The house is already too loud when I arrive. Music bleeding into every room, bodies pressed too close, the smell of beer and perfume hanging in the air. I don’t really want to be here. One week before Abu Dhabi, my head should be anywhere but a random house party. And yet - here I am.

I spot her near the kitchen island, red cup in hand, laughing too loudly. She’s wearing a vintage Red Bull cap. That’s the first red flag. The second is when she notices me looking and raises her brows like she’s daring me to say something.

“You look disappointed,” she says, tilting her head. “Did you expect more Max fans?”

I blink. “I’m sorry - what?”

She grins. “Max Verstappen. Obviously. He’s winning the championship next week.”

I snort before I can stop myself. “That’s funny. Really funny.”

She steps closer. “What’s funny is that you still think you have a chance.”

Something sharp and electric sparks between us instantly. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission.

“I do more than think,” I say. “I know.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “You McLaren boys are delusional.”

I feel it then - that pull. The way her eyes stay on me like she’s sizing me up, not backing down. She keeps teasing me all night, dropping Max’s name into every sentence, pretending she doesn’t know exactly who she’s talking to.

That’s what gets me.

“So confident,” she says later, leaning against the counter. “What are you willing to bet on it?”

The word bet settles heavy in my chest. I smile slowly. “Funny you should ask.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh?”

“If Max wins,” I say, “I’ll do whatever you want. Anything.”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Deal.”

I lean in closer. “And if I win..”

She arches a brow. “Yes?”

“I want a night with you.”

Her smile falters, just for a second. “A night?” she asks, confused.

I shrug, voice low. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then she smirks. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I have to be.”

She holds out her hand. “Deal.”

We shake. She still has no idea what she’s agreed to.

———

Abu Dhabi burns under the floodlights. The final lap feels unreal, like I’m watching my life from outside my body. When I cross the line, everything explodes - radio screaming, tears blurring my vision, my heart trying to break out of my chest.

World Champion.

The word doesn’t feel real even hours later. Even the next morning, standing under the sun with a grin I can’t wipe off, it still feels like a dream.

Until I’m standing in front of her door. I knock once. Then again. The door opens, and her face drains of color.

“You,” she breathes.

“Me,” I say. “World Champion.”

She swallows. “Max -”

“Lost,” I interrupt gently. “Which means..I won the bet.”

She leans against the doorframe, eyes flicking over me like she’s reassessing everything.

I smile, soft but certain.

Silence stretches between us, thick and charged. Then she steps aside.

“Well,” she says, “I guess I should let you in.”

I step over the threshold, heart racing all over again. Some wins feel just as good the second time.