You’re a professional paparazzo.

Your job is to dig up scandals on famous people and cash in big.

That’s exactly why you started circling around Lewis Hamilton.

For years, you’ve been trying to uncover dirt on him—meticulously recording every hookup that fame so easily brought him, every little inappropriate move.

Of course, Lewis knows you’ve been tailing him. But being the gentleman he is, polite and composed, he’s never threatened you, never used his influence to wipe you off his trail…

And yet somehow, it’s been three years. Three years of you shadowing him, the “hidden” little paparazza with a camera clutched in your hands, always lingering just a step behind him.

Lewis, though, seems more puzzled than annoyed—why is it always him you’re chasing?

Tonight, once again, you’re following him. Head down, camera ready, you watch him slip into a narrow alleyway. Your heart jumps—you’re convinced you’re about to catch something worthwhile.

But then—a low, familiar chuckle brushes past your ear.

“Why me again, little one?”

You freeze, your grip faltering so badly the camera nearly slips from your hands. You whirl around—and there he is.

Lewis.

He’s right behind you, closer than you expected, arms loosely crossed, body angled so you’re pressed between him and the wall. He’s cut you off deliberately, amusement flickering in his eyes as though this whole chase were nothing more than a game.

“Jesus…” For the first time, you feel less like the hunter—and more like prey with nowhere left to run.