Chapter Text
The music shifts again, something bass-heavy and loose, the kind of track that doesn’t demand attention so much as it invites movement. The stage lights stay on low, washing the beach in soft colour — pinks and purples bleeding into the dark, reflecting off the water like a second sky. People don’t leave. They never do after a headliner like that. Instead, they linger, shoes abandoned in the sand, drinks sweating in their hands, bodies pressed together in little constellations of movement.
Olivia stays.
At some point it stops feeling like a choice and starts feeling like gravity.
They’re all still riding the high of it — Lando loud and unfiltered, dancing like he doesn’t care who’s watching, Daniel fully leaning into it, arms loose, grin fixed on his face, Charles half-laughing at them both while still somehow moving perfectly in time. James hangs back a little, watching with fond amusement, letting her have the moment.
Oscar stays close.
Not in a way that’s obvious enough to be commented on, but close enough that Olivia notices it in the gaps between songs, in the way he shifts when the crowd shifts, in how she keeps brushing against him no matter which way she turns. Their shoulders bump, then stay touching. His hand hovers near her waist without ever quite landing there, heat radiating through the thin fabric of her skirt.
She’s still soaked from the sea. Her white top clings to her skin, translucent now, the bright pink bra underneath impossible to miss. She’s aware of it in a distant way — aware of the cool air against her back, of the way the fabric sticks when she moves — but mostly she’s aware of him.
Oscar’s eyes keep dropping.
Not crudely. Not quickly. Just… repeatedly. Like he forgets where they are for half a second at a time. Like the sight of it pulls his focus no matter how hard he tries to keep his expression neutral, unreadable.
She catches him once.
Their eyes meet mid-song, her lips curved in something halfway between a smile and a challenge, and she sees it — the flicker of something unguarded before he schools his face back into calm. His ears go pink. He looks away, then back again, slower this time.
Her stomach flips.
They dance for ages like that, the five of them a loose, laughing knot in the middle of the beach. Olivia lets herself relax into it, into the easy sway of bodies and sound. She moves instinctively, hips rolling, arms lifting above her head, hair still damp and heavy against her shoulders. She feels lighter than she has in weeks, unburdened by schedules and expectations and the constant pressure to be on.
Here, she just is.
At one point, Lando grabs her hands and spins her dramatically, nearly knocking into Daniel, who yelps and laughs and retaliates by dragging Charles into the middle. It’s chaotic and ridiculous and perfect. Olivia laughs so hard her cheeks hurt.
When the song slows, when the beat stretches out and softens, Oscar steps closer without saying anything.
Not close enough to touch her outright — just close enough that she can feel him. The warmth of his chest, the solid presence of him behind the easy composure. She turns slightly, enough that they’re facing each other now, bodies angled inward, swaying in the sand.
He says something she doesn’t quite catch over the music.
She leans in. “What?”
“I said,” he repeats, voice low, pitched just for her, “that was… incredible. Up there.”
Something in the way he says it — sincere, a little awed — hits her harder than the applause ever did.
“Thank you,” she says, just as quietly. “I was terrified.”
He smiles at that, small and real. “Didn’t look like it.”
She shrugs, playful. “I’m good at pretending.”
His gaze drops again, brief but unmistakable, to the pink bra visible through the wet cotton. When he looks back up, there’s a trace of amusement there now, like he knows she’s noticed.
“Seems like it,” he says.
Her laugh is soft, warm. “You’re not exactly easy to read yourself, you know.”
He tilts his head. “Is that a complaint?”
She considers it, eyes flicking over his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair curls slightly at the edges from the humidity. “Not necessarily.”
The music swells again, louder this time, and someone — Daniel, probably — whoops behind them. Oscar’s hand finally settles, just barely, at her waist. Not possessive. Not presumptuous. Just there.
It feels like a question.
She doesn’t move away.
They keep dancing, the night stretching open around them, lights shimmering, the sea whispering at the edge of everything. Olivia knows, distantly, that this moment will end — that festivals always do, that reality will come crashing back in with flights and commitments and headlines.
But for now, she lets herself stay right here.
Wet clothes. Loud music. A mysterious boy who smells like salt and champagne and adrenaline.
And a crush that feels a little less one-sided with every passing song.
