a frying pan bff

"He's lying," you said flatly, stabbing your finger at Petrov's reported intelligence about Jensen's movements through Eastern Europe. "Not about everything—that would be too obvious. But the important details, the specific locations, the timing... it's all designed to benefit him regardless of how we respond."

Lewis studied the documents with the methodical precision that had built his empire, his dark eyes tracking connections and patterns that most people would miss. "Agreed. But some of it will be accurate—can't build trust if everything is fabrication. The question is which parts are real and which are misdirection."

"Prague," Miles said, entering the office with his tablet and the kind of focused intensity that meant he'd been working through the night. "Our independent sources confirm Jensen was spotted there three days ago. Petrov's intelligence about the location matches, but the timeline he gave us was off by seventy-two hours."

"Deliberately off?" you asked, though you already suspected the answer.

"Almost certainly," Miles confirmed, pulling up surveillance images on his tablet. "If we'd moved based on Petrov's timeline, we would have missed Jensen entirely. Which suggests Petrov wants us hunting but not finding—at least not yet."

Lewis leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in that way that meant his strategic mind was running scenarios and calculating probabilities. "He's managing the hunt. Controlling when and how we find Jensen so he can position himself advantageously when we do."

"So we cut him out," you decided, your voice carrying the steel that captivity and violence had forged beneath your elegant surface. "Use his intelligence as a starting point, but rely on our own networks for verification and actual tracking."

"Already building independent contacts," Miles assured you both. "Within two weeks, we should have reliable sources throughout Eastern Europe that Petrov doesn't know about."

"Two weeks," Lewis repeated thoughtfully. "Which means we need to slow-walk any action on Petrov's intelligence, make him think we're being cautious while we build our own network."

"And while we plan Naomi's funeral," you added quietly, the weight of that obligation settling over the tactical discussion like a shroud.

The room fell silent for a moment, all three of you remembering the woman who'd died protecting you from Jensen's betrayal. Naomi deserved more than being an afterthought in strategic planning—she deserved recognition, honor, and the knowledge that her sacrifice hadn't been in vain.

"Friday," Lewis said finally. "Private service, full honors, everyone who knew her in attendance. We give her the send-off she earned, and then we hunt down everyone responsible for her death."

"Starting with Jensen and Nico," you said.

"Starting with them," Lewis agreed, his voice carrying the cold promise of violence to come. "But not ending there. Petrov's involvement will be dealt with when the time is right."

Miles nodded with grim satisfaction. "I'll coordinate with the funeral home and start compiling the guest list. You should both prepare remarks—Naomi would want to be remembered properly."

After Miles departed to handle logistics, you found yourself alone with Lewis in the quiet office, surrounded by the evidence of conspiracy and betrayal that had cost so many lives. The weight of it all—Naomi's death, Jensen's treachery, Petrov's manipulation, the violence that still lay ahead—felt almost crushing in the morning light.

"Are you okay?" Lewis asked, reading your expression with the intimacy that had developed between you through shared trauma.

"I don't know," you admitted honestly. "I keep thinking about what we're planning to do—hunting Jensen across Europe, killing him and Nico when we find them, eventually dealing with Petrov. And I realize I'm not afraid or conflicted about any of it. I want them dead. Need them dead. What does that make me?"

Lewis moved around the desk to where you stood, his hands finding your waist with gentle certainty. "It makes you a survivor who understands necessary justice. You're not a sociopath finding pleasure in violence—you're someone who recognizes that some debts can only be paid in blood."

"Is there a difference?" you asked, meeting his eyes directly.

"Yes," Lewis said with absolute conviction. "The difference is you'll still grieve for the people who matter, still protect the innocent, still build something beyond just destruction. You're capable of violence when needed, but it's not who you are—it's just one of the tools you've learned to use."

You nodded slowly, wanting to believe him, needing to believe that the woman who'd killed Suarez and Carmela without hesitation could still be someone worthy of love and family and futures built on something more than revenge.

"We should review the Prague intelligence," you said finally, redirecting to safer tactical ground. "If Jensen really was there three days ago, he might still be in the area. We could be wheels-up within forty-eight hours if we move fast."

"After Naomi's funeral," Lewis insisted. "We owe her that much—our full attention, proper respect, the closure she deserves before we move on to hunting her killer."

The funeral itself was scheduled for Friday morning at a private chapel in Manhattan that catered to families who valued discretion over publicity. The guest list was carefully curated—Lewis's core organization, your family, and the handful of people who'd known Naomi well enough to genuinely mourn her loss.

You spent Thursday preparing your remarks, writing and rewriting until the words felt right—honest without being maudlin, honoring Naomi's sacrifice without reducing her to just the manner of her death. Lewis watched you work with patient understanding, offering suggestions when you asked but mostly just providing quiet support.

"She saved my life," you said that evening, staring at your draft speech with dissatisfaction. "Died protecting me. How do I put that into words that feel adequate?"

"You don't," Lewis replied gently. "There are no adequate words for that kind of sacrifice. But you speak from the heart, acknowledge the debt that can never be repaid, and promise that her death meant something—that we'll finish what she started."

Friday morning arrived cold and clear, the kind of perfect winter day that felt almost offensive given the grief that had brought everyone together. You dressed in black with careful precision, armor disguised as mourning attire, preparing yourself for public vulnerability in a world that typically rewarded only strength.

The chapel was small but elegant, decorated with tasteful flower arrangements that Naomi probably would have found excessive but appreciated nonetheless. Lewis's people filled the front rows—hardened criminals and calculated operators who'd rarely shown emotion but whose grief today was genuine and unguarded.

Your family occupied the opposite side—your father in his customary black suit, your mother elegant in her mourning clothes, your sisters subdued and respectful. Even Sophia had abandoned her usual exuberance, recognizing the gravity of the occasion.

Miles stood at the front, having volunteered to deliver the first eulogy. His voice was steady as he spoke about Naomi's capabilities, her loyalty, her dry humor that emerged during long stakeouts and tedious surveillance operations. He painted a picture of a woman who'd been more than just her tactical skills—someone with opinions about terrible television shows, preferences for specific coffee preparations, dreams about eventually retiring to somewhere warm where violence was someone else's problem.

