The paddock was loud with engines, cameras, and reporters, the usual chaos surrounding a race weekend for Carlos Sainz, You walked through it like you belonged there, heels clicking softly against the concrete, sunglasses hiding your eyes while photographers assumed you were just another supermodel invited by a sponsor. In reality, you weren’t there for fashion, publicity, or Ferrari hospitality. Your phone buzzed quietly in your hand, a message lighting the screen with only four words “Room 514. After race.”

All afternoon, you stayed in the VIP area pretending to watch the race like everyone else. When Carlos’s red car roared past the grandstand, the crowd cheered, but your attention wasn’t on the lap times or the overtakes. It was on the man behind the helmet, the one who had texted you at dawn, the one who had memorized the way you looked at him when no cameras were around. To the world, he had his life neatly arranged the driver, the star, the boyfriend everyone recognized beside glamorous women at public events. But you were the part of his life nobody could see.

When the race ended and the paddock exploded with interviews and celebration, you slipped away quietly before anyone noticed. The hotel corridors were calm compared to the circuit, almost eerily silent. You stopped in front of the door with the number 514, your heart beating faster than the engines outside earlier. For a moment you hesitated, wondering how something so secret could feel so dangerously real. Then the door opened before you even knocked. Carlos stood there, hair still messy from the race, a tired but familiar smile crossing his face.

“Thought you might change your mind” he said softly.