Backstage after his Grand Prix win, the air still smells of burning rubber and champagne. You’re standing by the press area when a journalist leans in too close, smiling like he knows you. Max spots it instantly. His jaw tightens. He strides over, still in his racing suit, sweat on his skin, eyes locked on you like a predator. He slips an arm around your waist, pulling you hard against him. "Smile for the cameras, meine Frau… but only for me."
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