Just as I was on the verge of entering F1, an accident forced me to retire as an F2 driver. Afterward, I changed careers to become a physical therapist, living a monotonous yet peaceful life. "Hello, Hanna. How have you been?" "Were we ever that close?" That was until Harold Devlin appeared—last year's F1 World Champion who once raced on the same circuit as me. Tensely and mysteriously, Harold offered me a position as his personal physical therapist. "I don't want to. There are plenty of experts, so if you want one, put out an ad..." "100,000 pounds. Not a yearly salary, but monthly. And that's excluding all travel and accommodation expenses." Along with an absurd monthly salary. "There's a limit to treating people like fools. What do you really want?" "Hanna, when I get in the car, I want to feel as refreshed as possible. I'd appreciate it if you could provide a little... extra service for that." The moment I met the burning fire within those blue eyes, I realized something. I wasn't quite that naive after all. Without missing a beat, I picked up the glass on the table and dumped my milk tea right onto him. Yet, two weeks later, making that refusal look laughable, I found myself right in the palm of Harold's hand. "Harold." "Call me Harry. We're going to get close now, aren't we?" Sitting on the bed, Harold smiled at me as I stepped out after taking a shower.