#charles core

Your phone buzzed.

You glanced down.

A new message.

Carlos: You looked beautiful today. Barcelona suits you.

You blinked.

“Oh,” you murmured.

Charles’ hand stilled.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Carlos,” you answered honestly.

His body went rigid.

You didn’t notice at first.

You typed back:

Thank you! Good job today 😊

The couch shifted.

Charles gently took the phone from your hands.

“Charles?” you laughed softly. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t laugh.

He read the message.

Then scrolled up.

His jaw flexed.

“How long has he been texting you?”

You sat up slowly. “He just got my number today.”

He looked at you.

And something dark flickered in his eyes.

“You gave him your number.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “He asked.”

“And you just gave it to him?”

“Well… yes.”

His voice dropped.

“Why?”

Your brows knitted together. “Because he’s your friend?”

A humorless laugh escaped him.

“Is he?”

Your stomach tightened.

“He said we should hang out sometime,” you added gently, confused by the sudden tension.

Charles stood abruptly, pacing.

“You think he wants to hang out?”

“Yes?”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him in waves.

“You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“He was flirting with you.”

Your heart skipped. “No, he wasn’t.”

“He was.” His voice sharpened. “And you stood there smiling at him.”

“I smile at everyone.”

“That’s the problem.”

Silence crashed between you.

He stepped toward you slowly.

“You are mine,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught.

“I know,” you whispered.

“Do you?” His fingers tilted your chin up. “Because you just handed your number to another man.”

Your innocence flickered into uncertainty. “I didn’t think-”

“Exactly.” His thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “You didn’t think.”

The air felt heavier now.

Charged.

“Charles,” you murmured.

His eyes darkened further.

“You’re such a bad little girl.”

Your pulse jumped.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you whispered, though your voice trembled.

“You gave another man access to you.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” he cut in, voice lowering, almost dangerous. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He leaned closer.

“You have no idea what you do to people.”

Your back hit the couch as he stepped into your space.

“You walk around the paddock smiling like that, looking like that,”

His gaze raked over you slowly.

“And you think men don’t notice?”

You felt heat rise to your face.

“I only notice you,” you said softly.

That stopped him.

Just slightly.

But not enough.

He grabbed your phone from the table again and typed quickly.

Carlos: Do not text her again.

Sent.

You gasped. “Charles!”

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The Ferrari Christmas gala was packed.

Drivers, engineers, sponsors, celebrities, the entire ballroom overflowed with expensive perfume, champagne, and designer clothing. A towering Christmas tree stood near the center of the venue, decorated in Ferrari red and gold.

And every single person in the room looked at you when you entered.

Charles noticed immediately.

How could he not?

Men’s heads turned so fast it was almost offensive.

Even women stared.

You walked beside him confidently, one hand looped around his arm, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor. The slit of your skirt shifted every time you moved, exposing more skin than Charles felt emotionally prepared for.

“You’re squeezing my hand,” you whispered.

“Because I’m angry.”

“You were fine five minutes ago.”

“That was before half the room started undressing you with their eyes.”

You bit back a smile.

“Oh my god,” Charles muttered. “You enjoy this.”

“A little.”

He looked down at you sharply.

You only shrugged innocently.

“Maybe I enjoy knowing my boyfriend gets jealous.”

Charles leaned closer, voice dropping low enough that only you could hear.

“You’re playing a dangerous game tonight.”

A thrill danced down your spine.

Good.

That was exactly what you wanted.

It got worse once the other drivers arrived.

Pierre Gasly hugged you first, cheerful as always.

“You look incredible,” he told you warmly.

Charles instantly frowned.

“Thank you,” you said brightly.

Pierre noticed Charles’s expression and laughed. “Relax, mate.”

“He’s been glaring at everyone all evening,” you informed him.

“Can you blame me?” Charles muttered.

Then came Lando Norris.

And unfortunately for Charles, Lando had absolutely no self-preservation instincts.

“Bloody hell,” Lando said when he saw you. “That outfit is insane.”

Charles’s jaw tightened.

You burst into laughter.

“Thank you, Lando.”

“No seriously,” he continued, oblivious. “Charles is definitely fighting demons right now.”

“I am sitting right here,” Charles deadpanned.

Lando grinned. “Exactly.”

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You first met Charles on a rainy afternoon that felt like it had been written for you.

You were standing under the thin shelter of a bookstore awning, hugging a worn paperback to your chest, waiting for the rain to soften into something kinder. The city blurred around you, umbrellas passing like ghosts, headlights melting into gold streaks, and you remember thinking how small you felt in all of it.

That’s when he appeared.

“Here,” he said softly, holding his umbrella just enough to cover both of you.

