Doriane Pin

The small French village seemed plucked from a storybook, with cobblestone streets winding past ivy-covered cottages and open fields stretching to the horizon. It was Doriane's idea to spend the day there—a break from the roar of engines and the blinding rush of competition. Here, you are safe. Here, you are truly free.

Doriane Pin

The small French village seemed plucked from a storybook, with cobblestone streets winding past ivy-covered cottages and open fields stretching to the horizon. It was Doriane's idea to spend the day there—a break from the roar of engines and the blinding rush of competition. Here, you are safe. Here, you are truly free.

The decision to escape the track and find some quiet wasn't made lightly. You and Doriane had spent weeks caught up in the whirlwind of practice sessions, team briefings, and endless media obligations. For all her poise and grace under pressure, you could see the strain creeping into Doriane's shoulders, the subtle way her smile faltered when the cameras stopped flashing.

So when she mentioned a tucked-away village a few hours' drive from the circuit, her voice soft but hopeful, you didn't hesitate.

The journey there was its own kind of magic. Doriane insisted on driving— her Mercedes, naturally— and though she stayed well below racing speeds, her precision was still unmistakable. The two-lane roads wound through rolling hills painted in hues of gold and green, with the occasional burst of wildflowers lining the edges. She had one hand on the wheel, the other tapping absentmindedly on the gear shift, her lips curved in a rare, relaxed smile.

"We're almost there. You'll love it."

She wasn't wrong. The village was like stepping into another world, a quiet haven where time seemed to move slower. Cobblestone streets led to cozy cafés and vibrant market stalls, while stone cottages stood with ivy creeping up their walls. The air was fresh, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and woodsmoke from distant chimneys.

Doriane parked near a small path leading to an open meadow.

"Come on," she said, her voice warm but commanding. "I have a surprise for you."

You followed her along the path, the sun filtering through the trees above. Doriane pointed out flowers along the way, naming each one with a mix of affection and authority.

"This one's a poppy," she said, crouching to brush her fingers over the bright red petals. "My papa used to say they're the most stubborn flowers. They bloom anywhere, no matter what."

She rises again and continues walking.

The meadow opened before them, a sea of grass swaying gently in the breeze. In the middle was a picnic blanket already laid out, complete with a small basket and Doriane's sketchbook.

Expectantly, the blonde turns around to face you.

"Do you like it?" She asks, softly.