Unfiltered: My Incredible Decade In Formula 1

Elena Grey was unstoppable on the ice until one devastating accident shattered her career and rewrote her life. A year later, she's finally back on her feet but nothing feels the same. Especially not when she walks into her brother's apartment and comes face-to-face with Ethan Hawke, the Formula 1 golden boy, her ex, and the one man she never truly got over. Living together was never part of the plan, neither was pretending to be in love but when rumours start swirling and the line, a fake relationship seems like the perfect solution. Except nothing about Ethan has ever been safe for Elena. And as old sparks reignite and lines begin to blur, Elena must decide : can she survive another crash this time with her heart?

After getting a second chance at life, I immediately cut all ties with Natalie Duvall and Cody Hudson. In my previous life, Natalie blindsides me with a divorce eight years into our marriage after falling for a race car driver. She looks down on me, complaining that I'm just a boring homebody who does nothing but cook and clean. Even Cody piles on, telling me, "Mr. Maddox is going to be a world champion one day, Dad. Stop being so pathetic and petty!" The two of them pack their bags and walk out on me. I can't let them go, but my desperate search for them that night ends in a fatal car crash. As my life bleeds out on the asphalt, regret consumes me. Natalie forgets that I used to be a world-class driver myself, only to give up my career and step out of the spotlight to focus on our marriage and raise our kid. So, with a clean slate in this life, I sign the divorce papers without a moment's hesitation and vanish without a trace. Five years later, at the Elandorian Championship, Natalie and Cody push their way through the crowd like madmen, cutting off my path. With bloodshot eyes, Natalie corners me and demands, "We spent five years looking for you. Did you seriously ditch your family just to go back to racing?" Her audacity takes me aback. Before I can even muster a response, my daughter, Daphne Hudson, grabs my hand. "Daddy, Mommy and the others are waiting to celebrate your big win. Who are these people?"

Everyone knew Elio Carbone, Don of the Carbone family, was a cold-hearted womanizer. He had one rule: never sleep with the same woman twice. But for me, he broke it. The first day after our breakup, he stood outside the old Bianchi estate for a day and a night, his entire security detail in tow, just to win me back. The second day, he flew to Sicily and bought the deed to my family's ancestral estate at auction for triple its value, and had it delivered to me. The third day, he tattooed my favorite flower, the lily, over his heart. The tattoo artist said he refused any anesthetic and didn't make a sound. Later, at a banquet for the Five Families, in front of all the other Dons, he sliced his palm and made a blood oath. He swore loyalty only to Eleonora Bianchi for the rest of his life; if he broke his vow, he would pay with his life. After a year of his relentless pursuit, his devotion finally wore me down, and I agreed to take him back. I truly believed him then. That Elio truly loved me. Until one night. He took me to an underground racetrack to broker a deal with an ally. But in the roaring crowd, I saw a girl, trembling and crying, her clothes in tatters. Ava was shoved to the starting line. She was the wager for the death race. One look was all it took for Elio's face to darken. The next second, he dropped his hand from my waist and, without a word, walked toward the track entrance. I stood frozen, watching his back as he disappeared into the driver's seat of a modified sports car. I used to wake up crying, terrified he would lose his life in one of these reckless races. He had smashed his trophies, burned his marker for the illegal track, and sworn to God he would never again enter such a life-or-death gamble. My hand drifted to my stomach, covering the secret I hadn't yet had the chance to share. His blood oath was broken. And so was I.

This an autobiography of a man's childhood day, the horror and the dread that he went through, it also comprises of other happenings that made up his childhood day: both sad and happy moments.

For five years, I played the ghost in my own marriage. I pressed Julian Daniel’s pristine suits, matched his cufflinks, and sat by the window like a loyal dog, waiting for the "Ice King" CEO to look at me with something resembling desire. Instead, I received clinical kindness and a box containing a gold watch. Every anniversary, the exact same script. It was his way of checking a box - a tax he paid for a life he felt obligated to support. I sacrificed my career as a prima ballerina, shattering my legs to push him out of the path of a speeding car. He didn't marry a wife; he locked away a debt. The anniversary script burned to ash on our fifth year. Standing outside the bathroom door, I heard the raw, unbridled passion Julian had denied me for half a decade. He wasn't breathing my name into the steam. He was choking out the name of his high school heartbreak: Penelope. The betrayal didn't end in our bedroom. It followed me to a high-end restaurant where Julian hosted a private lunch. Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, I didn't find a husband willing to defend his wife. I found his childhood friend dragging his foot in a cruel, mocking circle, mimicking my limp to a room erupting in roars of laughter. Penelope doubled over in delight. And Julian? He sat at the head of the table, watching my humiliation with a look of pure, unbothered boredom. “I owe her,” his voice cut through the fading laughter, calm and tired. “I am just trying to pay back a debt.”

The night before the World Cup, Reid Callister made a post on social media. In the photo, he wore a Portugal jersey and was smiling at the woman beside him. He had written something sweet: [Officially done with Argentina. It's all Ronaldo from here.] Our mutual friends all went quiet. Everyone knew that the night Argentina won the championship four years ago, he had cried in my arms until dawn. That was also the night he slipped a ring onto my finger. He said, "Messi got his fairy tale. Let's go get ours." Someone in the comments section asked what happened to his Messi obsession. He replied, "I was young and stupid back then. Now, I know who's worth rooting for." I stared at the post for a long time. I did not comment. I just set down the divorce papers on the coffee table. Before I left for my flight, I tucked the ring into the pocket of his blue-and-white jersey. This time, I would not be watching the game with him.