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Chapter Text

Rookie FP1 sessions are mandatory for every team—a chance for upcoming talent to get a taste of Formula 1. Usually, only F2 drivers are chosen. But when your godfather is a Team Principal, and your dad’s best friend, the rules tend to bend—even if you’re still in F3.

Like always, Ewania only found out on Monday that she’d be racing on Friday of the 2021 Mexican Grand Prix. Vito, as her manager, makes decisions like these with Jan, Ewa‘s dad, and they don’t care to inform her about any contract negotiations or just any decision regarding her career. Not that it mattered—she never had a say in them anyway.

But she didn’t really mind. After all, they only want the best for her. A chance at becoming a World Champion.

“It‘s an early birthday gift.“ Vito said when they broke the news to her. This year, the Mexican Grand Prix fell on her fifteenth birthday. 

She was honestly pretty excited. Not only would she get to go to Mexico for the first time ever, she’d also drive an actual F1 car! Even if it’s just a practice session, she can’t wait to see how fast she can actually go.

When she and her dad arrive at the track on Friday, she‘s free to roam the Paddock while her dad is busy with work. One of the perks of having a dad who’s an engineer is that you get to go to a lot of races. Ewa enjoys the buzz of the crowded Paddock on Race day and the calming atmosphere in the garage long after Qualifying is over and most people have already gone home. 

She knows most of the Alfa Romeo team members by name. The mechanics who let her help them with the car while her dad is busy with work or the PR people who let her take pictures in the Paddock to post on the team‘s social media.

As she makes her way to the AR garage, she passes many familiar faces. Journalists, drivers, engineers and the usual race-day staff.

She steps into the team’s garage, instantly feeling at home. The familiar scent of fuel and rubber fills the air, and mechanics move around like a well-oiled machine, adjusting setups, checking tires, and debating whether they’ll need to rebuild something again before FP1.

As soon as she walks in, one of the older mechanics, Marco, grins at her. “Look who it is! Our little prodigy.”

“Not little,” she corrects immediately, setting her bag down.

“You’re fourteen,” another mechanic, Luca, reminds her. “You shouldn’t even be allowed in here without adult supervision.”

Ewa groans. “I am the adult supervision.”

“Right, right. And I’m the Pope,” Luca jokes, tossing her her racing gloves.

She rolls her eyes, but it’s all in good fun. The team has known her since she was a kid hanging around the garage while her dad worked. They still see her as that kid, even though she’s here to drive now.

Marco smirks. “Wait, isn’t your birthday this weekend?”

Ewa hesitates. “…Maybe.”

Luca grins. “So, you’ll finally be fifteen in two days?”

She crosses her arms. “What’s your point?”

“The point is,” Marco says, grinning, “that you’re about to drive a Formula 1 car while still technically fourteen years old.”

Ewa scowls. “You guys make it sound worse than it is.”

“Oh no, it’s definitely as bad as it sounds,” Luca teases. “I’ve met karts older than you.”

Before she can argue any further, her dad walks in, barely glancing at her before addressing the team. “Don’t let her distract you. You all have actual work to do.”

Marco nudges her. “See? Your dad treats you like a grown-up.”

“Oh, please,” Ewa mutters. “Only because he thinks I should be one by now.”

“Exactly,” Jan says casually, overhearing her. “Which is why I’m not stopping them from babying you. It’s funny.”

Ewa groans again as the mechanics chuckle.

“Alright, enough of that,” Vito’s voice cuts through the teasing as he strides into the garage. “We have a rookie session to prep for.”

Ewa straightens, immediately switching to serious mode. This is her moment. No more jokes. No more being treated like a kid.

…Or at least, that’s what she hopes.

In the final hour before the session, Antonio Giovinazzi gives her another quick rundown of the steering wheel, but Ewa isn’t really listening. She's busy dreaming about how it’ll feel to finally drive an F1 car during an actual Grand Prix weekend. Besides, she already knows the car by heart. She's prepared for this moment for a long time.

When it’s finally time and she’s sitting in the car she can’t deny that her heart is already racing.

She's been waiting for this moment for so long.

“I feel like a proud father, sending his kid off for the first day of school.“ Marco says as he gives her a pat on the helmet.

The second she exits the garage, it hits her—the roar of the engine, the vibrations in her chest, the brutal acceleration pinning her to the seat. It’s not just fast. It’s violent. Alive. Nothing like the sim. It’s smooth, aggressive, and a completely different beast from anything she’s ever driven before. Vito and her dad give her a thumbs up from where they’re sitting at the pitwall as she passes them.

The Mexican Grand Prix isn’t a usual weekend for rookie practice sessions, so she’s the only rookie on track today - well, except for Latifi.

As they line up at the end of the pitlane, Ewania can’t help but feel nervous. These are all actual F1 drivers. She's met all of them plenty of times but it’s such a different feeling to know that she’ll be driving alongside them for the next hour.

Behind her is Lewis Hamilton and isn’t that crazy? Not only does she get to live in the same lifetime as THE Sir Lewis Hamilton, she literally gets to race with him.

Well-not race. just drive. Vito had reminded her multiple times that this is just practice and that she shouldn’t try anything dangerous. 

But Ewa‘s always had a hard time following orders. She's going to race the hell out of these guys and prove that she won’t put it in the wall at Turn 1.

The second she leaves the pit lane, it hits her—like being shot out of a cannon. The car is sharp, angry, alive. Faster than anything she’s ever touched. And she absolutely loves it.

The wheel tugs in her hands, the engine roars like it’s got something to prove, and she’s grinning like an idiot inside her helmet.

“Alright, Ewania,” her race engineer, Matteo, comes through on the radio. “Let’s start with a warm-up lap. No need to push.”

“Copy.”

She does not copy.

As she exits Turn 3, she’s already pushing the throttle more than she probably should. The car wants to go fast, and who is she to deny it?

“Ewania, tire temps.”

“They’re fine.”

“You just left the pits.”

She ignores him.

Up ahead, she sees a Red Bull—Verstappen, maybe—tearing through the second sector, and she can’t help but wonder how she stacks up.

No. Bad idea.

Vito specifically told her not to get competitive.

So, naturally, she gets competitive .

She picks up the pace, feeling more comfortable with every corner. The car sticks to the track like glue, responding to her inputs in a way that makes her wonder how she ever drove an F3 car to begin with.

Then she glances in her mirrors.

Sebastian Vettel is behind her.

Her heart nearly stops. Holy sh—

THE Sebastian Vettel is on track with her, in real time. She always knew this would happen, but actually seeing him in her mirrors? That’s different.

She’s about to move aside and let him through when a very stupid thought enters her brain:

What if I just… stay ahead?

Matteo’s voice cuts through. “Blue flags, Ewania. Let him through.”

But Sebastian isn’t attacking yet, which means she has a little bit of time before she has to give way.

She presses the throttle just a bit more.

Just a bit more.

The next thing she knows,Sebastian is right behind her.

And then he’s beside her.

And then he’s gone.

Just like that. No struggle. No battle. Nothing.

“…That was rude,” she mumbles.

Matteo sighs. “Maybe don’t fight four-time world champions.”

She doesn’t have time to respond because suddenly—

Yellow flags.

Her stomach drops. What did I do?

“Who crashed?” she asks quickly.

“Not you.” Matteo actually laughs. “Latifi spun.”

Oh. Right. That checks out.

They go green again, and she gets back into rhythm, finally settling into a groove—until she completely forgets to check her mirrors and unintentionally blocks Fernando Alonso on a flying lap.

The Alpine barely avoids rear-ending her.

“Sh—” She swerves slightly.

“Blue flags! Blue flags! Let him through!” Matteo yells.

She panics and slows down abruptly.

Alonso flies past her and immediately waves his hand in frustration.

She stares at him. “Did he just—did he just wave at me?”

“Not a wave. More of a… gesture.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah.”

At this point, she knows Vito is going to kill her, but she still has time to redeem herself.

Which is exactly why she takes Turn 1 way too aggressively and nearly loses the car.

For half a second, she’s sure she’s about to crash, but somehow—miraculously—she catches the slide. The car wobbles but stays on track.

The radio is silent for a beat.

Then Matteo, deadpan: “Nice save.”

Ewa exhales. “That was on purpose.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“…No, it wasn’t.”

After an hour of mildly reckless driving, blue flags, and definitely breaking Vito’s “no unnecessary risks” rule, the session finally ends. She pulls into the garage, parks the car, and takes off her helmet.

The first thing she sees is Marco, arms crossed, grinning.

“Well,” he says. “You didn’t crash. I owe Luca 20 bucks.”

Vito looks stressed. Her dad looks completely unbothered.

She just smirks.

“See?” she says, stepping out of the car. “Told you I wouldn’t put it in the wall.”

Vito exhales sharply. “I’m going to need a drink.”

Chapter Text

Ewa steps out of the garage and straight into a wall of flashing cameras.

Oh. Right. The media.

Vito had already disappeared to handle team business, and Jan, true to form, couldn’t care less about PR. That left Ewa alone with the team’s PR manager, Clara, who was looking at her like she was a ticking time bomb.

“Just answer a few questions, alright?” Clara says, nudging her toward the crowd. “Be polite, don’t say anything too crazy, and—”

But Ewa’s already walking over.

She barely has time to blink before the first journalist shoves a microphone in her face.

“ Ewania, first of all—what an incredible moment for you! What was it like driving a Formula 1 car for the first time? ”

Ewa grins. “Honestly? It’s a bit too easy. I thought it’d be scarier.”

A few journalists chuckle, but Clara, standing behind them, looks like she’s about to faint.

“ You felt comfortable right away? ”

“Yeah, I mean, it listens to me. My F3 car is way more annoying.” She shrugs. “Like, in F3, the car fights you every second. This one actually does what I tell it to. It’s nice.”

“ So you’re saying an F3 car is harder to drive? ”

“I mean, yeah?” Ewa blinks. “Or maybe I’m just really good.”

Clara pinches the bridge of her nose.

“ You had a bit of a moment with Sebastian Vettel on track. What was going through your mind when you saw him in your mirrors? ”

Ewa lights up. “Dude, it was crazy! One second I was ahead, and the next he was just… gone. I thought I was fast, but apparently, I’m not four-time-world-champion fast.”

“ And what about Fernando Alonso? He didn’t look too happy after you blocked him. ”

Ewa winces. “Yeah, my bad. I totally forgot to check my mirrors. But, like, in my defense—” She pauses. “Actually, no, there’s no defense. That was my fault.”

“ Were you nervous at all going up against these F1 drivers? ”

She tilts her head, pretending to think. “Not really? They’re good. I just don’t scare easily.” She smirks. “Besides, I had to prove I’m not just here because of Vito. People love to talk, you know?”

The journalists eat that up. Clara looks like she’s considering quitting her job.

“ Speaking of Vito, do you think he’s preparing you for a seat in F1 soon? ”

Ewa doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, for sure. If it were up to him, I’d be in the car tomorrow.”

The journalists lean in eagerly.

“ So you’re saying Alfa Romeo wants you in F1 as soon as possible? ”

“Well, yeah,” She raises a brow, like the answer is obvious. “Vito doesn’t care how old I am, he just wants a driver who can deliver results. If I do well enough, why wouldn’t he put me in the car?”

“ And do you think you’re ready? ”

“Absolutely.” Her smile turns mischievous. “If I get a contract tomorrow, I’m signing it.”

Clara actually gasps. Jan, who had wandered over, just chuckles.

“ What does your father think about all this? ”

They turn to Jan, who shrugs. “I don’t care, as long as she doesn’t crash.”

Ewa beams. “See? My dad believes in me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Clara looks like she wants to die.

“ Final question: What’s next for you? ”

Ewa smirks. “Well, Vito told me to focus on improving, my dad told me to do my homework, and personally? I just wanna race.”

She flashes a peace sign and walks off, leaving the journalists scrambling to process everything she just said.

The second she steps back inside the garage, Clara whirls on her. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Ewa blinks. “What? I thought that went great.”

Clara groans. “I’m going to have to do so much damage control.”

Jan pats Clara on the back. “Good luck with that.”

Then he turns to Ewa. “Seriously, though. Homework. Now.”

Ewa sighs. “Ugh, fine.”

She starts walking off but stops when she sees Vito approaching. He looks at her, then at the journalists still buzzing outside.

“What did you say?” he asks suspiciously.

Ewa grins. “Nothing too crazy.”

Clara groans again.

Vito closes his eyes, exhaling sharply. “I really need to get you some media training.”

Ewa just shrugs. “Why? That was fun.”

