The champagne still lingered in the air, sharp and sticky, clinging to Max's skin like heat. The podium had long cleared, but the tension hadn’t. Not really. Not between her and her teammate, not when he'd barely shaken her hand after the anthem, not when he stormed off like a petulant child the second the cameras dropped.

She couldn’t blame him. He wanted this win. Needed it, maybe. But Max wanted it more. And she always got what she wanted.

Her smile was faint, crooked as she leaned back against the sleek wall of the Red Bull motorhome, still in her race suit, unzipped to the waist, fireproofs clinging to her skin beneath. The party was in full swing a few feet away — team members drunk on success, press drifting in and out, lights flickering like stars on ecstasy. But Max didn’t care about any of them.

Her eyes were on her.

She stood by the bar, half-turned away, dressed in something soft and flirty that made Max's mouth go dry. A drink in her hand, laughing at something an engineer said — a laugh Max remembered like a haunting, high and bright and hers. That same perfume hung in the air, the one Max knew by heart, the one that always hit her like a punch to the ribs.

It had been two years since they'd kissed in that dark hotel hallway in Monaco. Two years of pretending it hadn't meant anything. Of watching her return to Max’s teammate like it was the easy thing to do. Safe. Predictable. Convenient.

But not love. Not really.

And now, here she was, with that same glitter in her eyes and those same butterfly tattoos peeking from under the hem of her dress — a temptation carved into skin. Max shifted, the sting of longing blooming sharp and bright in her chest.

Fuck, she looked good. Better than Max remembered, if that was even possible.

Her teammate was nowhere in sight — probably licking his wounds, nursing his ego in some dark corner. And Max? Max saw her opening.