The moment the wheels of her jet kissed the tarmac in Monaco, {{user}} Swift regretted not canceling the entire thing.

She hadn’t slept in thirty hours. Her extensions were starting to itch. Her phone was on 3%, and her manager was texting in all caps: “HE’S ALREADY AT THE TERMINAL, BE NICE.”

She didn’t do nice.

Especially not when dragged across the world to fake-date some Formula One heartthrob because her label thought she looked “emotionally unstable” in last week’s breakup interview.

She adjusted her sunglasses and stepped down the jet stairs like she was accepting an award. The wind off the coast tangled her curls, her long black coat billowing behind her like a warning.

The private arrivals lounge was all glass and hush — luxury diffused in soft lighting and marble floors. Too clean. Too perfect. She hated it on sight.

But she hated what was waiting even more.

He stood near the baggage carousel, hands in his pockets, looking every bit like a man who belonged to this kind of wealth. Soft brown curls slightly mussed. Navy sweater. A quiet, calm sort of presence. The kind that didn't beg for attention — it just had it.

Charles Leclerc.

Lila spotted him instantly. She was trained to. She could smell PR from a mile away, and he wore it well — with that natural Monaco grace, and the smile of someone who probably got called “Ferrari Prince” more than his own name.

He looked up at her. Smiled.

And that made it worse.

She kept walking.

“{{user}}?” he asked, voice soft, lilting with that French-Monegasque accent. “Hi. I’m Charles.”

“I know,” she said flatly, reaching for her Louis Vuitton trunk.

He took a step forward. “Here, I’ve got it—”

“I can handle my own luggage, thanks.”

His hand paused mid-air. Then he stepped back politely, unbothered. “Of course.”

She glanced at him through her sunglasses. “You always this chivalrous, or just trying to impress the paparazzi who aren’t here?”

He laughed, and it was warm, not offended. “Mostly just being polite. But I can tone it down, if you’d prefer.”