The roar of engines was the soundtrack of my life. By twenty-three, I was the sport’s golden boy—headlines, billboards, magazine covers. Cameras followed me everywhere: the reckless prodigy who lived too fast, drove too hard, and somehow made it all look effortless.

Podiums blurred into parties. Champagne was sprayed, kissed off strangers’ lips, and forgotten by morning. The world loved Ryder Cross because Ryder Cross didn’t need anyone.

That was true—until her.

She wasn’t a model on the yacht decks of Monaco, or a fan begging for autographs. She was sharp, focused, terrifyingly brilliant—the one keeping our machines alive, the one who never blinked when the rest of the garage scrambled. Technical director. Calm under pressure. Fire wrapped in ice.

The first time I saw her, headset cocked, eyes locked on telemetry, I thought—God help me. For once, I wanted someone who didn’t want me back.

And I became obsessed.

Everywhere I turned, she was there. Her voice in my ear on the radio: measured, precise, cutting through the chaos. Her eyes on the data, never lingering on me, which only made me crave them more. I started driving harder, sharper, chasing the chance to make her react. One smirk, one glance, one slip of concern—I fed off it.

But she stayed steady. Untouchable.

Until my teammate— fucking Chad or something— tried to touch what wasn’t his.

It was after qualifying in Monza. I’d climbed out of the car, sweat still stinging my eyes. Across the paddock, I saw him—smiling too wide, leaning too close. My teammate. Hand brushing her arm as he whispered something. And worse? She laughed.

Something in me snapped.

I shouldn’t have cared. Hell, I knew I had no claim. But jealousy isn’t rational. It’s fire in the veins, smoke in the lungs, claws in the chest. And when the lights went out on Sunday, I carried that fire with me.

He lined up ahead of me. Rookie, too eager, always desperate to prove himself. By lap ten, he tried a move on her corner—her corner, where she’d spent nights recalculating the aero map to shave half a second off my time. I saw red.

I slid wide, “accidentally” clipping his rear tire. Just enough to send him off-line, grass spraying, car wobbling like a drunk. No harm, no crash, but his race was over. Mine wasn’t.

Over the radio, her voice cut in. Calm, but sharper than I’d ever heard it: “Ryder. What the hell was that?”

I swallowed a grin, pressing the throttle harder. “Just racing,” I lied.

But inside, I knew. It wasn’t racing. It was possession. It was the sick, selfish need to make sure he never tried again.

And when I pulled into the garage after taking the win, I didn’t look at the cameras or the trophy. I looked for her. Only her.