Ⓡⓐⓒⓘⓝⓖ Ⓗⓔⓐⓡⓣⓢ

The highway stretched ahead in a blur of gray asphalt and fading daylight, each passing mile pulling me closer to a place I’d sworn I’d never return to. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, as the weight in the seat beside me drew my eyes. A worn leather satchel. Inside, folded neatly in a lawyer’s envelope, lay my grandfather’s will—and the letter he’d left for me. I hadn’t dared to open it yet. Not while my chest still ached with the thought of him being gone. It had been years since the accident. Years since the sound of screeching tires and twisting metal ended more than just my career. My father had blamed my grandfather for everything—for letting me race, for teaching me to push past fear—and with one furious command, he’d forbidden me from ever setting foot on the circuit again. I’d obeyed, if only because facing the track without my grandfather by my side had seemed impossible. But time changes everything. Or maybe grief does. As the skyline of my hometown rose ahead, sharp against the summer sky, a flash of color caught my attention. A billboard loomed over the main road—a man leaning against a gleaming Formula One car. Black hair fell carelessly across his brow, tattoos winding over the muscles of his forearms, and those deep brown eyes seemed to look right through you. I knew exactly who he was. The team’s star driver. The golden boy of the grid. Fast, fearless, and followed everywhere by a trail of women and headlines. I’d done my homework before coming back—reviewed every driver’s stats, studied their strengths and weaknesses. I knew his lap times, his risk-taking, the way he thrived under pressure. And I knew he would hate having a new boss—especially one who had walked away from racing. For years, I’d helped my grandfather from a distance, working PR to keep the team’s image intact. But this time, I wasn’t coming back as the girl in the shadows. This time, I was coming home to take the wheel.