"She died doing exactly what she'd trained for," Miles concluded, his voice thick with emotion poorly concealed. "Protecting someone who mattered, standing between innocence and evil, buying time with her own life so others could survive. That's the highest honor in our profession—dying well, dying for something that matters, dying so others can keep living."

When it was your turn to speak, you approached the podium with your carefully prepared remarks clutched in hands that trembled slightly despite your attempts at composure. But when you looked out at the assembled faces—people who'd known Naomi, worked with her, trusted her with their lives—the written words felt insufficient.

You set the paper aside and spoke from the heart instead.

"I didn't know Naomi long," you began, your voice carrying clearly through the small chapel. "We weren't friends in the traditional sense—didn't go shopping together or share secrets over wine. But she was assigned to protect me, and she took that responsibility with the kind of seriousness that most people reserve for sacred oaths."

You paused, gathering your thoughts and your composure. "When Jensen betrayed us, when he orchestrated my kidnapping and nearly destroyed everything we'd built, Naomi stood between me and that violence. She bought me time to fight back, to survive long enough for rescue to arrive. And she paid for that with her life."

Tears blurred your vision, but you didn't wipe them away. This wasn't the time for stoic composure—this was the time for honest grief.

"She died protecting me from a threat she'd been investigating for weeks. She suspected Jensen's betrayal, documented his suspicious behavior, built a case that would have exposed everything if she'd lived long enough to complete it. But she died before that could happen—murdered by the man she'd been trying to expose, killed for doing her job too well."

You looked directly at Lewis then, finding strength in his steady gaze. "So I'm making a promise here today, in front of everyone who knew her and cared about her. We will finish what Naomi started. We will expose everyone involved in the conspiracy that cost her life. And we will make sure that every person who played a role in her death pays the full price for that choice."

The promise hung in the air like a blood oath, witnessed by everyone present and binding in ways that went beyond mere words. When you returned to your seat beside Lewis, his hand found yours immediately, squeezing once with firm assurance that you'd spoken well, honored Naomi appropriately, and made a commitment he'd help you keep.

After the service came the reception—subdued gathering at a nearby restaurant where people could share memories and find comfort in collective mourning. You moved through the crowd with practiced grace, accepting condolences and offering thanks with the kind of social competence that years in your father's world had cultivated.

But the moment that mattered came when Miles pulled you and Lewis aside, away from the main gathering, his expression carrying the weight of new intelligence.

"I've been going through the rest of Naomi's documentation," Miles said quietly, producing a folder thick with papers. "Found additional notes she'd hidden in encrypted files—backup copies she'd made in case something happened to the primary evidence."

"What kind of notes?" Lewis asked, his tactical mind immediately engaged despite the funeral setting.

"Connections between Jensen and Petrov going back months," Miles replied, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Financial transactions, communication patterns, coordinated timing on various operations. Naomi was building a case not just against Jensen, but against a larger conspiracy involving multiple players."

You felt cold fury building in your chest as the implications became clear. "She knew Petrov was involved. She was documenting his role in all of this."

"And she died before she could expose it," Miles confirmed grimly. "But she left us everything we need to finish the job—complete intelligence package on Petrov's connections to Jensen, evidence of his involvement in your kidnapping, documentation of his attempts to manipulate the situation to his advantage."

Lewis accepted the folder with careful reverence, treating Naomi's final intelligence report with the respect it deserved. "This changes our approach. Petrov isn't just an opportunistic ally we need to manage—he's an active enemy who orchestrated this entire situation."

"So we adjust the plan," you said, your voice carrying steel beneath the surface grief. "Hunt Jensen first because he pulled the trigger, but keep Petrov in our sights for when the time comes to settle all debts."

"Exactly," Miles agreed. "Which is why I've accelerated our timeline. Prague intelligence is solid—Jensen and Nico are definitely operating from a safe house in the Vinohrady district. We could be in position within thirty-six hours if we move fast."

You looked at Lewis, reading the calculation in his expression as he weighed immediate action against strategic patience. "Your call," you said. "But I vote we move now, while the trail is still warm and before Petrov realizes we know the full scope of his involvement."

Lewis studied the folder for a long moment before nodding decisively. "We move. Coordinate with Kai and the tactical team—I want full operational planning completed before we wheels-up. This isn't a reactive strike, it's a surgical operation with specific objectives and planned extraction."

"Understood," Miles said with satisfaction. "I'll start coordination immediately."

After Miles departed to handle logistics, you found yourself alone with Lewis in a quiet corner of the reception hall, the sounds of mourning and remembrance providing strange backdrop to tactical planning.

"Are you ready for this?" Lewis asked, his hand finding yours beneath the table. "Hunting Jensen means going back to Europe, operating in hostile territory, putting yourself in danger again after everything you've already survived."

"I'm ready," you replied without hesitation. "Jensen killed Naomi because she was trying to protect me and expose his betrayal. I owe her more than just tears and pretty words—I owe her justice. And I intend to deliver it personally."

Lewis's expression softened with something like pride mixed with concern. "Just promise me you'll be careful. That you won't take unnecessary risks just to prove you're capable of violence."

"I promise to be exactly as careful as you are," you countered with slight smile. "Which means we'll both probably push boundaries but ultimately have each other's backs."

"Fair enough," Lewis conceded, raising your joined hands to kiss your knuckles with tender reverence. "Partners in everything, including revenge."

"Partners," you confirmed, the word carrying all the weight of everything you'd survived together and everything you'd face ahead.

The next thirty-six hours passed in a blur of preparation and planning. Your family gathered at the estate for what they believed was simply extended mourning period, not realizing you were actually coordinating an international manhunt from your father's study.

Salvatore, however, understood exactly what was happening. He'd built his empire on similar operations, recognized the signs of tactical planning disguised as family time. When he found you alone in the study late Saturday night, surrounded by maps and intelligence reports, his expression carried approval rather than concern.

"You're going after Jensen," he observed, settling into the chair across from you with the kind of comfortable authority that came from decades of leadership.

"We are," you confirmed, seeing no point in pretending. "He killed Naomi, betrayed Lewis's organization, played a role in my kidnapping. He needs to die, and I intend to be there when it happens."

Your father nodded slowly, studying you with eyes that had seen more violence than most people could imagine. "You've changed," he said finally. "Since the kidnapping. You're harder now. More comfortable with necessary evil."

