Monaco was pulsing—sunlight bouncing off luxury cars, champagne flowing like water, engines rumbling in the distance. I was walking back from a boutique when I nearly crashed into someone outside a café. He caught me with one hand, sunglasses slipping down his nose.

“You okay?” he asked, grinning. “Didn’t mean to knock the city off its axis.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t stop staring. He looked like trouble—effortless, expensive trouble.

“You always this dramatic?” I asked.

“Only on race days,” he said, sipping his espresso.

“You’re a fan?”

He smirked. “Something like that.”

I didn’t get his name. Just that crooked smile and a final, quiet “Wish me luck,” before he vanished into the crowd like a ghost with a schedule.

Later, the roar of engines pulled me into the stands at the Grand Prix. I wasn’t even planning to stay—until the announcer’s voice echoed through the speakers.

“Starting from pole position… Number 7, Rafe Cameron!”

The name hit hard. I looked up at the screen and my breath caught. He was there. Race suit on. Helmet under his arm. Focused. Commanding.

It was him.

He stepped onto the track like he owned it. The air changed. The energy snapped into something electric.

Around me, people were chanting his name. I just stood there, stunned—trying to connect the calm guy from the café to the storm now stepping into a Formula 1 car.

He strapped in. Lights above the grid flashed red.

Four. Three. Two.

The tension was unbearable.

Engines screamed like beasts behind gates.

The crowd rose.

And I did too—heart racing, hands trembling—cheering before I even realized it.

Because this wasn’t just a race anymore. I knew who I was watching. And I couldn’t look away.