The Ferrari PR office could have easily doubled as a high-fashion editorial set.
Whitewashed walls, floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the space with late-morning sunlight, and neatly curated mood boards pinned with glossy photos of Charles smiling in various sponsor shoots.

Laptops sat open on the long conference table, glowing with spreadsheets, fan demographic breakdowns, and a particularly aggressive-looking line graph labelled “Q2 Engagement Decline.”

In the middle sat a cheese platter that looked like it had been plucked straight from a Michelin-starred restaurant — wedges of triple-cream brie, hand-rolled crackers, glistening clusters of grapes — all perfectly untouched by Charles, who was more interested in the way the espresso machine in the corner hissed every few minutes.

The PR team was in full “strategic pitch” mode: postures perfect, voices warm and syrupy, smiles just sharp enough to be dangerous.

One of them — a woman in a tailored red blazer that matched Ferrari’s exact Pantone — leaned forward, elbows braced on the table.

“Charles, darling,” she began, the kind of darling that meant she thought she was about to change his life, “we’ve been brainstorming ways to boost your fan engagement. We think it’s time for a public romance. Something aspirational.”