"Is that a problem?" you asked, genuinely curious about his assessment.

"No," Salvatore replied with certainty. "It's practical. Our world doesn't reward innocence or squeamishness—it rewards people who can make hard decisions and live with the consequences. You've become someone capable of leading, not just surviving."

The praise from your father—a man who rarely offered approval without significant cause—made something warm bloom in your chest despite the circumstances. "I had good teachers," you said. "You, Mama, Lewis. Everyone who showed me that strength doesn't mean avoiding violence, it means knowing when violence is necessary and executing it without hesitation."

"Hamilton is good for you," Salvatore observed, his tone carrying reluctant approval. "Makes you stronger without making you cruel. That's rare—most men in our world either try to keep their women soft and vulnerable, or they corrupt them into becoming as vicious as themselves. Lewis does neither. He just... lets you be who you actually are."

"He does," you agreed, thinking about the partnership you'd built from strategic arrangement. "And I do the same for him. We make each other better versions of what we already were."

Your father stood, moving to place his hand on your shoulder with paternal affection that he rarely displayed. "Be careful in Europe. Hunt Jensen, make him pay for what he did, but come home safely. Your mother would never forgive me if I let you go to war without telling you how proud I am of the woman you've become."

The unexpected vulnerability in his voice made your throat tight with emotion. "I love you too, Papa," you said, rising to embrace him properly. "And I promise—we'll be careful, professional, surgical. Jensen won't see us coming until it's too late for him to run."

"Good," Salvatore replied gruffly, returning the embrace before stepping back to restore emotional distance. "Now go get some rest. Tomorrow you hunt, and you need to be sharp for that kind of work."

You found Lewis in the guest house bedroom, studying tactical maps with the kind of focused intensity that meant he was running mental simulations of various approaches and contingencies. He looked up when you entered, his expression softening from tactical calculation to genuine affection.

"Your father knows," Lewis observed, reading your expression with practiced ease.

"He does," you confirmed, moving to settle beside him on the bed. "And he approves—said you make me stronger without making me cruel. That's apparently rare in our world."

"Salvatore Ricci approving of me," Lewis mused with slight smile. "Never thought I'd see that day when he first forced this marriage."

"Forced is a strong word," you protested. "Strongly encouraged? Strategically arranged? Presented as the only viable option?"

"Forced," Lewis repeated with certainty, though his tone carried amusement rather than resentment. "But I'm not complaining about the outcome. Best strategic arrangement I've ever made."

You leaned against him companionably, taking comfort in his solid presence. "Tomorrow we leave for London, then Prague. Everything changes again—back to active operations, immediate danger, hunting people who won't hesitate to kill us if they get the chance."

"Are you scared?" Lewis asked, his arm coming around your shoulders.

"No," you replied honestly. "I'm angry. Focused. Determined to finish this so we can finally move forward without constantly looking over our shoulders. But not scared—that emotion got burned out of me in Suarez's compound."

Lewis kissed the top of your head with tender understanding. "Good. Fear makes you hesitate, and hesitation gets you killed. Anger and determination keep you sharp, keep you moving forward, keep you alive to see the mission through."

You tilted your head to look at him properly, noting the lines of fatigue around his eyes despite his controlled demeanor. "When's the last time you slept properly?"

"Define properly," Lewis replied evasively.

"More than three hours without waking up to check tactical updates," you clarified.

"Then it's been a while," Lewis admitted. "Too much planning to do, too many contingencies to prepare for."

"Miles can handle the tactical planning for one night," you decided, plucking the tablet from his hands despite his protest. "You need actual rest before we fly to Europe, otherwise you'll be making decisions on exhaustion and caffeine rather than clear strategic thinking."

"I'm fine," Lewis insisted, though he didn't reach for the tablet.

"You're not," you countered firmly. "And I'm not letting you run this operation on four hours of sleep and stubborn determination. So here's what's going to happen: you're going to actually rest for the next eight hours, I'm going to make sure you stay in bed, and tomorrow we'll fly to Europe fully prepared instead of dangerously exhausted."

Lewis studied you for a moment before conceding with reluctant smile. "You're very authoritative when you're worried about me. It's attractive."

"Everything about me is attractive," you replied with mock arrogance. "That's why you married me."

"One of many reasons," Lewis agreed, pulling you closer. "Though the list has expanded significantly since the wedding."

You kissed him then, soft and lingering, tasting exhaustion and determination and love that had grown from calculated arrangement into something neither of you had anticipated. When you pulled back, his eyes held warmth that made your chest tight with emotion.

"I love you," you said simply. "And I need you alive and functional for this hunt, which means you need to actually rest."

"I love you too," Lewis replied, settling back against the pillows with visible reluctance to stop working. "Though I maintain I'm perfectly functional."

"Humor me," you requested, curling against his side with deliberate comfort. "Eight hours of sleep, then we can return to tactical planning and revenge plotting."

Lewis's chuckle rumbled through his chest, vibrating against your body in ways that made heat pool low in your stomach despite the exhaustion you both felt. "Eight hours," he agreed. "But you're staying right here so I can actually relax."

"Wasn't planning on going anywhere," you assured him, your hand tracing idle patterns across his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm—the rhythm that had become as familiar as your own.

The comfortable silence stretched between you, both of you processing the day's events and preparing mentally for what lay ahead. Tomorrow would bring renewed action, immediate danger, the hunt for enemies who'd cost you both so much. But tonight was for this—simple intimacy, quiet comfort, the peace found in each other's presence.

"Thank you," Lewis said quietly into the darkness. "For the speech today. For honoring Naomi the way she deserved. For promising to finish what she started."

"We'll keep that promise," you replied with certainty. "Jensen, Nico, Petrov—everyone who played a role in her death will pay the full price. That's not negotiable."

"No," Lewis agreed, his arms tightening around you. "It's not."

You drifted toward sleep wrapped in each other, the weight of tomorrow's departure and the violence to come temporarily set aside for these stolen hours of peace. Outside, your family continued their mourning and your father's men maintained their vigilant watch over the estate's perimeter. But inside this room, you and Lewis found temporary sanctuary—the calm before the storm, the quiet before the hunt, the love that made all the violence and strategy worthwhile.

