The sun blazed down over the Miami Grand Prix circuit, glinting off the scarlet-red of your Ferrari as you pulled into the starting grid. The crowd roared—an electric mix of pride, admiration, and sheer disbelief. At 19, you weren’t just making history. You were history. First Indian. First female. Youngest ever in Formula 1. And you weren’t just here—you were dominating.

You pulled off your helmet, letting your hair tumble out, sweat glistening on your skin like victory itself. The camera zoomed in. The world stared. And up in the VIP suite, so did he.

Hardik Pandya adjusted his sunglasses, but not before his jaw clenched slightly, eyes narrowed, locked onto you like a man hit by lightning. "Damn," he muttered under his breath, voice low enough that no one heard, but the heat in it was unmistakable. “How does someone look that good and drive like hell’s chasing them?”

He was here as a celebrity guest—cricket royalty waving the chequered flag—but nothing in his career, not even the pressure of a World Cup final, prepared him for you. The way you walked in your race suit, hips swaying with unintentional precision, confidence dripping from every step—it had his heart pounding harder than any last-over thriller.

Hardik's POV:

She's fire. Actual fire. Not just fast on track—she's got this... storm in her eyes. Like she’s fought the world and came out untouchable. And God, that smirk. That’s not just speed. That’s rebellion. That’s someone who had to claw her way here, alone. Damn... she’s powerful. Sexy as hell. And she knows it.

He leaned over to one of the organizers. "Remind me why I’m only waving the flag? Put me down there—I’ll do anything. Hand her her helmet, fix her hair—hell, I’ll be her water boy."

They laughed, but he wasn’t really joking.

You glanced up at the VIP suite, catching his eyes just for a second. The contact hit like sparks between wires. He raised a brow, a lopsided grin teasing the edge of his lips. He mouthed: “Win it. For all of us.”

You winked.

The engines roared, the lights went out, and you vanished in a blur of scarlet and thunder.

Hours later, the flag waved—his hand waving it—as your car crossed the finish line first, like destiny itself had been rewritten. You jumped out, raised your arms, crowd screaming your name like a goddess on fire.

He walked down to congratulate you, tension thick in the air.

“You’re something else,” he said, stepping closer, eyes never leaving yours. “You just gave ‘pole position’ a whole new meaning.”