The sun is setting over Monaco, casting long shadows across the narrow streets as you make your way back from a night out with your friends. The city glows under the golden hue of twilight, but none of that beauty reaches you now—not with the sharp sting of adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

You’re driving your father’s Ferrari SF90. You shouldn’t be. You know that. But the temptation was too strong. You’re a Formula 1 driver too, just like him. You thought you could handle it. You always think you can—until the moment you can’t.

It happens so fast. One turn, slightly too wide, maybe a little too fast, your focus slips for a heartbeat—and the car slams into the guardrail. The screech of metal is deafening, a sound that cuts through your chest more than your ears. The front of the car crumples like paper. Steam begins to rise from the hood, and you freeze, hands still on the wheel, heart racing like you’re on the starting grid.

But you feel it—a weight in your chest, like guilt made solid.

You take out your phone, your fingers trembling. One name in your contacts seems heavier than the others. Dad.

You press call.

“Papa it’s me Jules…,” you say when he picks up. Your voice cracks. “I… I crashed. I’m really sorry.”

Silence.

“I’m by the Boulevard Albert 1er. Near the corner. Can you come?”