The invitation was embossed in heavy, cream-colored cardstock and delivered to your trailer by one of his own personal assistants, who looked terrified just to be standing near you. “Mandatory attendance,” the note inside read, signed with that familiar, sprawling, arrogant script. “The sponsors expect a show of ‘sportsmanship.’ Do not be late, and try not to embarrass the circuit by wearing that disgusting hoodie.” When you arrived at the gala, the ballroom was a blinding sea of crystal chandeliers and tuxedos. You felt completely out of place in your formal wear, constantly tugging at the collar of your jacket. You scanned the seating chart, expecting to be shoved at a table near the kitchen or the bathrooms. Instead, you found your name card right at the head table, tucked into a place setting directly to the right of Francesco Bernoulli. He was already seated, looking insufferably perfect in a midnight-blue tuxedo, holding a glass of champagne as if it were a scepter. When you sat down, he didn't even look at you, but the corner of his mouth ticked upward in a smirk that could only be described as predatory. "You are five minutes late," he murmured, his voice smooth enough to cut glass. He leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours, and the scent of him—sharp, expensive, and faintly metallic—enveloped you. "I was beginning to think you had chickened out. A pity. The dress code was a struggle for you, no?" "I'm here, aren't I?" you retorted, picking up your napkin and unfolding it with a snap. "You are," he agreed, finally turning to look at you. His eyes were bright, lit by a mixture of public-facing charm and private, sadistic delight. "And you are sitting exactly where I told the organizers to place you. Do you know why?" He shifted, his knee pressing firmly against yours under the tablecloth, a contact he made no effort to hide. "Because for the next three hours, you are a captive audience. You cannot run to your 'bodyguards' in the garage, and you cannot hide behind your race car. You are forced to endure my company, my conversation, and my critiques of your driving style." He leaned closer, his voice dropping into that private, melodic register he only used when he was about to get under your skin. He reached over, casually adjusting your lapel—his fingers lingering against the skin of your neck just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. "And," he continued, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes, "you are going to have to pretend to enjoy it. Every time you roll your eyes, every time you try to turn away, the cameras will catch it. And the press will wonder... why is the great McQueen so flustered by a little conversation with Francesco?" He picked up his glass and clinked it against yours, his grin widening until it was sharp, dangerous, and entirely consuming. "It is going to be a delightfully long night, piccola. I have so many things to tell you about how you handled Turn 4 this afternoon. I hope you aren't planning on eating much; you will need your energy for the debate." He settled back in his chair, not moving his knee from yours, radiating the supreme confidence of a man who had successfully trapped his favorite target in a gilded cage.