“You’re gonna ruin me, you know that?”

My voice is low, lazy. I press a kiss to her bare shoulder, her skin warm from the wine and the bath and the way we always end up like this - entangled, limbs like vines. She doesn’t answer right away. Just hums, the same way she did the first night we met in Vegas.

Three years ago. One of those ridiculous afterparties that blurs into lights, music and too much champagne. She wore a black silk dress like it was tailored from sin. Hair up. Smile sharp. And when we talked, it felt like I’d known her longer than just a few hours. We didn’t even make it to breakfast the next day - at least not together.

Instead, I left her room with a tray of room service, her favorite pastries, a flower and my number scrawled on a note like I was in some indie film.

Didn’t expect anything.

But two months later, mid-December, she texted.

Dinner?

No emojis. Just one word. And somehow, that one word turned her into The Siren in my contacts.

Because that’s what she is. A fucking siren.

She doesn’t pull you in with dramatics. She does it like the sea - steady, calm, inevitable. There’s no begging with her, no clinginess. Just confidence. She knows her power. She owns it. And the world? It folds around her like it knows she’s meant to win.

Most women flirt to be wanted. She doesn’t. She exists and you want her.

She doesn’t hang out with my friends much. I introduced her once at a barbecue in Monaco. The guys didn’t get her. She was too..polished. Too mysterious. Like she’d walked off the set of a noir film and couldn’t be bothered with beer pong.

But I didn’t care.

She always showed up when it counted - birthdays, mid-season breaks, those messy, tired moments where I felt like everything was falling apart. She knew when to speak, when to be silent. She made me feel something I couldn’t explain.

Safe. And fuck, that’s rare.

I think about that night at Max’s place, mid-winter. Snow outside, everyone buzzed off cheap beers and trash-talking FIFA. Someone brought her up. Said she gave them weird vibes. Said she was hard to read.

That’s when it hit me.

Sometimes, people hate what they don’t understand. Or worse - what they wish they could be. She wasn’t designed for easy digestion. She was diamond-cut perfection. Sharp. Rare. You either held her right or you bled.

She never treated me like I was above her. If anything, I had to earn her. Always. And I loved that. The challenge. The chase. The way her lips curled when I said something clever enough to deserve her laugh.

Not everything was perfect. When I fucked up - and I did - she’d vanish. Silence. A ghost with perfume still on the pillows. But she always came back. Not because I chased. But because she chose to.

She’d show up, slide into my place like she never left, murmur an apology that felt real. And when she was in my bed, it wasn’t just sex. It was connection. The kind that made me want to talk. To tell her things I hadn’t even said to my parents.

She’d listen. Then tell me things too. Like we were trading pieces of ourselves in the dark.

That’s why it’s her again tonight.

Same bed. Same silence between words that feels louder than any noise. She’s curled next to me, skin on skin, one leg tangled over mine. Wine glasses empty on the nightstand. My hand on her hip like it belongs there.

She turns her head, glances at me with a smirk. “Ruin you? Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

I grin. “You don’t think you have that effect?”

She tilts her head slightly, brushing her lips against mine. “I know I do.”

God. She’s impossible. And yet, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Because somehow, in a life full of chaos and cameras and people wanting pieces of me, she’s the one person who makes me feel whole. Like I’m not just Lando Norris, the F1 driver. I’m hers.

And that? That might be the most dangerous part of all.

“Yeah you know.” I whisper against her lips.