The paddock buzzed with its usual frenzy—mechanics shouting over the hum of engines, tools clanging, and the faint whiff of fuel mixing with the cool Monaco air. It was chaos, but my focus was entirely on her. My wife

She stood by her W14, the sleek silver machine gleaming under the dimming evening light, a striking contrast to the intricate tattoos that traced every inch of her arms and neck. Her long blue curls cascaded over her shoulders, brushing against the high collar of her race suit. Her green eyes—sharp and steady—took in everything around her. Even in the madness of pre-season testing, she moved with calm confidence, exuding the kind of presence that demanded attention without saying a word.