under the afternoon sunlight. When he opens it, he sees a single photo staring back at him.
“But which branch of Motorsport to look into? Which driver would suffice? But then again—why merely settle?” Silvia continues. “He has to be the perfect driver—the most exclusive kind. A driver in the pinnacle of motorsport. Someone fierce, someone bold, someone who can’t be ignored. And for my favorite client? Well, who could be better than Formula One’s reigning world champion?”
Max Verstappen.
Silvia’s voice completely fades away as he stares at the photo in his lap. Intense blue eyes the color of a summer storm, a sharp cut jaw, strong features, a thick neck, and broad chest that makes Charles want to snuggle up next to him—no. He shakes his head. He will not be revisiting any silly childhood crush—not when his publicist is considering…
“Wait a moment.” Realization hits him like a race car going into Copse. “You…you want me to pretend to date Max Verstappen…?”
“Well, no.”
“Oh.” Charles relaxes.
“We want to suggest that you and Mr. Verstappen are currently romantically involved, blissfully happy, and that you are healing from heartbreak.”
“That’s—that is ridiculous.” He sputters. “Ma—I mean, Verstappen will never agree to this—!”
“Ah, not so.” Silvia picks up the iPad by her side, taps a few times, and shows Charles a contract that doesn’t mean anything aside for the bold signature underneath. “He’s already signed the terms and conditions.”
Max…Max Verstappen, the bold, independent, ferociously media avoidant 4-time World Champion has agreed to fake date a Hollywood celebrity and he did so without putting up a fight?
Charles feels dizzy.
Because this isn’t just any guy Silvia grabbed off the bachelor list. Max Verstappen is the one man in the entire world who could make Charles Leclerc’s knees weak just by being alive. His childhood crush on the promising prodigy turned youngest F1 driver had never gone away—no matter how hard Charles tried over the years to sweep away that annoying burst of affection he felt whenever Max’s face appeared on F1 TV.
His publicist merely leans back in her enormous wingback chair, arms crossed, and a somewhat pitying expression on her usually stern face. “It will not be forever,” she says in what Charles thinks is a placating manner, “only six months—”
“That’s half a year, Silvia.”
“Yes, yes,” she waves away his protest like an inconvenient gnat, “but it is six months Mr. Verstappen has agreed to. He is curious about you—and he needs this.”
At those words, Charles perks up. “What do you mean?”
“You watch F1, yes?”
“…Yes.”
“So you know. His season is terrible, he has just broken up with his longtime girlfriend, their team principle was fired, and Red Bull is melting down around him. He needs to project stability, strength, and continuation. He needs a PR overhaul and that’s where you come in. See? Mutual benefit.”
“But I—“ I think I will look like a fool in front of him. I will stutter and blush and he will know that my stupid little crush never went away. That I followed his career from his karting days and defended him when he was promoted to Toro Rosso and…and—
Charles bites his lower lip and tries to rationalize. Really, it’s only a few months, Max knows what he’s getting into, surely it’ll only be a few coordinated public appearances and then they can go their separate ways? Surely Charles won’t actually trip over his own two feet within minutes of meeting the famously recalcitrant Max Verstappen who hates the press but can talk racing for hours?
He exhales, straightening up in his chair. “I have my own conditions.” His voice is quick and precise, a no-nonsense businessman instead of the “sweetheart singer” his fans known and love.
Silvia merely nods, unsurprised. “Of course, of course. But,” she looks him in the eye, “you agree to this?”
“Yes. I do.”
The day that Charles meets Max is a day that will be seared into his mind and memory forever.
It’s a pleasant Los Angeles morning, the July sun shining bright and clear in the blue sky while Charles stands in front of his enormous walk-in closet trying on outfit after outfit, so much so that the carpet itself can no longer be seen due to the discarded shirts, pants, and shoes he’s tossed around.
He can’t explain it—this is an arranged meeting, an arranged “relationship”—Charles doesn’t have to impress anyone but his heart is thundering in his chest, demanding he look his absolute best. Demands that when Max Verstappen, 4-time world champion, sees him, that gorgeous blond Dutchman falls to his knees in awe.
