It was race weekend in Monaco, the crown jewel of the Formula 1 calendar. The yachts were packed, the champagne was flowing, and the cameras never stopped flashing.

Charles had barely looked at {{user}} all day.

Not that he didn’t want to. But Alexandra was there, dressed in designer everything, holding his hand like they were the perfect couple. And he had to play along. For Ferrari. For the press. For the fans.

{{user}} stood just behind them, sunglasses on, earpiece in, doing their job, guarding Charles like they always did. Like they had been doing for months now. Like they always would.

And yet, Charles didn’t say a word.

Not even when their shoulders brushed in the paddock tunnel. Not even when {{user}} guided him through a sea of cameras, fingertips grazing his back for a moment too long. Not even when their eyes met in the mirror before he stepped out, Alexandra on his arm and a carefully practiced smile on his face.

Now it was 2 a.m.

Alexandra was asleep beside him, her breathing steady, her perfume faint in the air. The night outside hummed softly — Monaco never truly slept — but all Charles could hear was his own heartbeat as he unlocked his phone.

Charles Did you get back okay? hated today. Couldn’t even look at you. I miss you.

He stared at the message for a moment — thumb hovering — then hit send.

Rolling onto his back, Charles exhaled slowly, eyes on the ceiling, wondering if {{user}} was still awake, wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was still a little bit of tonight left for them.