Tomorrow you'd board a plane to London, then continue to Prague where Jensen waited unknowingly for justice to arrive. Tomorrow you'd become hunters again, operators executing a mission with professional precision and personal investment that made success non-negotiable.

But tonight you were just two people who'd found unexpected love in calculated arrangement, holding each other close and drawing strength from partnership that had been tested by fire and proven worthy of trust.

The flight to London departed early Sunday morning from Teterboro, the private jet carrying Lewis, you, Miles, Kai, and two additional tactical operators whose capabilities had been proven through years of dangerous work. The cabin was quiet—not the tense silence of impending violence, but the focused calm of professionals preparing mentally for operational demands.

Lewis watched you work through tactical briefings with Kai, noting how naturally you'd integrated into the planning process. Six months ago, you'd been the strategic bride whose value lay in alliance rather than capability. Now you were contributing genuine insight to operational planning, asking relevant questions about extraction routes and contingency protocols, thinking three moves ahead like someone who'd been raised for exactly this kind of work.

Which, he supposed, you had been. Salvatore's daughter, trained from birth to understand the realities of their world even if the specific applications had come later.

"The safe house is in a residential area," Kai was explaining, pulling up satellite imagery on his tablet. "Neighbors close enough to complicate loud operations, but far enough that careful work could go unnoticed if we time it right."

"So we go in quiet," you concluded, studying the images with focused attention. "Suppressed weapons, minimal team, fast extraction before anyone realizes something happened."

"Exactly," Kai confirmed with approval. "Boss and Miles will take point, I'll provide overwatch from the adjacent building, you and Collins will manage extraction vehicles and backup if things go sideways."

Lewis noted how you accepted the support role without protest or wounded pride. You understood tactical realities—this was your first international operation, and pushing for front-line participation would compromise mission success for the sake of ego. That kind of practical assessment was rare and valuable, especially in their profession where bravado often outweighed strategic thinking.

"When do we move on Prague?" you asked, looking to Lewis for decision.

"Forty-eight hours after we land," Lewis replied, having calculated the timeline carefully. "Gives us time to coordinate with local contacts, verify Jensen's still in location, and prepare for any variables that might emerge. We do this right, not fast."

"Naomi would approve," Miles observed quietly. "She always said patience killed more targets than rushing ever did."

The mention of Naomi settled over the cabin like a weight—reminder of why they were hunting across Europe, why this mission mattered beyond tactical success. Jensen had taken someone important from them, betrayed decades of loyalty for personal reasons, and now faced the consequences of those choices.

Lewis found his thoughts drifting to the funeral, to your speech about finishing what Naomi had started. The promise had been public and binding, witnessed by everyone who mattered in their world. Failure now wasn't just tactical defeat—it would be breaking a blood oath made over a grave.

He wouldn't allow that to happen. Couldn't allow it. Jensen's death was guaranteed from the moment he'd killed Naomi—the only variable was how much he'd suffer before the end came.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked softly, reading his expression with the intimacy that had developed between you.

"Justice," Lewis replied honestly. "And revenge. And making sure Jensen understands exactly why he's dying before we kill him."

"Good," you said with satisfaction. "He deserves to know. Deserves to face what he's done before it ends."

The rest of the flight passed in tactical discussion and quiet preparation. By the time they landed at Farnborough Airport outside London, everyone knew their roles, understood the stakes, and carried the kind of focused determination that made mission success probable rather than merely possible.

The drive into London felt familiar despite the months away—Lewis's city, his territory, his home in ways that New York never quite achieved. He'd built his empire from this base, established the legitimate businesses that masked criminal operations, created the life that had seemed complete until you'd entered it and revealed exactly how empty his success had actually been.

"Almost home," you observed, watching the city approach through the car window.

"Almost," Lewis agreed, his hand finding yours. "Mum's expecting us—probably has dinner waiting and seventeen questions about whether I've been following medical advice."

"Have you been following medical advice?" you asked with knowing smile.

"Define following," Lewis replied, earning a laugh that made something warm bloom in his chest despite the mission ahead.

The car pulled up to a sleek high-rise in Kensington that made your eyebrows rise despite your attempts at composure. You'd known Lewis had a lot of property in London—he'd mentioned it casually during previous conversations—but you'd never expected this.

"This belongs to us?" you asked, staring up at the glass and steel tower that screamed wealth in a way that even your father's estate couldn't quite match.

"We own the top three floors," Lewis replied with the kind of casual tone that suggested he didn't quite grasp how absurd that sounded. "Penthouse. Bought it about five years ago when I decided I needed actual space instead of just a functional apartment."

"Top three floors," you repeated slowly, turning to look at him. "As in... three entire levels of this building are just ours?"

"It's not that excessive," Lewis protested, though Miles's snort from the front seat suggested otherwise. "I wanted room for an office, a proper gym, space to actually live rather than just sleep between operations."

"Bruv, it's twelve thousand square feet," Miles said dryly, navigating into the private underground garage. "That's excessive by any reasonable definition."

You couldn't help but laugh at Lewis's defensive expression. "I can't wait to see what you consider 'not excessive' interior design."

"It's tasteful," Lewis insisted, gathering bags from the trunk with wounded dignity. "My mother helped with some of the decorating."

The private elevator that serviced only Lewis's floors should have prepared you for what awaited above, but stepping into the penthouse still stole your breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of London's skyline, the space flooded with natural light that made everything feel open and airy despite the clearly masculine aesthetic. Modern furniture in neutral tones, abstract art that was probably worth more than most people's homes, and—most surprisingly—actual personality in the form of photographs and subtle touches that spoke to this being a real home rather than just another expensive showpiece.

Before you could fully process your surroundings, enthusiastic barking echoed through the space, followed by the scrabble of claws on hardwood floors. Roscoe came barreling around a corner, his entire body wiggling with excitement at Lewis's return.

"Roscoe!" Lewis dropped to one knee, laughing as the bulldog launched himself into his arms with complete disregard for healing stab wounds or dignified greetings. "Easy, mate. I'm still recovering."

But Roscoe was having none of it, his stub tail wagging frantically as he covered Lewis's face with enthusiastic kisses. You couldn't help but smile at the sight—your dangerous crime lord husband being absolutely demolished by an overly affectionate bulldog.

