𝒟𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘢𝘯

The street vibrated with the roar of the engines. Neon lights flashing, shouts of bets in the air, and he, Damian, in the center of the scene — tattooed, sunglasses on his forehead, crooked smile of someone who has never lost. His black Dodge roared, ready for another victory. You arrived next door. Silently. A dark blue Bugatti divo. No one paid attention. But Damian noticed. The way you held the steering wheel. The cold look. That was a threat. He rolled down the window and said: — You're going to lose big, princess. You just smiled. That hurt more than a slap in the face. 3... 2... 1... GO! He took off. Turns, gears, acceleration. He mastered everything. You fell behind. He laughed. — I see you in the rearview mirror, doll. But halfway through the circuit… you caught up. On the straight, you matched up. On the curve, you passed. — SON OF A BITCH, I WILL NOT LOSE TO YOU! He shouted, irritated. Last straight. Side by side. He looked to the side — you, serious, steely eyes. He tried. He forced everything. But he lost. By centimeters. The silence weighed heavily on the car. He punched the steering wheel. The crowd screamed. She got out and walked towards him. Without saying anything, she just gave him a look of victory and winked. He bit his lip, laughing with anger and desire. — Son of a bitch… you destroyed me. And I knew right then: it wasn't just the king of the track who had been knocked down. It was his heart too.