Chapter Text
Who Am I Without You?
What was he without him?
Charles gazed across the table, his eyes tracing every line and curve of the man before him, who was sipping his morning juice with that natural poise he always seemed to have. Max was the epitome of composure, a calmness so deep it felt unshakable, the very definition of reliability. This was Max Verstappen—beloved, feared, and respected in Formula One. But here, now, he was simply Max, and to Charles, he was everything.
“Dear?” Max’s voice broke the silence, his tone softened by a hint of warmth as he noticed Charles’s prolonged gaze. Charles had always been a bit clingy, especially in quiet morning moments like these. But today was different; today, something unspoken lingered between them, a whisper of longing left unresolved, even after they had discussed everything so thoroughly the night before. He couldn’t hold it back any longer.
“You haven’t touched me in a week.” Charles’s voice, quiet yet piercing, carried the weight of his ache and the vulnerability that underpinned it.
Max choked slightly on his juice; his composure shattered by the unexpected question. His eyes widened, and he set his glass down hastily, a faint blush rising across his cheeks. Of all things to be asked over breakfast, this was hardly what he’d anticipated. Especially in that innocent, wide-eyed way of Charles’s, who somehow seemed completely oblivious to the impact of his words.
“Charles,” Max breathed out, pulling his napkin to his lips in an attempt to compose himself.
Charles’s gaze drifted to the glass Max had pushed away. “You’re not going to drink that?” he asked. “Give it here, then. You’re always nagging me to finish your juice.”
Max pressed his palm against his forehead, muttering, “Christ, Charles.” He was blushing furiously now, his resolve dissolving. In that moment, he motioned discreetly to the servants hovering at the edges of the room, signalling for privacy. Their swift exit left a charged silence in the room, amplifying the tension that crackled in the air.
“Is this really what you wanted to discuss?” Max’s voice was incredulous, his eyes flicking over Charles with a mixture of disbelief and bashful exasperation. Placing his plate aside, he met Charles’s gaze head-on.
"Which one came first?" Charles’s voice was barely more than a murmur, each word carrying a trace of hurt and the tiniest flicker of doubt as he looked away, jaw tightening. "Didn’t you even bother to find me, or... were you just hiding it all from me?"
Max sighed, a weary sound laden with resignation, as he let his shoulders drop, finally laying bare the truth he’d held back. "I was busy, Charles. The supplies were in chaos, and Victoria needed my help. I thought—I thought you were angry with me, so I waited, tried to find the right moment. But now, it seems I was more of a coward than you’d ever be." His gaze softened, and he reached across the table, his fingers almost brushing against Charles's. "You know, we are a noble family, just like I've always told you. The Verstappens are vast, wealthy, and hold a certain… influence. But it goes further. We operate businesses all across the Netherlands, Charles. Every kind, for good or for ill."
Charles’s brows furrowed as he attempted to grasp the weight of Max’s words, a spark of apprehension flashing in his eyes. "A broker, then? Or—were you ever a drug dealer?" He struggled to find clarity in the murky depths of Max’s admission.
"A broker? Yes," Max replied, his tone steady yet laced with something unreadable. "Dealer? Only in pharmaceuticals and medications."
A soft, almost sardonic "Oh," escaped Charles's lips as he turned his attention back to his plate, though his mind clearly lingered on Max's confession. "So, I’ve married into such a man," he mused, his voice faint and contemplative.
"Yes," Max affirmed, his voice dipping to a gentler, almost reverent tone. "You are married to Max Emilian Verstappen, Charles." He spoke his full name with a rare solemnity, a reminder of who he was—and who he was to Charles.
“What is it you want from me, mon amour?” Charles’s voice was steady, yet beneath it, an undercurrent of curiosity rippled, as if seeking the true depth of Max’s intentions. “Surely, as your wife, I can race, fulfil my duty, and maintain our lives.”
Max hesitated, eyes flickering as he considered his words carefully. "Charles… a partner. That’s what I want." He exhaled slowly, then continued with a softness that betrayed the intensity of his gaze. "Someone with the grace and poise to command any room. You have that, effortlessly. It’s not about a trophy wife—I don’t want some shallow figure. I want you—your talent, your career, your uncompromising presence. That’s more than enough."
