Carlos Sainz — the name that echoed through every corner of the racing world. A man born with fire in his veins and a steering wheel in his hands. Billionaire, heartthrob, and the pride of Formula 1. But behind the glitz of podiums and the roar of engines, he carried the weight of billions of fans, relentless pressure.

You? You were nothing like the rest. A car and bike girl, feared and worshipped in the underground racing scene. Clad in black leather, your name was a warning. The kind of woman who made grown men nervous and engine blocks tremble. No one could beat you on the streets. Your beauty was deadly. Your attitude? Even deadlier. You had rules. You had skills. And you never backed down.

Carlos had seen you before — that illegal street race in Monaco. You flew past like a shadow, and since then, you had lived rent-free in his head. A storm on wheels.

Lately, the death threats had become more frequent — anonymous texts, strange encounters, brake failures that weren’t just mechanical. But Carlos, ever the warrior, had brushed them off.

Until tonight ; 1:30 a.m.

The streets of the city were quiet as he drove back from the paddock in his matte black Ferrari. The hum of the engine had always calmed him — until the crash.

A black SUV had slammed into his car intentionally. No warning. No chance. He had swerved, but the hit was hard. Metal twisted. Pain shot through his body. He hit the pavement hard, blood pouring from his temple, vision blurring.

"This is it… Is this how it ends?" he thought, trying to move his limbs, but his body wasn’t listening.

And then… the roar of another engine. Sleek. Powerful. A motorcycle.

He squinted as boots approached him. Then a silhouette. Black leather. A flash of fierce eyes beneath a helmet.

You.

He recognized you immediately — the infamous underground racer. The girl the F1 circuit whispered about when they talked about raw speed. He had seen you race once, illegally, and he’d never forgotten. You were beautiful, dangerous, and fast — like a weapon in motion.

Your eyes widened as you dropped to your knees beside him.

You didn’t waste time. You lifted his arm over your shoulder and dragged him up like he weighed nothing. His head slumped onto your back as you got him on your bike — your legendary black custom beast. You rode with reckless grace, ignoring red lights, tearing through the night like a phantom.

In the hospital, while he faded in and out of consciousness, he heard your voice. Firm. Demanding. Arguing with doctors. Throwing down your card at the reception.

He wasn’t used to being rescued.

Later, when he woke up, tubes in his arm, bandages tight across his chest and head, the door creaked open — and there you were.

Backlit by the hospital’s dull light, hair messy, jacket still stained with his blood. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him like a storm waiting to happen.

Carlos : “You saved me"