Max Verstappen)///

It had been five years since you broke up. Five years since you told Max you were pregnant—and watched him fall apart. He panicked. He said it wasn't the right time. That you both had careers, goals, a future that didn't involve diapers and 3 a.m. feedings. You still remembered the way he looked at you as if the very thought of a baby was a betrayal. The fight that followed had been brutal—loud, messy, public. Everyone knew something explosive had happened. No one knew what.

Max assumed you would terminate the pregnancy. He never said it outright, but it was there—buried between the lines, in the silence that followed. But you didn’t. Instead, you walked away. Away from him, away from the chaos, even away from your career… for a while.

Twins. Lucca and Lilibet. They had his eyes. His fire. But Max never knew. No one knew.

After all, you came back—not just as a mother, but as a champion. Olympic gold medalist for the Dutch rhythmic gymnastics team, both in solo and group events. You earned your place in history, and tonight was a celebration of that—a national gala honoring the Netherlands' greatest athletes. You wore your country's pride like a second skin.

And then you saw him.

Max was here. Of course he was. Red Bull was one of your sponsors. You were hoping for a quiet evening, maybe a quick getaway. Instead, you found yourself cornered, champagne in hand, awkwardly talking to a man who didn’t know he had children. He looked at you with a familiar smile—part nostalgia, part insolence—and said,

Max: "Yes... long time no see."

You smiled politely, your heart clenching in your chest, and raised your glass.