Nico

I never expected Alaric to be here.

This morning was supposed to be straightforward. A private training session at the Monaco facility to shake off the rust before Bahrain.

My agent had insisted I bring Sophia along to keep up the carefully crafted facade the public loved—the story of two celebrities in love.

And then there was my mother. She had called last week asking about Sophia. "Nico, darling, when am I going to meet this girlfriend you keep mentioning?"

Because of that, I went on a few boring dates with Sophia and sent some pictures to stop her from asking more questions.

My family was conservative, traditional to the core. They had never truly accepted what I was, who I really wanted. To them, a successful son meant a wife, children, and a picture-perfect life that fit their expectations.

The world had grown so much, but coming out—even hinting at the truth—wasn’t an option. It would shatter them, especially my mother, who always mentioned my marriage whenever we met.

I mean, I could get an Omega Man pregnant, but they wouldn’t allow that.

My grandfather would cut off my head if it ever happened.

That’s why I had to feed into their delusion and do my thing my way. So I played the part, and Sophia was the perfect shield I needed.

She wanted sponsorship, and I wanted a fake relationship to get my family off my back.

I was still thinking about how exhausting the whole charade had become when I stepped out of the simulator room and saw him.

Alaric de Villier.

Standing in the pit lane like he was the king there.

My stomach tightened instantly. The Maldives memories flooded back vividly—the darkness, turbulence, his broken moans, and the taste of him on my tongue.

I had spent the last week trying to convince myself that it was a one-time lapse caused by the storm and forced proximity. But seeing him right there shattered that illusion completely.

Then I found myself walking toward him before I could talk myself out of it.

And then we had a bit of banter until I proposed a deal between us.

"Speaking of which... let’s settle this properly right now. One real session. Full laps. Winner takes all the bragging rights—and the loser has to do whatever the winner wants. If I win, I get to name my prize with you. Same if you somehow pull it off. So what do you say, Alaric de Villier? You want to race me or not?"

Alaric scoffed and pointed to himself, then to me. "I don’t care about any useless bet. There is no way I am racing with someone as crazy as you are."

I grinned wickedly. "Oh really? Are you scared that I would win?"

That made him raise his brows in anger.

"If you are so sure of yourself," I continued, "you shouldn’t be afraid of a little wager. Or are you all talk, princess?"

His cheeks flushed when I called him that, and then he heaved a deep sigh and spoke through gritted teeth. "Fine. Let’s do this."

I chuckled and stretched forth my hand as if to shake his, and when he stretched his forward, I pulled mine back and slapped his ass.

His body tensed under my hand, his eyes widening in shock. "What the hell are you doing? There are people here watching."

"I don’t care," I whispered into his ear, then turned around and yelled loudly for everyone present to hear. "Alaric de Villier wants to race with me!"

Every eye there turned toward us immediately, and people started pointing. Even those who were about to leave stopped in their tracks and turned toward us.

Dami pulled Alaric to his side while I was left with Sophia, who leaned closer to me as she whispered, "Why are you racing with him all of a sudden? You promised not to spite him in public anymore."

"Well, it seems I am not going to keep that promise now, Sophia," I responded, then turned toward my trainer and discussed the race.

A few minutes later, we stood under the bright Monaco sun, the cars idling with a high-pitched hybrid whine. A Red Bull Racing car was provided for me—an aggressive blue livery with the sharp Red Bull logo prominent on the nose and wings.

The car looked like a predator crouched low to the ground.

Beside me sat Alaric’s Ferrari. The car was a sleek, menacing black with iconic red accents and the famous prancing horse logo on the nose. It looked beautiful yet deadly.

When it was time for the race to start, I turned my head and our eyes met through our helmet visors.

For a long, charged moment, neither of us looked away until I smirked at him. "Try not to fall behind," I told him.

This was our first true head-to-head race, and I couldn’t wait to see what Alaric had to offer.