Chapter Text

The Saturday morning paddock is busier than ever, and for once, Ewa isn’t just here as a spectator. She’s walked through these motorhomes plenty of times before, but today, it feels different. Yesterday, she was in the car. She’s not just Jan’s kid or Vito’s project—people know her name now.

Unfortunately, that means they also recognize her.

She’s barely five steps into the paddock when she hears someone call out, “Oi, baby driver!”

Ewa turns to see Lando Norris , leaning against the McLaren motorhome with a smirk.

“You sure you’re in the right place?” he asks. “I think the F3 paddock’s that way.”

She rolls her eyes. “Funny. I didn’t see you in FP1 yesterday.”

Lando clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. She’s fourteen and already got an attitude.”

“Fifteen tomorrow,” she corrects.

“Oh, so much better,” he teases. “Are you even old enough to drink?”

Ewa shrugs. “Depends on the country.”

“Good thing you’re in Mexico, then,” he says with a grin before heading off.

She shakes her head, barely having time to process that conversation before she hears another voice.

“I’ve seen karting kids bigger than you.”

She turns to see Max Verstappen, standing next to Checo, arms crossed as he gives her a once-over.

“I know, it’s tragic,” she deadpans. “Maybe I’ll hit a growth spurt before the next FP1.”

“Hope so,” Checo chimes in. “Otherwise, you’ll fly out of the car when you hit a curb.”

Ewa narrows her eyes. “I didn’t fly out yesterday , did I?”

Max shrugs. “Yet.”

Checo grins. “Just hold onto the steering wheel real tight.”

She glares at them before walking off, muttering something about Red Bull being full of bull—

“Careful,” Max calls after her. “Vito might actually make you drive for us next!”

Ewa doesn’t dignify that with a response.

As she walks further into the paddock, she hears a more familiar voice.

“Well, if it isn’t the little roadblock herself.”

She already knows who it is before she turns around.

Fernando Alonso .

“I swear I didn’t see you,” she blurts out immediately.

“Clearly,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “You were too busy racing Vettel.”

Ewa winces. “I wasn’t racing him.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Fernando says mockingly. “You were just not letting him through. ”

“…Maybe.”

Fernando shakes his head, amused. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. No brains, but guts.”

“Thanks, I think?”

He pats her shoulder. “Try not to kill anyone next time.”

Ewa groans as he walks off, and just when she thinks she’s finally free, she nearly bumps into another driver.

Charles Leclerc blinks down at her. “Wait, you’re actually real?”

She frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Charles shrugs. “I thought the media was just making up rumors again.”

“Excuse me?”

He chuckles. “Never mind. Happy early birthday, by the way.”

She squints at him. “Are you just saying that so I don’t block you in FP1 next time?”

Charles grins. “Would it work?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

Before she can argue, someone else joins them.

Sebastian Vettel .

Oh. Oh no.

She’s about to blurt out an apology for yesterday, but Sebastian just smiles. “Not bad for your first session.”

Her brain short-circuits. “Wait… what?”

“I was watching,” he says. “You kept it on track. That’s more than some rookies can say.”

Ewa doesn’t know whether to be honored or mortified.

“I, uh, kinda blocked you, though,” she admits awkwardly.

Seb shrugs. “It happens.” Then, smirking: “Just try not to make it a habit, yeah?”

Ewa grins. “No promises.”

Chapter Text

The celebration is small, just the Alfa Romeo team gathered in the hospitality area after the race. It’s nothing fancy—some drinks, a few jokes, and a birthday cake that’s at least 70% icing.

Ewa doesn’t care.

She’s fifteen now, she just spent the weekend in the F1 paddock, and she’s officially the youngest person to ever drive a Formula 1 car. Life is great.

She grins as Luca and Marco light the candles, their expressions way too serious for the situation.

“Alright, make a wish,” Marco says, smirking.

Ewa rolls her eyes. “I don’t need to. I already got the best gift ever.”

“Still,” Luca says. “Could always wish for an F1 seat, right?”

She snorts. “Yeah, because that’s realistic.”

No one responds to that.

Weird.

She shrugs it off and blows out the candles. The team cheers, and Vito ruffles her hair as she tries to swat him away. Jan just gives her a nod, the closest thing to approval she ever really gets from him.

It’s a good night.

She’s halfway through a slice of cake when Vito clears his throat. “Ewa, come with us. We need to talk.”

She blinks. “…Okay?”

She follows Vito and her dad into a quieter room in the motorhome, confused when they both sit down across from her, their expressions unreadable.

Jan is the first to speak. “We’ve been discussing this for a while.”

Ewa tilts her head. “Discussing what?”

Vito folds his arms. “Your future.”

Something in his tone makes her straighten up. “Uh… okay?”

Jan leans forward, his gaze steady. “We want you in the Alfa Romeo seat for 2022.”

Ewa stares.

She processes the words. Repeats them in her head.

And then—

“No way.”

Jan nods. “Way.”

Ewa’s eyes go wide. “Like—actually?”

“Yes.”

She grins. “Holy sh—it, this is insane!”

Vito raises an eyebrow but doesn’t reprimand her. “We’ve seen enough. You handled yourself well in FP1, and frankly, we need someone with potential. Someone we can shape into the driver this team needs.”

Ewa barely hears him. Her mind is racing. An F1 seat. In 2022. That’s only a few months away.

She’s in.

She’s in.

“I won’t let you down,” she says, bouncing in her seat. “This is gonna be awesome.”

Jan smirks. “I’m sure it will be.”

Vito, however, remains serious. “Understand what this means, Ewa. You’re skipping F2. You’ll be going straight into a full Formula 1 season. No more rookie sessions. No more gradual buildup. You’ll be expected to perform.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “And I will.”

Vito studies her, searching for any hesitation. He finds none.

“…Good,” he finally says. “We’ll announce it soon. But from now on, you train, you prepare, and you work. No more playing around.”

Ewa nods so fast her neck might snap.

“Understood.”

Jan sighs, standing up. “Alright, then. Happy birthday, kid.”

And just like that, it’s settled.

Ewa walks out of the room grinning so hard her face hurts.

She’s too busy celebrating to realize what she’s just signed up for.

Too excited to notice the weight of what’s coming.

For now, all she knows is this—

She’s about to be a Formula 1 driver.

And that’s all that matters.

Chapter Text

BREAKING NEWS: EWANIA ANCZOK TO RACE FOR ALFA ROMEO IN 2022

It felt like a dream.

It still feels like a dream.

Ewa scrolls through her phone, reading the tweets, the think-pieces, the chaos. The entire F1 world is having a meltdown.

“She’s 15. How is this even legal??”

“Nepotism at its finest.”

“F1 drivers seem to be getting younger every season.”

“She’s gonna be the next Verstappen.”

“She’s gonna cause a red flag every race.”

She smirks at that last one. The memes are even better—someone edited her face onto a toddler in a toy car, captioned: “POV: The FIA watching a literal child drive an F1 car.”

She should probably care.

But she doesn’t. Not right now. Because while everyone else is busy arguing, she’s too busy trying not to throw up mid-workout.

The second the contract was signed, Jan kicked everything into high gear. New diet. New schedule. New rules. No distractions.

She barely even had time to process what she was leaving behind.

Home? Gone.

School? Gone. (Good riddance.)

Friends? Well… they text sometimes. But they have their own lives.

She and her dad officially moved to Switzerland, to be closer to the team’s factory in Hinwil. Their apartment is small, but Ewa doesn’t care. She spends more time at the factory than at home anyway.

Honestly, they might as well have moved into the factory.

Every morning starts before the sun. She runs. She lifts. She stretches. Her neck gets tortured by resistance bands until it feels like it’s going to snap off. And just when she thinks it’s over—nope. One more session.

Her body hurts .

She’s exhausted .

But it’ll all be worth it. Right?

At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself.

One night, after a double gym session and a pitiful attempt at dinner, Ewa collapses onto the couch. Her muscles are jelly. Her face is blank.

Jan walks by, sipping a coffee like he didn’t just put her through hell. “Tired already?”

Ewa groans into the cushion. “I think my arms stopped working.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Good. Means it’s working.”

She lifts her head just enough to glare. “You’re a terrible father.”

Jan smirks. “And you’re a future F1 driver. We all have our roles to play.”

She flops back down.

Tomorrow, she’ll do it all again.

Eat. Sleep. Train. Repeat.

That night, lying in bed, she stares up at the ceiling—at the giant poster of Nico Rosberg she insisted on bringing from Poland. Jan told her to leave it. She refused. It's not just a poster. It’s motivation.

Rosberg. The man who beat Hamilton. The guy who walked away after reaching the top. The proof that hard work could still beat raw talent—if you wanted it badly enough.

She used to fall asleep staring at this same poster back in her childhood bedroom. Now, it watches over her in a new country, in a life that doesn’t feel quite real.

She wonders what Rosberg would say if he saw her now. Would he think she’s too young? That she doesn’t deserve the seat?

Doesn’t matter. She’s here.

And she’s going to prove that she belongs.

Because Rosberg didn’t win because he was lucky.

He won because he worked harder than anyone else.

And Ewa? She’s going to do the same.

Chapter Text

Pre-season testing.

For most drivers, it’s just another step in their preparation for the season. For Ewa, it’s something else entirely.

She’s finally here. Really here.

No more FP1 sessions, no more being called a “prospect” or a “rookie in waiting.” She is an F1 driver now. The youngest in history.

And apparently, that’s all anyone wants to talk about.

She can already hear it as she walks through the paddock. Journalists whispering. Photographers snapping pictures. Even some mechanics from other teams eyeing her curiously, as if half-expecting her to trip over her own feet.

She won’t give them the satisfaction.

“Ewa!” A familiar voice calls out. She barely has time to react before Lando Norris appears beside her, grinning. “Oh my God, you’re actually here.”

“No shit,” she deadpans.

Lando just laughs. “This is crazy. You’re tiny, you’re literally a child, and now you’re driving an F1 car. What’s next? Are they gonna let an actual toddler race next year?”

“I’m not that tiny,” she mutters.

“Yes, you are,” another voice joins in. Charles Leclerc, looking far too amused. “I think you should wear ankle weights. Otherwise, a strong gust of wind might just carry you off the track.”

Ewa scowls. “You’re all acting like I’m the size of a hamster.”

Lando shrugs. “You kinda are.”

“Don’t worry, though,” Charles says, smirking. “We’ll make sure you don’t get lost in the paddock.”

Ewa rolls her eyes. “Wow. Thanks, guys. So much support.”

But despite the teasing, she doesn’t actually mind. If anything, it’s a relief. They don’t see her as some kid who doesn’t belong here. She’s just another driver to mess with.

Well, most of them think that way.

As she heads toward the Alfa Romeo garage, she catches sight of Max Verstappen standing with Sergio Pérez. Max is watching her—not in a bad way, but in a calculating way. Like he’s trying to figure her out.

She lifts her chin and meets his gaze head-on.

Max nods once, like some silent acknowledgment, before turning back to Checo.

She exhales.

Inside the garage, Vito and Jan are already waiting. Vito looks over at her, raising an eyebrow. “I saw you chatting with the others.”

Ewa shrugs. “So?”

“You’re not here to make friends.” His voice is sharp.

Jan, standing beside him, doesn’t seem to care nearly as much. “As long as she doesn’t crash, she can talk to whoever she wants.”

Vito doesn’t look convinced. “Just don’t let them distract you.”

Ewa doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns to look at her car—the C42, her actual F1 car.

Forget the media. Forget the teasing. Forget whatever Vito and her dad think.

She’s about to drive a Formula 1 car for a full season.

And she’s ready .

The new car is great.

A few small adjustments need to be made, but Ewa is already in love. Not because the car is some masterpiece of engineering—compared to a Red Bull or a Mercedes, it’s just okay. But she loves it because it’s hers . A real Formula 1 car with her number on it.

12 .

She’s enjoying every second on track. The feeling of driving this fast is indescribable. The sound of the roaring engine, the wind rushing past her helmet, the sheer control she has over every movement—it’s all perfect .

And, as it turns out, all the training has paid off. It’s so much easier to keep her head straight through the high-speed corners.

When she heads back to the pits, she practically jumps out of the car, grinning ear to ear as she strides toward the pit wall.

“How did it feel? Are you happy with the car?” Vito asks.

Ewa pulls off her balaclava, running a hand through her messy hair. “Yeah, feels good. I love it.”

Vito nods approvingly. “Alright, you can take a break and go over some data with the team while Kimi’s giving it a go.”

She nods, turning back toward the garage just as Kimi Räikkönen pulls out of the pit lane.

She stops in front of her car, eyes fixed on the number 12 painted across the nose. It just looks right .

“You look like a proud mother,” Luca teases. “But I won’t lie, it looks good with your number on it.”