Okay, so Charles is a bit dramatic—sue him. After getting publicly dumped by the Smooth Operator, Charles feels entitled to some extra pampering even as he privately relishes in spiteful glee after realizing Carlos will have to see him in the paddock sooner rather than later. He can’t wait to show up on Max’s arm, head tucked against the Red Bull driver’s chest, enveloped in his cologne as they walk side by side, the photographers and crowd parting for them as courtiers would do their monarchs.
It’s cheesy and silly and entirely fantastical but as the Monegasque beauty tries on his fourteenth outfit, twisting and turning in front of his floor to ceiling mirror that takes up the entire left wall, he smirks in satisfaction. A semi-sheer, long-sleeved teal colored blouse tucked into dark blue wide-leg jeans that cinch tightly at the waist. Dark burgundy Stefano Ricci crocodile leather loafers he’d bought on a whim three months ago. Brunello Cucinelli sunglasses framed in gold. His curls are carefully tousled to look casually windblown, a light coat of La Mer’s Lip Volumizer in Sheer Pink is dabbed across his lips, a handful of David Yurman rings on each hand followed by his favorite Breitling Navitimer watch.
Charles doesn’t just look good. He looks stunning, sensational, and utterly resplendent.
For the first time since Carlos left him for Lando-fucking-Norris of all people, Charles isn’t wallowing in regret or numb with rage. Oh no. Charles Leclerc looks like America’s Sweetheart once again, the beloved Monegasque singer who came to LA and won over the hearts and minds of record executives and the listening public.
Charles Leclerc looks ready to do fucking battle.
🦋🦋🦋 🦋🦋🦋
By the time he arrives at the agreed upon cafe, he’s 20 minutes late. Really, it wasn’t his fault! He just wanted to look good for Max—and any paparazzi (if they were nearby).
Sue him, he wants to make Carlos regret it—he wants that man to come crawling back, groveling, just so Charles can get the satisfaction of rejecting him with a flip of the wrist.
It is petty? Yes, of course.
Does Charles care? Not in the least.
Especially not when the man he’s meeting is Max Verstappen, the ambitious and ferociously talented Red Bull driver who stormed into Formula One with a dream and ruthless determination. God, Charles feels his heartbeat speeding up just at the thought of the blond Dutchman with those intense blue eyes and sharp angled features.
(So what if a sweaty post-race Max was Charles’s secret fantasy? Anyone else with eyes could see just how gorgeous a flushed and panting Max Verstappen was, especially when he wore that smug smirk on his face—the victor and champion and one of the hottest things Charles has ever seen on TV.)
Giving himself a half second, Charles throws his shoulders back, lifts his chin, and puts an extra sway in his hips as he walks.
They’re in one of the most exclusive parts of LA, a little neighborhood where everyone came from obscene wealth and familial connections. Charles rarely ever got stopped around this area and while he was usually relieved at being left alone, today he feels absurdly grateful.
As he walks closer, footsteps measured and precise, he sees a man seated outside, near the sidewalk. He’s sitting down but Charles can tell his legs are long, encased in dark blue jeans, and feet in white trainers. He has a perfect narrow waist, a strong chest, and shoulders that are so broad and bitable that Charles is just the tiniest bit hypnotized by.
The stranger is running one large pale hand through his messy dark blond hair, cheeks a little flushed from the warm California sun, and he looks—fuck.
Max Verstappen looks the way he does after he’s stepped out of the Red Bull and ripped that balaclava from his face.
Exhaling, the Monegasque makes his way closer—even though Silvia said Max has already agreed to the contract, Charles wants to make an impression—and watches how piercing blue eyes, dark and somehow bright, meet his own.
Emerald and sapphire.
“Hi,” he greets with a dimpled smile, “I’m Charles. It’s very lovely to meet you Max.”
The blond studies him for a moment and Charles remains still and patient—he knows he looks good, his outfit perfectly coordinated, and just the subtlest sheen of shimmery pink gloss on his lips.
He watches the way those intense blue eyes flick down, ever so briefly, and he hopes it’s because Max thinks he looks good.
That his lips look soft and plump and maybe even kissable.
(Yes Charles wants to get back at Carlos, but he can have a little fun along the way, can’t he?)
But when the 4-time world champion doesn’t say anything, merely tilts his head, crosses his arms, and continues to look at him with a focus that almost makes Charles shy, he begins to feel flustered—just the tiniest bit—and bites down on his lower lip. Not to seduce, but out of nervous instinct.
