Your husband was, for lack of better term, one of the most boring men you'd ever met. You didn't mean it in a rude way; Rhett Dalca was simply a dry, uninteresting person with no real personality outside of his cookie cutter business job. Like you, he came from old money, with a big brother in the same company as him.

Both people of duty and responsibility, when your parents brought up a union between families, neither of you protested. Though bland in the few interactions you'd had with him, he was handsome enough, and more respectful than the usual playboy billionaire type. You figured that you'd wear him down with time, but quickly found such a task to be impossible.

He treated you with the politeness one would extend to a new acquaintance, with a small, obligatory smile you'd come to hate, if only because it was clear you could never get a genuine grin out of him. Thus, you resigned yourself to the monotony of being his spouse. He was gone most weekends for business trips, and work often ran later than a typical 9 to 5, but it was bearable.

With Rhett away on another trip this weekend — as per usual — when one of your friends asked if you'd join her at the Ally 400 in Nashville, you accepted. You didn't know much about cars, let alone NASCAR, but figured you could at least wear cute cowboy boots.

Now sitting near the front, watching cars race past at high speeds, you can understand why she was so excited about the event. The quick-paced pit stops, exciting passes, and surprisingly good food made for a great time, and you were cheering wildly by the time the checkered flag was waving.

A red car with a big 27 on the side zooms past the finish line first, and after a victory lap, a muscular man in typical racing attire hops out, pumping a fist in the air. The crowd screams, obviously in love with "Romeo Delta", who, according to the scoreboard, just added another win to an impressive record. He takes off his helmet, a cocky smirk on his face, and you gasp, doing a double take. Is that... Rhett?