Chapter Text
It starts with the gloves.
Not just any gloves—driving gloves. Peccary leather, the color of burnt orange peel, soft with a flawless, pebbled grain like it came straight from the tannery. There’s a single button at the wrist, small and precise, stamped with Max’s Dutch lion. They arrive in a matte black box, lined with red velvet, tied in a silk ribbon that feels too heavy to be fabric at all.
They show up to Max’s doorstep in Monaco.
There’s a card tucked into the fold of the ribbon. On the front, his initials, written in perfect penmanship. On the inside, a note in the same beautiful handwriting.
Your hands should be worshipped, not blistered.
— C
Nothing else.
He knows he shouldn’t open it. The security team will have questions. How did anyone get this address? He changes locations after every season. This apartment is so private, not even his mother knows about it.
But the packaging is exquisite. Deliberate.
And so Max, who’s never been asked to think—only to drive—opens the box.
The gloves are perfect. Supple. Cold. They even smell expensive. A subtle cologne, something smoky and foreign, clinging to the lining. Sandalwood.
He doesn’t try them on. Just stands there in his kitchen, holding them like a threat.
And then he does what any sensible person would. He throws them in a drawer, unopened, unlabeled, unacknowledged.
It should end there.
But it doesn’t.
Three days later, another box shows up. No card this time. But Max doesn’t need one. He already knows it’s his.
This one is bigger. Heavier.
He finds it on the doorstep just as he’s heading out for his morning swim—barefoot, towel slung over one shoulder, the sky still gray with early light. He doesn’t open it. Just brings it inside, sets it on the counter like it’s something he’ll deal with later.
He swims. Twenty-seven laps.
The box is still there when he gets back, matte black against the marble like it’s daring him to look at it.
This time, the card says:
If you didn’t like the gloves, try the shoes.
— C
He knows he should be smarter about this. Should’ve checked the cameras, cleared the packages first. He should walk away. Leave it.
Or at least take a minute. Shower. Pretend he’s not going to open it.
Max opens the second box sitting on his pristine marble counter, still damp from the morning’s swim.
The smell hits him before the lid even lifts. Aged suede, rubber, something old. Something... chosen.
Inside: a pair of vintage racing shoes. Scuffed just slightly. Carefully restored.
They’re not random.
He recognizes them instantly.
Deutsche Tourenwagen Meisterschaft. Zakspeed. 1994.
His favorite back-catalog rabbit hole. A championship he used to watch grainy VHS footage of as a kid, long before F1 snapped him up and drowned him in speed and obligation. These are the shoes from one of those drivers—some underrated legend he’s mentioned maybe twice, ever, in interviews he doesn’t even remember giving.
There’s a note this time.
Tucked under the tongue of the left shoe, in the same infuriatingly neat handwriting as before.
He had beautiful heel-and-toe technique.
But yours is better.
— C
Max drops the shoe like it burned him. Then picks it up again, careful this time. Like it’s something precious. Because it is.
He’s not sure if it’s sweat or pool water beading on his forehead. Either way, it feels too warm.
Max doesn’t call security.
He should. But he doesn’t.
He just sits on the edge of the counter, holding the shoe in one hand, thumb brushing over the soft, sanded suede. It’s heavier than it looks. Real. Real enough to make him uneasy.
Because it means someone’s been watching him long enough to know what he values—not just what he wears, or what brand he drives, but what he used to love. What he never talks about.
Not even his PR team knows he’s obsessed with that old driver. Not even Red Bull’s archives would have flagged that.
He puts the shoes away in the drawer with the gloves. Like if he hides them, they’ll stop existing.
And not long after, a third box arrives. Because things always come in threes.
Max had taken Nino out for a walk. Just a loop around the neighborhood. Clear his head. Reset. The dog trotted alongside him, oblivious, leash slack between them. There’d been no box when he left. He’s sure of it.
But when he comes back, it’s there. Waiting.
Another box. Matte black. No note, no markings. Smaller than the others. Almost modest.
