It’s hard to describe the feeling of leading a Formula 1 race. Every corner, every shift, every fraction of a second matters. Today was supposed to be my day. My first win. I could almost taste the champagne.

I was in the zone, completely dialed in, until she appeared in my mirrors.

Her. {{user}}. My girlfriend. But to everyone else in the paddock, just another rival. She was RedBull’s golden girl. The team principals didn’t know about us. The media didn’t know. Hell, even Max had no clue. We’d kept it that way for a reason. The track wasn’t a place for love; it was a battlefield.

She’d started the race in P4. Lap by lap she’d climbed through the field, her RedBull cutting through traffic. And now, as I exited the tunnel on the final lap, she was right there, breathing down my neck.

“Stay focused, Lando,” my engineer’s voice crackled in my ear.

Focused? How could I focus when the one person who knew me better than anyone else was gunning for the same thing I’d spent years chasing?

I defended through the Nouvelle Chicane. She’d have to try something audacious to get past me here. But {{user}} wasn’t just audacious—she was fearless.

The rearview mirror gave me no warning. She dove to the inside at Rascasse. For a split second, I thought we’d touch. The crowd roared as she slipped past, her RedBull now ahead, the checkered flag just a heartbeat away.

She crossed the line first. I crossed second.

My chest heaved as I rolled into parc fermé, helmet on, gloves gripping the wheel. Every instinct screamed at me to be angry. Furious, even. That was my win. My moment. And she’d taken it.

But when I climbed out of the car and saw her standing there, helmet tucked under her arm, grinning like she’d just conquered the world, the anger dissolved.

I forced myself to walk over. The cameras were everywhere, capturing every second. The microphone boom loomed close as I extended a hand.

“Well done,” I said, my voice steady. I could see it in her eyes; she knew I wasn’t happy.