"He's been impossible since you left," a warm voice said, drawing your attention to the woman emerging from what appeared to be the kitchen.

Carmen Hamilton looked exactly as you remembered from your brief visit to Scotland months ago—beautiful ivory skin that had aged with grace, natural hair in an elegant pixie, and those sharp blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing. She wore comfortable clothes that suggested she'd been home for a while, and her expression carried that blend of maternal warmth and tactical assessment that you'd come to recognize.

"Mum," Lewis greeted, standing carefully while Roscoe continued circling his legs with devoted persistence. "We made good time."

"You always do when you're running from something," she replied, her tone carrying both affection and mild reproach. Then her attention shifted fully to you, her expression softening. "And you—come here, let me look at you properly."

Before you could respond, Carmen had closed the distance and pulled you into an embrace that was somehow both gentle and fierce. "Thank God you're both safe," she whispered against your ear, her voice thick with emotion. "When I heard about what happened in Miami, about the stabbing..."

"I'm okay," you assured her, returning the hug with surprising intensity. Something about Carmen's straightforward maternal concern always seemed to bypass your usual defenses. "We both are. Lewis is healing well."

Carmen pulled back, her hands framing your face as she studied you with those sharp eyes so like her son's. "You look tired. Thinner than when I saw you last. Have you been eating properly?"

"We've been taking care of each other, Mum," Lewis interjected, moving to stand beside you with Roscoe still attached to his leg. "She's been making sure I follow doctor's orders, generally being tyrannical about my recovery."

"Good," Carmen approved, releasing you to turn a critical eye on her son. "Someone needs to keep you from killing yourself through stubbornness. And you—" she poked his chest, carefully avoiding his healing wound, "—look exhausted. When's the last time you actually slept through the night?"

"I've been sleeping fine," Lewis protested, though his tone suggested this was a familiar argument.

"Liar," Carmen said without heat, then turned back to you. "How bad is he really? Don't spare my feelings—I know my son, and I know he downplays everything."

You couldn't help but smile at being recruited into maternal conspiracy. "He's been pushing himself too hard," you admitted, earning a betrayed look from Lewis. "But he's healing. The wound is closing properly, no signs of infection. He just needs to actually follow medical advice about rest and limited activity."

"Limited activity that you've been enforcing?" Carmen asked with knowing look.

"Trying to," you replied. "Though he's stubborn about it."

"Wonder where he gets that from," Carmen muttered, shooting Lewis a look that suggested extensive maternal experience with his particular brand of obstinacy.

Roscoe had finally transferred his attention from Lewis to you, pressing his wrinkled face against your legs with devoted enthusiasm. You dropped to your knees, laughing as he tried to climb into your lap despite being far too large for such maneuvers.

"Hi, baby," you cooed, scratching behind his ears while he made contented grunting sounds. "I missed you too. Were you good while we were gone?"

"He was an angel," Carmen lied smoothly, her expression suggesting otherwise. "Barely destroyed anything. Only ate one pair of Lewis's expensive shoes. Hardly peed on the carpet at all."

"Roscoe," Lewis groaned, though his tone carried more affection than actual reproach. "We talked about the shoe thing."

"He was worried about you," Carmen defended, moving back toward the kitchen. "Dogs process stress differently than people. A few chewed shoes is a small price for the love and loyalty he provides."

You looked up at Lewis from your position on the floor, still petting Roscoe who had sprawled across your lap like he weighed nothing. "She has a point. Emotional support is worth a lot."

"You're both spoiling him," Lewis observed, but he was smiling—that rare, genuine expression that transformed his entire face.

"Someone has to," you replied, kissing the top of Roscoe's wrinkled head while he gazed up at you with devoted eyes. "Besides, he's practically our child. That makes Carmen his grandmother, which means spoiling is her job."

Carmen laughed, the sound warm and rich. "I like how you think. Though speaking of children—"

"Don't start," Lewis warned, though there was no real heat in it.

"I'm just saying," Carmen continued innocently, "Roscoe would love a little brother or sister. Human variety, preferably. Someone to boss around."

"Mum," Lewis said with patient exasperation. "We've discussed this."

"We have," she agreed cheerfully. "You keep saying 'not yet' and I keep reminding you that I'm not getting any younger and would like to meet my grandchildren while I can still properly terrorize them."

You couldn't help but laugh at the exchange, at the easy dynamic between mother and son that spoke to genuine affection beneath the teasing. "I promise we'll work on that," you told Carmen, earning a surprised look from Lewis. "Eventually. After we've dealt with the people actively trying to kill us."

"That's all I ask," Carmen said with satisfaction. "Reasonable timeline, sensible priorities. Now, I've got dinner started—proper food, none of that takeaway nonsense. Go get settled, wash up, rest for a bit. We'll eat in an hour."

Lewis's hand found yours, helping you up from the floor while Roscoe continued circling your legs. "I'll show you where everything is," he said, his thumb brushing across your knuckles in that way that had become increasingly frequent. "Guest rooms are on the second level, master suite is on the third."

"Where are we staying?" you asked, the question carrying more weight than its simplicity suggested.

Lewis's eyes met yours, something unreadable passing through his expression before he spoke. "Third floor. If that's alright with you."

"That's alright with me," you confirmed softly.

Carmen made a small satisfied sound from the kitchen that she didn't quite manage to disguise as a cough, but neither of you called her on it. Instead, Lewis guided you toward a floating staircase that led to the upper levels, Roscoe following with determined waddles.

The second floor proved to be office space and guest accommodations, modern and professional. But the third floor—Lewis's private domain—was something else entirely. The master suite took up the entire level, a vast open space that somehow managed to feel intimate despite its size. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around two walls, offering breathtaking views of London. A massive bed dominated one area, modern furniture arranged with careful precision, and everywhere those small personal touches that revealed more about Lewis than he probably intended.

Photographs of Carmen, of Roscoe as a puppy, of places that clearly held meaning. Books on shelves—actual physical books, not just decorative objects. A guitar in one corner that surprised you. Racing memorabilia that suggested interests beyond criminal enterprise and tactical planning.

"This is beautiful," you said honestly, moving toward the windows to take in the view. The city spread out below, glittering in the fading afternoon light.

"It's my second home," Lewis replied simply, setting down bags near a door that presumably led to the bathroom.

