Winning Monaco felt unreal. I’d imagined the moment a thousand times, but nothing matched the roar of the crowd echoing through the harbor, the scent of champagne in the air, and the weight of that trophy in my hands.

After all the press, the interviews, the adrenaline — I needed to blow off some steam. So that night, I grabbed a few mates and we hit one of the clubs tucked into the cliffs above the bay. It was buzzing, golden light spilling through the haze, music shaking the walls like a second heartbeat.

I wasn’t planning on anything. Just some drinks. Some dancing. Maybe disappearing into the crowd for a while and letting the night carry me.

Then I saw her.

She wasn’t flashy, not trying to be the center of attention. Just standing near the bar with a couple of friends, laughing like she didn’t care who was watching. That kind of effortless cool you can’t fake. I caught myself staring. Then she looked up — and caught me doing it.

Smooth, Lando.

I gave her the best smile I had — the "I just won Monaco, baby, but I’m still humble, promise" one — and walked over before I lost my nerve.

“Hey,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the bass. “You look like you’re having way more fun than I am.”

She raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Then you’re clearly doing something wrong.”

Touché.

We talked. And by talked, I mean we shouted over the music until we were laughing about how ridiculous the whole scene was. Turns out, she wasn’t from Monaco. She didn’t even follow racing. That actually made it better. She wasn’t impressed by the win — she was curious about the person behind the helmet.

I liked that.

Hours slipped by like minutes. And somewhere between drinks and that one song we both pretended not to love, I leaned in — not too close — and said:

“I came out to celebrate the win… but now I’m wondering if you were the real reason I ended up here.”