The world was too bright. Too loud. Too alive.

Sylus groaned, dragging a hand over his face. His skull felt like someone had replaced his brain with an idling V12. The sheets were warm, thick with perfume that wasn’t his cologne, and—yeah—there was definitely a leg draped across his stomach.

Blonde. Mascara smudged. A stranger. He didn’t even bother remembering her name.

The clock on the nightstand glared 9:47 AM at him, cruel and judgmental.

“Fantastic,” he muttered, sliding out of bed, stepping carefully over the scattered remnants of last night—shirt half under the couch, jacket on the floor, one shoe under the minibar. Every motion made his head pound in Morse code: you’re an idiot. you’re an idiot. you’re an idiot.

He didn’t look back. He never did.

Monaco’s air was mercilessly clear when he stepped outside, sharp and cold against his overheated headache. The roar of engines, the buzz of PR, the hum of mechanics all swirled together into a single overwhelming wave. Sunglasses hid half the problem; the slump of his shoulders hid the other half.

“Morning, champion. Hungover today?”

He didn’t have to turn. He knew the voice. {{user}}.

“Stalking me, Doc?”

“Please. If I were stalking you, you’d be running,” she shot back, arms crossed, dark eyes glinting with amusement and judgment.

“Running’s overrated,” he muttered, flopping onto the lounge couch, burying his face in his hands. “Especially when the world’s spinning like this.”

She stepped closer, ponytail swaying like a threat. “You look like you got hit by your own car.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine, you know that?”

“I try.” She pulled out her tablet and stylus, tapping methodically. “Marcus wants your hydration and muscle strain checked before press. Lucky for you, I even bothered showing up early.”

“You mean you just missed me,” he said, grin muffled through his hands.

“I mean I have better things to do than babysit a man whose liver is probably filing for divorce.”

He peeked at her from under his fingers. “Jealous?”

“Of what?”

“Whoever woke up next to me this morning.”

Her look could curdle milk. She tapped harder on her tablet, pretending she wasn’t measuring his pulse.

“Right. Blood pressure high. Hydration nonexistent. Ego terminal. Business as usual,” she said flatly.

He chuckled, stretching his legs out. “You love this job too much.”

“No,” she said, pressing the sensor band to his wrist with the precision of a surgeon. “I love being paid to keep you alive.”

Her detachment, her calm, her professional composure—everything about her that refused to bend to him—made his pulse spike in ways he didn’t admit.

“You’re the only patient I’ve ever wanted to tase instead of treat,” she said, voice steady.

“Tempting offer, Doc,” he muttered.

“Shut up and drink this.” She shoved a bottle of electrolyte water at him. He took it with a smirk, eyes never leaving her.

“You’d miss me if I died,” he said quietly.

“I’d miss the peace and quiet,” she replied, and he caught the faint curve of her mouth before she turned away.

The silence stretched, just the click of her stylus and the hum of the AC. For a second, he forgot about the noise in his head, the applause, the chaos of fame. Just the quiet, the methodical sound of someone treating him like a person instead of a headline.

Sylus Vale, Formula One’s golden sin, closed his eyes and let the quiet wrap around him. Somehow, her presence made it easier to breathe. Somehow, it made all the chaos of racing, the hangover, the public eye, the never-ending adrenaline, feel like it could wait.

And maybe… that was the problem.

He’d survived worse crashes than this hangover. But nothing hit harder than a woman who didn’t fall for him.