“It does.” Ewa grins, reaching out to pat the front wing like it’s a good-luck charm. Some of the mechanics chuckle, shaking their heads.

Ewa takes a seat beside the engineers, eyes glued to the screen as Kimi starts his lap. She watches his sector times carefully, trying not to let her excitement show.

Her leg bounces impatiently under the table.

When Kimi finally crosses the line, she leans back with a smirk. I was faster .

Then one of the engineers speaks up. “That was just a warm-up lap.”

“And this is still just testing,” another chimes in.

Ewa’s smirk falters for half a second before she shrugs. “Still counts.”

Marco, one of the mechanics, shakes his head with a grin. “You’re actually insane.”

“Am I?” she shoots back. “Or am I just faster than a world champion?”

That earns a round of laughter.

“I’d watch my words if I were you,” Luca warns playfully. “Kimi hears that and you’re getting the coldest look of your life.”

Ewa snorts. “What’s he gonna do, talk to me?”

More laughter. The atmosphere is light, teasing, fun .

Somewhere across the garage, though, she catches Vito glancing over at her. And next to him, her dad, arms crossed, face unreadable.

They don’t seem as entertained as everyone else.

But Ewa? She couldn’t care less.

Let them watch.

She’s having the time of her life.

Chapter Text

Ewa has been waiting for this day since she was a tiny menace in a go-kart, crashing into traffic cones and pretending they were championship rivals.

Now? She’s here. It’s real. Her first actual F1 race weekend. As in: full suit, full speed, full cameras in her face.

She survived media day—barely. It took two Red Bulls, one sugar crash, and the sheer power of ADHD. By the time the second press conference rolled around, she was so jittery she looked like she was buffering in real life. She tried to act professional, but that lasted maybe six minutes before she started saying whatever popped into her head.

“I don’t think fifteen is that young. I know how to do taxes and everything.”
(She does not. She barely knows how to split a bill on a night out.)

Now it’s Saturday. Qualifying day. The real deal.

Practice went okay-ish. She didn’t crash. The team didn’t yell. She didn’t puke from nerves. Honestly, a win all around.

But now she’s sitting in the car before Q3, and everything feels loud . The helmet’s on, the gloves are tight, and her heart is doing the Macarena in her chest.

She glances across the garage. Vito looks like he’s doing mental math. Jan? Classic Jan. Arms crossed, face unreadable, probably calculating her split times down to the millisecond. His expression says: “Impress me.”

She breathes in, deep. Okay. Focus.

The light goes green.

She floors it.

The pit lane disappears behind her and the track stretches out ahead—massive, blinding, beautiful. Warm-up lap first. She weaves side to side, trying to get heat into the tires like she knows what she’s doing (she does, but still).

Turn 1. Easy.
Turn 2. A bit twitchy.
Turn 3. She adjusts. Okay. Okay.

She tells herself not to panic. Her engineer’s voice is calm in her ears, but she barely registers it. It’s just her and the car now.

Final corner.

Let’s go.

She crosses the line and sends it.

The car roars, the speed hitting her all at once like a slap of adrenaline to the face. She brakes late, turns sharply, the rear wiggling like it’s dancing. She holds it together. She feels it—the flow, the rhythm. Her heart’s trying to beat through her ribs but she keeps going, pushing, pushing, pushing .

Down the straight.
Foot flat.
She’s a bullet.

One more sector.
Push.
Brake.
Power.
Final corner.

Boom.

Across the line.

She exhales, shaky and sweaty and buzzing. Her engineer crackles through the radio: “Great lap. P—”

She doesn’t even hear the rest.

She just did her first F1 qualifying lap.

And she killed it.

When her brain finally reboots, she catches the full message: “P4, Ewania. That’s a great result.”

P4.

In her first qualifying.

She goes absolutely feral over team radio. “NO WAY—NO WAY I’M P4?!?”

Her engineer laughs. “Confirmed.”

Pulling into the pit lane, she’s grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. She hops out of the car like she’s in an energy drink commercial and heads straight to the FIA scales.

While she’s waiting, someone nudges her shoulder.

“Not bad for a rookie.”

She turns.

Lewis freaking Hamilton.

Her brain shorts out for half a second. “Uh—hi?”

He laughs. “P4 in your debut? Solid job.”

And then—oh god—Sebastian Vettel joins in. “You looked like you had fun out there.”

She nods, eyes wide. “I did. It was insane. I think my soul left my body mid-lap.”

Seb just smiles. “Good. Hold onto that feeling. It’s what keeps you going.”

Lewis nods. “Enjoy it. You’ll get busier, but the fun part’s what matters.”

She nods again, trying very hard not to fangirl. These are world champions . Talking to her . Like she belongs.

She steps onto the scale, still buzzing. Once she’s cleared, she thanks both drivers before power-walking back to the garage like she’s trying not to burst into song.

Her team welcomes her with teasing and high-fives.

“You sure that was you in the car?” Marco jokes.

Ewa sticks her tongue out. “Eat my dust, old man.”

Jan and Vito are standing off to the side again. Vito nods. “Not bad.”

Jan just says, “You could’ve been P3.”

Ewa stares at him, deadpan. “You are physically incapable of saying ‘good job,’ huh?”

He smirks. “I said you could be better. That’s high praise.”

She rolls her eyes, but the grin’s still there. Because deep down, she knows they’re proud—even if their version of a celebration is “mildly less criticism than usual.”

And besides.

She just qualified P4.

In her first Qualifying.

And tomorrow she gets to race .

Chapter Text

Ewa tightens her grip on the ball, eyes locked on her father’s hands as she catches each drop without hesitation.

“You know, P4 for a rookie is pretty impressive,” Jan says, his voice neutral. “But don’t get too excited about all the praise—you still need to perform today.”

Ewa doesn’t respond right away, focusing on the ball. “Yeah, I know. You kept saying that yesterday.”

Jan lets another one fall, and she snatches it midair.

“I mean it. We’re expecting you to do well. I want top five, nothing less.”

She grits her teeth, but before she can snap back, a new voice cuts in.

“Let her breathe.”

Both Ewa and Jan turn to see Kimi Räikkönen standing nearby, casually putting on his gloves. His expression is as unreadable as ever.

Jan merely raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. He knows better than to start a discussion with Kimi.

Ewa, meanwhile, is caught off guard. Kimi isn’t exactly known for getting involved in conversations, let alone stepping in.

The Finn glances at her. “First race?”

She nods.

He adjusts his glove and shrugs. “Just drive.”

That’s it. That’s all he says before walking off toward his car.

Ewa watches him go, then exhales a small laugh.

“Wow. That’s the most words he’s said to me since testing.”

Jan huffs. “Don’t get distracted.”

But Ewa isn’t distracted—she’s grinning. If Kimi Räikkönen, the most unbothered man in the paddock, thinks she should just go out there and drive, then maybe she’s overthinking this.

Maybe she should just do what she does best.

When it’s time to head to the grid, she climbs into the car with newfound confidence.

Lights out is coming. And she’s ready.

“Ten seconds.”

Ewa hears her race engineer, Alex, through her earpiece as the last mechanics clear the track, leaving only the twenty drivers in their cars.

It’s such a unique feeling—sitting in the cockpit, waiting for the start, knowing that in just a few moments, the chaos will begin. She finishes her formation lap, lining up behind Verstappen in P2, with Sainz in P3 right beside her.

Don’t crash in turn 1, and you’ll be fine.

She watches the lights closely, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. Her heart is pounding so fast she can barely hear anything else.

The lights go out.

Instinct takes over as she slams the throttle, her car surging forward. She gets a great launch, staying side by side with Sainz into turn 1. He fights back aggressively, but she holds her ground, moving up into P3.

For the next few laps, she settles into a rhythm, Verstappen and Leclerc battling a few seconds ahead. She’s in a comfortable position, the car feels good, and she’s managing her tires well.

Her first pit stop comes and goes smoothly, but it drops her behind Sainz again. She grits her teeth. Damn it. She pushes hard, trying to close the gap, but it feels like he’s slipping away.

Then, out of nowhere, Gasly’s car catches fire.

“Safety car, safety car! Keep the delta positive,” Alex calls out.

Ewa barely processes his words, already focused on what this means for her race. This is my chance. She almost forgets to keep her tires warm until Alex reminds her, and she quickly starts weaving.

The safety car finally comes in. The moment the race restarts, she’s on full attack mode. She throws everything she has at Sainz, trying to find a way past. The battle drags out until the very end, and behind her, Perez and Hamilton are closing in. She keeps an eye on her mirrors, knowing she can’t afford a single mistake.

Then, with just a few laps to go, Verstappen retires.

Ewa sees her opportunity and pushes even harder, getting closer and closer to Sainz, but no matter what she does, she can’t quite get past.

Come on. He’s right there.

She fights until the very last second, but as they cross the finish line, Sainz stays ahead.

For a brief moment, disappointment flickers in her chest—until she hears Alex’s voice in her ear.

“And that’s P3! P3! What a race! Great job! Well done!”

She blinks. Wait. P3?

Then it hits her.

“Oh my god,” she breathes.

A huge grin spreads across her face.

“Yes! Yes! Let’s fucking go! We’re on the podium! WOO!” she yells, laughing as adrenaline surges through her. It feels unreal. A podium on her debut.

“What a race. Great job, Ewa.” Vito’s voice comes through the radio, sounding almost proud.

She pulls into the pit lane, parking in the P3 spot. As she climbs out of the car, the reality of it all crashes down on her. The crowd is cheering. The Ferrari team is celebrating their 1-2, but she doesn’t care—her team is waiting for her.

The moment she steps forward, they engulf her in a massive hug, arms wrapping around her from all sides. The mechanics are yelling, cheering, patting her on the back. It’s not just her first podium—it’s the team’s first podium in years.

And she did it.

As the cheers continue around her, Ewa finally takes off her helmet. She runs a hand through her messy hair, her breathing still heavy from the race. The cool air against her sweaty face makes everything feel real.

She looks around. The screaming fans, the flashing cameras, the mechanics patting her on the back. She did it.

She really did it.

Ewa lets out a breathless laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. She feels like she should say something, but what? There are no words that can describe this.

Before she can even process her thoughts, she’s guided toward the post-race interview area, just a few feet away from where the top three cars are parked. She spots Charles and Carlos still celebrating with their team.

A microphone is pushed toward her. She barely has time to gather herself before the interview starts.

“Ewania, P3 in your first-ever Formula 1 race! How are you feeling right now?”

She barely hesitates. “Honestly? I feel amazing,” she says, grinning. “I think I might still be dreaming.”

The interviewer chuckles. “It was a great performance out there today. You had an intense battle with Carlos Sainz at the end—how close did you think you were to taking P2?”

Ewa huffs out a playful sigh. “Ugh, so close. I really tried everything, but he was just a little too fast. I’ll get him next time, though.” She shoots a glance toward Carlos, who is still hugging his engineers.

“Well, a podium on your debut is still an incredible achievement! Your team must be thrilled.”

“Oh, definitely,” she says, nodding. “I think they were more excited than I was. I could barely breathe when they all jumped on me.”

“Final question—this was your first real F1 race. How did it compare to what you imagined?”

She tilts her head, considering it for a moment. “It was… harder,” she admits. “The intensity is something you can’t prepare for until you’re actually in it. But also, it was so much fun. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed driving this much.”

The interviewer smiles. “Well, we’re looking forward to seeing more of you on the podium. Congratulations again, Ewania!”

She thanks them before heading toward the cooldown room, where she’ll be alone for a few minutes before the others join.

As she steps inside, the sudden silence is almost jarring. Just moments ago, she was surrounded by noise—engines, radios, cheers. Now, it’s just her and the sound of her own breathing.

She grabs a bottle of water and sits down on one of the chairs, tilting her head back.

Her body is still buzzing with adrenaline.

She’s on the podium.

She lets out a quiet laugh to herself, shaking her head. It’s like her brain is still trying to catch up with reality.

The door opens, and Carlos enters first. He nods at her with a grin as he grabs a towel and some water.

“P3 on your debut,” he says, impressed. “Not bad.”

Charles walks in right after, tossing his gloves onto the table before looking at her. “Not bad at all.”

Ewa smirks at Carlos. “I almost had you.”

Carlos scoffs. “Almost.”

She shrugs. “You’ll regret that when I start winning races.”

Charles laughs. “Oh? You’re already thinking about winning?”

Ewa grins. “Obviously.”

Carlos smirks, shaking his head. “Rookies.”

She just leans back, enjoying the moment.

The podium celebration is about to start. Her first one in Formula 1.

And it won’t be her last.

