You met George a few months ago, at a photoshoot in Monaco, the kind that smells of salt, champagne, and money. You were there for a luxury brand campaign and he was there because the world revolved around him. George Russell, Mercedes golden boy. Charming, reckless, untouchably composed.

It started with small talk between takes, a teasing smile, a glance that lingered too long. You told yourself it was nothing and just chemistry, the kind that fades once the cameras stop flashing. But then came the messages, the latenight calls, the private flights to wherever his next race was.

Everyone knows he’s with Carmen. Five years together, the picture perfect couple splashed across tabloids and press conferences. Yet when he’s with you, the world feels quieter. You shouldn’t believe him when he says, “You make me forget everything” but you do.

You’re a supermodel, the face of every campaign worth remembering. But with him, you’re just a secret written between checkered flags and closed hotel doors.