March 24th.
The F1 circus arrived in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia.
On the coast of the Red Sea, the Jeddah Corniche Circuit wound through the city like a silver serpent. It was a terrifying ribbon of asphalt—27 corners, most of them blind, taken at an average speed exceeding 250 km/h.
It was a place that punished hesitation. Left and right flicks intertwined like scattered musical notes, playing out the heartbeats of the drivers against concrete walls that felt close enough to kiss.
On the high-speed straights, the cars streaked past like lightning, the roar of the V6 hybrids echoing off the luxury hotels and the dark water of the sea.
Thursday. Media Day.
The paddock was buzzing. The narrative had shifted.
Because Dominik had secured P4 in Bahrain, earning 12 points, Williams Racing currently sat 3rd in the Constructors' Championship, behind only Ferrari and Mercedes.
It was absurd. It was beautiful.
Dominik, Alex Albon, and Jost Capito were the men of the hour. They were besieged by microphones. Darren Fultz, the CEO of Dorilton Capital (the owners of Williams), had sent a video message to the team meeting expressing "extreme satisfaction" with the new rookie.
But the media focus was specific.
"The question of the weekend," a Sky Sports reporter said into the camera, "is whether Dominik Corvinus can live up to his nickname."
"The Prince of the Streets."
The nickname had exploded online over the last few days. Fans had dug up the statistics from his 2021 F2 campaign. Dominik had won in Monaco, Baku, Jeddah, and Sochi. He thrived where the walls were close and the margin for error was zero.
Video compilations of him threading the needle in Monaco set to phonk music were trending on TikTok and Twitter.
Dominik saw the nickname and just smiled faintly.
"They call you the Street Prince," Russell said, scrolling through his phone as they sat for lunch in the hospitality area. Leclerc was sitting nearby, eating a salad.
"It's a heavy crown," Dominik quipped, stabbing a piece of chicken. "But it fits."
"Don't get cocky," Leclerc warned. "Wall champions hit the wall."
"If I get on the podium this weekend," Dominik grinned, "I expect you both to bow."
They rolled their eyes, but the laughter was genuine.
The Meeting.
After lunch, Dominik returned to the Williams garage.
"Dominik, come to the VIP lounge," O'Connor messaged him.
Dominik sighed. More interviews. He walked to the Paddock Club, knocked on the door of a private suite, and was ushered in by security.
It wasn't a journalist.
Sitting on a plush sofa, wearing traditional thobe and ghutra, was a man with a calm, commanding presence.
"Dominik," O'Connor said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "This is Mr. Amin Nasser."
Dominik's eyes widened slightly. The CEO of Saudi Aramco. The biggest oil company in the world.
"Mr. Nasser," Dominik nodded respectfully.
"No need for formalities," Nasser smiled, gesturing for him to sit. "Your drive in Bahrain was... aggressive. I like aggressive."
He didn't waste time.
"I know you are moving to Aston Martin next year," Nasser said quietly. "Aramco is the title partner for Aston Martin. We are very invested in their future."
Dominik glanced at O'Connor. The agent gave a subtle nod.
"I also know you are currently with Williams," Nasser continued. "But looking ahead to 2023, I wish to establish a personal relationship. In addition to the team sponsorship, I want Aramco to be your personal partner."
Dominik processed this. Williams was sponsored by various companies, and navigating the conflicts was tricky. But this was a deal for the future.
"We cannot announce anything yet, of course," Nasser said smoothly. "But a verbal agreement between gentlemen? To secure the future?"
Dominik looked at the most powerful businessman in the Middle East. He extended his hand.
"It would be an honor, Mr. Nasser."
They shook hands. In a quiet room above the Jeddah track, Dominik Corvinus had just secured a sponsorship deal worth more than his entire Williams salary.
Thursday Night.
Back at the hotel, Dominik collapsed onto his bed. He dialed home.
The video call connected. Katalin Corvinus appeared, looking impeccable as always.
"Dominikó," she said. "We saw the news. P4. Acceptable."
"Thanks, Mom," Dominik sighed.
"But you almost had the podium," she added, her eyes narrowing. "Next time, bring a trophy. The mantle is looking empty. I need something to show the investors in Tokyo."
"I'll try my best. It's not exactly Amazon Prime, Mom. I can't just order a trophy."
"Excuses," she sniffed. "Get some sleep."
The call ended. Dominik rubbed his temples.
Then, his phone rang again. Hanna.
He answered.
"So," Hanna's voice was sharp. "Who was the girl?"
Dominik groaned. "Not this again. It was Yeji. She brought my car keys."
"Mmm-hmm," Hanna said, squinting at the camera like an interrogator. "She is very pretty. And she was standing very close to you in the garage. And the 'Partner' graphic? Very suspicious."
"Mind your own business, Hanna."
"If you are mean to me, I will tell your mother you are distracted by girls," Hanna threatened.
Dominik deflated. "Fine. What do you want?"
"Just checking on you," she softened. "Don't hit the walls in Jeddah. They look hard."
"I'll try."
March 25th. Friday.
The sun dipped below the horizon. The floodlights flickered on, turning the circuit into a tunnel of light.
The wind coming off the Red Sea whipped the flags, making a low whooshing sound.
Dominik sat in the garage. The FW44 was set up with a Low Downforce package. This track was faster than Bahrain. It was dangerous. And it was exactly where the "Street Prince" was supposed to reign.
FP1 was about to begin.