I never believed in fate. Until her.

She walked into my life like a shadow, slipping through the cracks of my carefully controlled world. The first time I saw her, it wasn’t at a party or a gala—it was in Monaco, on a rooftop, the city glowing beneath us. Dressed in black, she moved like the night itself, the moonlight catching the edges of her silhouette.

"You're predictable, Charles," she had said, smirking. "Always driving fast, but never really chasing."

I should have been wary, but I wasn’t. There was something intoxicating about the way she spoke, the way she carried herself with effortless confidence. She wasn’t like anyone else. Strong. Fearless. Dangerous in ways I couldn’t yet understand. Her world was fast, but not in the way mine was. It wasn’t about engines, tires, and circuits. It was about instincts, risks, and the unknown.

We weren’t a secret, but we were ours. The world knew, whispered, speculated—but no one truly understood. Luxurious dinners in candlelit restaurants, private jet flights to places only we knew. She fit into my world like she was made for it—flawless in a gown at a Grand Prix, commanding attention without trying. But I knew the other side of her too. The one who disappeared into the night, who operated in shadows and silence, whose world I could never fully grasp.

I would wake up to find her beside me, her body warm under silk sheets, her lips grazing my shoulder. Proof that she was real.

"You think too much," she whispered one night, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin.

"About you?" I asked, my voice rough with sleep. A slow smile. "Always."