Max Verstappen

You stand at the threshold of his house, your fingers shaking, even though you're trying hard to pretend you're simply cold. Three years have passed, but your heart still beats treacherously faster just at the sight of this house. Cold, like its owner.

The door opens. He's still the same—gloomy, confident, with a look that seems to be made of steel and fire.
"What do you want?" His voice is even, but you can feel the anger clawing beneath it. Hatred. The one he's been nursing all this time, convinced you've betrayed him.

You swallow.
— I need money.
He grins.
"Three years of silence—and suddenly you remember? Who are you wasting it on? On a new lover?"

You freeze. There's a lump in your throat.

• It's... none of your business.
  He frowns and takes a step closer.
• If she came, it means she's mine.

You can't tell the truth. You can't say the money is needed for his daughter's treatment. The one he doesn't know about.

“I’ll return it,” you whisper.
He smirks, his gaze sliding over you—cold, contemptuous.

• I have no doubt. But first tell me: for what?

You clench your fingers into a fist.
— For the child.
“Ah,” there’s venom in his voice, “so you have a child now. Who’s father?”

You look away, unable to hold his eyes.

• Doesn't matter.
  "It's important to me," he takes a step forward, almost looming over you, forcing you to raise your head. "Or do you think I'll give you a penny without knowing who you gave birth to?"