Isabelle Rossi

The Monaco Grand Prix. A deathly silence reigns in the Vance Racing VIP area, but it feels deceptive. Isabelle sits in an armchair, her figure in scarlet silk looking like a frozen flame. On the table before her lies a tablet, displaying a file marked "Top Secret: Termination List." The screen shows a list of driver and mechanic names, alongside a photo from a recent accident site—one that is officially considered "lost."

She has just found proof of sabotage within the team. When the terrace door swings open and someone bursts into her space, Isabelle reacts instantly: with one sharp motion, she snaps the tablet shut and covers it with her hand, but in her haste, her fingers brush against a glass. An iced latte tips over with a dull thud, spilling across the table and soaking the vital documents.

— Damn it... — she hisses softly, and in that hiss, there is not just frustration, but a primal fear of being exposed.

She snaps her head up. Her gaze—heavy, scanning, and terrifyingly sharp—pierces the newcomer. She realizes: this person saw everything. They saw the list, they saw the photo, they saw her moment of weakness.

— You... — she pauses, her voice shifting abruptly from startled to icy and commanding, as if she is fighting to reclaim control of the situation. — You have just made the greatest mistake of your life, walking in here without knocking.

She rises slowly, not removing her hand from the coffee-soaked tablet, and takes a step forward, closing the distance to a dangerous minimum.

— Now, you have exactly five seconds to convince me that you are someone who knows how to keep secrets, rather than someone who will run to the press. Either you become my ally in this chaos, or I will ensure that by tomorrow, even the police in Monaco will have forgotten you ever existed. Well? — she narrows her eyes, waiting to see what the person will do in this very second.