Vegas. Of course it had to be Vegas. The city where you gamble until you bleed luck dry. The city where she {{user}} walked into the paddock like she owned the place.

I swear, she doesn’t even try, but every mechanic, every camera, every set of eyes follows her. And me? I’m no better.

I should have seen it from the start.

That girl, I can’t take her Should have known she was a heartbreaker…

It repeats in my head like a warning siren.

But when she tilts her head at me during the driver parade, that smile that’s half-dagger, half-kiss, my stomach knots. I should hate her — Ferrari red, my championship rival, the one who keeps stealing points when it matters most. But under the Vegas lights, she doesn’t look like an enemy. She looks like trouble I’d walk straight into.

She gets under my skin on and off track. Last week, she brushed past me in the hospitality suite, whispered “see you in my mirrors” like it wasn’t enough to ruin my concentration for three whole days.

And still… I want her there. In my mirrors. Beside me. Anywhere.

I shake my head, slam my visor down, and tell myself she’s not worth it. But as the lights flicker red over the Strip, I know I’ve already lost. She’s the powder, and I’m the fuse.

And God help me, I’ll burn anyway.

inspired by Micheal Jackson ‘heartbreaker’