You turned to look at him, noting the vulnerability in his admission. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

Something softened in his expression. "You're my wife. This is as much yours as mine now."

The simple statement carried more weight than elaborate declarations could have. Lewis Hamilton, who controlled his world with meticulous precision, was offering you space in the one sanctuary he maintained separate from his criminal empire.

Before you could respond, Roscoe had climbed onto the bed, circling several times before collapsing with a contented grunt directly in the center.

"Roscoe," Lewis called with patient exasperation. "That's not your bed."

The bulldog's expression suggested he strongly disagreed with this assessment, his eyes closing as if to ignore the correction entirely.

"I think we've been overruled," you observed with amusement. "He's claimed the territory."

"He's ridiculous," Lewis said, but he was smiling as he moved toward you. "Though I suppose we can share."

His hand found your waist, pulling you closer with careful deliberation that gave you every opportunity to step back if you wanted. You didn't want to. Instead, you let yourself be drawn against his chest, your hands settling on his shoulders as his arms wrapped around you.

"We should rest before dinner," Lewis murmured, his lips brushing your temple. "Mum's right—we're both exhausted."

"Is that really what you want to do?" you asked, tilting your head to meet his eyes. "Rest?"

"Tell me," you challenged softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

Instead of answering with words, Lewis kissed you—slow and deliberate, nothing like the desperate passion of Nassau but carrying its own intensity. This was exploration, savoring, the kind of kiss that promised more but took its time getting there. His lips parted yours gently, tongue sliding in to tease and taste, drawing a soft moan from your throat as heat pooled low in your belly.

Your hands slid from his shoulders to tangle in his braids, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. Lewis made a low sound of approval, his grip on your waist tightening as he walked you backward toward the bed. The edge of the mattress hit the back of your knees, and you sank down together, his body pressing warm and solid against yours.

"We should be careful of your wound," you managed between kisses, your concern genuine despite the heat building between you.

"I'll be careful," Lewis promised, his lips moving to your neck as his hands found the hem of your shirt. He nuzzled the sensitive skin there, sucking lightly to leave a faint mark, his breath hot against you. "I'm always careful with you."

The tenderness beneath the passion made your chest tight with emotion you weren't quite ready to name. Instead, you focused on the physical—on the feeling of Lewis's hands on your skin as he slowly lifted your shirt, peeling it up over your head with deliberate care. Cool air kissed your bare torso, but his mouth followed immediately, trailing wet kisses down your collarbone to the swell of your breasts. He unclasped your bra with practiced ease, sliding the straps off your shoulders and tossing it aside, his thumbs brushing over your hardening nipples before his lips closed around one, sucking firmly while his tongue flicked the peak.

You arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders as pleasure sparked through you. Your own hands tugged at his shirt, pulling it up to reveal the toned planes of his abdomen, careful to avoid the bandaged area. He helped you strip it off, and you ran your palms over his warm chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. Leaning in, you kissed his skin, tongue darting out to taste the salt of him, while your fingers worked at his belt buckle.

"God, I've missed this," Lewis breathed against your skin, his hands skimming up your sides with reverent attention, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts before dipping lower to unbutton your pants. "Missed you. Even in Nassau, with everything happening, I just wanted to be close to you like this."

He eased your pants down your hips, along with your underwear, exposing you completely. His fingers traced the curve of your ass, squeezing gently as he helped you kick them off. You mirrored him, shoving his pants and boxers down, freeing his hard cock. It sprang up, thick and veined, the tip already glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around it, stroking slowly from base to head, feeling it twitch in your grip as he groaned.

And you did explore. Lewis moved with deliberate slowness, his hands and mouth working over your body with thorough attention that left you gasping and clutching at his shoulders. He kissed a path down your stomach, parting your thighs to settle between them. His fingers spread your folds, exposing your slick pussy, and he leaned in, tongue lapping at your clit in slow, firm circles. You bucked against his mouth, wetness coating his lips as he sucked the sensitive nub, two fingers sliding inside you to curl against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

"Lewis," you whimpered, hips grinding against his face as arousal dripped down your thighs. He hummed in response, the vibration sending jolts through you, his free hand pinning your hip to keep you steady while he fucked you with his fingers, stretching and filling you just enough to tease.

He knew exactly how to touch you now, had learned your body through weeks of discovery that had transformed strategic arrangement into genuine intimacy. Pulling back, he licked his lips, eyes dark with hunger as he crawled up your body. "Tell me if I'm hurting you," you murmured when you shifted positions, conscious of his healing wound as you straddled his hips, your wet pussy hovering over his straining dick.

"You're not," Lewis assured you, his hands gripping your waist as he looked up at you with dark eyes gone almost black with desire. "You're perfect. This is perfect."

You leaned down to kiss him, your hair falling around your faces like a curtain, creating a private world that contained only the two of you. His hands roamed your back, tracing patterns that made you arch into his touch, while your own hands explored the warm skin of his chest and shoulders, nails scraping lightly to draw a hiss from him.

When you finally joined together, you sank down onto his dick, the thick length stretching your pussy inch by inch. The sensation was simultaneously familiar and new—comfortable in the way of lovers who knew each other's bodies, yet carrying fresh intensity from the safety of this sanctuary. Lewis's breath caught, his fingers tightening on your hips as your walls clenched around him, slick arousal easing the way until he was buried deep inside you.

"Babygirl," he breathed, the endearment carrying weight beyond its simplicity. "You're so beautiful. So fucking beautiful."

You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow grind that had his dick dragging against your inner walls, hitting deep with every downward thrust. His hands guided you, thumbs pressing into your hipbones as you rode him, your breasts bouncing with the rhythm. Sweat beaded on your skin, mixing with the wetness between your legs, the obscene sounds of your pussy sucking him in filling the room.

You lost yourself in the rhythm, in the feeling of Lewis beneath you, in the heat building between you with every movement. His hands guided your hips, his voice low and rough with praise and encouragement that made warmth spread through your entire body.

"That's it," Lewis encouraged, one hand sliding up your spine to tangle in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back and expose your throat. He sat up slightly, mouth latching onto your neck to suck hard as you bounced faster, his cock pistoning in and out, coated in your juices. "Just like that. God, you feel incredible—so tight, so wet for me."