“Hello? Max? Are you alright?” He steps forward, one hand reaching out to gently brush against Max’s shoulder.
They both freeze—it’s only a moment, a brief pause in time—but Charles swears he can feel electricity running up his arm.
Max suddenly moves, rising to his full height and oh fuck, isn’t that a gorgeous sight? Charles may have a little bit of a size kink and seeing Max standing over him, tall and broad and able, sends a blush blooming across his cheeks.
“Hi.” Max’s voice is low and raspy and a little rough. “I’m sorry, it’s ah, been a long day.” He shrugs with a faint smile. “But I’m glad to finally meet you Charles.” He holds out his hand and it’s a bit silly, a bit dorky, but Charles finds himself a little endeared.
He clasps his own smaller hand against Max’s. “It’s a long flight from Nice to LA. I’m glad you could make it. Did you want to order something? They have an excellent pandan matcha.”
“Oh,” Max’s smile suddenly grows. “I’ve never had pandan before. But I’ve heard it’s got a very unique flavor—sweet, nutty, and a bit floral. I know it’s very popular to infuse them in Vietnamese and Filipino desserts—and it’s very high in antioxidants and Vitamin C. Of course, many people enjoy it more for the flavor instead of the health benefits but it’s always good to know that you’re eating something that supports your health. Not that you need to worry about your health,” Max quickly adds, “I was just—yeah. I’d like to try it.” Slowly, his speech stutters to a stop and the usually powerful world champion looks a little…
Embarrassed.
Charles can’t fathom why. In fact, he’s actually grateful to learn that all the pandan matchas he’s been ingesting actually contain health benefits so he can feel good when he tells his trainer everything he’s been consuming since the breakup.
Max is smart. And interesting.
And Charles likes that. But the way Max looks, the pop star gets the distinct feeling a few people aren’t fans of his bits of knowledge and lore. “Oh I didn’t know that. Have you been to the Philippines before? I’ve always wanted to go but never had enough time in my schedule. I’d love to try some authentic pandan desserts and compare it to what we have here in LA.” He tucks his sunglasses into the collar of his blouse and runs one hand through messy brown curls that he spent a solid 45 minutes styling.
For a second, Max seems surprised Charles is willing to continue the conversation but just as quickly that moment passes and that same warm smile returns to his lips. “I haven’t been to the Philippines either. But I’ve seen pandan flavored things sold all over Singapore.” .
Charles’s eyes brighten and the excitement on his face is infectious. “Marina Bay is the one of the most gorgeous circuits on the F1 calendar. I’m always so excited to see it whenever the race rolls around.” He grins then, a little cheeky and a lot beautiful. “But I am sure it must be less fun for you, no? Driving in that heat and humidity?”
Max shrugs. “It’s difficult but I love it. The corners are tough and you have no room for runoffs. Of course, the external temperatures are tricky too and the Red Bull’s struggled a bit on the track but it’s good to be challenged, I think. It makes victory sweeter.”
Charles tilts his head, mischief dancing through him. “Ah, so Singapore is your white whale?”
The Dutchman doesn’t miss a beat. “Is this your way of calling me a dick?”
The quip causes Charles to burst out laughing—louder than expected and he quickly covers his mouth with his right hand. “You enjoy the works of Herman Melville?” He asks between giggles.
Max shrugs. “Sometimes when you’re on the road or on the plane with nothing to do, you’ll listen or watch just about anything.”
Charles gives him a sympathetic nod, body moving to sit down across from him at the outdoor table. “I understand. It sounds similar to touring. I once finished Ken Burns’ entire Prohibition documentary during a car ride even though I only intended to watch maybe 20 minutes.”
“Are you hinting you'd rather have a real drink instead of your beloved pandan matcha?”
“Oh it’s my beloved pandan matcha now? When did I say that?” He teases right back.
Max can’t help the smile that appears on his lips. “You didn’t. But I’m just guessing now. You smiled a lot when you mentioned it before.”
Charles’s heart skips a beat.
It’s silly and infinitesimal and shouldn’t mean as much as Charles is making it out to be but…
You smiled a lot when you mentioned it before.
Max noticed. He noticed Charles’s expression, his mood, and his smile—all in the span of 10 minutes. It feels spiteful to compare him to Carlos but Charles can’t help it—his boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend, never paid half as much care to Charles’s preferences.