____________
Olivia wakes with a calm around her, the way she always does after a show — body heavy, head still buzzing faintly with bass that isn’t there anymore. The curtains in her room haven’t been closed properly, and LA sunlight cuts through the gap like it’s got somewhere to be. Her phone is face-down on the pillow beside her, vibrating in short, insistent bursts.
She groans, rolls onto her back, and squints at the ceiling.
For one brief, perfect second, she doesn’t remember why her legs ache or why her hair smells faintly of salt and sweat and something citrusy. Then it all rushes back at once: the stage in the water, the pink lights, the sea cold around her thighs, the weight of Oscar’s hand at her waist like it belonged there.
Her phone vibrates again.
She reaches for it, still half-asleep, thumb smudging the screen as she unlocks it.
The notifications don’t load all at once — they cascade. Instagram first, then Twitter, then texts stacked on top of each other like a house of cards. Mentions. Tags. Missed calls. A voicemail from James timestamped twenty minutes ago. Another from Ellie.
Her stomach drops.
She sits up properly now, duvet pooling around her hips, and opens Instagram.
The video is right there, unavoidable, sitting at the top of her tagged posts.
It’s shaky, taken from somewhere in the crowd — zoomed, imperfect, intimate in the way only things not meant to be seen ever are. The lighting is low and pink, the sound distorted but recognisable. You can see the way she’s laughing, head tipped back, hair still wet and clinging to her shoulders. You can see Oscar in front of her, close enough that there’s no space left to speculate about what’s happening.
They’re dancing.
Not wildly. Not drunkenly. Just… together. His hand is on her waist. Her hands are resting lightly on his shoulders. They move in sync, foreheads almost touching at one point, both smiling at something unheard.
It looks easy.
It looks intimate.
It looks, unmistakably, like a couple.
Lando, Daniel and Charles are nowhere to be seen — cropped out by angle or timing or sheer bad luck. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the two of them had been alone on that beach all night.
“ARE WE SEEING THIS??? 👀💗 #LivHughes #OscarPiastri”
The comments are already in the tens of thousands.
Olivia’s chest tightens — not with panic, exactly, but with something close to it. She’s been here before. Relationship rumours aren’t new to her. People have speculated about her love life since she was nineteen, attached her name to people she’d never even met.
This feels different.
She opens Twitter with a kind of resigned dread.
It’s trending.
Not her name — their names.
LIV & OSCAR
SPORTS CAR THEORY CONFIRMED
MCLAREN WAG ERA
Clips loop endlessly, slowed down, zoomed in, annotated. Someone’s synced the video to sports car. Someone else has already made a side-by-side with her Miami paddock photos. There are threads analysing body language, the way Oscar looks at her, the way she leans in like she already knows him.
It’s… overwhelmingly positive.
Her fans are ecstatic. His fans, surprisingly gentle — protective, yes, but not hostile. A lot of “he looks happy” and “as long as he’s okay with it”. People joking about destiny and manifestation and lyric parallels. People are calling it cinematic.
She exhales slowly and locks her phone, pressing it to her forehead.
Oscar.
That’s the part that matters.
She doesn’t know how he feels about this. She doesn’t know what McLaren’s stance will be. She doesn’t know if this kind of attention makes him uncomfortable, or if he woke up to the same onslaught of notifications with a knot in his stomach.
Her phone rings again, and this time she answers without looking.
“Claire,” she says immediately.
“Good morning to you too,” Claire replies, voice calm but alert — the voice she uses when something’s already on fire and she’s halfway through managing it.
“Have you seen—”
“Yes,” Claire says. “I’ve seen everything.”
Olivia swings her legs over the side of the bed, toes pressing into the cool carpet. “Okay. Because I don’t want to— I mean, I’m fine, I can handle this, but I don’t want to do anything that makes things worse for him.”
“I figured,” Claire says. “That’s why I haven’t let you post anything yet.”
“Thank you.”
They sit in silence for a beat, the weight of it settling.
“It’s being received well,” Claire continues. “Better than well, actually. No real backlash so far. A lot of excitement. A lot of shipping, obviously, but nothing aggressive.”
Olivia huffs a quiet laugh. “Of course.”
“The question,” Claire says carefully, “is how Oscar feels about it. And by extension, how McLaren feels.”