The pleasure built steadily, Lewis's skilled touch and whispered words combining with the physical sensation until you were trembling on the edge. Your clit ground against his pubic bone with each thrust, and you reached down to rub it frantically, chasing the release. When you finally tipped over, your pussy spasmed around him, gushing wetness that soaked his balls as you cried out his name, waves of ecstasy crashing through you.

Lewis followed moments later, thrusting up hard one last time, his dick pulsing as he came inside you. Hot spurts of cum flooded your depths, filling you until it leaked out around where you were joined, mixing with your own fluids and dripping down his shaft. Both of you gasped each other's names as the intensity crested and broke, bodies locked together in shuddering bliss.

He held you close as you collapsed against his chest, his softening dick still twitching inside your cum-filled pussy, the warmth of his release a intimate reminder of your connection.

You collapsed against his chest, careful of his wound even in your boneless satisfaction, your breathing ragged as aftershocks rippled through you. Lewis's arms wrapped around you, holding you close as your heartbeats gradually slowed toward normal.

"We should do that more often," you murmured eventually, your lips brushing his collarbone.

Lewis's chuckle rumbled through his chest. "We do that constantly. I'm surprised we get anything else done."

"I meant in our actual home," you clarified, lifting your head to look at him. "Safe and comfortable. Not running from people trying to kill us."

Something vulnerable passed through Lewis's expression. "I want that," he admitted quietly. "Want to build an actual life with you beyond just surviving. Want normal things—lazy mornings, ordinary arguments about whose turn it is to walk Roscoe, dinner with my mother where the biggest concern is her asking about grandchildren again."

The admission felt significant, revealing dreams beyond tactical success and organizational growth. Lewis Hamilton wanted domestic normalcy—or at least his version of it.

"We'll get there," you promised, your hand finding his face to trace the line of his jaw. "After we deal with Jensen, after we handle Petrov, after we've eliminated the immediate threats, we'll decide what to do about the other house and build something real."

"We already are," Lewis replied, pulling you closer. "This is real. You and me, right here. Everything else is just logistics."

You kissed him softly, the passion of moments ago replaced by tender affection that felt equally important. "I love you," you said, the words coming easier each time you spoke them.

"I love you too," Lewis replied, his arms tightening around you. "More than I thought possible when your father first proposed this arrangement."

"Best strategic decision you ever made?" you teased lightly.

"The best," Lewis confirmed without hesitation. "No question."

You settled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. Roscoe had climbed back onto the bed, curling up near your feet with a contented grunt that suggested forgiveness for the earlier disruption.

"We should get up," you murmured eventually, though you made no move to actually do so. "Carmen will have dinner ready soon."

"Five more minutes," Lewis requested, his hand stroking your back with lazy contentment. "Let me just hold you for five more minutes."

"Five minutes," you agreed, knowing full well it would probably stretch longer.

Outside the windows, London continued its evening transition—lights flickering on across the city, traffic moving in distant rivers of red and white, life proceeding with ordinary normalcy that felt both foreign and aspirational. Somewhere out there, Jensen was hiding, Petrov was plotting, and various enemies were planning their next moves.

But here, in Lewis's penthouse sanctuary with his mother downstairs and his dog at your feet and the man you loved holding you close, you allowed yourself to exist in this moment of peace.

"Green is healthy." Lewis poured the mixture into cups anyway. "Your body needs vegetables."

Lake banged her spoon on the table, delighted by the noise. "Vegables!"

"Vegetables," you corrected automatically, then winced as Love pulled off your breast with an annoyed cry.

Lewis glanced over. "You alright?"

"Fine. She's just being fussy." You tried to guide Love back, but she turned her head away, whimpering.

"Maybe she's done?" Lewis suggested.

"It's only been five minutes." Frustration crept into your voice. "She needs to eat more than that."

"Baby, if she doesn't want it—"

"She needs to eat, Lewis."

The sharpness of your tone made everyone go quiet. Lewis set down the blender. Leia stared at her smoothie cup. Even Lake stopped banging her spoon.

"Right," Lewis said carefully. "Why don't I take her for a bit? You finish your tea."

You wanted to argue, to insist you could handle your own baby, but your arms ached and your head was pounding and Love was still crying. So you nodded and passed her over, watching as she immediately settled against Lewis's chest.

"See?" Lewis said softly, bouncing Love gently. "Just needed a change of scenery."

You turned back to your tea, fighting the lump in your throat. Three months postpartum and you still felt like you were failing at the most basic things.

"Mummy, are you sad?" Leia asked, her voice small.

"No, sweetheart. Just tired."

"You're always tired," Leia observed with the brutal honesty of a three-year-old.

Lewis shot you a look over Love's head—concerned, gentle, worried. You avoided his eyes and took a long sip of tea that had gone lukewarm.

Your first therapy session with Dr. Sofia Morales had been two days after Lewis's fortieth birthday party.

You'd sat in the comfortable office in downtown Denver, surrounded by warm earth tones and mountain photography, feeling like an imposter. This was for people with real problems. Not for someone who had everything and still felt empty.

"Tell me what brings you in today," Dr. Morales had said, her voice kind but professional.

You'd started with the safe stuff—new baby, husband's career transition, normal adjustment struggles. But Dr. Morales had a way of asking questions that pulled at threads you didn't realize were loose.

"When you say you feel like you're failing, what does that mean specifically?"

"I don't know. Like I can't keep up. Like everyone else has it figured out and I'm just... pretending."

"And how long have you felt this way?"

That's when it had gotten harder. Because admitting it had started before Love's birth felt like confessing something shameful. Like saying pregnancy itself had been a mistake, which wasn't true at all.

"I wanted this baby," you'd said, needing Dr. Morales to understand. "I love her so much. I love all my girls."

"I believe you. And loving your children doesn't mean you can't also struggle with the reality of caring for them."

The session had ended with homework—tracking your moods, identifying triggers, being honest about your needs. You'd left feeling raw and exposed, but also strangely lighter.

Lewis picked you up afterwards, Love asleep in her carrier in the back seat.

"How was it?" he'd asked.

"Hard. Good. I don't know." You'd buckled your seatbelt, not meeting his eyes. "She wants to see me twice a week."

"Okay. We'll make it work."