“Understood,” Charles replied, finishing his juice with a calm composure that belied the whirlpool of thoughts in his mind. “Anything else?”
Max’s mouth curved slightly, a faint, thoughtful smile. “Perhaps… try to blend into our society a little more?”
“Alright, Max.”
Max’s expression softened, his gaze growing contemplative as he toyed with the edge of his napkin. “I’ve been wondering, love… how does it feel to be my wife?” His tone dipped, growing more serious. “Any discomfort? In our home, our marriage? Do you need me to—”
“Everything is perfect,” Charles interrupted with a small, resolute smile. “Except for…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Except for your ‘duties’ and… the presence of your men. Please, no bloodshed in our home, Max. It’s a sanctuary for a reason.”
“Yes, my dear,” Max replied smoothly, with an almost exaggerated courtesy as he nodded. “Consider it done.”
A slight blush crept into Charles’s cheeks, his expression softening as he added, almost sheepishly, “You know, you looked devastatingly handsome that night at the hall. If it hadn’t been for the blood… well, I’d have liked a kiss.”
Max’s eyes sparkled with a teasing glint as he met Charles’s gaze. “Shame about the blood then,” he murmured, his smile deepening.
Charles rose from his seat, closing the space between them with a soft, lingering kiss. Once, then twice, each touch of his lips like a delicate confession in itself. He cradled Max’s face gently, his fingers brushing the edges of his jaw as he whispered, "I would always love to have your kiss, Max… especially when it’s just us, like this."
A soft smile touched Max’s lips as he stood, his hands gliding up to trace the contours of Charles’s jaw with a reverence he didn’t always voice. "I’d love that too," he murmured, his gaze tender. He leaned in, meeting Charles in a kiss that deepened slowly, filled with the kind of unspoken words and delicate longing that only moments of stillness could hold.
"Max…" Charles breathed, nestling his face closer against Max’s chest, finding that rare sense of safety he craved in these rare moments. His hands drifted to Max’s back, his fingers pressing softly, clinging. "I missed this…"
Max’s lips brushed against the curve of Charles’s neck, pressing a gentle kiss to the nape as he pulled Charles closer, his hands resting on Charles’s thighs, their closeness filling the air with the quiet, comforting pulse of intimacy. "I missed you," he whispered, his voice low and warm.
A low chuckle escaped Max as he murmured, "You do know there’s CCTV in here, right?"
Charles jolted, a faint blush colouring his cheeks as he stepped back slightly, his expression chagrined. "Oh… I’d forgotten," he mumbled, casting an apologetic glance. "Sorry, mon amour."
Max laughed softly, leaning in to steal one last kiss. “I won’t keep anything from you again,” he murmured, his voice softened with a rare vulnerability. “I only hope… that you’ll trust me enough to come to me when you need, to let me be here for you, to help.”
"Yes, husband," Charles replied with a small, affectionate smile, his gaze steady.
Max had hardly made any attempt to keep things discreet. Day after day, guests poured through the doors of their manor—an endless stream of noble figures, high-ranking business leaders, and esteemed acquaintances. Representatives from Red Bull and even Ferrari made appearances, mingling among the elite. But today was different; today, a grand convoy from Belgium swept through their gates, making an entrance that was nothing short of ceremonial. Max had mentioned it in passing, the weight of their guests, the significance of this visit. And yet, here Charles stood alone in the manor, his planned padel match with Pierre and Lando having fallen through as both had been unexpectedly called away. Watching from the grand windows, Charles took in the sight of carriages and luxury cars pooling in the courtyard, guests pouring out in fine attire. A realisation dawned on him—it was part of his duty too, as a Verstappen, to greet and entertain them. Steeling himself, Charles strode through the grand entrance with a confidence that belied his earlier solitude, dressed impeccably in a soft cerulean blue suit, the insignia of the Verstappen family proudly displayed on his chest. A polished, businesslike smile settled onto his face, a mask he wore with practised grace as he stepped forward.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he greeted them, his voice warm but composed, drawing their attention instantly. "Verstappen welcomes you." That well-practised smile never failed him, nor did the refined edge to his tone.
