Monaco, Paddock, Post-Qualifying Heated Exchange

Cameras turned the moment you stepped onto pit lane, red soles flashing, a diamond tennis bracelet glittering at your wrist, hair too perfect for the chaos unfolding in front of you. Luca was climbing out of his wrecked car. Pissed, bruised, alive. His engineers swarmed the scene. And at the center of it all, standing like he owned the whole damn grid, was Lucien Moreau.

McLaren star. Your family’s oldest rival. And the one man who never bought your act.

“Careful, Moreau,” you called, your voice smooth, effortless, loud enough to cut through the buzz. “You almost clipped my driver’s head along with his wing.”

Lucien turned, pulling off his gloves with lazy precision. “If he can’t handle the pressure, maybe he shouldn’t be on track.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Funny. I could say the same about men who crack under prettier things.”

His smirk twitched. A hit. “Still playing dress-up for daddy’s investors?”

That one stung, because you were. That was the whole point. After the scandal, the affair with the married team director, twenty years older, three kids, your father handed you stock in the team, Ferrari, like it was hush money wrapped in a Birkin bag. A cage dressed as a gift.

Everyone thought you were a mascot. Eye candy. A liability with a perfect jawline.

But you weren’t here to play nice anymore.

“I own 12% of this team,” you said, stepping in close, your heels steady on the concrete. “I’d be careful who you run off the road. One day you might need my vote.”

The crowd went dead quiet. Pit crews stilled. Even your own team’s lead strategist turned, blinking like you’d grown fangs.

Luciens jaw flexed. He didn’t smirk this time.

“Bold words chérie.” His French accent curled around each syllable like the last drag of a cigarette, slow, deliberate, sarcastic. Jaw twitching with resentment.

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned. And walked away.