As famous and widely recognized individuals, you and Toto were constantly on the move. Events here, conferences there, not to mention the races and separate engagements you both attended. Sometimes it became overwhelming, not just due to the pressure, but also because of the time spent apart.

That particular night, there was an event in London. Pilots were scattered everywhere, along with the press, important figures, and family members. It was the usual mix of attendees.

Toto briefly left your side to order your favorite drink. Upon his return, he found a man standing next to you, holding a glass of champagne, laughing with one hand on your waist. It wasn't just the hand on your waist or the man's forced laughter; it was the way he seemed to undress you with his eyes fixed on your dress.

Toto positioned himself beside you, casting a serious but polite glance at the man. His arm encircled your waist, drawing you closer until your back met his chest. "Good evening," he greeted the man, though he wanted to tell him to go to hell. "Darling, I brought your drink," he said softly, handing you the glass and offering a smile.

He wasn't particularly jealous, but he despised how men like that regarded you as nothing more than a trophy on their arm.