I zip my suitcase shut, running a mental checklist. Favorite outfits? Packed. New blazer? Check.

Sanne's jewelry—the ones that add just the right amount of sparkle? Safely tucked in.

The sleek, deep-red polish on my nails catches the light, and I can't help but feel a little extra prepared.

My hair still smells fresh from this morning's styling session, and the Ferrari PR package—complete with official merch and a business-class ticket—sits right on top of my suitcase, a surreal reminder that this is actually happening.

My older brother Niels leans against the doorframe, watching me with that easy grin of his. "Nervous?" he asks.

"A little," I admit, closing my suitcase and swallowing the fluttering in my stomach. "It's Ferrari, Niels. This is like...a whole other world."

"Just remember who you are," he says, pulling me into a hug. "Don't let them turn you into someone you're not."

We head to the car where Mom, Dad, and Sanne wait.

The drive to the airport is a blur of hugs, advice on handling jet lag, and Sanne grilling me about whether I packed my best pair of hoop earrings.

At the gate, reality sinks in. This isn't a quick trip—I'm about to step into something massive, and my family feels it too.

My dad pulls me into a hug first, his grip strong but filled with that unspoken reassurance I grew up with.

"Proud of you, Isi," he says, his voice just a little rough, like he's holding something back. "Just... keep your head on straight, alright?"

I nod, my throat tight. "I'll keep my head on, promise."

Mom reaches out next, wrapping me in the kind of hug that makes me feel like I'm eight years old again. She pulls back, cupping my face, a misty look in her eyes.

"Call us. I don't care if it's the middle of the night—call us. And eat something healthy, please. Racing around the world doesn't mean you can live off coffee."

"Mom, they're sending me to business class," I laugh softly, trying to make it feel lighter than it is. "I think they'll feed me well enough."

Just behind her, Niels watches with a knowing smile, waiting his turn. He's not one for big, dramatic moments, but there's a look in his eyes that speaks volumes.

He steps forward and pulls me into a hug that's tighter than I expected. "Just be you, Isa," he murmurs, squeezing my shoulder. "You're going to be great."

I smile, pushing down the little swell of nerves that's been creeping up since this morning. "I'll make you proud, promise."

Sanne sidles up, a mischievous grin lighting up her face. "I can't believe you're about to live out our teenage dreams," she says, pulling me in for a side hug and snapping a selfie in one quick motion.

"And here—I know it's not Ferrari, but..." She pulls a small velvet box out of her bag, pressing it into my hands.

I open it, and there's a delicate gold bracelet from Aella Jewelry with a single, gleaming charm in the shape of a lightning bolt. It's one of her newer designs.

"Sanne... I love it." My voice catches as I slip the bracelet on, the weight of it grounding me somehow. "I'll never take it off."

Sanne winks. "Good. Wear it when you meet all those F1 millionaires, okay? Free promo for us."

I laugh, but there's a part of me that's holding onto this moment, trying to tuck it away for later.

I look back at my family, at their hopeful, supportive faces, and give them one last wave. "I'll see you soon. Love you all."

With one last look, I turn toward security, my heart beating a little too fast and too loud.

Glancing at my business class ticket feels like stepping into a different universe. I've flown economy so many times that this little piece of paper looks like a golden ticket.

Onboard, I settle into my seat, savoring the comfort.

I pop on some eye patches—can't afford puffy eyes at this altitude—then flag down a flight attendant for a latte.

I'm just starting to relax when I hear the familiar sound of footsteps down the aisle.

I look up, and my heart skips a beat. Charles Leclerc is boarding, his messy brown hair tousled, his expression casual yet focused.

It's one thing to see him in photos and videos—it's another to see him this close. And, of course, now I'm extra aware of the eye patches on my face.

I quickly bury my nose in a magazine, silently thanking myself for getting my nails done as I flip through glossy pages.

Just then, Maria Castillo steps into view. Calm, poised, and every bit the PR powerhouse, she glances down the aisle, her gaze landing right on me.

"Isa!" she greets with a warm smile, and before I can react, she notices the eye patches.

"Maria! Hi!" I blurt, reaching up to pull them off as fast as I can, my cheeks burning. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Maria laughs, leaning down. "No need to hide. This is just the start, Isa. Welcome to Ferrari."

My heart races, a mix of excitement and nerves. I'm going to be working with him. Charles Leclerc. The name feels heavy with reputation, speed, and everything that Ferrari represents.

After a few minutes, I plug in my headphones, trying to shake off the nerves.

I pull up my playlist and hit play on "All Too Well". Taylor's voice spills into my ears, each word bringing up memories I've been trying to ignore for weeks.

I then thumb through the Ferrari merch tucked into my carry-on—a sleek notebook, branded pen, and a soft red scarf—feeling both ridiculously lucky and slightly surreal.

Settling back, I close my eyes and let the gentle hum of the plane lull me. Bahrain is just hours away, and I know this is only the beginning.