He inclined his head graciously. "My husband is still preparing himself, but please make yourselves comfortable in the meantime."
A tall, stern-faced gentleman stepped forward, inclining his head in return with a cordial smile. "Howard Vessel of House Vessel," he announced formally. "We appreciate the welcome, Mr. Leclerc."
“Please, call me Charles,” he replied, a genuine warmth slipping into his smile as he extended his hand.
Charles guided the visitors to the waiting room, his stride poised and assured, then continued to Max’s office, where Max was still deep in conversation with the previous round of guests. Charles himself was immaculately groomed; freshly shaven, adorned in an Armani suit, and with the gleaming presence of his Ferrari-branded Richard Mille visible on his wrist. He exuded an uncharacteristic magnetism today, undeniably fitting the role of a Verstappen’s partner. As the door swung open, the subtle notes of Charles's cologne began to pervade the room, an unmistakable sign of his arrival. For a moment, Max seemed almost spellbound, visibly more pleased than even the most lavish of gifts he’d given to Charles could inspire. His guests, seated around him, shifted their attention toward Charles, captivated by the commanding allure of his presence.
"Yes, my dear?" Max asked, his tone softened with admiration as he removed his glasses, visibly enchanted.
Charles dipped his head respectfully toward the assembled guests. "My apologies, gentlemen," he murmured smoothly, then moved forward with a grace that held the room in thrall. His hand came to rest gently on Max’s shoulder as he leaned down, close enough for his words to remain between them alone.
"Howard Vessel awaits you in the drawing room," Charles whispered, his voice intimate, yet composed. He withdrew with an elegance that left an imprint of grace lingering in the room.
"Thank you, Schatje ," Max replied, his expression clearing as he straightened his posture and adjusted his glasses. His voice, however, assumed a formal tone, the professional guise returning as he asked, "Anything else?"
Charles leaned down, his lips brushing a gentle kiss onto Max’s cheek, soft yet disarming. It was the kind of gesture that could leave even the resolute heir of the Verstappen house momentarily weakened, stripped of his practiced stoicism. "You’re working hard," Charles murmured, his words laced with a quiet reverence before he straightened and stepped back, turning to leave. Max’s gaze followed him, a faint smile playing at his lips, as a wave of fulfilment washed over him. The notion that this remarkable man was his partner filled him with an unspoken contentedness. And yet, a thought lingered at the edge of his mind: the world needed a clear warning, a sharp reminder that Charles Leclerc belonged to him, Max Verstappen. It was Max’s side Charles woke up to every morning, Max’s embrace that shielded him, Max’s life that he enriched immeasurably. Charles had barely begun to enjoy a moment’s solitude when the faint sound of footsteps approached from across the manor’s private garden. He glanced up, expecting his husband, only to be met by the unfamiliar figure of a guest, lingering too far into the restricted grounds.
“This is the private garden of Verstappen Manor, sir. Visitors aren’t permitted here.” The voice came from one of the Strava guards who had appeared silently behind Charles, solid as stone.
The guest seemed visibly taken aback. "Ah, I— I was lost, and… followed him, thinking it was the way back to the meeting room."
"We’ll escort you back." The guards shifted forward, positioning themselves as a formidable wall between Charles and the trespasser, their stance a wordless message that no further transgressions would be tolerated.
Charles resumed browsing through his catalogue, the delicate parchment pages of fine jewellery catching the morning light. He had been momentarily diverted by the incident in the garden but now allowed his thoughts to drift back to his intention: finding something meaningful, perhaps a necklace or a ring, something that he and Max could wear in public as a subtle yet unmistakable statement. Matching Ferrari emblems or a pair of finely crafted rings, subtle yet emblematic of their shared world—he knew Max would appreciate it. With this in mind, Charles had made his way back to the manor, only to be greeted by the lingering presence of Max’s guests, now concluding their business and preparing to depart. One gentleman stepped forward, a composed man in fine attire, accompanied by a young woman adorned in a modest yet elegant dress. "Mr. Leclerc, thank you for welcoming us today. I am Howard Vessel, and this is my daughter, Ariella."
