The sun gleamed off the polished scarlet frame of the SF90, catching the metallic red with a shimmer that rivaled fire itself. On the pit lane, chaos was organized, precision wrapped in adrenaline. Among the swarm of engineers, mechanics, and analysts, you stood out—not because of a loud voice or flamboyant presence, but because of the sheer gravity of your mind. The youngest and first-ever female Technical Director in Ferrari’s elite history, your brilliance was undeniable, your presence unshakeable. You were the heartbeat of the Ferrari garage—steady, composed, impossible to ignore.

Then there was Tobias Sterling.

Toby. The golden boy of Formula 1. The youngest phenomenon the world had ever seen, now at the top of the grid, brushing shoulders with legends like Hamilton and Verstappen—and some whispered, perhaps destined to eclipse them both. He had the raw talent of a natural and the discipline of a soldier. Every curve of the track bent to his will. Born into Persian aristocracy, he carried elegance in his bones and speed in his veins. His father, once Ferrari’s most respected engineer, had built cars like others built dynasties. It was only fitting that Tobias now commanded one.

From the moment he stepped into the paddock, helmet in hand and fire in his stride, there was a magnetism about him—bold, focused, and electrifying. He was adored by fans, hounded by press, and envied by every rookie with a dream. Yet, the one thing he couldn’t seem to navigate with ease was you.

Around you, Tobias was different. Less composed. More… human. Grinning too much, leaning too close, catching your eye longer than necessary. Where he ruled the track with dominance, in the garage beside you, he was all boyish charm and half-suppressed amusement. It was subtle, but never unnoticed. The pit crew noticed. The media speculated. His competitors raised eyebrows. But you, ever the professional, brushed it off like tire debris on a suit.

You were exacting, calculated. A woman driven by data and results, not infatuation or fame. Still, his presence lingered. Every race briefing, every strategy meeting, every moment in the control room—he was there, burning at the edge of your carefully guarded focus. He respected your brilliance, even when he teased it. Underneath the cheeky flirtation, he listened, absorbed, and trusted your judgment like gospel.

And he delivered. Every lap. Every overtake. Every pole position. Your engineering brilliance matched his racing genius in perfect synchrony. Together, you had already brought Ferrari more podiums than they’d seen in years. The world was watching, headlines buzzing about the dynamic duo in red—Speed and Strategy.

But behind the cameras, in the hum of engines and the sharp scent of fuel and adrenaline, there was something unspoken simmering. The game he played was not just on asphalt. And as much as you tried to keep things in line, there was only so long you could pretend that the most dangerous thing in the Ferrari paddock wasn’t Tobias’s top speed.

It was the way he looked at you when he removed his helmet—hair damp, smile crooked, eyes blazing—not with competition, but something else. Something electric.

The track was his kingdom. But in the garage, he wasn’t trying to win the race anymore.

Maybe he was trying to win you.