Olivia nods even though Claire can’t see her. “I don’t want to speak for him. I don’t want to joke it off if that puts him in an awkward position.”
“I know,” Claire says. “That’s why I’m going to call Sophie and the comms team. We’ll see what they want to do — whether they’d prefer silence, a soft acknowledgement, or letting it blow over.”
“And until then?”
“Until then,” Claire says, steady, “you do nothing. No liking comments. No subtweets. No ‘haha oops’. Let it breathe.”
Olivia leans back on her hands, staring out at the city through the window. “Okay.”
“And Liv?”
“Yeah?”
Claire’s voice softens. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know,” Olivia says quietly. “I just care.”
“That’s obvious,” Claire replies. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve spoken to them.”
They hang up, and the room feels too quiet afterward.
Olivia picks up her phone again, hesitates, then opens Instagram one more time. The video is still there, still looping, still telling a story she didn’t realise anyone was watching.
She watches it once — just once — and feels her lips curve into a small, helpless smile.
Whatever happens next, whatever statements or silences follow, one thing is undeniably true.
For a few hours on a beach in LA, under pink lights and a borrowed sky, it was real.
By mid-afternoon the adrenaline has finally worn off enough for something quieter to settle in.
Olivia is curled up on her sofa with her laptop balanced precariously on her knees, the city humming outside like it always does, familiar and grounding in a way Miami never quite was. Her apartment smells like coffee and the faint remains of last night’s takeaway. The curtains are half-drawn, light diffused, gentle. It’s the kind of afternoon that feels suspended, like it’s waiting for her to remember something important.
She does — eventually.
Her calendar notification pops up with a soft chime she’s heard a thousand times before.
ALBUM RELEASE — 48 HOURS.
She stares at it for a second, then laughs, a little breathless, a little disbelieving.
“Oh my god,” she murmurs to no one. “I forgot about you.”
Which feels insane, given that the album has been her entire life for months. Studio nights that blurred into mornings. Lyric rewrites scribbled in margins. Arguments over track order. The cover art still sitting half-finalised in a folder on her desktop. And yet — somewhere between Miami, LA, champagne spray and Oscar’s hand on her waist — it’s slipped quietly into the background.
She reaches for her phone and dials Ellie without thinking.
Ellie answers on the third ring. “You alive?”
“Barely,” Olivia says, smiling. “Do you remember that I’m releasing an album in, like… two days?”
Ellie laughs, loud and affectionate. “You mean the one you’ve been talking about since last year? Yeah. I remember.”
“I think I blacked out,” Olivia admits, tipping her head back against the sofa. “Everything’s just been… a lot.”
“Mmm,” Ellie hums. “Let me guess. Festival. Ocean stage. Formula One boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“Yet.”
Olivia groans. “Ellie.”
“I’m just saying,” Ellie continues, unrepentant. “You disappear for a weekend and come back trending with an F1 world champion contender. That’s not nothing.”
She closes her eyes. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“I know,” Ellie says gently. “But you don’t hate it.”
That lands somewhere soft and true.
They talk for a while — about the album, about which songs Ellie’s already claimed as her favourites, about how strange it feels to be on the edge of releasing something so personal while the world is focused on something entirely different. Ellie tells her she’s proud of her, in the casual way older sisters do when they don’t want to make a big deal of it. Olivia lets herself believe it.
By the time they hang up, the sky outside has deepened into dusk.
Her phone buzzes again later that night, when she’s changed into pyjamas and is halfway through a bowl of cereal she definitely didn’t need.
Claire calling.
Olivia answers immediately. “Hey.”
Claire doesn’t waste time. “I spoke to McLaren.”
Something in her tone makes Olivia sit up straighter, spoon clinking softly against the bowl. “Okay.”
“They don’t want to shut it down,” Claire says. “They actually think it’s… beneficial.”
“Beneficial?” Olivia repeats slowly.
“Yes,” Claire says. “The engagement is through the roof. It’s positive, it’s warm, it humanises Oscar without compromising his image. And frankly, it aligns pretty neatly with what you’ve already got going on.”
Olivia’s stomach flips, uneasy and curious all at once. “And what exactly are they suggesting?”
