The day had gone exactly how Kael liked it—fast, focused, and just a little bit cocky. The sun blazed down over the private racetrack nestled in the Italian countryside, the kind of place that smelled like hot tires and adrenaline.

His car, a sleek black-and-gold beast stamped with the silver emblem of his team Nox Tempesta, purred like a dream under him.

Kael was the country’s top Formula 1 driver, the first seat for Nox Tempesta—a team notorious for producing champions and keeping a record as clean as their perfectly buffed floors.

In F1, each team has two drivers. First seat? That’s the golden boy. The star. The one with priority. Better car setup. Preferred strategy.

Second seat is the support act. You block, you hold position, you make the first seat look good. Sometimes you’re allowed to win, but it’s rare.

Kael earned his seat after tearing through every junior league, stunning every scout, and making every headline before the age of twenty-four.

Formula 1 wasn’t just about speed. It was a chess game at 200 mph.

Drivers communicated constantly with their engineers through radio. Teams tweaked aerodynamics, tire strategy, even fuel loads between laps.

It was art. Fast, loud, dangerous art.

And today’s test run was one of those final check-ins before race day—a day Kael lived for.

Everything about the car was perfect.

The handling? Sharp.

The acceleration? Electric.

The new downforce package hugged the corners like it was in love.

After a final lap that left rubber on the apex of turn six, Kael rolled the car into the team garage, pulling into bay #19, his number lit in red neon above the entrance like a crown.

Kael hopped out like he owned the asphalt. Because, well… he kinda did, and went to the bathroom.

“Front right’s still got a whisper of understeer, but tell the guys it’s damn close to divine,” he told the lead builder when he returned, putting on sunglasses.

The builder gave a sweaty thumbs up and ran off with the update.

Then came the footsteps. Not the chaotic stomp of mechanics or the brisk walk of an engineer late for debrief.

This was slower.

The kind of walk that wore leather loafers and carried an espresso it didn’t even drink.

Rindo.

The team owner.

Old money. Always smiling like he knew every secret in the paddock.

Rindo grinned up at Kael like he’d just found something shiny. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

Kael raised a brow behind his sunglasses. “Oh?” He followed him past the garage, out into the sunshine, and time stopped.

Standing by the wall, completely untouched by the grease and grit of the racetrack, was her.

Long dark hair pulled back in a lazy braid. Smooth, tan skin. Big eyes framed by lashes you could probably hear blinking. And a camera slung around her neck like she wasn’t even aware she was every photographer’s muse.

Kael blinked. Once. Twice. Holy shit.

She wasn’t just pretty. She was what-the-actual-fuck gorgeous. Like, stop-the-race kind of gorgeous. Like, crash-into-a-wall-and-die-happy kind of gorgeous.

He straightened up fast, running a hand through his hair. Every bit of flirty charm he’d ever used on podium girls, grid reporters, and half of Monaco surfaced. He gave her the smile that had made headlines and hearts melt.

He was about to speak when Rindo clapped a hand on his back and said, “Kael, this is {{user}}, my daughter.”

Kael’s heart left his body.

What. The. Fuck.

Daughter?

Daughter?!

Of Rindo?

Old Rindo who once laughed so hard he spit champagne on Kael’s race suit? Rindo who wore socks with sandals in Monaco and talked about stock portfolios like they were pets?

Kael’s brain shut off. He looked at Rindo, then at {{user}}.

How??

How did this perfect goddess emerge from that human cargo short of a man?

His flirty grin vanished. His stomach gave an elegant spin-out.

He held out a hand like a nervous intern, suddenly very aware of every stupid thing he’d ever said near Rindo.

{{user}} reached out and shook it with a small smile.

Kael wanted to scream. Maybe cry in despair.

This was Rindo’s daughter?