I’d dreamed of winning Monaco since I was a kid, racing my toy cars across the kitchen floor. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for standing on that podium, champagne dripping from my suit, the crowd below roaring like the engines that brought me here. It was perfect. Almost.

The real surprise came a few hours later, when I got the invitation.

A formal dinner at the palace. With the royal family.

At first, I thought it would be the usual kind of formal: a few handshakes, maybe a speech, then awkwardly poking at fancy food I couldn’t pronounce. But as my car pulled up the palace driveway that evening, I realized I’d been way off.

There were guards. Red carpets. Cameras.

And then there was her.

Princess {{user}}.

I’d read the occasional headline—something about her avoiding the public eye, disliking the spotlight. I figured she wouldn't be at this dinner. But I figured wrong. Not only was she there, she was seated right next to me.

I froze for a second, suddenly hyper-aware of every move I made. My napkin was folded like a pocket square. My fork? Wrong hand. My brain? Useless. I greeted her with what I hoped was a polite smile, the kind you practice in the mirror before your first race interview.

She gave me a soft nod, barely a glance. She was composed, elegant, effortlessly poised. I, meanwhile, was sweating through a suit tailored that morning.

"Congratulations," she said, her voice low, with just a hint of curiosity. "On the race."

"Thanks," I replied, trying not to sound like a complete idiot. "I still can't feel my hands from gripping the wheel for two hours straight."

She turned her head. I caught the flicker of a smile.

The dinner went on. Conversation flowed like champagne, and I did my best to keep up, sipping slowly, nodding politely, praying I didn’t say anything dumb. Every once in a while, I glanced at her—Princess {{user}}—and found her already looking at me.

Maybe it was the nerves. Maybe it was the fact that I was wearing a tux instead of a race suit. But I’d never felt this kind of pressure. Winning Monaco was one thing. This was something else entirely.

When dessert came—some delicate swirl of chocolate and gold leaf I was too nervous to taste—I finally gathered the nerve.

I turned to her and said, as calmly as I could:

“I can handle Monaco's streets at 300 kilometers an hour, but sitting next to you might be the scariest thing I’ve ever done.”

She laughed—genuinely. And that’s when I knew I hadn’t completely crashed.