Chapter Text

Ewa doesn’t even get the chance to turn around before Vito’s arms are around her, hugging her so tightly she almost struggles to breathe.

“I knew you could do it. A podium on your first race. I’m so proud of you,” he says, finally letting go.

He’s smiling— actually smiling—like a kid at Disneyland. He’d watched the podium from the crowd with the rest of the team, yelling and waving like some overexcited soccer dad. Ewa had pretended not to see him.

She grins, then quickly wipes it off her face and shrugs. “Yeah, was pretty easy. I thought the team could use the points.”

Vito just laughs, ruffling her hair. “Your dad’s pretty happy too. Might have been the happiest I’ve seen him in years.”

That makes her freeze for half a second.

Right. My dad. I almost forgot about him. The thought lands heavy.

“Where is he, anyway?”

Vito gestures toward her driver’s room. She nods and heads inside, already bracing herself.

Jan is sitting on the bed, arms relaxed, phone in hand. His expression is unreadable—classic. He looks up as she walks in.

“You did good.”

That’s it. No hug. No grin. Just three words, tossed out like a weather report.

Still, her chest squeezes. For Jan, that’s practically a full-blown emotional outburst.

She lets the door close behind her and leans against it for a moment. “You watched the whole race?”

He snorts. “Of course I watched. I had money on you finishing top five.”

She gives him a flat look. “You’re joking.”

“Mostly.”

She tosses a glove at him. “Unbelievable.”

Jan raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it. “You drove well. A little aggressive at the end, but you kept it clean.”

Ewa crosses the room and plops down beside him on the bed, her race suit still unzipped halfway, arms tied around her waist. She kicks off her boots with a groan. “I couldn’t feel my legs after lap thirty. I’m ninety-eight percent sure I lost all circulation.”

He shrugs. “You’ll get used to it.”

There’s a pause.

“I saw you during the podium,” he says after a beat, a little quieter. “You looked… happy.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers fidget with a loose thread on her sleeve. “I was. I am.”

He nods once. Then, as casually as if he were reading her a weather forecast: “Your mom would’ve been proud.”

Ewa doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches.

After a moment, Jan stands. “Take a second to breathe before you hit the media pen. You look like you're about to pass out.”

“Thanks, Dad. Real motivational,” she mutters.

He gives her a rare, faint smile. “You’ll live.”

Then he’s gone.

And just like that, she’s alone.

She looks around the room, letting the silence settle around her. The adrenaline is still buzzing in her veins, but her body’s begging to crash.

She grips the edge of the bed and takes a deep breath.

She’ll think about the rest later.

The post-race interviews go by in a blur.

The media is all over her like she’s the second coming of Sebastian Vettel. Everyone wants a soundbite, a quote, a breakdown of every overtake. Some of them are already calling it one of the most impressive debuts in F1 history.

She enjoys it—maybe more than she expected. She cracks jokes, plays it cool, makes a few sarcastic remarks that get laughs. The cameras love her. One reporter calls her "fearless," and she almost snorts out loud.

But eventually, the novelty starts to fade. Every question starts to sound the same. And all she wants is to sit down, take off her sweaty race suit, and inhale a family-sized portion of fries.

When she finally walks back into the garage, eyes heavy and brain fried, she nearly walks straight into someone.

She looks up.

“Oh,” she says, slightly startled, before breaking into a grin. “Hey, Kimi.”

“Good race,” he says simply, giving her a small nod.

She can’t help but laugh. “That’s all I get? Just ‘good race’?”

Kimi shrugs. “What do you want? A trophy?”

“No, but maybe a little more enthusiasm. I mean, come on, Kimi—P3 on my debut? That’s pretty impressive.”

“Mm.” He tilts his head, considering. “Yeah. Not bad.”

She lets out a dramatic sigh. “You’re impossible.”

There’s a brief pause before he nods toward the exit. “You need a ride back?”

Ewa blinks. “Wait. Seriously?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

She’s about to say yes when another voice cuts in like a buzzkill alarm.

“She’s coming with me.”

She turns to see her dad standing there, arms crossed, the human embodiment of “No fun allowed.” His expression is neutral, but his tone isn’t a suggestion.

She lets out a theatrical sigh. “Maybe I’ll just go to the club on my own, then.”

Neither of them laugh.

Kimi gives her a look like he’s not sure whether she’s joking (she is—mostly). Jan raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Right. Guess I’m going with my dad.”

Kimi nods and walks off without another word, as chill as ever.

She follows her dad out of the garage, the evening air finally starting to cool around them.

The high from the race is starting to fade. Her muscles ache, her brain’s running on fumes, and the weight of everything is finally sinking in.

But still, she smiles to herself.

P3 on her debut.

No matter what comes next—no matter how many interviews, expectations, or sarcastic comments from her dad—no one can take that away from her.

Chapter Text

A knock on the hotel room door pulls Ewa out of a restless sleep. Her father’s voice follows quickly after.

“Get up. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

It’s too early. Her head is heavy, her body sluggish. She groans as she drags herself out of bed. Every muscle aches, but she gets up anyway. No point complaining—there’s work to do.

Her dad is waiting impatiently in the hallway as she throws on fresh clothes and hurriedly stuffs the last of her things into her suitcase. They check out of the hotel in record time, grabbing a quick breakfast neither of them really enjoys.

Back at the paddock, the exhaustion really starts to hit. The debrief is short and to the point—just the way her father likes it. He barely acknowledges her tired eyes or the way she struggles to stifle a yawn as the engineers discuss strategy for the next race.

“Sit up straight,” her father mutters under his breath, nudging her with his elbow.

Ewa bites her tongue and adjusts her posture, blinking rapidly to stay focused. The team doesn’t seem to notice her exhaustion—or if they do, they don’t mention it.

Afterward, her media duties feel like an endless blur of microphones and cameras. She offers the same tired smile, answering questions on autopilot.

“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” one of the reporters comments. Her dad, standing just out of frame, responds with a curt nod, arms crossed.

When they finally leave the paddock and head for the airport, Ewa rests her head against the car window.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” her dad says without looking at her. His tone is matter-of-fact, not angry.

“Feels like it,” Ewa mutters, eyes half-closed.

He doesn’t respond, but after a moment, he adds, “You did well yesterday.”

For once, Ewa doesn’t deflect with sarcasm. “Thanks, Dad.”

He glances at her briefly before focusing back on the road. “Get some sleep on the plane. Saudi Arabia isn’t going to be any easier.”

Ewa closes her eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

The airport isn’t too crowded—not that Ewa would’ve noticed if it were. The moment she sinks into a chair in the waiting area, her eyes drift shut. The exhaustion from the weekend finally catches up with her.

She doesn’t wake until her dad shakes her shoulder. “Come on, they’re boarding.”

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she follows him to the gate, dragging her suitcase behind her. As they walk, they pass a few drivers gathered near a private jet, laughing over something Ewa doesn’t catch. She offers a small wave as they notice her, and a few nod back. Would they ever let me fly with them? She wonders briefly, though she knows she’d probably just end up complaining about how awkward it’d feel the whole time anyway.

Their team sticks to the commercial flight, business class. Vito had offered to cover first class for her and her dad, but Ewa had refused. Leaving the rest of the team behind didn’t feel right—not after everything they’d accomplished together this weekend.

Unsurprisingly, she ends up sitting next to her dad. Window seat—because, obviously , she called dibs before he could even try.

As soon as they’re buckled in and the plane begins to taxi, she lets herself sink back into the chair, eyes fluttering closed. Finally, a few hours of peaceful sleep.

A gentle nudge pulls Ewa from her sleep, and for a moment, she isn’t sure where she is.

“Hey,” her dad’s voice is unusually soft, “we’re landing soon. How can you even sleep that much?”

Ewa rubs her eyes, still groggy. “Talent,” she mumbles.

There’s a pause before he adds, teasing but with a hint of suspicion, “You didn’t do anything stupid last night, did you?”

That pulls a sleepy chuckle from her. “In Bahrain? Yeah, sure. Thought I’d stir up an international scandal.”

Her dad smirks, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be the dumbest thing you’ve done.”

“Wow, thanks for the support,” she shoots back, her voice dry but with a small grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

He leans back as the seatbelt sign dings on. “Just don’t make a habit of pushing yourself this hard. You’re running on fumes already.”

Ewa shrugs, resting her head against the window as the plane begins to descend. “It’s part of the job.”

Her dad doesn’t respond immediately, but when he does, his voice is quieter. “You’re gonna burn yourself out if you’re not careful, kid.”

That makes her glance at him, but his expression is unreadable, eyes fixed on the window across the aisle. She doesn’t respond, and neither does he as the plane touches down in Saudi Arabia.

Chapter Text

A knock on the hotel room door pulls Ewa out of a restless sleep. Her father’s voice follows quickly after.

“Get up. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

It’s too early. Her head is heavy, her body sluggish. She groans as she drags herself out of bed. Every muscle aches, but she gets up anyway. No point complaining—there’s work to do.

Her dad is waiting impatiently in the hallway as she throws on fresh clothes and hurriedly stuffs the last of her things into her suitcase. They check out of the hotel in record time, grabbing a quick breakfast neither of them really enjoys.

Back at the paddock, the exhaustion really starts to hit. The debrief is short and to the point—just the way her father likes it. He barely acknowledges her tired eyes or the way she struggles to stifle a yawn as the engineers discuss strategy for the next race.

“Sit up straight,” her father mutters under his breath, nudging her with his elbow.

Ewa bites her tongue and adjusts her posture, blinking rapidly to stay focused. The team doesn’t seem to notice her exhaustion—or if they do, they don’t mention it.

Afterward, her media duties feel like an endless blur of microphones and cameras. She offers the same tired smile, answering questions on autopilot.

“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” one of the reporters comments. Her dad, standing just out of frame, responds with a curt nod, arms crossed.

When they finally leave the paddock and head for the airport, Ewa rests her head against the car window.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” her dad says without looking at her. His tone is matter-of-fact, not angry.

“Feels like it,” Ewa mutters, eyes half-closed.

He doesn’t respond, but after a moment, he adds, “You did well yesterday.”

For once, Ewa doesn’t deflect with sarcasm. “Thanks, Dad.”

He glances at her briefly before focusing back on the road. “Get some sleep on the plane. Saudi Arabia isn’t going to be any easier.”

Ewa closes her eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

The airport isn’t too crowded—not that Ewa would’ve noticed if it were. The moment she sinks into a chair in the waiting area, her eyes drift shut. The exhaustion from the weekend finally catches up with her.

She doesn’t wake until her dad shakes her shoulder. “Come on, they’re boarding.”

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she follows him to the gate, dragging her suitcase behind her. As they walk, they pass a few drivers gathered near a private jet, laughing over something Ewa doesn’t catch. She offers a small wave as they notice her, and a few nod back. Would they ever let me fly with them? She wonders briefly, though she knows she’d probably just end up complaining about how awkward it’d feel the whole time anyway.

Their team sticks to the commercial flight, business class. Vito had offered to cover first class for her and her dad, but Ewa had refused. Leaving the rest of the team behind didn’t feel right—not after everything they’d accomplished together this weekend.

Unsurprisingly, she ends up sitting next to her dad. Window seat—because, obviously , she called dibs before he could even try.

As soon as they’re buckled in and the plane begins to taxi, she lets herself sink back into the chair, eyes fluttering closed. Finally, a few hours of peaceful sleep.

A gentle nudge pulls Ewa from her sleep, and for a moment, she isn’t sure where she is.

“Hey,” her dad’s voice is unusually soft, “we’re landing soon. How can you even sleep that much?”

Ewa rubs her eyes, still groggy. “Talent,” she mumbles.

There’s a pause before he adds, teasing but with a hint of suspicion, “You didn’t do anything stupid last night, did you?”

That pulls a sleepy chuckle from her. “In Bahrain? Yeah, sure. Thought I’d stir up an international scandal.”

Her dad smirks, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be the dumbest thing you’ve done.”

“Wow, thanks for the support,” she shoots back, her voice dry but with a small grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

He leans back as the seatbelt sign dings on. “Just don’t make a habit of pushing yourself this hard. You’re running on fumes already.”

Ewa shrugs, resting her head against the window as the plane begins to descend. “It’s part of the job.”

Her dad doesn’t respond immediately, but when he does, his voice is quieter. “You’re gonna burn yourself out if you’re not careful, kid.”

That makes her glance at him, but his expression is unreadable, eyes fixed on the window across the aisle. She doesn’t respond, and neither does he as the plane touches down in Saudi Arabia.