Charles straightened, his posture regal and his expression gracious, contrasting the more restrained countenance of his husband. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Vessel,” he replied smoothly, his tone both formal and sincere.
With a slight nod, Mr. Vessel continued, “We will be hosting a grand ball to celebrate my daughter’s coming-of-age. We very much hope that you and your husband might grace us with your presence.”
Charles inclined his head toward the young lady with a warm, refined smile. “Congratulations, my lady. I’m certain it will be a splendid celebration. I’ll be sure to inform my husband,” he assured her, his words gracious. “Is there anything further?”
Mr. Vessel seemed momentarily taken aback. "No—no, I simply thought… well, I assumed you might reject our invitation outright."
Charles allowed a soft chuckle, the faintest hint of amusement in his gaze. “My husband would,” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could filter them. “But for such an occasion, I believe an exception is in order for the young lady.”
With a hopeful glint in her eyes, Ariella stepped forward. “Might I have a photograph with you, Mr. Leclerc?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Charles replied, and he positioned himself courteously beside her as she held out her handkerchief for a Strava guard to take a picture.
After the photo, Charles handed the invitation card to one of the Strava guards, his face thoughtful but composed. “Mr. Vessel, I would be delighted to attend,” he began, pausing briefly before adding, “However, I notice your invitation lists this as an open event. Perhaps it would be prudent for the honour of your house to issue a formal invitation. You see, we at the House of Verstappen don’t typically entertain open events.” Vessel’s face flushed slightly, though he quickly bowed, acknowledging Charles’s words.
“My dear,” came Max’s familiar voice, resonant yet warmly possessive, as he strode towards them from the grand entrance, a handful of his retinue trailing behind in seamless step. With an effortless grace, Max encircled Charles’s waist, his touch as natural as breath itself, as he murmured, “I was looking for you, shall we depart?”
Charles leaned subtly into the embrace, the gesture instinctual and intimate, a scene which Ariella observed with a faint blush, the glimmer of astonishment bright in her gaze. “I’m speaking with Mr. Vessel’s daughter, Max,” Charles explained, his tone light yet subtly amused. “They’ve extended an invitation… though it appears to be open.”
A hint of a smirk flickered on Max’s face as he noted Ariella’s reaction. "Ah, an invitation to celebrate such an occasion is indeed a rarity,” he acknowledged. “In the House of Verstappen, tradition dictates that such honours are answered with roses, as part of our own custom." He signalled discreetly to a nearby maid, who stepped forward carrying an exquisite bouquet of vibrant red roses interwoven with a Ferrari-red ribbon.
Max’s voice softened as he handed it to Ariella. “Perhaps you might also spare us a private quarter at your celebration,” he suggested with an elegant dip of his head, “given my wife’s kind intention to attend. In that case, I believe an exception is certainly warranted.”
Ariella’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink as she accepted the bouquet, the scent of roses perfuming the air with a heady, aristocratic fragrance. Her eyes glanced from Charles to Max, clearly flustered by the attention bestowed upon her. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured. “We shall be honoured to accommodate you privately. Verstappen has never before accepted our invitations—thank you, Mr. Leclerc.”
Charles offered her a gracious incline of his head, his expression both welcoming and reserved. “Please,” he said with a composed smile, “it is my husband’s generosity that has paved the way.” Max’s hand remained gently on Charles’s waist.
Just as Max opened his mouth to protest, Charles’s fingers found his lips, silencing him with a gentle touch. “Shh, it’s an exception,” Charles murmured with a knowing smile, “because she’s a fan. I could tell.”
“No, dear, Charles,” Max’s gaze drifted to the car awaiting them. “I only meant to ask whether you’d prefer dinner out or at home. The event is trivial compared to clamouring for my wife’s beauty.”
Charles tilted his face up, resting it against Max’s chest. “You haven’t even looked at the invitation, have you? You just wanted an excuse to dance with me, don’t you?”
