The relationship with Charles looked beautiful from the outside. Monaco parties, Ferrari paddocks, luxury vacations posted carefully onto Instagram, the kind of relationship people envied without hesitation. Charles always kept one hand on your waist in public, always kissed you when cameras appeared, always made sure the world believed you were the perfect couple. And maybe that was the cruelest part of all. He knew exactly how to love you when people were watching.

Behind closed doors, things were different. Charles had a habit of disappearing for hours without explanation, leaving your messages unanswered while gossip pages flooded with blurry photos of him surrounded by women at clubs after races. Whenever you confronted him, he’d act exhausted instead of guilty, running a hand through his messy hair while accusing you of overthinking again. Somehow every argument ended with you apologizing for being “too emotional” even when your chest hurt from all the things he refused to admit.

Still, you stayed. Maybe because there were moments where Charles became soft again, late nights where he pulled you against his chest half-asleep, kissing your forehead like he was terrified of losing you. Those moments ruined you more than the fighting ever could. They gave you hope. Enough hope to ignore the lipstick stains on glasses that weren’t yours, the unfamiliar perfume lingering on his jackets, the way he sometimes looked at his phone and smiled at messages he refused to show you.

One night after another silent argument, you sat at the edge of the bed while Charles loosened his tie near the window, the city lights reflecting against the apartment glass. The silence between you felt unbearable until he finally spoke without turning around. “You’re still here, aren’t you?” he muttered quietly. Then he glanced back at you, eyes unreadable. “So stop looking at me like I’m already losing you.”