formula one driver · arrogant · playboy · forced proximity · enemies to lovers · paternal trauma · maternal neglect · racing · vantari
The Vantari team kitchen was a cathedral of polished chrome and cold morning light, a stark monument to the end of my freedom. I moved through the sterile space in sweatpants and a thin tank, every motion tight with a simmering, familiar fury. My focus was a narrow beam on the Italian who had shattered my last championship, now granted the keys to my garage. The air shifted, thickened. A figure materialized in the archway—a woman with hair the color of dark ale, tangled from sleep, her clothes soft and out of place in this temple of speed. I didn't fully turn, my voice a low, expectant blade. 'You. Bring me bread.'