Monte Carlo, Monaco
Ellie never believed in fate.
But when she met Charles Leclerc, fate felt like the only explanation.
It had been an accident, really. She was in Monaco for a week—business, just like always. A luxury event at the harbor, a sea of beautiful people and champagne flutes, the kind of night where conversations felt artificial, filled with polite smiles and empty laughter. She had stepped away for air, leaning against the marble railing, staring out at the glistening Mediterranean when she heard a voice behind her.
"You don't seem like you want to be here."
She turned. And there he was.
Charles Leclerc.
The Monegasque prince of speed, Ferrari's golden boy, devastatingly handsome in a tailored black suit. He wasn't just a man—he was a legend in the making. And yet, in that moment, he wasn't a superstar. He was just a guy who saw through her pretense.
Ellie smirked. "And you do?"
He leaned against the railing beside her. "Not particularly. But sometimes, life takes you where you need to be."
She scoffed. "That sounds dangerously close to fate."
Charles tilted his head, watching her intently. His eyes, the color of the sea before a storm, glowed under the moonlight. "Maybe I believe in fate."
Ellie didn't. Not yet.
But within a week, she was in his bed. Within a month, she was in his heart. And within a year, she had rewritten every belief she had ever held about love.
With Charles, love wasn't soft. It wasn't quiet. It was fast, reckless, and consuming.
They spent nights tangled in silk sheets, gasping each other's names, bodies pressed together like they were afraid to let go. His hands mapped every inch of her, memorized her skin like a track he needed to master. And when he kissed her—God, when he kissed her—it felt like free-falling at 300 km/h.
But it wasn't just the physicality. It was the way he looked at her, like she was the only person in the world that mattered. It was the whispered Je t'aime against her neck in the dark. It was the way he made her feel alive.
And she knew she was doomed.
Because nothing that perfect ever lasts.
The first sign came in Barcelona.
Charles had been leading the race—flawless, untouchable. And then, in an instant, his car failed him.
DNF. No points. A championship slipping further away.
She had found him in his driver's room afterward, head in his hands, jaw clenched in frustration. She didn't say anything—just walked over and held him. And for the first time, he broke in her arms.
"I give everything," he whispered into her hair. "And sometimes, it's still not enough."
She pulled back, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You are enough. Always."
And for a while, that was enough. Until it wasn't.
Formula 1 was his first love. Ellie always knew that.
But loving an F1 driver meant competing—not with other women, but with the machines, the circuits, the endless travel.
It meant lonely hotel rooms, unanswered calls, and the suffocating fear that one day, he wouldn't walk away from the wreckage.
It meant nights like Singapore, where she waited in his suite, knowing he was at the team debrief, knowing he was exhausted, knowing that when he finally stumbled in at 2 AM, his kisses would be distant, his mind still on the track.
"I miss you," she whispered as he stripped off his Ferrari polo.
"I'm right here," he said, pulling her close.
But he wasn't.
He was already thinking about the next race.
It all fell apart in Monza.
She should have seen it coming. The tension, the exhaustion, the weight of expectation crushing him.
But she didn't expect the fight.
"You're never here, Charles!" she had yelled, voice breaking. "Even when you are, your mind is somewhere else."
His jaw tightened. "I told you from the beginning, Ellie. This is my life."
"And what am I? Just someone to keep your bed warm between races?"
His face darkened. "Don't do that. You know what you mean to me."
She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. "I don't know anymore."
A beat of silence.
And then—softer—he whispered, "I can't lose you."
But she wasn't sure he even realized that he already had.
She left the next morning.
No dramatic farewell, no lingering goodbyes. Just a note on his nightstand:
"I love you, Charles. But I need to be loved, too."
She took the first flight out of Milan, not knowing where she was going—only knowing that she had to go.
She turned her phone off. She needed space.
She never saw his missed calls.
She never read his texts begging her to come back.
And she never heard the sound of his heart shattering when he realized she wasn't going to.
It happened in the rain, somewhere on a winding road in southern France.
Ellie had been driving for hours, her mind replaying every moment with him, every kiss, every whispered promise, every aching goodbye.
She didn't see the car coming.
The impact was instant.
And then—nothing.
The call came at 3 AM.
A hospital. A crash. The words he never wanted to hear.
When he got there, she was already gone.
The doctors said it had been quick. They told him there was no pain. But Charles didn't believe them, because his pain was unbearable.
He sat by her bed, gripping her cold fingers, his breath coming in sharp gasps, whispering over and over again:
"I was coming for you, Ellie."
"I was coming for you."
But he was too late.
Months passed. The world moved on. Formula 1 continued.
Charles continued racing. Because that's what he did.
But he wasn't the same.
He didn't smile the same way. He didn't celebrate victories like he used to. He drove harder, recklessly, as if he could outrun the ghost of her.
Because in the end, it wasn't the crashes on track that killed him.
It was the crash of losing her.
And no amount of speed could bring her back.
