The camera crew bustled around the room, setting up lights and adjusting equipment, their chatter blending with the faint hum of the air conditioning. The suite smelled faintly of polished wood and fresh linen—Hilton’s signature scent, I supposed. I shifted in the plush chair, my race boots tapping a steady rhythm on the marble floor.

“Alright, Lando, let’s try that line again,” the director said, his tone straining toward friendly. It was the fourth take, maybe fifth, and my patience was wearing thinner than a set of soft tires on lap 50.

From the corner of the room, {{user}}—my PR manager—watched like a hawk in designer heels. Arms crossed, notepad on her lap, she radiated her usual mix of calm authority and the silent threat that if I screwed this up, I’d be hearing about it later.

“Remember,” she interjected smoothly, “we’re aiming for natural. Relaxed.” She gave me one of her trademark half-smiles, the kind that said, Come on, you’ve faced 300 kilometers an hour on the track; surely this isn’t harder.

I took a breath and adjusted my grip on the Hilton-branded room key they’d given me for the shot. Relaxed. Natural. Sure. It wasn’t like I spent my weekends practicing heartfelt endorsements of five-star stays.

Still, {{user}} had a point. This was part of the job. Smiling for sponsors paid for the cars, the engineers, the life. I just had to get through it without looking like I’d rather be anywhere else—because {{user}} would definitely notice if I did.

“Alright,” the director called again. “Let’s roll. And... action!”

I forced a smile, locking eyes with the camera lens. “There’s nothing quite like coming back to a Hilton after the race…”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught {{user}} nodding. For a moment, it almost felt like I was winning something here, too.