(Even though he knew Lando’s favorite drink and Lando’s favorite snack and the one time Charles was seated next to Lando at the MTV Music Awards Carlos had been so careful to push away the fish on Lando’s plate—)
He bites down on his lower lip. “Oh. You pay very close attention to things.”
Max shrugs. “You have a very expressive face.” He stands up. “Come on, it’s hot and I don’t think I’m built for this heat.”
“Big bad F1 driver can’t take a little LA sun?” He asks slyly but rises to his feet all the same.
Max chuckles. “Guess I’ve been too spoiled by the Monaco seaside.”
“It is beautiful isn’t it?” He sighs wistfully as they walk inside, the sharp blast of AC instantly cooling them down.
“It is.” The Red Bull driver is hard to read but Charles catches the way a small glint of interest appears in his ocean blue eyes. “You’re from there, aren’t you? A born and raised Monaco native?”
“Monegasque to the bone.” Charles smiles brightly. “But,” he hesitates “if I wanted to make it in music I needed to come to LA. Or at least that’s what I was told.” In fact, his manager threatened to quit on the spot if Charles didn’t haul ass to LA in the next two weeks. “But I would give anything to go back to Monaco for a few days. See my maman and my brothers.” As soon as the words leave his lips, Charles wants to take them back.
It’s too personal—to mundane and boring and silly for a meeting like this. Max lives the fast paced life of an F1 driver with the world at his feet, crossing continents and countries at a moment’s notice. He doesn’t want to hear Charles talk about childhood games and bruised hands from climbing the tree in his backyard.
He opens his mouth, ready to change the topic to something more palatable—maybe the upcoming race, or Max’s latest cover for GQ—when suddenly, he feels a rough, calloused palm cover his own smaller hand. “Tell me more.”
Charles blinks in surprise. “You really want to listen?”
“I do.” His gaze is steady—completely unwavering—and he leans closer, as if ready to memorize the words from Charles’s lips.
He does his best to fight down a blush. It’s just because of Carlos, Charles repeats to himself, Max was Carlos’s old teammate. You’re just flattered by his attention because he’s handsome and kind and not comparing you to someone else.
“Well just remember,” he teasingly warns, “you asked for this. I have enough stories about Arthur’s antics to fill a book—two books, maybe.”
“Then don’t leave me hanging.” Max smiles back.
He giggles—the second time he’s done that, mon dieu—and leans in, chin in the palm of his hand and stories spilling from his lips.
Charles glances down every few minutes, afraid to look too deeply into those deep blue eyes and strong, handsome features.
He misses the open expression on Max’s face, the warmth in his smile, the way his hand remains pressed atop of Charles’s.
TMZ
Hollywood Hide and Seek! Pop Diva Charles Leclerc Runs from Paparazzi, Joined by Blond Mystery Man
Out and about and…on the run?? The sunny streets of Rodeo Drive were treated to a delightfully peculiar scene this afternoon when pop superstar Charles Leclerc was seen running through the elegant boulevard’s streets hand in hand with a tall, handsome mystery man.
“They were both laughing and giggling and they never let go of each other’s hands,” a witness reveals, “I think they were running from some of the photographers that were nearby and you could tell Charles was becoming more and more upset. But out of nowhere, this blond guy next to him grabs his hand, spins him around, and soon they’re zig-zagging between boutiques and cafes and everyone could see how much fun Charles was having.”
TMZ has received EXCLUSIVE photos of the pop diva dashing about the asphalt streets with the blond stranger, including one cheeky little snapshot of the brunet siren eagerly wrapping his arms around his mystery man’s waist. This news comes just days after Leclerc’s team confirmed that he and Formula One heartthrob Carlos Sainz (who drives for the elite Ferrari team) had ended their four year relationship after the sexy pilot was photographed kissing British electronica singer and DJ, Lando Norris.
Just hours after the photos leaked, Norris took to Instagram where he shared a photo of him and Sainz in an intimate embrace, with Sainz’s arms wrapped around Norris and the handsome Ferrari’s driver pressing a tender kiss to the top of Norris’s head.