Chapter Text

Thursday evening was surprisingly quiet. Well, as quiet as a Formula 1 paddock could get. While her dad and Vito were off somewhere talking shop with the engineers—no doubt tearing apart every second of last weekend’s race and planning for the next one—Ewa lingered in the Alfa Romeo garage, chatting with the mechanics.

She had always liked hanging around them. They weren’t as uptight as the higher-ups, and most of them had been with the team longer than she’d been alive. They had stories for days, and unlike Vito or her dad, they never seemed to stress about things that were out of their control. They just did their jobs, cracked jokes, and kept things moving.

The atmosphere was light, the conversation flowing between casual banter and playful teasing.

“So, P3 in Bahrain,” one of the mechanics, Marco, smirked. “What’s the plan for this weekend? Another podium? Or are you going straight for the win?”

Ewa leaned against a stack of tires, arms crossed. “Oh, definitely the win,” she said with a straight face before breaking into a grin. “No, but seriously, if I don’t perform again this weekend, my dad will kill me.”

A few chuckles followed, but it wasn’t the usual loud laughter she expected. The shift in energy was so small she almost didn’t notice it—until someone else spoke up.

“You should still try to just have fun,” one of the other mechanics, Tom, said, his voice a little softer than usual.

It wasn’t what he said, but how he said it. The way his tone had lost the teasing edge. The way his gaze flickered for just a second before looking back down at the part he was holding. Like he was stepping carefully around something unspoken.

Ewa’s grin faltered slightly. Just have fun? She knew how to have fun. Racing was fun. But that wasn’t what he meant, was it?

She suddenly wondered how obvious it was to everyone else—the pressure, the way Vito was always drilling her with data and expectations, the way her dad barely looked at her unless she was in the car or on the timing sheets. To her, it was normal. It had been her life for as long as she could remember. But maybe it wasn’t normal to everyone else.

Shrugging, she pushed off the stack of tires and gave a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah, yeah. Fun. Of course.” She didn’t know why the words felt weird coming out of her mouth.

Marco clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Just don’t let us down. We need another reason to party on Sunday.”

That got a proper laugh out of her. “I’ll do my best.”

But as she left the garage later that evening, heading back to the hotel, Tom’s words stuck in her head like a bad song on loop.

The next day, Friday practice doesn’t go as smoothly as she would’ve liked. She struggles to find the right balance with the car, and while her lap times improve throughout the session, the best she manages is P8. It’s frustrating—she knows she can do better.

As soon as she steps out of the car, Vito is already there. “We need more consistency through sector two,” he says without preamble. “You’re losing too much time on corner exit. We can’t afford that.”

His tone isn’t raised, but it’s clipped—impatient, like he’s already ten steps ahead of her in his mind.

“I know,” Ewa mutters, tugging off her gloves. Her voice is tight with frustration, but she keeps it controlled.

Vito doesn’t linger. He gives her a pointed look before turning away, already talking into his headset and heading toward the engineers.

Her dad doesn’t say anything at all—not when she gets out of the car, not as she finishes her debrief, not during the quiet ride back to the hotel. He doesn’t look angry or disappointed. He just doesn’t look at her much at all.

Only when they reach the hotel room door does he finally say something, offhand and without turning around: “Try and get some sleep for tomorrow.”

Ewa doesn’t respond. She just nods faintly and slips into her room.

As she closes the door behind her, still replaying her laps in her head, she clenches her jaw. Fine. Tomorrow, she’ll give it everything she’s got.

Saturday is anything but relaxing. She struggles in FP3 just like she did in the previous practice sessions, and the tension is high before qualifying.

Ewa tries to tune everything out, focusing solely on improving her performance. She spends most of the morning—and the hours leading up to quali—in her driver’s room, going over data and rewatching other drivers' onboard footage, hoping to find the answer to why she just can’t keep up.

The team gives her space. Neither Vito nor her dad say much to her, knowing it’s best to let her think everything through. But even in their silence, she can feel their expectations pressing down on her.

They never expect anything less than the best.

It’s only the second race of the season. Shouldn’t they give her more time to adjust? She’s not like Verstappen or Hamilton—she’s never even raced in Jeddah before. Of course, she’s spent hours in the simulator, but what if this track just isn’t one of her strong ones? Even the best drivers have circuits where they struggle.

But then again, Ewa isn’t just another driver. She’s the youngest in the history of the sport. She skipped F2 and went straight to F1 because she’s that good.

She needs to prove to everyone that she belongs here—that she’s not another pay driver.

So she rewinds the video playing on her screen, watching Verstappen’s onboard for the tenth time, analyzing his racing line. She scribbles down notes in her notebook and moves on to the next video.

By the time she’s getting ready for qualifying, she’s in a mental bubble, barely paying attention to anything outside her own thoughts.

Now, she’s sitting in the car, surrounded by mechanics making final adjustments before Q1. Eyes fixed on the screens in front of her, she sees the track in her head, mentally driving a lap. Every braking point, every apex, every millisecond that needs to be gained—it plays in her mind like a simulation.

She’s so deep in concentration that she doesn’t realize Vito has been talking to her over the radio. Only when she notices him looking at her from the pit wall does she snap back to reality.

“Are you okay?”

His voice makes her blink a few times.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m fine,” she mutters.

Vito doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway.

“Just make it through Q1 and Q2, alright?” His attention shifts back to the screens before she can respond.

“Got it,” she mumbles, mostly to herself.

She doesn’t notice the way the mechanics on either side of her car exchange glances, clearly aware of her almost dazed expression.

She pulls out of the garage, lining up behind the others in the pit lane.

Okay. It’s time to race again.

As soon as Ewa pulls out of the garage, her grip tightens around the steering wheel. The pit lane light turns green, and she follows the train of cars ahead, weaving slightly to keep the tires warm.

She breathes in. Holds it. Exhales slowly.

This has to go well. She doesn’t have a choice.

Her engineer's voice crackles over the radio. "Alright, let’s get some temperature into the tires. Track conditions are stable. Focus on building up your confidence in these first laps."

Confidence. Right.

She tells herself to push away the tension in her shoulders, but it lingers there anyway. She remembers her struggles in practice, the feeling of constantly being half a step behind. She can’t let that happen now.

If I don’t make it through to Q3, I’ll never hear the end of it.

Ewa starts her first flying lap, but it’s messy. The car feels unbalanced, sliding slightly in places where she doesn’t expect it to. She crosses the line, P12.

That’s not good enough.

What the hell am I doing?

Her engineer comes on again, voice neutral. "Currently P12. Let’s go again, there’s more time to find."

No kidding.

On her cooldown lap, she forces herself to take a breath, to refocus. She watches the delta on her wheel as the other drivers put in their laps—she’s dropping further and further down the order. If she doesn’t improve, she’s out.

The thought sends a rush of determination through her veins.

She pushes on the next lap, braking later into Turn 1, carrying more speed through the high-speed corners. It’s not a perfect lap—she nearly loses the rear at one point—but it’s better. She crosses the line, P6.

"P6, Ewania. That should be safe, but stay out in case we need another lap."

She nods to herself, heart still hammering, but as the session ends, her name stays in the top 10. She’s through to Q1.

Good. One step down.

But there’s still more to do.

Q2 is worse.

Ewa watches the times drop as she sits in the garage, helmet on, waiting for the team to send her out. The top drivers are already in the 1:28s.

I should be up there. I should be one of them.

She’s so focused on the screen that she barely hears when the engineer tells her to go.

She pushes harder this time, but the more she tries to force the lap, the more mistakes creep in. She takes too much curb in Turn 4. Misses the apex in Turn 13. She crosses the line in P10.

"P10. That’s the cutoff."

Not good enough.

She’s on another fast lap when a yellow flag comes out in the final sector, ruining her chance to improve.

"Yellow in sector three, back off."

Her heart sinks as she slows down, knowing that’s it.

The session ends. One by one, names appear on the leaderboard. She watches her own shift down as another driver improves their lap time.

She’s out. P11.

The radio stays silent for a moment. Then, finally: "P11, Ewania. We just missed out."

She doesn’t respond.

Her hands are stiff on the wheel as she pulls into the pits.

When she takes off her helmet, her jaw is clenched. She keeps her expression blank, but inside, she’s fuming. Not just at the team, not just at the circumstances—at herself.

I should have done better. I should have made it to Q3.

She doesn’t look at anyone as she steps out of the car.

All she can think about is the fact that tomorrow, she has to race from P11.

And that’s not where she’s supposed to be.

Chapter Text

Ewa stands in front of the cameras, arms crossed as the interviewer fires off another question. The floodlights make her already warm race suit feel suffocating, and the last thing she wants to do after that frustrating qualifying session is answer dumb questions.

“So, P11 today,” the interviewer says, offering a polite smile. “Not quite as strong as Bahrain. Do you think your lack of experience and age are the only reasons you’re not performing as expected?”

Ewa’s grip tightens on the mic. She barely stops herself from rolling her eyes. What kind of question is that?

She forces herself to keep her expression neutral. “No.”

The interviewer hesitates, as if expecting her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he clears his throat and tries again. “Well, Jeddah is a tough circuit—do you feel like you’re struggling more because you’ve never raced here before?”

“No.”

Another pause. The interviewer shifts uncomfortably, clearly realizing she’s not going to make this easy for him. He glances at his notes, scrambling for something else to ask.

“Right… so, uh, what’s the mindset going into tomorrow’s race?”

Ewa exhales sharply, finally giving a longer answer just so she can get this over with. “I want to do well. I’ll try my best. That’s all.”

She hands the mic back before he can say anything else, offering the smallest, most forced smile she can manage. Then, without another word, she turns on her heel and walks off, leaving the interviewer blinking at the camera.

She walks back to the team’s garage, unzipping her race suit and tying it around her waist. She hasn’t talked to Vito yet—she knows he isn’t happy, and she’d rather avoid that conversation for now.

But, of course, luck isn’t on her side today.

Just as she flops down on a chair with a heavy sigh, Vito appears next to her.

“That’s not what we expected from you,” he says, his face unreadable.

“I know.” Ewa sighs, too drained to say much more. She just wants to go back to her room and rest.

“What was it? The car? The tires?”

She only shrugs, not trusting herself to give a proper answer. Vito exhales through his nose, then gives her a small nod.

“We’ll go through the data. You can’t afford another weak start, not here. We’ll talk later.”

He gives her a pat on the shoulder—businesslike, not comforting—then turns away to speak with the engineers.

Ewa stays seated for a moment, staring off into space. The sounds of the team working in the garage, the distant hum of voices in the pit lane, the cheers from fans still lingering in the grandstands—it all blurs together into a quiet buzzing in her head.

She eventually snaps back to reality and shakes her head slightly, pushing herself up from the chair. Without another word, she heads to her room to change out of her race suit.

Later, during the post-quali debrief, they come to the conclusion that Ewa simply struggled to figure out the track. While the car’s setup might have played a role, making changes under parc fermé isn’t worth the risk. She just needs to get some rest, clear her head, and focus on getting the best possible result tomorrow.

When she heads back to the hotel with her dad, she barely registers anything he says, too caught up in mentally driving a lap around the circuit.

“Stop doing that.”

Her dad’s voice snaps her out of her thoughts. She hadn’t even realized it, but she had started pressing imaginary pedals, her foot twitching slightly as she visualized the track.

“What’s got you so distracted today?” he asks, glancing at her before turning his attention back to the road.

“I’m not distracted,” she mutters. “I’m just thinking about the race.”

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, but close. “Don’t overthink it. Just drive like you always do, and you’ll be fine.”

She clenches her jaw, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “I can’t just drive like usual,” she says, her voice coming out sharper than intended. “If I do that, I won’t even finish in the points.”

Her dad sighs again. “Floating around in your little bubble and ignoring everything around you won’t help either. Sleep on it. We’ll talk about strategy in the morning. Just clear your head.”

His voice is almost gentle, but Ewa knows better than to take it as reassurance. He might not say much, but she’s certain that when he saw her qualifying result, he was cursing her out in his head.

“Got it,” she mumbles. It’s better not to push back right now.

Once they arrive at the hotel, Ewa makes a beeline for her room, mumbling a quiet “Night” to her father before closing the door behind her.

She flops down onto the bed with a sigh. Today was exhausting.

She doesn’t even bother changing out of her clothes—just kicks off her shoes before rolling onto her side and burying herself under the blankets. Her eyes shut almost immediately, too drained to keep them open any longer.

Tomorrow needs to be better.

But her mind won’t stop racing. She replays her qualifying disaster over and over, analyzing every mistake, every missed opportunity. The look on Vito’s face when she returned to the garage was unreadable, but she knows exactly what it meant.

She doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s afraid of disappointing him.

Her father has always pushed her to perform—to bring home results and nothing less. Vito, though, was different. He was the one who truly supported her, the reason she even had the chance to become a racing driver in the first place.

