You feel it the moment you step into the paddock, the shift in air, the way conversations lower half a note when you pass. Your heels click against the concrete, steady, unbothered on the surface, while eyes follow you like they’re waiting for a mistake. Someone whispers your name, not softly enough. Someone else pretends not to stare. You don’t react. You’ve learned that reacting is what they want.

Charles is near the garage, helmet tucked under his arm, red everywhere around him. He’s smiling, relaxed, surrounded by people who trust him with their lives at 300 kilometers per hour. But when you walk past, his attention fractures. Just a second, barely noticeable, but you catch it. His eyes flick to you before he remembers himself. Before he remembers the rules.

Later, a photo circulates online. You’re barely in it, just a blur, a shadow, a suggestion. But it’s enough. Headlines bloom like bruises, distraction, temptation, problem. None of them mention how you never touched him. How you never crossed a line. How existing near him was apparently enough.

By the end of the day, the paddock has decided who you are. Not a woman. Not a person. Just a rumor with a face. And you realize something quietly devastating, they don’t hate you for what you did, they hate you for what they think he feels.