Sainz’s team simultaneously released a statement confirming he and Leclerc had mutually decided to end their relationship “a while ago” and that both parties understood “while there was affection between them, the love had faded.” Friends of Norris also revealed to TMZ that, “Lando didn’t do anything wrong. The thing between him and Carlos has been brewing for years—long before Carlos ever met Charles. And if anyone saw them together, they’d all agree—this is a love story spanning decades and no one should criticize Lando for falling in love.”
But not all is well with this newfound love! Several eagle eyed Leclerc fans took to X, Instagram, and TikTok to counter these claims, with one user writing: “uhhhh yeah OKAY. carlos and charles were so over that charles took his BOYFRIEND on a romantic week long trip to italy and then went on instagram live to tell everyone how happy he was and how he could see a future with carlos?? did everyone forget charles talking about how he wanted a family with this dipshit ferrari fucker THREE DAYS before those gross make out pics were leaked?? carlos and lando are literally trying to poison the narrative to make it seem like charles and carlos broke up BEFORE the cheating happened but anyone who has a calendar knows that’s not true. carlos cheated. lando home wrecked.”
Other fans took to social media to express their sorrow at seeing “the ultimate it couple” breakup so suddenly. User @charlosmylove wrote, “Carlos and Charles are no more and I no longer believe in love. Thanks for wrecking my day.”
But with the recent publication of a joyous Charles Leclerc laughing and smiling in the bright LA sunshine, the Leclerc fandom have perked up considerably, with one fan even managing to identify the handsome mystery man Leclerc was spotted with: user @formulafussy confirmed on X “y’all that’s not a mystery man that’s max fucking verstappen. as in, 4 time world driver’s champion max verstappen and y’all made him out to be some random bozo charles picked up from nobu”
We here at TMZ can’t wait to see how this story unfolds! Leclerc is rumored to begin work on his 4th album later this year and we wouldn’t be surprised if there were a few tracks dedicated to this mischievous blond suitor!
Hollywood Life
Newly single Charles Leclerc runs around LA with Formula One champion
Now that’s certainly a way to celebrate! Newly single singer-songwriter and pop star prince of the 2020s Charles Leclerc has officially confirmed what we were all wondering:
Who is the latest suitor queuing up to court the “Into You” hitmaker?
The answer: Four time Formula One world champion Max Verstappen. This Dutch athlete has been making waves in the motorsport world since he was just 16 years old, after he inked a deal with Red Bull Racing and Toro Rosso to make the jump into F1 cars after only a handful of races in a single seater. The uproar was enormous, the backlash was vicious, and the aftermath? Triumphant. His very first race in a Red Bull saw Verstappen snag P1 in Spain, finishing ahead of both Ferraris after the double Mercedes DNF. That one race told the world all they needed to know about Formula One’s wunderkind: He’s opportunistic, he’s talented, and he won’t settle for anything less than the top spot on the podium.
Described by the late three time F1 world champion Niki Lauda as a “generational talent,” Max Verstappen has certainly racked up enough race wins and championships to be worthy of such a descriptor: After a thrilling, nail biting 2021 season that saw the 24 year old Verstappen pull of feats of racing that Formula One hadn’t seen since the days of Schumacher and Hakkinen, the Dutch Lion has gone to win back to back championships in 2022 (after a bruising battle with Ferrari’s Carlos Sainz), 2023 (which saw Verstappen make history as the first F1 driver to have 10 back to back wins), and a heart-stopping 2024 (which not only saw the most brilliant drive of the season in Interlagos but also showed the world what exactly the Dutchman could do a with a subpar car).
Now the question remains—how will fans react to another racing driver courting the Prince of Pop?
Red Bull is certainly no Ferrari and unlike the gorgeous Carlos Sainz, Max Verstappen is a “rough and tumble sort of guy who certainly won’t be quite as suave as the Smooth Operator,” F1 insiders reveal.
However the Leclerc camp has been quite clear with how the “Fast Times” crooner feels about the new man in his life: “Charles is smitten.” A close source to Leclerc confirms. “Max and Charles are just it for each other. It was a very unexpected connection—after Carlos and all the hurt and betrayal Charles felt, he was ready to self-isolate and close himself off from the world. And then Max came barreling into his life and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy.”
Sources close to the Verstappen camp confirm a similar story. “Max trusts very few people and respects even fewer—but with Charles? There was an instant connection. It helps that Charles is from Monaco—he knows motorsport—so they can talk for hours. It’s pretty cute actually, Max has been flying back and forth between Monaco, Milton Keynes, and wherever else he is in the world just so he see Charles in person in LA. We told him there’s a thing called FaceTime but he just said, ‘there’s nothing like seeing my Charlie face to face.’”