Immediately the flag dropped, and I launched the Red Bull forward like a man possessed. The hybrid unit unleashed a savage howl as I floored the throttle. The acceleration was brutal, pinning me back into the seat with immense G-force.

I drove with reckless obsession, attacking the first corner aggressively, braking late, and carrying maximum speed through the apex. The tires screamed as the car rotated perfectly beneath me.

A wild, breathless laugh escaped me inside the helmet. I was completely unhinged, pushing the car and myself to the absolute limit.

But Alaric was right beside me.

His black Ferrari stayed glued to my rear wing like a shadow, refusing to give even a single inch. We were head-to-head from the very first sector. I defended the inside line into Turn 1, forcing him to back off slightly.

But Alaric came back stronger on the exit, using the incredible traction of the Ferrari to close the gap immediately.

Lap after lap, the battle turned into something crazier, as if we had been waiting for this moment all our lives.

We traded positions constantly in a ferocious high-speed war. I attacked every corner with aggression, using the car’s sharp apexes, late braking, every advantage the Red Bull offered—and it responded beautifully, generating insane grip through the high-speed sweeps.

Alaric didn’t back down either. He was driving magnificently in the Ferrari, like he always did when he ruled the track. His lines were precise and fearless, and he dove deep into corners, trying to outbrake me again and again.

On one long straight, he pulled alongside me at blistering speed. The two cars ran wheel to wheel, the engines screaming in unison. For one heart-stopping second, our eyes met through the visors.

It made me almost miss my braking point.

Sweat stung my eyes, and my arms burned from fighting the steering wheel under heavy G-forces, while the smell of hot brakes and rubber filled the cockpit. This was Formula 1 at its purest—two drivers pushing each other, and themselves, to the absolute limit with nothing held back.

And on the final lap, I went for everything.

I attacked the hairpin with reckless aggression, braking dangerously late. The Red Bull rotated perfectly, tires smoking as I held the inside line. Alaric tried to go around the outside in the Ferrari, but I defended ruthlessly, forcing him wide on the exit.

He fought back brilliantly on the final straight, closing the gap with frightening speed that almost made the cars touch as we raced side by side toward the finish line.

I crossed first.

By the smallest possible margin—less than half a second.

I smiled brightly, knowing that I had won. I slowed the car, my heart thundering wildly, and pulled into the pit lane. Alaric came in right behind me.

When I climbed out and removed my helmet, a triumphant, almost feral smile spread across my face.

Alaric stepped out of his Ferrari, his wavy curls messy and his face flushed with exertion and frustration. He looked devastatingly beautiful in defeat.

I walked straight up to him.

"Now I won, Alaric," I said, my voice loud and cocky for everyone to hear. "I’m the king of the track."

"Fuck off," he snarled.

"Oh no, remember the bet," I winked at him.

He tried to shove me, but I didn’t budge. Instead, my hand slid down his back and gripped his hip possessively, holding him in place. The contact sent electricity racing through me, and I could feel the heat of his body, the way his breath hitched, and the subtle tremble in his muscles.

"What the hell do you want from me?" he hissed, his voice low and furious so the others wouldn’t hear.

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, my lips curving into a slow, predatory smirk.

"Meet me tonight. Le Ciel Privé. The private rooftop lounge—I’ll add your name to the list. Eleven p.m. sharp. Once you get there, tell them your name is Princess. Don’t keep me waiting, Alaric. I hate tardiness."

Alaric let out a groan as he turned his head sharply toward me. "You are out of your mind if you think—"

I cut him off by pressing my hips forward again, letting my hardness brush against him, and he let out a gasp.

"You lost the bet, Alaric. Be there, or everyone will wonder why the great Alaric de Villier is suddenly so afraid of a simple conversation."

I stepped back as Dami was heading our way alongside Alaric’s trainer, but I made sure I said the last words before walking away.

"Remember—Le Ciel Privé rooftop. Don’t be late."

I made sure to pat his ass one more time.