
The first sign something was off came when Carlos heard the engine.
Not the high-pitched whine of an F1 car. Not the usual purr of Charles’s sleek Ferrari road car.
This was… deeper. Louder. Like thunder growling through the Maranello parking lot.
Carlos squinted against the sun just in time to see Charles roll up on a Harley Davidson.
Helmet, aviators, black leather jacket, boots polished within an inch of their lives. Charles kicked down the stand and swung his leg off the bike in one graceful move, tugging his sunglasses down with all the confidence of someone who thought he was James Dean reincarnated.
Carlos blinked.
Then blinked again.
And said the only thing that came to mind.
“Love… is this a midlife crisis disguised as chrome?”
Charles froze mid-strut, sunglasses halfway down his nose. “Pardon?”

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