Just before stepping into Formula 1, I was an F2 driver whose career ended in a crash. I traded the track for a quiet life as a physical therapist, monotony my only companion. Then Harold Devlin walked in. The reigning F1 World Champion. A man I once raced against. Hello, Hanna. How have you been? Were we close? He offered me a job. His personal physical therapist. I refused. There are plenty of professionals. Post an ad. One hundred thousand pounds. Monthly. Travel and accommodation not included. The salary was absurd. So was his demand. Hanna, I want to feel refreshed when I get in the car. And I need a few other services for that. I saw the fire in his blue eyes. I was not that naive. I threw my milk tea in his face. Two weeks later, I was in his grasp. Harold. Call me Harry. We are going to be close. He sat on the bed in a gown, smiling as I stepped out of the shower.