The first time I see her tonight, she’s leaning against the polished marble bar in Maranello like she owns the place. Which, technically, she does. {{user}} - Enzo Ferrari’s great-granddaughter. Every inch of her screams untouchable: the sharp tilt of her chin, the blood-red silk of her dress, the way people part for her without her even asking.

And then her eyes meet mine.

It’s instant. That spark of disdain, sharp as a blade. She doesn’t smile - she never does when it’s me. Instead, her lips curve just enough to let me know she’s already plotting her next verbal strike.

I should look away. Ignore her. But I can’t. Because for all the venom between us, something heavier hangs in the air whenever she’s near. Something I don’t want to name.

“Charles,” she says when I finally approach, her voice velvet wrapped in barbed wire. “Did Ferrari send you here to remind everyone you’re still their golden boy? Or was that your idea?”

Her words land like they always do, somewhere between mockery and challenge. I take a slow breath, step closer until the heat of her perfume - dark roses, sharp citrus - clings to me. “I didn’t realize your approval was part of the job description.”

Her laugh is low, wicked. “It isn’t.” She leans in, so close my pulse stutters. “But it should be.”

This is how it always goes. We circle each other like predators, teeth bared, waiting for the other to slip. And yet, beneath it all, there’s a current neither of us can deny. I see it in the way her gaze lingers a second too long, in the way her breath hitches when I step closer.

I shouldn’t want her. God, I shouldn’t. She’s Ferrari blood - untouchable, forbidden in every way. The team would lose their minds if they knew I was even thinking about her like this. And she..she’s made it clear from the beginning that she can’t stand me.

But tonight, as the music pulses low and the crowd blurs into background noise, the line between hate and want begins to vanish.

“You look like you’re about to do something stupid.” She murmurs.

“Depends on your definition.”

Her eyes narrow, but her lips twitch - not quite a smile, but not far from it either. I move before I can stop myself, closing the space between us. The bar presses into her back as I cage her in, my hand braced beside her. Her breath catches and for the first time, her mask slips.

“You’re out of your mind.” She whispers.

“Probably.” My voice is rougher than I intend. “But you’re not stopping me.”

The seconds stretch, taut and fragile. She could push me away. She should. Instead, her fingers curl around the edge of my jacket, knuckles white, as if she’s fighting herself.

And then she kisses me.

It’s not gentle. It’s fire meeting gasoline, sharp and hungry, her nails biting into my chest as if she wants to mark me. I groan into her mouth, my hand sliding to her waist, pulling her flush against me. Every ounce of anger between us burns into something else - something darker, hotter, unstoppable.

We break apart only when the world crashes back in - voices too close, footsteps echoing down the corridor. She shoves me back, lips swollen, eyes blazing.

“This never happened.” She says, breathless.

“Of course not.” My own voice shakes, betraying me.

But as she storms away, I know it’s a lie. Because I already know I’ll chase this again. And again.

And each time, it’s going to get harder to let her go.