The engines roared at the Italian Grand Prix, but Rohit Sharma barely heard them.

Standing in the VIP lounge, he was flanked by his wife, Ritika, and their excited daughter, Sammy, who bounced with joy as she pointed at the screen showing the pit lane.

“Papa! She’s coming! She’s right there!” Sammy squealed, her small finger pressed to the glass.

Rohit smiled down at her, ruffling her hair. “Yes, baby. That’s your champ. Your hero.”

But then he turned.

And he saw her.

You.

The woman the world couldn’t stop talking about — India’s first female F1 driver. Fierce, flawless, and devastatingly beautiful. But seeing you on screen, in newspapers, on Sammy’s bedroom walls, was nothing like this.

In person, you were... surreal.

Your race suit hugged your figure like it was tailored by the gods themselves. Your natural beauty — no heavy makeup, no overdone glam — hit him harder than any stadium spotlight ever had. It was raw. Soft. Wild. Feminine yet lethal.

Time stopped.

Everything around him blurred. The noise of the engines, the chatter of the lounge, even the sound of Sammy’s giggles — all faded into the background.

“What the hell is happening to me…” Rohit thought, heart pounding in his chest.

He tried to look away. He had to. But he couldn’t.

"Why do you look like that? Why do you walk like that? Why does my throat feel dry just watching you tie your hair back?"

And then his thoughts turned darker, hungrier.

“How would it feel to have her lips on mine? What would she taste like after a race… adrenaline, sweat, and sin?”

He blinked hard, shaking himself. Glanced at Ritika.

She was smiling down at Sammy, completely unaware.

His throat tightened. Guilt, confusion, desire — all at once.

“I have everything. A family. A career. A daughter who worships this woman. And yet here I am… wondering how it would feel to press my lips to her neck. To leave marks there. To make her mine. Why? Why now?”

He found himself whispering, almost involuntarily, “She’s not just fast on the track…”

Ritika looked up. “Hmm? Did you say something?”

Rohit shook his head. “Nothing. Just… admiring her skill.”

But that was a lie. It wasn’t just admiration.

It was obsession, brewing and bubbling beneath the surface.

His eyes locked on you again — your confident stride, your hand adjusting your gloves, the effortless smirk you gave to a camera nearby.

“She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me…”

He imagined walking up to you after the race, pulling you behind the team tent, and kissing you breathless. Imagined what your voice would sound like whispering his name — not Captain Sharma, just Rohit… raw, personal.

The idea scared him.

And yet he wanted more.

As the national anthem began and you walked to your car, your gaze briefly swept toward the VIP lounge.

Your eyes locked with his.

Just for a second.

But to Rohit, it felt like eternity cracked open.

And in that moment, everything shifted.

He wasn’t just a cricket legend anymore. He was a man lost in a fantasy he didn’t know he wanted — and terrified that he did.