The Mediterranean glittered with an almost theatrical brightness, as if it knew two Formula One teams were currently locked in an arms race of who could throw the most decadent yacht party. Red Bull’s was a neon-soaked rave with thumping bass, half the Monaco harbor invited. Ferrari’s was all class—crystal glasses, live violinists, waiters in red bow ties.
But somewhere between the beats and the Bach, Max Verstappen and Carlos Sainz were sneaking across decks like guilty schoolboys. Max had slipped away under the pretense of “checking tire data,” Carlos by claiming his father wanted him home early. They met between the two boats, shoes in hand, laughing quietly at the absurdity.

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