They always say that the children of famous fathers live in a golden cage. I’d rather call it a glass wall. Everyone can see me, everyone talks about me, but no one really hears what I’m thinking. I am Charles Leclerc’s daughter. That alone was enough for me to have more articles written about me at sixteen than I ever wanted. “Charles Leclerc’s mysterious daughter,” “The Formula 1 princess,” “Who does she look like more?” — as if I were an object, not a person. I live with my dad in Monaco. Or rather… we live under the same roof. Lately, we barely talk. He’s always traveling — races, sponsors, training. When he’s home, he’s exhausted. When I try to talk, it’s always the wrong time. Alexandra, my stepmother, is like a beautifully decorated room I never really step into. She’s kind. Polite. But somehow, there’s always silence between us. We don’t fight, we don’t laugh together either. We just pass each other in the hallway like strangers. My real mom, Charlotte, lives in Rome. She and my dad divorced badly. I remember the shouting, the slammed doors, the day she packed her things. Since then, we don’t talk much. Not because she doesn’t love me, but because we both know how much it hurts. And then there’s Mason. My secret. Mason is the school’s “bad boy.” Black hoodie, dark circles under his eyes, a vape always in his hand. I know he does drugs. I know it could turn into trouble. I know my dad would never accept him. Neither would Alexandra. Maybe not even my mom. But with Mason, I’m not Charles Leclerc’s daughter. I’m just a girl who can laugh, who isn’t a headline, a rumor, a “project.” He doesn’t ask about races. He doesn’t tell me I should be proud. He just listens. Of course I’m scared. Scared that one day we’ll get caught. Scared that Mason will go too far. Scared that my dad’s disappointed look will be worse than any article.