And those rumors of pop diva crying in bed over his ex? “Absolutely ridiculous,” a friend of Leclerc’s insists. “Charles is too busy living his life to be concerned with someone so disloyal. Of course, Charles is classy—he’s not going to say anything about it—but he’s also not going to waste a second thought on Sainz. Not when he has Max in his future.”
Friends close to Verstappen have also chimed in: “Charles is healing and Max is there to support him every step of the way.”
Comments
Lydia Barrow: I have no idea who this Max Verstappen guy is but him twirling Charles around Rodeo Drive just to make him laugh before leading the paparazzi on a giant hide and seek manhunt?? Perfection. This shit is romcom levels of cute.
Anonymous: Honest opinion? So happy Charles is going out with someone who’s actually going to treat him well. Carlos was hot as hell but I always got bad vibes from him.
ER Erin: charles holding hands with this verstappen guy and looking lighter and happier than we’ve seen him in months = the serotonin boost i needed
maraismarais: Our Prince of Pop may have said he’s “happier than ever” with C*rlos but I call bullshit. Our baby boy looked so exhausted and drained every time that Ferrari fucker came near him 🙄
LeclercArmy: ngl they cute but also is anyone worried this max person is just using charles for clout?
Needless Melody: @LeclercArmy Dude that’s Max Verstappen, I don’t think he needs to “use” anyone for clout…
keep_driving_charles: Did you not watch anyone of the F1 races?? Charles posted about that all the time on his IG page??
LeclercArmy: i watched but 9 times out of 10 there was this annoying red bull car (lol) that kept cutting carlos off
verstappening: @LeclercArmy yeah that’s max
mycharlos: I’m going to reserve all judgment until Charles releases the next album. Carlos gave us “sweetener” and “Lover” so….
It’s the moments in between that Charles finds himself holding close without even realizing it. That day at the cafe where they talked and laughed and Charles wondered how someone as handsome and smart and funny as Max didn’t have a queue of men and women out the door.
“Sometimes things just don’t work out,” Max explained as they perused boutiques and bakeries, the blond standing close to Charles whenever another individual came near, “my schedule’s always been hectic and I love what I do. But it’s hard to meet people you can really connect with. I—well,” he chuckles, “I’m not really sure if I’ve ever met a group of people I’ve actually liked. Most of the time, I feel like I’m just observing. There’s lots going on but I feel like no one wants to listen to what I have to say. And I can’t even blame them,” he shrugs, forcing nonchalance, “I ramble a lot. And I’m…hard to get along with.”
“Who told you that?”
I’m hard to get along with. Bullshit, Charles thinks, he’s only known Max for a handful of hours and he’s never felt so at ease—not even with Carlos. That’d taken a few months before Charles was comfortable enough to say what was on his mind, and even then he hesitated every once in a while. Not out of fear, but out of worry he might burden Carlos with all the silly things going on in Charles’s life.
With Max, Charles has complained and whined and dramatically pouted within the span of the first 25 minutes.
And Max had listened and commented and advised, he’d laughed and reassured, and questioned.
And now he goes and says I’m hard to get along with.
Clearly, the brunet thinks, Max has been spending time with the wrong people.
Beside him, the Dutchman again tries to pretend like nothing’s wrong. “Just…people I know. Some of the drivers. And, you know, my ex.”
“The other drivers are jealous because you’re so talented and your ex—elle est con comme un balai.” He finishes hotly, causing Max to burst out laughing. “What?” He asks, a little self-consciously when the Red Bull driver turns those ocean blue eyes on him, lips curved on a bright smile.
“Defending my honor?” He teases.
Charles blushes. “No, I am being honest. You can defend your own honor.”
Max’s laughter carries them all the way to their next stop—a little bakery Charles splurges at every once in a while when Andrea isn’t there to chide him—and when the world champion opens the door for Charles with an exaggerated little bow, when he carefully studies the menu the way he would Red Bull data, when he listens to Charles’s recommendations like they’re race strategies—
His heart flutters.
Not Charles Leclerc, pop prince and performer extraordinaire, but the Monegasque boy who played a secondhand piano at home, singing only because he loved it.
