Crashing into you
Flags wave proudly in the sky. Engines scream as they race down the track. The crowd cheers with thunderous roars.
Everyone is here for something.
Monte Carlo is known for its expensive luxury and its expensive guests. It exudes money. The elite gather in the VIP paddock, the oversized yacht, to sip pricey champagne by the pools and build their connections. They take photographs next to the Formula 1 drivers, exchanging selfies among celebrities and paying deference to the royalty. The only race they are in for isn’t the one happening on the track, but the one of social climbing.
Some of them are indeed here for the love of the race. To watch the racers driving passionately, passing in front of you in a flash. Feeling your body vibrating, the adrenaline rush passing through each of your cells. The fans are jumping, cheering the drivers with their home flags. They traveled from across the world to attend the Formula 1 Grand Prix.
Not in my case.
I’m not here for the race, nor the social gathering, even if I did travel from New York for the event. Nina Braham, my cold, demanding, and authoritative boss sent me asbaitto accomplish the impossible.Succeed or get firedare my only options.
There is no way to prepare for the unattainable. You just have to go blindly for it.Celebrity Magazinewould say nothing is impossible if you’re dressed up for the part. I’m more of a Rapunzel type. Since my college graduation, two years ago, I write my column from my tower—otherwise known as my one-bedroom cozy apartment. I don’t do glamorous. My life could be summarized by an absent father, an unsatisfied mother, and a talent to close my heart off.
I’m a loner, an introvert who’s living risk-free, painting on canvases who will never see the light of day. If it was up to me, I’d have been a starving artist—but some dreams get crushed. After being rejected by many art schools, I went for the second-best thing: journalism. And now, I can’t afford to fail in that too.
But today is different. It’s a new start. A blank canvas. If I live up to the unrealistic expectations of Nina, and prove myself, I’ll secure my job and my income. I’m blending into this land of milk and money, dressed up in a tight marine-blue cocktail dress, revealing my long legs and thin yet athletic body. The right amount of makeup, slight and unnoticeable, a touch of mascara to liven my hazel eyes. My honey-blond hair sways with the wind, in harmony with the wild agitation of the crowd.
I have two certainties. One, I need that interview. Two, I have no idea how to get it. Truth is, I’m probably not the right person for this Augean task. I’ve never worked hard to get an interview before. People were willing and happy to talk about themselves. They confide in me easily, considering me like the typicalsweetgirl next door. Which is actually why she chose me as bait. It’s a test and being ‘not good enough’ is something I can’t allow myself to be today.
I jump out of my seat when the men next to me scream with excitement. I stand up and lean toward the ramp to watch the action. The Formula 1 number 7 is taking the lap at full speed, executing dangerous maneuvers to take the lead. He sets the crowd on fire by capturing all the attention. Driving brutally, fearlessly, bending the track to his will. That man is the main reason everybody is here today. He is everyone’s obsession, to the point where you either hate him deeply or worship him.
He is like an angry god, going by the driver nicknameWolf.
Wolf is known for his provocative racing. Reckless and indomitable, he could be the definition of sin with a killer instinct. At twenty-five, he has acquired years of victory—and years of conquests.I have a theory that women should avoid certain men at all costs: the bad boy, the unavailable bachelor, the alpha male… and by some dark miracle, Wolf fits all of them.
1. A feral racer with dangerous driving skills.Bad boy.
2. Handsome. Emotionally unavailable. Bazillionaire.Unavailable bachelor.
3. Powerful. Mysterious. Dark.The alpha.
Wolf makes his own rules and plays his own game. He hasn’t done any interviews; his past is erased, completely inaccessible. He has graced hundreds of headlines but remains a mystery. He possesses such a heated temper on the track, and yet I’ve heard that a glance from him will freeze your soul and make you submit to him. I’ve never met him, and frankly, I can’t understand how one man could have such an impact on anyone. Distant, unreachable, this man looks damaged, if you ask me.But aren’t we all?
I awaken from my thoughts as the crowd gasps for air, the track falling silent when Wolf tries a dangerous maneuver, as he is already racing at full speed. He is in a skirmish at the chicane with Louis Harmil, known as Golden Boy. He sets a blistering pace, his racing forceful, intense. There are no overtaking opportunities on the track, and yet Wolf doesn’t reduce the pace. My heart skips a beat, while I’m magnetized by how fearless this man is. He takes a sharp turn, having total confidence in his car when he begins to lose control.
Tire squealing.
Air hissing.
Metal crashing.
Wolf slams brutally into the barriers. He is forced to retire from the race. Everyone starts to panic. I’m in shock; nobody can get out of a crash like that without an injury. But as inhuman as Wolf seems to be, he gets out of his cockpit, assuring he is fine to the crowd. Wolf smashes his helmet furiously on the ground and strides toward his pit in anger. His team approaches him, but he leaves without a word, disappearing through his paddock.
The media start to demand answers, eager to solve Wolf’s enigma until a point they’re forgetting the race that’s happening around them. Wolf, the man who had all the talent to become a legend, but ends up being pictured as a villain in a world full of heroes. So it’s true. His sponsors complained about his lack of humanity. He refused to have a publicist, doing the strict minimum at his duty of crowd-pleasing. He was unreachable, an undefeated king, until he made that one mistake on the track. A mistake that could put his reign in jeopardy. The French racer just lost the Grand Prix in his hometown. And as for me, I need to figure out how I’m going to be able to find the reason I came tonight.
The after-race party is at Rubis Lounge.
VIP guest lists. Models and movie stars. Sports celebrities. Musicians and literal royalty. It’s exclusive, glamorous, magical, and deep pockets are required. Individual passes cost more than a thousand euros. I’ve spent a significant amount of money and used my boss’ connections to be able to get in here. This is my last chance…
At the open lounge, acrobats are performing aerial silk dances. The club is packed, people dancing, gyrating their bodies. As for me, I remain still, stuck in the middle of the party, thinking I haven’t been to a place like this since college. Right now, I feel like a guest in one ofThe Great Gatsbyparties. Fireworks, huge bottles of champagne, confetti—it’s another level of grandiose. And like all the great parties, there are troublemakers.
My stomach turns instantly at the sight of the ghost of my past. He hasn’t changed—a pink sweater over his shoulders, a pale blue Lacoste shirt, his Ivy League haircut, and the same irritating judgmental look as he sips his cocktail. Stephan. The man who broke me on every level, leaving me with scars I cannot forget.
Stephan’s gaze meets mine, a wicked smile on his face. My legs petrify. As he approaches me, I don’t hear the music anymore, just the sound of my palpitating heart. He shouldn’t be here, and I’m not prepared for unwanted surprises.
“Elle. What are you doing here?” he sheers with his snobbish tone.
