The next morning, the Mediterranean sun streamed into the penthouse living room. Dominik, Gasly, and Russell were nursing coffees and picking at a spread of croissants when Russell's phone buzzed on the glass table.
He glanced at the screen. "Charles."
He put it on speaker.
"Are you three up yet?" Leclerc's voice crackled through, sounding far too energetic for the hour.
"We're eating breakfast," Russell replied, spreading jam on toast with deliberate slowness.
"Good. I haven't eaten. Save a spot for me. I'll be there in ten minutes." Click.
Dominik and Gasly exchanged glances.
"He invites us to his city, makes us wait for breakfast, and then invites himself to eat our food?" Dominik noted dryly, leaning back in his chair. "If this was a business lunch, I'd have left ten minutes ago."
Ten minutes later, Leclerc breezed in, dressed in crisp white linen. The four of them—two factory drivers, one "reserve" waiting in the wings, and the rookie sensation—sat around the balcony table. Passersby on the street below craned their necks. It wasn't every day you saw four F1 drivers having a casual brunch. Phones were raised discreetly; the paparazzi network was already lighting up.
"Let's go," Leclerc said, wiping crumbs from his mouth. "The ocean waits for no one."
They walked down to the hotel entrance. Two matte black Ferrari 488 Pistas were idling at the curb, their V8 engines purring with a menacing rumble.
"Is this standard issue for Monaco residents?" Dominik asked, raising an eyebrow. "Do they hand them out with the residency permit?"
Leclerc laughed and tossed a key fob through the air.
It arced towards Russell. Russell caught it, looked at the prancing horse logo, then looked at the narrow, winding streets of Monte Carlo packed with tourists. He looked back at the key.
"Nope," Russell said, tossing the key immediately to Dominik. "I'm off the clock. You drive."
Dominik caught the key one-handed. "Coward."
He slid into the driver's seat of the lead Ferrari. The interior smell of Alcantara and high-octane fuel was intoxicating. Russell buckled into the passenger seat, gripping the handle.
"Don't scratch it," Russell warned. "It's worth more than your contract."
"Relax, George. I've driven more expensive things than this."
They roared through the tunnel, the sound reverberating off the walls, a symphony of Italian engineering.
At Port Hercules, Dominik stepped onto the deck of the Sedici, Leclerc's Riva yacht. It was a masterpiece of design—sleek, silver, and utterly impractical for anything other than enjoyment.
"Nice finish," Dominik admitted, running a hand along the teak rail. "It's good to be the Prince, isn't it?"
"It has its moments," Leclerc grinned.
As they motored out into the open Mediterranean, the tension of the test and the politics of the paddock melted away. They were just four guys in their twenties, escaping the pressure cooker.
Gasly found himself gravitating toward Dominik. The Frenchman appreciated the rookie's dry humor and lack of pretension.
"You know," Gasly said, leaning back on a sun lounger, "most rookies are terrified of us. You act like you've been here for years."
"Panic doesn't make the car go faster," Dominik clinked his glass against Gasly's. "Besides, once the helmet is on, we're all just trying not to crash."
They pulled out their phones. Instead of posting separate selfies, Dominik suggested a group shot.
The four of them huddled together in the cabin—Leclerc winking, Russell trying to look cool, Gasly grinning, and Dominik looking effortlessly composed.
Dominik posted it as a collaboration. Within minutes, it hit 3 million likes. The caption: Drafting practice. #MonacoGP #PaddockLife.
"Appearance is justice," Dominik muttered, watching the notifications scroll like a slot machine.
That night, back at the hotel, Dominik was packing his bag, planning to fly back to Budapest the next morning for a week of rest.
He video-called home. Katalin's face appeared on the screen, sharp and imperious as ever.
"So," she said, peering at the background. "You are rubbing shoulders with the princes of speed. Try not to let it go to your head. In that photo, you looked like the only adult supervising three children. You are lowering the average fun-factor."
"Thanks, Mom. Love you too."
Just as he hung up, his phone rang again. It was O'Connor.
"Hello?" Dominik answered, flopping onto the bed, exhausted from the sea air.
"Wake up, kid. Opportunity knocks," O'Connor's voice was crisp. "How would you like to go to Seoul?"
"Seoul? South Korea? When?"
"Ideally? Now. There's a spot open on 'Running Man'."
Dominik sat up. "The variety show? Why me?"
"They want an F1 driver for a special 'Speed Week' episode. Taking the cast for a track experience. High viewership, massive exposure in the Asian market. It fits your profile perfectly."
"I don't speak Korean," Dominik pointed out.
"Driving is a universal language. Plus, you just need to look fast and smile. It's on March 1st."
Dominik checked the date. Today was February 26th.
"That's in three days," Dominik said.
"Exactly. Which is why you need to leave tonight. I've booked you a seat on the late flight out of Nice."
Dominik sighed. The life of an F1 driver wasn't just driving; it was being a global billboard.
"Fine. Send me the details."
He hung up and grabbed his suitcase. He texted the group chat: Duty calls. Heading to Korea. Thanks for the boat ride.
He walked out of the hotel lobby, intending to call a taxi. A familiar V8 rumble stopped him.
The Ferrari 488 Pista pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. Leclerc was behind the wheel.
"Get in," Leclerc said. "Gasly told me you were bolting. I'll drive you to the airport."
Dominik smiled, throwing his bag into the small trunk. "You really are a full-service travel agency, Charles."
The drive to Nice was a blur of highway lights and engine noise. Leclerc dropped him at the VIP terminal entrance.
"Go kill it in Korea," Leclerc said, revving the engine. "See you in Bahrain."
Dominik walked into the airport alone. Without O'Connor or team staff to shield him, he was immediately spotted. He signed hats, tickets, and even a phone case as he made his way to the lounge.
Sitting in the quiet luxury of the lounge, sipping sparkling water, Dominik calculated the logistics. 11 hours to Incheon. Land at 3 PM. Sleep. Filming the next day.
He boarded the plane. He was in First Class, Seat 1A.
"Mr. Corvinus," the flight attendant said, her eyes wide. She held out a silk scarf and a pen, her professionalism cracking just a little. "Would you mind? My husband is a huge fan."
Dominik smiled—the practiced, media-trained smile he was getting very good at. "Of course."
He signed the silk with a flourish. Awesome, he thought, suppressing a groan of exhaustion.
As the plane thundered down the runway and lifted into the night sky over France, Dominik reclined his seat fully. The lights of the Riviera faded below him.
Next stop: Seoul.