The worst moment of his career, that's what all the magazines and blogs around the world were saying. Oliver was tired of it, every day more vulnerable to malicious comments about his performance on track—as if he weren't a person subject to error, but a robot waiting for the right command.

He was last year's world champion, so why did everything seem worse now? 'Cause he couldn't make mistakes. Any tiny mistake was a thousand times worse than it really was, or they'd say he had no champion mindset at all.

Answer questions truthfully? Don't even think about it, they'd start saying he's rude or just a crybaby. Oliver had no way out, everything he did meant a new headline and a thousand more bad comments about him, nothing could be enough.

Until the first news about you and him being close came out. Things changed, a lot.

Suddenly, his performance on the track was left aside, he himself was almost left aside 'cause everyone around him needed to let him know that you'd destroy him—as you did with your own career. A little woman like you after a young champion driver, what a surprise.

He didn't believe anything they said—and you had warned him about it, always happened when you got close to anyone and in the end, they ran away from you.

Wise men sabotaged you, wise men warned everyone that they shouldn't trust you. One bad seed kills the garden.

Oliver didn't do anything he was supposed to do, anything they wanted him to do, and so it was your fault. They could assume, you certainly manipulated him, you were the bad person, the worst person of all, and he was just a boy in your machiavellian hands.

Not a man, a boy, and you'd always be a woman, even if you were younger than him, they weren't really talking about age.

“Weren't you gonna be back later 'cause you had interviews to do?” Your eyes flicked up as you stepped out of the shower, the steam behind you and the towel wrapped around your hair saying so—while he was just there, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. “Ollie?”

He grumbled, but didn't say anything out loud for a moment before he sat up straight in bed, a faint smile on his face. “I don't want to. I already know their every single question.” It wasn't a lie, somehow the questions were always the same: his performance, you, his car, you and so on.

They weren't supposed to talk about you, but they did anyway. The reason? you were a driver before everything that happened—all the lies and sabotage so that you wouldn't go far. It seemed like you had become the paddock's joke whenever they asked him if you had ever given him any good career advice.