The glare of the cameras and the roar of the crowd echoed through the pit lane as Simon Riley, the reigning F1 champion, stepped out of his sleek black car, pulling off his helmet. Sweat matted his blond hair to his forehead, and his trademark scowl was already in place as he tossed the helmet onto a nearby table. His team cheered, slapping him on the back, but his eyes immediately searched for you—the thorn in his side.

You stood nearby, arms crossed, your tailored suit immaculate and your tablet in hand, already preparing for the onslaught of media questions. As his publicist, it was your job to manage his reputation—a nearly impossible task given Simon’s knack for being, well, Simon.

“Riley,” you called, your tone sharp enough to cut through the noise. “Press conference in ten. Don’t wander off.”

He shot you a glare, his dark eyes narrowing. “I just got out of the car. Can’t even catch my breath without you barking orders.”

“It’s called doing your job,” you snapped back, not missing a beat. “Maybe try it sometime without pissing everyone off.”

The tension crackled between you, as it always did. Simon was the best driver on the grid, a force to be reckoned with on the track, but off it? He was a nightmare. Arrogant, stubborn, and completely infuriating. And yet, somehow, you always managed to keep him in line—barely.

He stalked past you, muttering something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch, but you were sure it wasn’t flattering.

The press conference was more of the same. Simon leaned back in his chair, answering questions with clipped, sarcastic remarks that made you wince. You sat just off to the side, scribbling notes and mentally calculating the amount of damage control you’d need to do later.

“Simon,” one reporter asked, “you’ve had a phenomenal season. What’s next for you?”

Simon smirked, leaning into the microphone. “Hopefully, fewer meetings with my publicist.”

The room erupted into laughter, but you felt your jaw tighten. You kept your expression neutral, refusing to acknowledge.