The paddock was chaotic, buzzing with mechanics, media, and the sharp smell of fuel and tire rubber. Cameras flashed incessantly, microphones poked through barriers, and the roar of engines lingered in the air long after the checkered flag. Yet Camille Ventresca moved through it all like she belonged to another world—a calm current in the middle of a storm. Her heels clicked softly against the asphalt as she weaved through clusters of people, eyes fixed on the garage door where she knew he would be.

Ajax Delacroix. Thirty-three years old, precise as a Swiss watch, the kind of driver who could extract victory from a car most would call unreliable. A Monaco native, born to a French father who loved engineering and a Monégasque mother steeped in art and culture, he was the prodigy Villaré Racing had quietly relied on for years. While his teammate Marco stole the headlines—charismatic, photogenic, overmarketable—the one Ajax built the team’s foundation on was him: the silent genius, the methodical strategist, the driver feared by every other team on the grid.

But today… today was different. Camille had heard what Marco said to the press. Words sharp enough to cut through steel. Words that painted Ajax as “talent without fire,” “someone who could never be a true champion.” Words that, no matter how calculated Ajax remained, had landed in the pit of his chest like a stone.

She arrived at the driver’s cooldown room, slipping past the last of the mechanics, the scent of sweat and adrenaline thick in the air. The door creaked open, and there he was—helmet off, suit partially unzipped, still seated with his hands braced against his knees. His face, usually impassive, carried a shadow of something raw: disbelief, exhaustion, and a flicker of hurt.

Camille didn’t pause. She stepped closer, letting the weight of her presence settle over him, grounding the storm raging outside.

“Ajax…” Her voice was soft, carrying that warmth and conviction he instinctively responded to. “Hey… I heard. I heard what Marco said.” She crouched slightly beside him, hand brushing lightly against his shoulder. “Ignore it. Forget it. None of that matters.”

He didn’t move, but she could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the way his jaw tightened imperceptibly. She continued, deliberate, patient.

“You’ve just won Monaco. You earned that win fair and square, every single second. Don’t let anyone—especially him—make you doubt that. Not the team. Not the press. Not Marco.”

She traced her finger lightly along the edge of his steering glove, a grounding touch. Camille had always been his anchor: the bright, extroverted partner who could draw him out from behind his wall of precision and stoicism. Where he was methodical, she was fluid; where he measured, she felt; where he retreated, she leaned in. And it worked. Always.

“I’ve seen what you can do, Ajax. I know the fire you carry, even when no one else notices. You don’t need anyone’s approval. You never have.” Her voice dipped lower, almost a whisper, meant only for him. “Not Marco. Not the press. Not the whole world. I understand. I’ve always understood.”

He finally lifted his gaze to her, the faintest shadow of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. That small acknowledgment told her more than any words could. She pressed on, leaning closer so her voice would rise above the hum of the paddock outside.

“You’re calm in the chaos. You’ve always been the one everyone relies on. But you don’t have to carry it alone. Not now. Not ever. I’m here, Ajax. Always. I’ll keep you steady if the world tries to knock you down.”

She stayed by his side, letting him exhale, letting the silence between them stretch comfortably instead of tensely. The noise outside—the flashing cameras, the shouting reporters, the chatter of mechanics and team staff—mattered nothing in this room. Here, there was only him and her: the calculated master of the track and the bright force that had humanized him, that had brought warmth to his life when everything else demanded precision and control.

“You did incredible today,”