Back when he was working as just an F1 engineer, he covered her entry fees, bought every part she needed for her karts, and made sure she had every opportunity to succeed.

After almost every race, her dad would let her call Vito to tell him she won again, and he’d always respond with, “Of course you did! You’re my future champion!”

And when he had the time to actually attend her races, he’d buy her ice cream afterward.

He was always there. Financing her career. Cheering her on. Picking her back up after a bad result.

She remembers one race in particular—one of her worst. She’d spun out halfway through and finished near the back. Her dad barely spoke to her the whole drive home.

But Vito? He’d met her after the race and said, “Rough day, huh? That’s racing. Shake it off.”

Back then, things were simpler. Before F1, her dad was the strict one. The one who drilled her on every little mistake, who never let anything slide. He treated racing like schoolwork—like she had to get every answer right, or else.

If she went wide in a corner, he made her go over it again and again until she got it perfect. If she lost a race, he’d sit her down and break down everything she did wrong, making sure she never forgot it. You should’ve been more aggressive here. You left too much space. You got overtaken because you weren’t paying attention.

And if she ever made excuses, he shut them down immediately.

Vito, on the other hand, was always gentler. He only really cared when she was good, when she was winning. When she made mistakes, he was still disappointed, but he didn’t have the same sharp edge as her father. “It happens,” he’d say. “You’ll figure it out.” If she crashed or messed up a race, he didn’t rip into her. Instead, he sat her down, talked her through it, maybe even cracked a joke.

But now? Now, it’s different.

Now, Vito isn’t just the man who cheered her on from the sidelines. He’s not just the person she could run to after a fight with her dad.

Now, he’s her team principal. Her boss.

And her boss does not accept mistakes.

She saw it today. The way he looked at her after qualifying, the cold indifference in his expression. He didn’t even sound angry—just disappointed. That was worse.

Before, Vito would always reassure her, tell her things weren’t as bad as they seemed. Now, he only cares about results. And she didn’t deliver.

Ewa sighs and turns onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

She has to do better.

Tomorrow, she will.

Chapter Text

Ewa wakes up feeling just as irritated as she did last night.

She barely slept, her mind refusing to let go of yesterday’s disaster. Every time she closed her eyes, she could hear Vito’s voice, see the disapproving looks from the engineers, feel the disappointment sinking into her bones. She groans and buries her face in her pillow.

It’s race day. She should be excited. But instead, her stomach churns with anxiety.

She forces herself out of bed, going through the motions of getting ready. Shower. Team kit. Breakfast—well, half of it, because she’s too tense to eat properly. Then it’s off to the track, where the routine continues. Strategy meetings, warm-ups, last-minute preparations.

Before she knows it, it’s time for the driver parade.

She’s standing near one of the classic cars, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her gaze is fixed somewhere in the distance, but she’s not really looking at anything. Just glaring at the air, apparently.

“Jesus, kid, who pissed you off this early?”

Ewa blinks and turns her head to see Daniel Ricciardo grinning at her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his McLaren jacket.

“I’m not pissed,” she mutters.

Daniel raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. So the death glare is just your new signature look?”

She rolls her eyes, but before she can respond, Lando Norris joins them, nudging her shoulder. “She’s always like this before a race. Looks like she wants to murder someone.”

Ewa scoffs. “At least I don’t look like I just rolled out of bed,” she fires back, eyeing Lando’s slightly messy hair.

Lando shrugs. “It’s called effortless charm.”

Max Verstappen walks up just in time to hear that. “Effortless something, that’s for sure,” he mutters, making Daniel chuckle.

Ewa feels herself relaxing a little. The usual pre-race banter is exactly what she needs.

But then Max tilts his head at her and smirks. “So, P11, huh?”

Just like that, the tension returns. Her shoulders stiffen, and her grip tightens on the railing beside her.

Daniel notices immediately and claps a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, mate. Think of it this way—at least you’ve got a lot of overtaking practice ahead of you.”

Ewa glares at him. “You really suck at pep talks.”

“Nah, you just don’t appreciate my wisdom.”

She holds the glare for a second longer, but then Daniel pulls a ridiculous face at her, and despite herself, she lets out a small laugh.

“There we go!” He grins. “A smile before the race. I’d call that a win.”

Ewa shakes her head, but the knot in her stomach loosens a little. Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

Or maybe it will be.

By the time Ewa is climbing into her car, all of the nerves have returned in full force.

The noise of the grid fades into the background as she settles into her seat, her hands tightening around the wheel. She barely hears the final words from her engineers, barely registers the mechanics making last-minute checks around her. She’s back in that little bubble in her head, where nothing exists except the track, the car, and the million thoughts running through her mind.

All the onboards she studied, all of her own laps from practice and qualifying, play in a constant loop. She goes over every braking point, every turn, every mistake she made yesterday that she can’t afford to repeat today.

At least two positions.

Just finish within the points.

She closes her eyes for a brief second, inhaling deeply, then exhales slowly.

It’s time.

The moment the lights go out, it’s like a switch flips in her head.

All the nerves, the self-doubt—gone. The race is the only thing that matters now. She’s locked in, completely in race mode.

She floors the gas, immediately lunging at Norris ahead of her. They go wheel-to-wheel into Turn 1, neither willing to back down, but she holds her ground and comes out in front. One down.

Her next target is Magnussen. He’s quick, but not quick enough. She lines up the move perfectly, finding a gap, and breezes past him.

P9. That’s good.

Now, it’s her teammate, Kimi. He’s harder to overtake, defending well, but she’s just a little bit faster. After a few laps, he doesn’t put up much of a fight and lets her through. She barely acknowledges it, already focused on the cars ahead.

Then, on Lap 16, Latifi crashes.

Safety car. Perfect.

“Box now, box now.”

She dives into the pits, gets fresh tires, and rejoins the race. P12.

Back at square one.

But the race isn’t even halfway done—there’s still plenty of time.

When the safety car peels back in, she’s immediately on the attack. Within a lap, she gets past both McLarens, carving her way forward again. Alonso, ahead, is struggling with a power issue. He doesn’t even fight when she flies past him.

“P9. Pace is good. Keep it up.”

Ocon is next. She closes the gap and overtakes him with ease.

Then Magnussen peels into the pits, promoting her to P7.

“Five laps to go. Tires look good, keep it up.”

Five laps to overtake Russell.

It’s not easy. The Mercedes is fast, and Russell knows exactly how to defend. Every time she gets close, he shuts the door. Every time she thinks she’s got him, he finds just a little more speed.

Okay, fuck you.

She’s getting frustrated, and it shows. Her moves get more aggressive, her car practically glued to his rear wing. They nearly touch wheels—twice.

It drags out until the very last corner.

Russell has the inside line. She could back off, settle for P7…

Not happening .

She throws everything into this move, diving in just enough to edge ahead at the apex. The finish line is right there—

She floors the gas.

“And that is P6. Well done.”

“Yes! God, that—haha! I’m awesome!”

Her engineer chuckles. “Knew you could do it.”

Chapter Text

The moment she crosses the line, the rush of adrenaline in her chest finally begins to settle, just a little.

“P6, Ewa. P6. Well done.” Her race engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.

Before she can even respond, Vito’s voice comes on—steadier than usual but unmistakably pleased.

“Nice recovery. That’s the kind of fight I want to see.”

She grins under the helmet, her heart still pounding. “Thanks,” she says, breathless. “That was fun.”

She coasts around the circuit on the cool-down lap, chest rising and falling rapidly as the gravity of the last few laps finally sinks in. Her hands are shaking slightly on the wheel, but it’s the good kind of shake—the kind that comes after something worth it.

Back in the pit lane, she climbs out of the car and is met with a blur of mechanics, team members, and flashing cameras. The heat still clings to her suit, and her hair sticks to the back of her neck beneath the balaclava.

She removes her helmet just as George Russell walks over, pulling off his own. He looks tired, but there’s a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Good fight,” he says simply, offering a fist bump. “Didn’t make it easy for me.”

She chuckles and bumps her fist against his. “You didn’t make it easy for me either.”

Her teammate gives her a thumbs-up from a few meters away, and the crew greet her with wide grins, pats on the back, and congratulations as she makes her way into the garage. Even the engineers look relieved.

Vito meets her near the monitors. His expression is hard to read at first, but when he places a hand on her shoulder, there’s warmth there.

“Better. Let’s keep this up.”

She just nods, too exhausted to do anything more, but she knows what that means in Vito-speak: Good job.

Her dad, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, gives her a nod. That’s it. Just a nod.

But for him, it might as well be a standing ovation.

She powers through her post-race media duties on autopilot. The same few questions from different microphones, the same polite smile, the same careful wording. Her brain is still halfway on the track while she answers, her body aching with exhaustion now that the adrenaline has fully worn off.

By the time they make it back to the hotel, Ewa can barely keep her eyes open. Her legs feel heavy, and every muscle in her body aches. She follows her dad silently through the lobby, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the marble floors. They take the elevator up to their rooms, and once the doors slide open, she mumbles a quick, “Night,” and disappears into her room before he can say anything else.

She drops her bag by the door and shrugs off her jacket, kicking off her shoes as she makes her way to the bed. She sits on the edge for a moment, letting herself breathe, then reaches for her phone—before deciding against it. She’s too tired to talk. Too tired to scroll. Too tired to think.

There’s a knock at her door.

She frowns, dragging herself up and cracking it open cautiously.

Outside stand Lando and Daniel , both dressed like they raided a team merch store—oversized hoodies, slippers, snacks in hand, looking more like uni roommates than F1 drivers.

Lando raises a brow. “You look like you got hit by your own car.”

Daniel waves a bag of chips. “We come bearing gifts and terrible banter. Can we come in?”

She blinks. “You guys know it’s like... late, right?”

“Exactly,” Daniel grins. “Which means your adrenaline crash should be complete, and now it’s the perfect time to bug you.”

She sighs and steps aside. “Fine. But no weird energy.”

“Define weird,” Lando says, walking in anyway.

They make themselves at home immediately—Daniel dropping into the desk chair and spinning like a child, Lando collapsing on the bed like he owns it. Ewa stands awkwardly for a moment, arms crossed.

Lando peers up at her. “Why are you standing like you’re about to get called into the principal’s office?”

“I’m just... tired,” she mumbles.

Daniel tosses her a bag of gummy worms. “Eat sugar. Works for me.”

She sits on the edge of the bed and half-heartedly opens the bag.

“Seriously though,” Lando says, his tone shifting just enough to cut through the joking. “You did really well today.”

Daniel nods. “That defense on George was spicy. You weren’t playing.”

Ewa shrugs, eyes on the gummy worms in her hand. “I just didn’t want to screw up.”

“You didn’t,” Lando says simply. “You held your ground. Like a tiny, angry lion cub.”

Daniel raises his eyebrows. “Wow. Deep metaphor from Lando. Write that one down.”

Ewa laughs, just a little. “Thanks. I guess.”

Daniel leans forward, more serious now. “Look, kid. You don’t have to prove you belong every single weekend. We all know you do. You’ve got speed. You’ve got grit. You’ve got... questionable taste in music, but that’s forgivable.”

“Barely,” Lando mutters.

Ewa finally looks up. “You guys are being way too nice to me right now.”

“That’s because we know next week you’ll go back to roasting our radio messages and being a menace on the group chat,” Lando says.

Daniel grins. “This is a one-night offer. Post-P6 respect package. Expires in 24 hours.”

She snorts. “Wow, thanks. So generous.”

They sit in a companionable silence for a moment before Daniel checks his watch and stands. “Alright, we’re off. Gotta let the star rookie get her beauty sleep.”

Lando follows him to the door but turns back at the last second. “Hey. Don’t forget—you’re allowed to enjoy this. Not just survive it.”

Ewa’s chest tightens a little, but she nods.

“See you at breakfast, Small Fry,” Daniel adds, already halfway down the hall.

“Don’t be late or we’re stealing your croissant,” Lando says, grinning as he closes the door behind him.

Ewa stands there for a moment, the silence settling around her again—but this time, it doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

She turns off the lights, crawls into bed, and pulls the blanket over her head.

For the first time all weekend, she feels a little lighter.

Chapter Text

It’s finally a race-free week.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Ewa gets to breathe. No early wake-ups for media duties, no qualifying sessions to stress over, no last-minute strategy changes. Just her, a quiet flight back to Switzerland, and a little bit of normal.

She doesn’t talk much on the plane. Her dad doesn’t either—not that he ever does unless it’s about the car or a race. He’s buried in his phone, probably reading emails from Vito or looking at telemetry from Jeddah. Ewa leans her head against the window and watches the clouds pass by, zoning out to the hum of the engines.

