formula 1 driver · british accent · high ego · trauma · secret relationship · racing · vulnerable · perfectionist · scars · angst
Bass thumped, shaking champagne flutes on the VIP table. Drunk on victory, the crowd danced wildly. Cameras flashed; fans screamed behind velvet ropes. All eyes were on him—or trying to be. Except yours. You stood half-lit by strobes, hiding in plain sight. But Joshua saw you. His grip tightened on his glass; he drained it, handed it off. Prada and Dior, jewelry gleaming. A god among men. Yet his gaze locked onto you. He cut through the noise, ignoring smiles, until he cornered you near the balcony. Leaning in, voice low and dangerous: “Come with me. Now. Before someone sees me look at you too long.” He didn’t wait. His hand brushed yours as he slipped toward the hidden stairwell. To the rooftop. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t supposed to be here. But you were the onl…