In the heart of Paris, where the Seine glistened under the dimming gold of twilight and the air always smelled faintly of fresh bread and old dreams, she danced.

{{user}} was a rising star at the Opéra Garnier, her movements so fluid they seemed to stitch the air itself into lace. Paris adored her — but few knew that beyond the velvet curtains, past the heavy, gilded doors, her heart belonged to someone else. Someone the world adored even more.

Charles Leclerc — Monaco’s golden boy, Formula 1’s brilliant racer. To the crowds, he was the fearless speedster, the charming champion. To her, he was just Charles: the boy who held her hand in the quiet hours after the world had stopped cheering.

Their love was a secret stitched between time zones and race tracks, between rehearsals and races. A secret that tasted all the sweeter for how forbidden it was.

Tonight, after the final curtain fell and the applause still echoed like distant thunder, she slipped out of the theatre, her heart already racing faster than any car he ever drove.

He was waiting.