If it weren’t for the pattern forming, he might’ve dismissed it as junk mail. Or a mistake. Or some overzealous fan getting far too close.
Max doesn’t open boxes left on his doorstep. He calls security. Has it scanned, checked, logged, cleared. He doesn't touch anything he hasn’t vetted.
But Max is touching the box now. He picks it up by the corners like it might explode. It doesn’t.
He turns toward the bin. Pauses. Stares at it like it might blink.
He knows he should throw it out. Should’ve thrown the first one out too. And the second. This whole thing has gone too far. There’s a line—there wasa line—and it’s been crossed three times now.
Still, he doesn’t throw it out.
The box is too light. Too quiet. Too sure of itself.
He opens it.
The scent hits him again—sandalwood, soft and lingering. Tucked into the box like an afterthought. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s meant to feel familiar. Disarming. Max doesn’t like that it almost works.
Inside: a watch. Chronograph. Steel bracelet. The face is red—deep, glossy, catches the light. Yellow hands, sharp and fast, like a warning.
Max recognizes the brand instantly—Omega. This one’s older. Vintage, maybe. But not in the way of something lost to history. It’s pristine. Preserved. Like it’s been waiting. Looks like it’s never been worn a day in its life.
Unlike the gloves or the shoes, it isn’t expensive. Not flashy. No packaging, no certification. No obvious value, unless you knew what you were looking at.
He frowns. He can’t wear this. He’s with Tag Heuer. There’s paperwork. Penalties. But that’s not even the part that gets him.
The part that gets him is that for a moment—just a second—he wants to.
He presses the back of the watch to his wrist. Doesn’t even clasp it. Just holds it there. Tests the weight. It fits. Exactly. No slippage. No pinch.
His skin prickles.
That’s when he notices it. On the case back.
Not the usual seahorse Omega emblem.
Something else.
Cavallino Rampante.
The Ferrari horse.
His mouth goes dry.
He flips the watch back over. Checks the reference number—small, stamped along the lugs.
3510.61.00
Omega Speedmaster Michael Schumacher edition. 1998.
A collector’s piece. All the listings show the same design. Same red dial. Same bracelet. And every single one of them has the Omega seahorse engraved on the case back.
Something slips from behind the velvet pillow as Max sets the watch down. Thin. Glossy. He almost misses it. He freezes the moment it flutters onto the counter.
It’s another card. Smaller than the others. Same handwriting. Same ink. Same immaculate spacing, like it had been plotted, not written.
He wore it once.
But it was always meant for you.
— C
Max stares at the card for a second.
The words hang in the air like a smell—cloying, heavy, familiar. They rattle something in him, something old. Reverence, maybe. Or something dangerously close to grief.
His jaw flexes as he works through the possibilities.
If this isn’t some brilliant knockoff, then it should be somewhere else. Somewhere that values it. In Maranello. In a vault. Behind glass. Not sitting in his kitchen, on a counter that’s seen more coffee stains than prized collectibles.
Max sets the watch down, almost gently, as though it’s more fragile than he’d like to admit. The weight lingers, unsettling, like it’s not just the watch that’s too heavy, but everything surrounding it. It doesn’t belong here. But the problem is, nothing about this situation feels accidental.
He should throw it out, walk away, forget about it. But something about this feels deliberate. Someone’s watching him. Someone with resources. Someone who knows him. Knows exactly what buttons to press.
Hell, maybe someone he knows.
Max can feel it now: the pull. Whoever this is, they’re sending him a message. A message he can’t quite piece together. But he knows he’ll get another one. And even though he should want to get away from it—cut ties with whatever game they’re playing—he doesn’t. He’s already bracing for the next one.
Maybe even looking forward to it.
He sets the watch down in the drawer, next to the gloves and shoes, the sleek black fabric swallowing the objects like it’s hiding something. He doesn’t think about it much as he closes it. Doesn’t consider how it might feel to leave it all behind, to forget.
He doesn’t know yet, but the next gifts won’t fit in his drawer.
They’re red. Fast. Loud in all the ways that matter. And they don’t go away when he turns his back.