Claire pauses, just long enough to let it land properly. “They want to lean into it. Quietly. Let the world think you and Oscar are dating — that you have been, for a while.”
Silence stretches between them.
Olivia’s first instinct is laughter — sharp, incredulous — but it doesn’t come out. Instead, there’s a rush of heat to her cheeks, her pulse picking up in a way that feels too telling.
“They want us to… fake date,” she says.
“Not even that explicitly,” Claire replies. “More like… not correct the narrative. A soft yes by omission. No statement. No hard launch. Just proximity, timing, a few carefully uncorrected assumptions.”
Olivia stares at the wall opposite her, heart thudding. “That’s—”
“A lot,” Claire finishes. “I know. Which is why I wanted to run it by you before anything else.”
“And Oscar?” Olivia asks immediately. “What does he think?”
“That’s the other part,” Claire says. “They won’t move forward without his agreement. And neither will I.”
Relief loosens something tight in Olivia’s chest.
“Okay,” she says. “I need to talk to him.”
“Of course,” Claire agrees. “Let me know what you decide. No rush tonight, but—”
“There kind of is,” Olivia says, already searching through her contacts. “I’ll call you back.”
They hang up, and Olivia sits there for a second, cereal forgotten, heart racing like she’s about to do something reckless.
She opens her messages and scrolls until she finds Daniel.
Liv:
hi hi sorry to bother you 🙃
weird question but could I maybe get Oscar’s number?
Danny:
HAHA
I was wondering when this was coming
yeah of course — you good?
Liv:
yeah! just need to ask him something properly
don’t want to speak about him without speaking to him
Danny:
he’s a good one
be nice 😌
Olivia’s fingers hover over the screen.
She’s written thousands of lyrics, she’s stood on stages in front of tens of thousands of people. She has never, somehow, been more nervous than she is right now.
She types, deletes, types again.
Liv:
hi Oscar — it’s Liv. Daniel gave me your number, hope that’s okay.
i promise this isn’t weird (already sounds weird, sorry)
do you have a minute to talk about… everything?
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Then disappears.
Then appears again.
Her heart is in her throat by the time his reply comes through.
Oscar:
hi
yeah, that’s okay
I figured you might reach out
what’s up?
She exhales slowly.
Liv:
so, I wanted to check in with you about the video from the festival
and all the speculation
I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with
There’s a longer pause this time. She imagines him somewhere quiet, reading carefully, thinking the way he always seems to.
Oscar:
i appreciate that
honestly — it’s a bit overwhelming, but not in a bad way
people seem happy about it
i don’t hate that
Liv:
McLaren spoke to my manager, they’re considering leaning into it
letting people think we’re together
but only if you’re genuinely okay with it
Another pause.
She gives him space, heart hammering, resisting the urge to fill the silence with apologies or jokes.
Oscar:
if I’m honest
i don’t mind
as long as we’re on the same page
and not pretending something that feels wrong
Liv:
same
i don’t want it to be disrespectful or invasive
or to turn into something neither of us can control
Oscar:
yeah
but if it helps both of us and keeps things positive
I’m okay trying
Trying.
The word feels important.
Liv:
okay
i think i am too
She stares at the screen for a moment after sending it, then opens her call log and dials Claire back.
Claire answers on the first ring. “That was quick.”
“He’s okay with it,” Olivia says, voice steady despite the adrenaline thrumming under her skin. “As long as it’s respectful. As long as we’re honest with each other.”
There’s a smile in Claire’s voice when she responds. “Good. Then we’ll proceed carefully.”
They talk logistics for a while — what not to do, what silence looks like, how to let things unfold without forcing them. By the time they hang up, Olivia feels strangely calm.
She sets her phone down and leans back against the sofa, eyes closing.
Her album is coming out in forty-eight hours.
The world thinks she’s dating an F1 driver.
And somehow, she doesn’t feel like she’s pretending at all.
________
The clock in Olivia’s apartment feels louder than usual.
9:00 p.m. sits on her phone screen like a dare, the seconds bleeding away one by one. She’s pacing barefoot across the living room, hair still damp from a shower she took purely to kill time, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. The lights are low, the city glowing through the windows, LA doing what it always does — existing loudly, indifferently — while her entire nervous system waits for a digital switch to flip.
Albums are strange like that. Months, years of work, boiled down to a timestamp.