It doesn’t take long for the questions and doubts to arise.
Charles is a naturally suspicious person—he doesn’t show it often, but most of the time, the pop diva is very aware of when someone wants something from him. Realistically, he knows Max doesn’t want the usual things—fame or money or connections—but he can’t help it.
Why is a 4-time world champion, wildly successful in his own right, agreeing to give up 6 months of his life to play boyfriend to a Monegasque pop singer based in Los Angeles? The travel and jet lag alone would make any rational human being turn away from the prospect—no matter how pretty Charles is.
But Max doesn’t even flinch when Charles brings it up late one evening, when they’re sitting at Fleming’s on West Olympic Boulevard near a large bay window so paparazzi can photograph them at just the right time.
“Why me?” Charles asks, one hand playing with the stem of his wine glass. “And be honest. I’ll know if you’re lying.” He adds quietly.
Max doesn’t flinch. “Because Gemma showed me your photo and I think my heart nearly did a backflip in my chest.”
The answer startles a laugh out of him—it’s so painfully blunt and artless and sincere that Charles actually ducks his head a little bit, trying to hide his blush. “You’re ridiculous.” He mutters. “And apparently very easy to win over.” He straightens, leaning across the table with his chin in the palm of his hand. “Any pretty face will do?”
A faint smile appears on the Dutchman’s lips. “You’re more than just a pretty face Charles. Your photo got me to say yes but you, Charles, just you, got me to stay.”
He shakes his head. “You’re laying it on too thick, Max. Flattery this sweet won’t get you anywhere.” He teases lightly.
“It’s not flattery.” Iron laces through those words. “It’s the truth. If I didn’t like you I wouldn’t be here.”
“But—”
“Red Bull asked me to date you to boost our stock, draw attention away from our shitty performance on track, and make people forget that instead of proposing to my girlfriend, I broke up with her.” He interrupts firmly. “Gemma knows me. She knows if I really don’t want to do something, I won’t do it.”
Charles remembers.
Carlos complained about one Max Verstappen hosting his own press conference in defiance of the FIA.
Carlos complained about one Max Verstappen boycotting Sky Sports and the rest of his team following along.
Carlos complained about one Max Verstappen quite a bit, so much so that Charles found it difficult to ever truly forget the fiery, passionate Dutch driver who’d briefly stolen a young Charles Leclerc’s heart when he first saw him on screen so many years ago.
He takes a sip of the wine, mouth numb to the taste. “Me too.” Charles confesses quietly. “Silvia would’ve made me but if I didn’t like you, I would have made your life hell until you walked out and I was free to do what I wanted.” His pretty doe eyes widen. “And if you tried to bad mouth me I would’ve gone to the press with one little interview and they would have dragged your name through the mud.”
The words flow freely even though Charles knows it’s one of the things he hides most carefully, burying it beneath charm and sweetness and dimpled smiles.
He’s made it this far in Hollywood because he’s talented yes.
But he’s managed to stay at the top for just as long because Charles Leclerc isn’t afraid to unleash hell on earth to protect himself, his career, and his family. (There’s a reason why no one hears about Lorenzo or Arthur in the press—his brothers asked for privacy and Charles vowed they would have it.)
He’d never dare reveal something like this to anyone else but to Max? Who hates falsehood and pretense and artifice? Charles wants to show him exactly who he is, warts and all, because some part of him—the self-flagellating, self-punishing part—wants to see if Max would run.
Run the way Carlos did, right into the arms of Lando Norris.
He braces himself for a second, watches as those blue eyes (summer skies and the Mediterranean Sea combined) study him for a second before the Red Bull driver smiles. A small, genuine smile that lights up his face and causes crinkles to appear beside his eyes. “You’re a menace, Charlie, but I like that about you.”
I like that about you.
Red spreads across his cheeks again, visible even against flickering candlelight, and Charles bites his lower lip, tasting cherry lip gloss. “Yeah?” He asks shyly, needing to hear it again.
Max doesn’t hesitate. “I think if they ever put you in a Formula One car you’d shove me off track and convince the world it was my fault. I think…I think you’re brilliant Charles.”
Max sees his ambition.
His hunger, and determination, and ruthlessness.
And Max likes it.
(And Charles likes Max too. Maybe a little more than he should.)