Arthur Leclerc had been through many forms of suffering as Charles’s younger brother.

There was the karting-until-you-puke suffering, back when Charles decided the best way to “build stamina” was to keep Arthur on track until he was seeing double.

There was the sharing-a-hotel-room-with-Mr.-Everything-has-its-place suffering, where Charles’s side of the room looked like a photoshoot studio and Arthur’s side looked like… well, a human lived there. (“How can you sleep with your suitcase open?” Charles would demand, as though Arthur had committed a war crime.)

And, of course, the constant-comparison-to-the-golden-child-of-Ferrari suffering  every family barbecue inevitably ending with some uncle saying, “Ah, Arthur, you race too, yes? Like your brother?” in the same tone someone might use to say, “Ah, you also enjoy breathing?”

Arthur thought he’d adapted. He thought he’d built immunity to Charles-related pain.

But nothing … absolutely nothing …… prepared him for this