Max’s expression softened. “My intentions are as clear as daylight, Charles,” he confessed. “Besides, they’ve shown us loyalty; it’ll go smoothly as long as they observe propriety. It’s just…sometimes I forget you were raised as a noble. I tend to worry you’d find blending with our circle burdensome.”
Charles’s voice was light but tinged with gentle reproach. “That’s normal, considering I’ve forgotten many details of my childhood. And anyway, how long are your guests expected to stay?”
“Dinner,” Max replied, his gaze softening further as he lifted Charles’s hand, pressing a kiss to each fingertip. “You’re free to stay or spend time with your friends, if you’d like. I’ll be caught up for a while.”
“It’s only proper that I welcome my husband’s guests, Max Emilian,” Charles replied with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Who would’ve thought you’d be the one to suggest I take my leave while you’re marooned in duty? Are you truly serious?”
Max hesitated, choosing his words with uncharacteristic caution. “I was merely thinking of relieving you from obligation, especially with the demands of Formula One. I don’t want the strain of entertaining at home to weigh on you, especially after our guest intruded upon the private garden.”
Charles’s smile was sweet, a hint of amusement in his gaze. “I suppose I can’t keep secrets in our home, hmm? And what about you, my love?” The endearment dripped from Charles’s lips like honey. “When your team falters or your duties loom large, isn’t it worth having a glimpse of your wife to ease the weight?”
He began to walk away, glancing over his shoulder with a sly smile. “Or perhaps, Max, you think of me as the greatest headache of your life?”
Max couldn’t help but agree; watching Charles carry himself with that quiet confidence—announcing his titles as Leclerc, Perceval, and, most thrillingly, as Max’s partner—was both impressive and maddening. It was the sort of exquisite torment that came alive before his eyes, igniting something deep within him. And today? Damn! Everyone seemed spellbound by that impossible beauty, the poise that felt almost regal. There Charles was, basking in the sunlight, the Verstappen insignia glinting on his lapel, Armani tailored to perfection. The scent he wore was light and sweet, a blend Max found endearing and distracting in equal measure. It all made him want to stare forever, forgetting every duty for a moment just to keep this scene imprinted in his memory.
“You’re staring, Max.”
The words shook him back to reality, and he stammered, eyes tracing Charles’s with a mixture of pride and something softer, unspoken. “I—of course. My... partner just... you’re very—”
“Pretty?” Charles broke into laughter, the sound a mix of delight and knowing charm.
Max’s blush crept up, a rare and unbidden flush as he took in the vision of Charles before him. How could he, with hands so marred by the burdens of his lineage and the weight of his own past, even dare to lie to this creature of near-transcendent beauty? It was as if he had been utterly bewitched, and not merely in heart but in soul and purpose. This wasn’t just his spouse, nor just his partner in the world of stately obligations and the fierce track battles of Formula One. No, this was his wife —the very person who had seamlessly woven his presence into both the noble façades of their lineage and the relentless pursuit of racing glory. Charles stood before him, promising an entire world in the gentlest, most steadfast ways: his love, his loyalty, his role in Max’s life that felt both intimate and profoundly dutiful.
Here was the one who could warm their manor with nothing but his presence, rendering its grand halls and high walls a true home . His charm brought a new pulse to the estate, a sense of steadiness and comfort that reached even the servants and courtiers who crossed the halls. Charles moved through their life with the grace of nobility and the kindness of one who genuinely understood the weight of noblesse oblige . He held the capacity to brighten Max's days with gestures as simple as a soft laugh, or as significant as a diplomatic word among their guests. And Max knew that this was a rare fortune—he was capable enough to afford Charles, not only in wealth but in dedication. It was a promise as binding as any vow made beneath a cathedral’s arched vaults, deeper than any forged ring or carved insignia. He would do anything, walk through fire or bear any burden, for the sake of the one who had so completely captivated him and anchored their noble house with his strength and grace. Charles was more than just beautiful; he was the very heartbeat of Max’s existence, Heart of Verstappen .