At 8:58 she stops pacing and sits on the floor, back against the sofa, phone in both hands. Claire had told her not to hover, not to refresh obsessively, but Claire isn’t here and Olivia has never been good at pretending she doesn’t care.
At 8:59, Ellie texts her.
Ellie:
proud of you. whatever happens tonight, remember that.
also I’m pouring a glass of wine and staring at my phone like a lunatic so we’re aligned.
Olivia smiles, chest tightening in the good way.
At exactly 9pm, her phone buzzes.
Spotify notification. Apple Music. A flood of emails she won’t read until tomorrow.
BLACK LACE APOCALYPSE — OUT NOW.
She exhales, long and shaky, and immediately opens Instagram.
The post is already drafted. She’d rewritten the caption six times, deleted three emojis, added them back, then finally settled on something simple. Her thumb hovers for half a second before she taps Share.
The image is stark and perfect — album cover art. High-contrast black and white, lace gloves, bare shoulders, shadows. Apocalypse, but make it intimate.
oliviahughes
black lace apocalypse
out now 🖤
liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, elliehughes01 and 13,490 more
The likes climb instantly, faster than her brain can keep up with. Comments flood in — hearts, crying emojis, lyrics already being quoted back at her like echoes.
She drops her phone onto the carpet and stares up at the ceiling, blinking fast.
It’s out.
It’s not hers anymore. Not only hers.
Her phone buzzes again.
Then again.
Then she’s added to a group chat.
Danny:
MADE A GROUP
Lando:
WHY IS THIS HAPPENING
Danny:
BECAUSE IT’S A HISTORICAL MOMENT
The group name updates almost immediately.
🖤 LACE APOCALYPSE TRUTHERS 🖤
Olivia laughs out loud, startled by the sound of it.
Lando:
IT’S OUT IT’S OUT IT’S OUT
I’M ON TRACK FOUR AND I’M ALREADY EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE
Danny:
mate calm down
did you skip sports car
illegal behaviour
Liv:
you two are unhinged
thank you for even listening 😭
Lando:
EVEN listening????
that opener is VIOLENT
Danny:
sports car still goes crazy btw
hearing it properly feels like a religious experience
Liv:
I’m so glad you like it
I’ve been sitting on some of these for ages
The messages come fast, tumbling over each other, like they’re pacing through the album together.
Lando:
enchanted is gorgeous
like stare-out-the-car-window-at-night gorgeous
Danny:
i wanna hear it from you hurts
in a very personal way
rude of you actually
such a banger though
Lando:
SAVE YOUR TEARS????
WITH THE WEEKND?????
LIV WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU JUST CASUALLY DROPPED THAT
Liv:
surprise 😅
Danny:
genesis feels massive
very main-character-walking-away-from-an-explosion
Lando:
THE MONSTER
WITH EMINEM
ARE YOU SERIOUS
LIV I WANT ANSWERS
Danny:
omg i’m obsessed
this is crazy
Lando:
EMINEM
Olivia wipes at her eyes without realising they’ve gone watery, phone warm in her hands.
This part never gets old — watching people fall into the thing you made.
More notifications stack on top.
James:
IT’S SO GOOD
I’M NOT EVEN BEING BIASED
also house tour made me laugh which feels illegal for this album
Ellie:
vendetta is insane
aimed to kill is terrifying
I’m obsessed
I am emotionally destroyed so thanks
Olivia presses her lips together, overwhelmed in the best way.
Then her phone lights up with a name that still feels unreal.
Oscar:
hey
I’m listening right now
about halfway through
but I wanted to say it’s really good
Her breath catches.
Liv:
that means a lot
thank you for listening 🖤
Oscar:
I do have some questions
but I’ll save them until I’ve finished
She laughs softly, warmth spreading through her chest.
Liv:
that’s fair
I’ll be here
She sets her phone down again and leans back against the sofa, letting the noise wash over her — the messages, the distant city, the quiet certainty settling into her bones.
Black Lace Apocalypse is out.
People are listening.
People are loving it.
And somewhere, Oscar is listening too — lyrics sinking in, questions forming.
Olivia closes her eyes.
For tonight, she lets herself have it.
Her album.
Her music.
And the beginning of something she hasn’t