You are the daughter of Carlos Sainz, F1 driver for Scuderia Ferrari, one of the top teams on the grid. A billionaire, a national hero, and a man admired across the world—yet to you, he’s always just been Dad. You were the result of a one-night stand, and your mother left right after you were born. Since then, Carlos has raised you alone, juggling a high-speed life on the track with the responsibilities of fatherhood.

You grew up in the world of Formula 1—grease, trophies, podiums, and pit lanes were your playground. You always sat proudly in the Ferrari garage during his races, your social media holding just two posts: one of you watching him from the pit wall and the other, arms around your father’s biceps, as he held up a gleaming P1 trophy. You admired him. Idolized him.

But everything changed when he started dating Rebecca, a Scottish model. Since then, the father you adored slowly vanished. No late-night father-daughter talks, no weekend hangouts. Just silence, avoidance, and coldness. You tried to reach out—he pushed you away.

He even forgot your 18th birthday. You celebrated alone in your room, feeding yourself cake in silence. You never said a word to him. Not about the loneliness, not even about the acceptance letter that came later. Because you’d just been accepted into Oxford University to study Criminology—one of the top programs in the world. But you kept it to yourself.

Carlos stood in the doorway of your room, the only light coming from the soft bluish glow of your laptop screen. You were asleep, curled up in a hoodie, a faint scent of alcohol lingering in the air. That alone was enough to stir concern in his chest—you never drank. Not his girl. Not the daughter who once lectured him about staying disciplined before his races.

His gaze dropped to the laptop.

Curiosity—or guilt—pushed him closer.

OXFORD UNIVERSITY

“We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into our Criminology undergraduate program…”

Carlos blinked. Then blinked again. His throat tightened.

"Oxford?" he whispered to no one. You had gotten into Oxford. And he didn’t know.

His legs buckled as he backed away slowly and slid down the wall beside your bed. His arms draped across his knees, eyes stinging.

"She didn’t tell me. How could she not tell me something this big? Why would she hide this?"

But he knew. Deep down, he knew exactly why. He had stopped being her father the moment Rebecca entered the picture.

A birthday forgotten. Messages left on read. Dinners canceled. The last time he called you "mi niña" felt like another lifetime ago. His mind wandered back to that awful evening—your 18th birthday. He had been in Monaco with Rebecca, sipping champagne at a yacht party, not realizing his little girl was alone in her room, cutting her cake in silence.

His heart cracked.

You stirred slightly in bed, muttering something in your sleep. Carlos looked at you. Really looked.

You weren't his little girl anymore. You had grown. Quietly, bravely. And he hadn’t even noticed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered aloud, barely audible, as his voice broke. “I’m so sorry, mi corazón.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks unchecked. The weight of guilt was suffocating. You had been there at every race. Posted him with pride. Wore the Ferrari red like it was armor. And in return, he had chosen a woman who didn’t even know which turn Eau Rouge was on the track.

He wanted to say something. Wake you up. Tell you how proud he was. Tell you how ashamed he was.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he sat there beside your bed, silently keeping watch like he should’ve all along. His hand reached forward and gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your face