When they land in Zurich and make the short drive back to Hinwil, she feels her shoulders drop a little. Their flat is quiet, tucked away in a calm neighborhood just outside of the town center. The moment she walks through the door, she kicks off her shoes, drops her bag, and heads straight for the couch.

Finally. Silence.

She doesn’t unpack. Doesn’t even think about the next race. She just pulls a blanket over herself and scrolls through her phone mindlessly, basking in the luxury of doing absolutely nothing.

For dinner, her dad heats up leftovers and they eat in silence, the TV playing some random news broadcast in the background. It’s not exactly warm or cozy, but it's familiar. Routine. She doesn’t mind.

Later that night, curled up in bed, Ewa opens her laptop and starts scrolling through old karting videos. Just for fun. She watches a ten-year-old version of herself crossing the line first, her little fists thrown up in celebration.

She can hear Vito’s voice behind the camera in some of the clips—loud and enthusiastic, shouting encouragement even from afar. He wasn’t always there in person, but when he was, he made sure everyone knew it. More often than not, though, it was just her dad filming—silent, steady, always behind the fence. No cheers. No advice. Just presence.

She scrolls further down the playlist. Video after video, race after race. Wins, losses, crashes. The occasional scuffle in parc fermé. Most of the thumbnails are of her kart flying around a corner, or her dad’s shadow visible behind a chain-link fence, arms crossed, watching.

One video makes her pause.

“WSK – Final Lap Comeback (3 overtakes!!)“

She clicks it. The footage is wobbly, probably filmed on a phone from a decade ago. But she remembers it—Lonato, final lap, running P4 with seconds left.

In the video, she dives up the inside into Turn 5. One, two, three overtakes in four corners. Clean. Aggressive. Fearless.

When she crosses the finish line in first, she throws her hands up and yells, then rips off her helmet with a wild grin. The camera pans shakily—and for just a second, she sees her mother in the frame.

Standing off to the side of the paddock, bundled in a raincoat, smiling. That calm, glowing kind of smile only a mom can have. The camera shakes again and pans away, but the moment lingers.

Ewa presses the spacebar to pause the clip, staring at the frozen frame.

It’s barely a second of footage. But it hits harder than anything else.

She lets the video finish playing in the background while she scrolls through a few more, her smile fading into something quieter. That world feels so far away now. Vito’s busy, her dad is always watching but rarely talking, and her mom—well. She’s not coming back.

Even the kid in those videos feels like a different person.

Eventually, the screen goes dark as her laptop falls asleep. Ewa doesn’t bother turning it back on. She closes her eyes, the sound of little engines buzzing and kids yelling still echoing in her head.

The next morning her alarm buzzes at 7 a.m., sharp. No sleeping in, even during race-free weeks.

She pulls herself out of bed with a groan and starts her morning workout—light stretching, core work, some balance training, then a run through the neighborhood. It’s foggy and cold outside, but the chill helps clear her head. By the time she gets back, sweaty and panting, her dad’s already up and dressed, sipping coffee in the kitchen.

“We’re going to HQ after breakfast,” he says without looking up from his phone. “Sim session and debrief with the engineers.”

“Yeah, okay,” she replies, grabbing a bottle of water.

Routine. Predictable.

After a quick shower and a bite to eat, they head out. The Alfa Romeo HQ isn’t far from their flat. Ewa’s been there so many times, it feels like a second home. As they walk through the glass doors, a few team members wave or nod. One of the mechanics greets her with a “Hey, superstar,” and she cracks a smile.

In the sim room, she straps in and puts on the headset. The familiar layout of the upcoming circuit loads in front of her.

Time to get back to work.

Chapter Text

After a week of resetting and preparing, it’s finally time to head to Australia for the next race.

Albert Park is one of Ewa’s favorite tracks—fast, flowing, and just technical enough to be a real challenge. So, naturally, she was excited the moment they landed in Melbourne.

But apparently, there’s a tradition within the team: rookies get traumatized in Australia.

Because no sooner had she stepped into the paddock on Thursday than the team’s PR manager pulled her aside for what they called a “fun media activity.”
Spoiler alert: by “fun,” they meant handing her a python longer than her F1 car.

Without warning, Ewa found herself grinning at cameras with a gigantic snake draped over her shoulders, trying not to let her soul leave her body.
Still, she managed to smile and look composed—because she’s just that cool.

The fans loved it. Clips comparing her to Charles Leclerc’s snake encounter back in 2018 when he was a Sauber rookie started circling online. Apparently, it’s a thing now.

The heebie-jeebies didn’t last long, though. Only 48 hours later, she stunned everyone by setting the second-fastest time in qualifying , securing a front-row start behind the Monegasque himself.

To say she was excited would be an understatement.

But the race was anything but easy.

With Verstappen breathing down her neck from the moment the lights went out, she spent the first half of the race fighting tooth and nail to hold onto P2. Meanwhile, the gap to Leclerc ahead kept growing with every lap.

When Verstappen retired on lap 38, she finally had a chance to breathe—and focus.

With clean air ahead and a healthy gap behind, she pushed. Lap after lap, she closed in on Leclerc, putting together some of the best driving she’s done so far. And when she crossed the finish line just behind him, she didn’t even feel disappointed.

Her first P2. Her second podium.

And honestly? Charles was just unbeatable this weekend. She could live with that.

The team was over the moon with the result, and with another strong performance in the bag, they all headed into the next week of rest before they’d fly to Italy for the Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix.

The club is loud, pulsing with music that vibrates through the pavement outside. A crowd has gathered by the entrance—team staff, paddock guests, and the usual Melbourne partygoers hoping to catch a glimpse of an F1 driver.

Ewa slips through the crowd with practiced ease, dressed in black jeans, a tiny crop top, and a leather jacket. Her hair’s down, messy in a way that looks intentional, and the fake Polish ID is burning a hole in her pocket.

She doesn’t hesitate as she approaches the bouncer. He’s big, wearing sunglasses even though the sun has long set, and he barely glances at the people ahead of her. But when it’s her turn, he doesn’t move.

“How old are you?” he asks flatly, one brow raised.

She pulls out the ID and hands it over with the confidence of someone who’s done this before. “Eighteen,” she says, cool and casual. In Polish, her birth year says 2004.

The bouncer stares at her. Then back at the ID. Then at her again.

“Nice try,” he says, unimpressed. “Come back when you’re actually legal.”

Ewa’s cheeks burn, and she’s about to argue when a familiar voice cuts in behind her.

“Seriously?” Daniel Ricciardo appears next to her, wearing a grin and a ridiculous patterned shirt. “Ewa?”

The bouncer steps aside for him instantly, and Ewa groans.

“Hey, Danny,” she mumbles, trying to sound casual.

“Does your dad know you’re here?” he asks, crossing his arms and looking entirely too amused.

“...No.”

He laughs. “Didn’t think so.”

There’s a pause. She fully expects him to tell her to go home.

But instead, he sighs and jerks his head toward the entrance. “Alright. Come on. You’re with me.”

The bouncer gives him a look, but Danny shrugs. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Ewa beams. “You’re the best.”

“You owe me,” he mutters as they walk in. “And I’m telling you right now, one drink. And don’t get caught.”

She follows Danny toward the back of the club to the VIP section—because of course F1 drivers can’t party with the common people.

The bass grows deeper, the lights darker, and the atmosphere shifts from generic club chaos to something way more exclusive. Velvet ropes, dim lighting, and enough alcohol to fill a swimming pool. A few familiar faces turn as they spot Danny—then freeze when they see who’s trailing behind him.

“Is that Ewa?” Lando’s voice cuts through the music, eyebrows raised as he leans back on the couch with a drink in hand. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“She snuck out,” Danny says, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Bouncer almost sent her home, but I saved her.”

“I am right here ,” Ewa grumbles, crossing her arms.

Max grins and holds out a drink toward her without hesitation. “Welcome to the dark side.”

She takes it, not even asking what it is. The others laugh and keep teasing, too distracted by the novelty of her being there to notice that she’s already halfway through the drink by the time someone finally asks.

“Wait—are you actually drinking that?” Lando stares.

She lifts the now-empty glass and shrugs. “I was thirsty.”

Max blinks. “Was that…? That wasn’t juice.”

Ewa already has a second drink in her hand—she has no idea who gave it to her, but it’s cold and fruity and tastes like vacation.

“Oh no,” Danny mutters with a laugh. “She’s gonna be drunk in ten minutes.”

“You guys are all so dramatic,” she says, trying to wave it off. But her cheeks are already a little pink, and she’s giggling more than usual. “I’ve done this before.”

“She’s fifteen,” Lando reminds the group, only slightly horrified.

“Polish,” Max counters like that somehow makes it okay.

“She’s your problem, Ricciardo,” Carlos adds with a grin as he joins the group.

Danny sighs. “Yeah, I know. I’ll make sure she doesn’t end up on a table.”

She did end up on a table.

Chapter Text

She did end up on a table.

She may not actually remember it, but when she wakes up in her hotel bed, still wearing last night’s outfit, she knows that she had more than one drink. Her head is pounding, her throat’s dry, and there's glitter on her eyelids that definitely wasn’t there when she left the paddock yesterday.

Sunlight sneaks in through the curtains, and she groans, dragging a pillow over her face.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. Multiple times. She forces herself to sit up and reach for it, only to be immediately blinded by the screen brightness. She squints, unlocking it with her face ID and opening Snapchat first.

Bad decision.

There are videos of her singing (or more like yelling) the lyrics to some 2000s pop song with Max holding the mic and Lando draped across a couch, half-asleep. There’s a slow-mo clip of her spinning around with a bottle in hand—she’s definitely standing on a table in that one. A video of her and Danny dancing. And oh—yep—one of her pretending to slap Charles, followed by them both bursting out laughing.

She cackles to herself, holding her stomach. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters, watching one particularly blurry video of her attempting to do a cartwheel. “I’m a menace.”

She switches over to Twitter. The internet’s already lost its mind. A fan account posted a collage of chaotic screenshots from the club night under the caption:
“She got P2 and ended up on a table. Icon.”

There are clips going viral, theories about her age, blurry photos of her next to Max and Daniel, and a screenshot from a grainy video that looks suspiciously like she kissed someone on the cheek.

“Oh shit.” She scrolls a little faster.

Just then, the hotel room door creaks open.

Her dad walks in with a cup of coffee, drops it on her nightstand without a word, and looks at her with that completely unreadable expression of his.

“You had fun, I assume,” he says flatly.

Ewa peeks up from under the covers, voice hoarse. “How mad are you?”

“I’m not.” He shrugs. “You’re the one who’ll be dealing with Vito. And PR. Good luck with that.”

He walks out again like it’s just a normal Monday.

Ewa stares at the door for a moment before collapsing back onto her pillow. “Shit.”

She takes a sip of the coffee, scrolls back to the Twitter post, and laughs again.

It was absolutely worth it.

By the time she drags herself downstairs to breakfast, her head is still spinning, and she’s not entirely sure if she’s still a little bit drunk or just deeply regretting every life decision she made after 10 p.m. last night.

She’s wearing sunglasses indoors. Because obviously.

The hotel breakfast spread is fancy—five-star luxury and all that—but all Ewa can manage is dry toast and fruit, and even that feels like a challenge. Her dad is already seated, scrolling through his phone like nothing happened, coffee in hand. He barely glances up when she walks in and says absolutely nothing about the online disaster she’s currently trending in.

She slumps into the seat across from him, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. “Are you… not gonna yell at me?”

“Nope.” He takes a slow sip of coffee. “Not my problem.”

She blinks. “So you are mad.”

“I’m just enjoying the show,” he replies, deadpan. “You think I care what the internet says? You’re the one who’s gotta talk to Vito.”

Speak of the devil.

Vito appears beside the table as if summoned by her guilt. He’s holding a tablet, probably with every tweet, post, and blurry photo ever taken last night queued up and ready to go.

“Morning,” he says curtly. He doesn’t sit, just stands towering above her like he’s trying to add intimidation points. “So. What the hell was that?”

Ewa opens her mouth, but he cuts her off immediately.

“Do you realize how much work our PR team has done in the past six hours ?” He gestures vaguely to the side, where one of the poor PR girls is sitting with three different phones and a MacBook, typing furiously. “We’re putting out statements, filtering hashtags, and deleting videos we legally can get taken down. You’re fifteen, Ewa.”

“Almost sixteen,” she mumbles, taking a bite of toast.

“Not helping,” Vito snaps. “Fake ID? Really? You think the media won’t figure that out? You’re lucky Daniel pulled you out of that crowd or God knows what headlines we’d be dealing with today.”