You looked up, startled.

He was… composed. Not in a cold way, no, not at all. There was something warm about him, something intentional. Dark coat, clean lines, a quiet confidence that made space instead of taking it.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he added, almost apologetically.

You smiled, because that’s what you always did when someone was kind to you.

“Thank you.”

That was all it took.

Charles had seen you long before that moment.

He knew you liked that bookstore. Tuesdays and Thursdays, usually around four. You lingered in the poetry aisle longer than necessary, running your fingers along the spines like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

You never noticed the man who stood a few rows away.

You never noticed how he never picked up a book.

You never noticed how his eyes never left you.

“Do you come here often?” you asked him, as you walked together beneath the umbrella.

You meant the bookstore.

He heard something else.

“Sometimes,” Charles replied.

He was careful with his answers. Always had been. Truth, but softened. Truth, but incomplete.

You told him your name.

He didn’t need you to.

But he smiled like it mattered.

It became a habit after that.

Rain or no rain, Charles found reasons to appear.

At the café you loved, the one with the chipped blue mugs and soft music that wrapped around your thoughts. You’d look up, surprised, when he walked in.

“Oh, Charles!”

He’d pause, like he hadn’t expected to see you, though he’d been sitting in his car across the street for fifteen minutes, watching you through the window.

“What a coincidence,” he’d say.

And you’d laugh.

You always laughed.

Charles learned you in pieces.

The way you stirred your coffee three times, always clockwise.

The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous.

The way your smile faltered just slightly when you thought no one was looking.

He noticed everything.

He collected you.

“I run a business,” he told you one evening.

You were sitting across from him, candlelight trembling between you like something alive. You’d started calling these meetings “dates,” though neither of you had said the word out loud yet.

“What kind of business?” you asked.

He tilted his head, considering.

“Investment. Mostly.”

It was easier that way. Simpler. Clean.

You nodded, impressed.

You didn’t ask more.

You never asked enough.

Charles knew where you lived.

Of course he did.

He’d watched you walk home more times than he could count. Always from a distance. Always careful.

Your apartment building had a faulty lock on the back entrance.

He’d discovered that on the third night.

The first time he stepped inside your apartment, he didn’t touch anything.

He just stood there.

Breathing you in.

It was quieter than he expected. Softer. Like the space itself had been shaped around you.

Your shoes were by the door, slightly uneven.

A blanket draped over the couch.

A glass half-full of water on the bedside table.

Charles moved slowly, reverently.

Like he was walking through a sacred place.

He didn’t stay long.

He never stayed long.

“You make me feel safe,” you told him once.

The words slipped out of you, unguarded.

You were lying beside him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

He went still.

Safe.

He’d spent his entire life being something else. Something sharper. Something that made people step back instead of lean in.

And yet,

Here you were.

Choosing him.

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The first time he touched you, it was accidental.

Or at least, that’s what he allowed you to think.

You were standing on a quiet balcony overlooking the city, the sky blushing pink and orange. You leaned on the stone railing, laughing about something silly he had said.

His hand came to your waist to steady you.

It lingered.

Your laughter faded.

The air changed.

His thumb pressed slightly against the curve of your hip. Not enough to be improper. Enough to be deliberate.

You felt it everywhere.

“Charles,” you breathed.

“Yes?”

He stepped closer.

Your back was against the railing now.

His gaze dropped to your lips.

He didn’t kiss you immediately.

He let the tension stretch.

Let you feel it.

Let you choose.

And when you didn’t pull away, when your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, that was all the permission he needed.

The kiss wasn’t rushed.

It was slow.

Exploratory.

His lips were warm, firm, confident. He kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, like he was savoring something he’d already decided was his.

Your hands slid up into his hair.

He made a quiet sound in his throat, low, pleased.

The world disappeared.

There was only him.

And the way his grip tightened slightly at your waist.

-

After that, everything shifted.

He became more intense.

More attentive.

He wanted to know where you were every hour. What you were doing. Who you were with.

At first, it felt flattering.

Protective.

But sometimes, when you didn’t answer quickly enough, his messages grew shorter.

Sharper.

And when he saw you talking to another man at a café, completely innocent, something dark flickered in his eyes.

“Who was that?” he asked later, voice too calm.

“Just someone asking for directions.”

His jaw clenched.

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like what?”

“The way they look at you.”

You laughed nervously. “You just met me.”

He stepped closer.

“That doesn’t matter.”

His hand cupped your jaw, not harsh, but firm enough that you felt the intensity of it.

“You’re mine when you’re with me.”

Your breath caught.

There it was.

That edge.

That obsession.

And the most dangerous part?

It thrilled you.

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