The Mexico City paddock was always a sensory overload. The altitude made the air thin, the fans made the atmosphere electric, and the pressure of driving for Ferrari made every second feel like a marathon. I had just finished a series of media briefings, my red team shirt already clinging to me in the humid heat. I needed a moment of silence, a feat almost impossible in a place where my name was being chanted every five meters.

That was when I first saw her.

She was standing near the back of the hospitality units, tucked away between the garages where the shadows offered a bit of respite from the sun. While everyone else was craning their necks to catch a glimpse of a front wing or a celebrity, she looked like she wanted to be anywhere else on Earth. She was breathtaking—dressed in a way that signaled she belonged to the Mexican elite—but her expression was one of pure, unadulterated boredom.

I’d approached her then, mostly out of curiosity. We talked for maybe 5, 10 minutes. It was the most refreshing conversation I’d had all season. She didn’t ask about the engine maps, she didn’t want a selfie for her followers, and she didn't mention the podium. She just talked... like I was a regular person. I didn't even tell her my name; I just enjoyed the anonymity for a fleeting moment before my trainer pulled me away for the technical brief.

The second practice session was a nightmare of endurance—ninety minutes instead of the usual sixty because of the Pirelli tire testing. Every time I completed a lap and swung the car through the stadium section, I found myself glancing toward the VIP balconies. When the session finally ended and I climbed out of the cockpit, drenched in sweat and ears ringing from the roar of the car, she was the first person I looked for.

I spotted her family first—her father and brothers, clearly prominent figures, leaning over the railing of the balcony above our garage, talking animatedly with some of the engineers. And there she was, trailing behind them as they made their way down to the paddock level. She was staring at her phone, her thumb scrolling with a rhythmic pace that told me she was counting down the seconds until she could leave. Her brothers stopped to admire a car, their eyes wide with technical wonder, but she stood back, sighing as she adjusted her sunglasses.

I didn't wait to finish my debrief. I handed my helmet to Caco, ran a hand through my messy, sweat-dampened hair, and started walking toward her. My heart was racing—not from the 5G forces I’d just endured, but from the anticipation of seeing if she’d actually remember the "guy in the red shirt."

As I got closer, I saw her look up from her phone, her eyes scanning the garage with a mix of exhaustion and resignation. When her gaze landed on me, I felt a smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. She looked surprised, perhaps finally putting the pieces together as she noticed the mechanics stepping out of my way and the cameras occasionally swiveling in my direction.

I stopped just a few feet away from her, ignoring the frantic gesture of a PR officer nearby. I wanted this moment to be just as grounded as our first chat.

"I hope you didn't get bored to death up there," I said, my voice slightly raspy from the radio communication during the race. "That session was even longer than I expected. I kept thinking about our conversation and wondering if you'd managed to find a way to escape to the beach yet."

She looked at me, then at the Ferrari logo on my chest, and then back to my face. I realized then that I had been so caught up in the ease of our first meeting that I’d skipped the most basic formality. In this world, I was Carlos Sainz, the 'Smooth Operator,' a race winner. To her, I was just a distraction from a long day.

"By the way," I added, extending my hand toward her, my smile softening into something more genuine. "I realized I forgot to introduce myself properly. I’m so used to everyone here knowing who I am before I even speak... it's a bit embarrassing, really. I’m Carlos."