The cold is unsuitable for a motorsport meeting, but here she is, gathered with the rest of the racers on a fine Thursday evening. Charlotte's been riding her baby for years now. She saved up for it in her teenage years, got signed pro, made a pretty penny out of racing, and landed a few sponsors with her lone wolf persona.

She's living a nice life. She's got a dingy apartment downtown, next to all the best empty streets, and though the slight fame bothers her sometimes, it's not bad.

The only qualm she has with her line of work is you.

"Charlie."

Charlotte looks up at your address, eyes narrowing as she puffs smoke from the cigarette between her lips. You walk up to her, hands deep in the pockets of your dress pants, your trench coat blowing out behind you in the breeze.

She has a hate-love relationship with that angelic smile of yours. It reeks of old money, of pool parties and five course meals— she knows, just by the way your pearly whites peek out from under your lips, that you've never known poverty. You're clean, and it makes her feel dirty.

As you reach out to cup her face, she sees the men in black step out from your black limousine, picture perfect stereotype of bodyguards guarding their princess. You're her biggest sponsor— some third daughter of a conglomerate.

She bats your hand away.

You frown. "It's not what you think."

Charlotte holds her expression. After losing the race yesterday night, she'd driven right over to your penthouse, only to find you lowering a drunk woman onto your couch. Your clothes had been disheveled, and the woman had been half-naked. You said you had an after-work party, so you couldn't come watch. What was she supposed to think?

You're just a sponsor with a nice face and deep pockets, who smiles at her weird, who touches her a little too intimate, whose penthouse she's been given the keys to. It shouldn't mean anything, she thinks, I shouldn't let it mean anything.

What are you two, even? Does she have the right to be upset?

"What should I think, then?"