Ewa leans back in her chair, arms crossed, still chewing. “You’re overreacting.”

“I’m not overreacting,” Vito says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you know what Ferrari would do if Leclerc pulled this stunt as a rookie?”

Her dad finally chimes in—only to mutter, “Probably offer him another three-year contract.”

Ewa almost chokes on her toast laughing. Vito is not amused.

“This is not funny,” he says. “You have sponsors. A brand. A team that just pulled off back-to-back points finishes. We don’t need you becoming a tabloid headline.”

She groans and rubs her temples. “Fine. I’ll behave. For like, the next week.”

Vito raises an eyebrow. “A week?”

“Maybe two,” she offers, sheepish.

He sighs, mutters something under his breath in Italian, and finally walks off, leaving her to finish her breakfast in peace.

Her dad glances at her again. “So, worth it?”

She grins through her hangover. “Totally.”

Chapter Text

The next races are, thankfully, uneventful.

In Imola, Ewa brings home a solid P5 in the Sprint and a P4 in the Race—no drama, no crashes, just clean, consistent driving. Miami is a bit messier, but she still manages P5, which is enough to push her up to third in the championship standings.

Not bad for a rookie.

Which, of course, means she’s not allowed to enjoy it in peace. In Imola, she's bombarded with questions about her “little party moment” after Australia. Every press conference, every interview—same smirks, same loaded questions. The PR team makes her give a vague, carefully-worded answer that she rehearses until she could say it in her sleep.

Then comes Miami, and with it… whatever that awkward driver parade was supposed to be. She still doesn’t fully understand what happened—just that she had to wear a helmet covered in sponsor logos while standing next to a rapper she didn’t recognize and a giant inflatable flamingo that she pretended didn’t exist.

It’s safe to say that the week off before Spain is more than deserved.

Which ends up not being as relaxing as she’d hoped.

Her phone buzzes with messages from old friends back in Poland—people she hasn’t seen in months. They ask when she’s coming home, if she’s forgotten about them, if she’s too famous now to answer texts. She sends a few awkward replies, says she’ll visit in the summer. They heart the messages, but she knows they don’t really get it.

They’re going to school. Throwing parties. Doing teenager things.

And her? She’s training every morning, flying across continents, getting dragged through press lines and sim sessions and debriefs. She’s fifteen and can legally drive a Formula 1 car at 300 kilometers an hour—but not a scooter in her own country.

The absurdity of it all would be funny if it didn’t make her feel so completely out of place.

And it’s not just her friends.

The drivers say she belongs. The media says she’s holding her own. Even Vito tells her she’s “doing great” with a proud grin when she passes him in the paddock.

But she still feels like a guest.

They’re all older. Richer. Sharper around the edges. They’ve been teammates, rivals, legends in the making since karting.

She’s just… Ewa.

Jan’s daughter. Vito’s godchild. The kid who still gets asked for her age when she tries to check into a hotel alone.

And the worst part is—she starts trying to change that.

In Spain, she watches how the other drivers handle interviews. Calm. Detached. A little boring, maybe, but polished. Like nothing can touch them.

So she tries to match it.

During media day, she listens carefully to how the other drivers answer questions—calm, polished, a bit dull—and tries to mimic their style.
But she gets so wrapped up in how she’s speaking that she barely registers what she’s saying.
Half her answers come out half-baked, confusing, or just plain strange. The journalists give her puzzled looks.
Sebastian, sitting next to her at the press conference, gives her a quiet side-glance that feels a lot like concern.

“What was that all about?” he asks the moment it ends.

“It was nothing,” she mutters, brushing him off with a shrug, eyes fixed anywhere but on him.

“You sure? You seemed a little nervous… and kind of all over the place.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Another shrug. More deflection.
Then she turns and walks away, not wanting him—or anyone—to see through the carefully constructed I’m just a chill guy mask she’s wearing like armor.

She doesn’t talk about how she’s feeling.
Not to Sebastian, not to the team, not even to herself, really.
She just keeps up the same laid-back, too-cool-for-this attitude she’s known for, brushing off any concern with a joke or a smirk. But inside, it still feels like something’s off.

And it shows on track.

Qualifying lands her in P7. Not terrible. Not amazing. Just… meh.
The team seems satisfied enough, but she knows she wasn’t driving at her best.
And then Sunday comes.

Lap one, turn four—she’s too distracted.
Trying to defend her position while overthinking every move, she misjudges her braking zone and clips the back of Lewis Hamilton’s car.

It’s not a massive crash—thank God—but it’s enough to send her bouncing off into the gravel, tires spinning, the whole field flying past her.

By the time she gets the car under control, she’s dead last. Dead. Last.

The rest of the race is a desperate attempt to claw her way back up the order. She fights hard, overtakes where she can, tries to keep her head down—but the pace just isn’t there.
She’s in her own head too much, second-guessing everything.

She manages to climb up to P14 by the time she heads in for her final stop.
And then comes the cherry on top: a five-second time penalty for speeding in the pit lane.

By the time the checkered flag waves, she’s in P16.
No points. No celebration. Just quiet frustration and a headache she can’t shake.

Back in the garage, she hides behind the data screens and drinks her water in silence, pretending it doesn’t bother her.
But it does.

She keeps her answers short. Says the right things. Doesn’t flinch when they ask about the contact with Lewis or the pit lane penalty. Doesn’t smile either.
The media want soundbites. She gives them static.

While waiting for her Sky Sports interview, she finds herself next to Charles, who’s slumped against the wall, still wearing his cap low and looking about as done as she feels.

“Nice day at the office,” he mutters, catching her eye.

She huffs a laugh, soft and humorless. “Didn’t think I’d be fighting you for worst day award.”

He glances over at her. “You okay?”

Ewa shrugs, playing with the sleeve of her suit. “Just one of those weekends, I guess.”

Charles doesn’t push. He nods, looks back at the screen across the room showing race highlights. They both wince when the footage cuts to her car hitting Lewis.
Silence again.

“Hey,” he says after a beat, quieter this time. “You know this doesn’t mean you don’t belong, right?”

That one almost gets to her.

She gives another shrug, this one more defensive. “Sure.”

But he doesn’t say anything else, and that’s good.
Because if he had, she might’ve actually said what she was thinking.

And she’s not ready for that.

The silence in the car isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. Ewa stares out the window, one leg curled up on the seat, helmet bag still on her lap. Her dad is focused on the road, but she knows he’s been watching her out of the corner of his eye since they left the track.

They’ve barely driven five minutes when he finally speaks.

“What happened today?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Not because she doesn’t have an answer, but because she isn’t sure how to explain any of it without sounding pathetic.

“Bad day,” she mutters.

“Ewa,” he says, voice flat, but not unkind. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

She stays quiet again.

He lets it sit for a second, then sighs.

“You’ve been off since before Spain. You barely made eye contact all weekend. And that media conference? I’ve seen you handle worse. Something’s going on.”

She clenches her jaw. Tries to pretend like the knot in her stomach isn’t tightening again.

“I’m fine,” she finally says, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.

Her dad scoffs under his breath. “You might be able to fool Vito or the others, but not me.”

That shuts her up properly. Because he’s right, and they both know it.

After another pause, he adds, “You’re overthinking again.”

She sighs. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” he cuts in. “I know that look. The same one you had during your karting years when you started worrying about what everyone else was doing instead of just driving.”

She leans her head against the window. “I just… don’t want to mess it up.”

“Well, you are messing it up by trying to be someone you’re not.”

That stings more than she thought it would.

He must notice, because his tone softens slightly. “Look. You want to stop spiraling? Then do what you did in Jeddah.”

She blinks. “You mean the whole ‘mental bubble’ thing?”

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s when you were at your best. You tuned out the noise, focused on the racing. That’s what you need to do now. Forget what the other drivers sound like in interviews. Forget the fans, the press, even me and Vito.”

His eyes flick to her, just for a second. “Just drive. Like you used to.”

For a moment, she just stares ahead, processing it.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe she just needs to remember who she is — not who she thinks she’s supposed to be.

Chapter Text

Next up is Monaco.

Ewa isn’t sure whether to be excited or terrified.
On one hand, it’s Monaco — the crown jewel of the calendar, a city so rich in history and money it practically sparkles. On the other hand… it’s Monaco . There’s no such thing as peace and quiet here. Between the flashing cameras, the yacht parties, and the fans shouting her name, she feels like she’s stepped into a fishbowl with a price tag.

She can’t even imagine how drivers like Lewis, Max, or Charles deal with this every year.
But she’s not about to let it ruin her mood.

She arrives at the hotel on Tuesday and barely has time to kick off her shoes before her phone buzzes. She gets a text from Lando, asking if she wants to join him and some other drivers for a game of padel. When she asks what padel is, Lando decides that she has no choice and needs to come and let them teach her.

Twenty minutes later, she’s standing courtside in trainers and a borrowed racket, watching Daniel and Max warm up like they’re playing the Wimbledon final.

“You’ll get into it quickly,” Lando says, bouncing a ball against the wall beside her. “Max sucks and he’s been playing for ages.”

“I heard that!” Max calls out, not even looking away from the net.

Daniel turns and flashes his signature grin. “Ready, little fry?”

Ewa tightens her grip on the racket and grins back. “Yeah. I think so.”

She steps onto the court, racket in hand, doing her best to look confident. Truthfully, she has no idea what she’s doing—but she’s athletic, and she’ll figure it out. Hopefully.

The first few minutes are chaotic. She misses easy shots, swings too early, and gets hit in the leg by a rogue ball from Max, who insists it was definitely on purpose.

“Welcome to padel,” Lando laughs from the sideline.

But after a few rounds, she starts to get the hang of it. Daniel is encouraging, Max gets increasingly competitive, and Ewa finds herself genuinely having fun—something she hadn’t realized she needed so badly until now.

For the first time in a while, she feels like one of them. Just another driver. Not the rookie. Not the kid. Not the outlier.

Lando was right — Ewa did get the hang of it pretty quickly.
Paired with Daniel, they even manage to beat Lando and Max, something Daniel wouldn’t stop gloating about.

Ewa can’t remember the last time she’d laughed this much during a race week. The banter between the three men is relentless, and she loves every second of it.

“We should hit Jimmy’z tonight,” Max says as they walk off the court, wiping sweat from his face. “God knows we won’t be able to during the weekend. Maybe your fake ID will actually work this time.”

Ewa laughs. “I wish . But if I sneak out again, my father’s going to kill me.”

Daniel raises an eyebrow, already grinning. “What if we help you sneak out?”

She rolls her eyes, amused. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d like to live to race another day.”

“Next time then,” Max says, smirking.

“Next time,” she agrees, but deep down, she isn’t sure there’d be one.

By Thursday, the calm is gone. Ewa is back in the usual race weekend chaos.

After checking off her media duties and filming yet another video with Kimi for the Sauber YouTube channel — something about racing trivia and energy drinks — she hitches a ride back to the hotel with the Iceman himself. Her dad had to stay late at the paddock, so Kimi offered, with his usual straight-faced “You coming or what?”

Surprisingly, the drive turns out to be the most entertaining part of her day.

Kimi, usually the embodiment of silence and indifference, actually talks most of the way. It isn’t a long drive, but it is long enough for him to launch into a story about partying with Jenson Button after the Brit’s win in Monaco back in 2009. Something about too much champagne, stolen shoes, and waking up on a yacht that wasn’t his.

It’s rare to see this version of Kimi — loose, almost warm. But these rare moments are comforting in their own way. Knowing that Kimi Räikkönen , of all people, likes her — or at least tolerates her — makes the stress of the weekend feel just a little lighter.

Friday morning, Ewa wakes up earlier than usual.

The sun has barely climbed above the Monte Carlo rooftops, casting soft golden light through the hotel curtains. For once, there are no knocks on her door, no urgent texts, no cameras or microphones in her face. Just silence.

She sits on the balcony with a cup of coffee and takes a few deep breaths, letting the calm settle into her chest. No music. No distractions. Just the sound of distant waves and the soft hum of the city waking up.

It’s time to get her head back in the game.

She closes her eyes for a moment and slips back into that same mental space she created in Jeddah — the bubble where nothing else existed except her, the car, and the track. The noise of the media, the fans, the pressure… all of it fades to the background. This is her reset. Her way to block it all out.

By the time she arrives at the paddock, she’s sharper. Calmer. She isn’t smiling as much as she had all week, but the look in her eyes makes it clear — she means business.

The engineers notice it during the first run in FP1. Focused, efficient feedback. No complaints. No second-guessing. She knows what she wants from the car and tells them exactly how to get it.

And when Friday ends, she is P4 in both Free Practice sessions.

Not bad.