"Lewis, I can't do twice a week. That's too much time away from the girls—"

"Then we'll bring them with us. Or my mum will watch them. Your mum's here too. Or we'll figure it out." Lewis had reached across the console to take your hand. "You doing this is important. More important than my training schedule or media commitments or anything else."

You'd cried then, quietly, while Lewis drove through the mountain roads and Love slept peacefully in the back.

Now, three sessions in, you were sitting at the kitchen table going through CVs for potential nannies while your mom and Carmen played with the girls in the living room.

"I still don't think we need this," you said, pushing another resume aside.

Lewis looked up from feeding Love her bottle—formula, because you'd finally admitted your supply wasn't enough. "We talked about this."

"We talked about maybe getting more help with cleaning or errands. Not hiring someone to raise our kids." You gestured toward the living room where laughter floated from. "And we already have our mothers here. How much help do I need?"

"Your mum and my mum aren't staying forever. They have their own lives." Lewis's voice was patient but firm. "And this isn't about how much help you need. It's about having consistent support."

"I don't need someone to raise our kids—"

"That's not what a nanny does, and you know it." Lewis set the bottle down. "Y/N, you're exhausted. This would help."

"I don't need help. I need to be better at managing."

"Managing what? Three kids under four? A husband who's about to start another season with a new team? Your own recovery?" Lewis stood, moving to where you gripped the edge of the table. "Baby, you're one person. You can't do everything."

"Other mothers manage fine—"

"Other mothers aren't married to someone whose job requires constant travel and media attention." Lewis's voice was gentle but firm. "Other mothers don't have photographers trying to catch them looking rough at the grocery store."

The words hit harder than they should have because they were true. Even here in Colorado, relatively isolated, someone had managed to get photos of you looking exhausted at Target last week. The comments had been brutal.

"I should be able to handle it anyway," you said, but your voice cracked.

"Says who?"

It was the same question he'd asked in Aspen, and you still didn't have a good answer.

"The interview's at two," Lewis said quietly. "Just meet her. That's all I'm asking."

************************************************************

Béatrice Moreau—"Please, call me Béa"—arrived precisely at two o'clock, her presence immediately filling the space with warmth.

She was in her early fifties with beautiful deep brown skin, graying locs pulled back in an elegant bun, and kind eyes that crinkled when she smiled. Her voice carried the melodic lilt of her Haitian accent as she greeted you.

"Thank you for having me," she said, accepting your handshake with both hands. "What a beautiful home you have."

"Thank you," you said, feeling immediately disarmed by her genuine warmth.

Carmen appeared from the living room with Lake on her hip. "This is Lake, the middle one. Lake, can you say hello to Miss Béa?"

Lake buried her face in Carmen's shoulder shyly.

"That's quite alright," Béa said softly, not pushing. "I'm a stranger. It's good to be cautious."

Your mom emerged next with Leia, who was clutching her stuffed elephant.

"Leia, is it?" Béa said, crouching down to the four-year-old's level. "I love your elephant. Does he have a name?"

"Peanut," Leia said shyly.

"That's a beautiful name. I had a doll called Peanut when I was your age in Port-au-Prince."

"Where's that?" Leia asked, curiosity overcoming her shyness.

"Very far away, across the ocean. In Haiti." Béa's smile was warm. "Have you learned about oceans yet?"

You watched from the doorway as Béa effortlessly engaged with your daughters. She wasn't trying too hard, wasn't using that fake high-pitched voice some people used with kids. She was just... natural.

"Why don't you show Bea around?" Lewis suggested, touching your elbow gently.

You led Béa through the house, pointing out rooms with automatic efficiency. "This is the nursery. The girls' rooms are here and here. Master bedroom is down the hall. There's a guest room on the third floor—"

"Y/N," Béa interrupted gently. "Can I ask you something?"

You stopped mid-hallway. "Of course."

"What are you most worried about? With bringing someone new into your family?"

The question caught you off guard. "I'm not worried—"

"It's okay if you are. Most parents are when they're thinking about hiring help."

You leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "I don't want my kids to think someone else is raising them."

"I understand that. And I promise you, that's not what I'm here to do." Béa's voice was warm but clear. "My job—if you hire me—is to support you. To be an extra set of hands so you can be the maman you want to be, not the maman you have to be when you're running on empty."

The use of the French word for mother felt deliberate, personal. "I just... I should be able to do this myself."

"Should according to who?" Béa asked, echoing Lewis's earlier question. Then, more gently: "I raised four children mostly on my own. My husband worked offshore for months at a time. And you know what I learned?"

"What?"

"That asking for help isn't weakness. In Haiti, we have a saying—'Men anpil, chay pa lou.' Many hands make the load light." Béa's eyes were kind. "You're carrying a very heavy load, cherie. There's no shame in letting someone help you carry it."

Downstairs, you found Lewis on the floor with all three girls while your mom and Carmen watched from the couch, smiling.

Lake was attempting to climb on his back. Leia was showing him something in a picture book. Love was propped against his bent knees, watching everything with wide eyes.

"And then the dragon said—" Lewis caught sight of you and Béa, breaking off his story. "All good?"

"Yeah," you said, and meant it more than you expected. "All good."

Béa spent another hour with the family, playing with the girls, asking questions about routines and preferences, making notes in a small leather journal she pulled from her bag.

"Leia's very bright," she observed as Leia explained in detail why unicorns were better than dragons. "Does she go to any activities?"

"Not yet," you said. "We've been adjusting to having Love."

"Of course. When you're ready, there are some wonderful programs in Denver for her age." Béa's voice was gentle, without judgment.

Your mom leaned forward from the couch. "There's a dance class I saw advertised. Leia might love that."

"I can help with drop-offs and pick-ups if you decide to enroll her," Béa added. "Whatever makes your life easier."

It was said casually, but you still felt that familiar defensiveness rise. "I like having her home with me."

"And that's wonderful," your mom said quickly. "But baby, you're also trying to manage Love's schedule. Maybe having Leia in an activity a couple times a week would give you breathing room."

"I don't need breathing room, I need to be better at—"

"Y/N," Carmen interrupted gently. "Love, you're allowed to need help."

The room went quiet. Even the girls seemed to sense the shift in energy.

Lewis stood, settling Love more securely in his arms. "Why don't I make tea while you ladies chat?"

He disappeared into the kitchen with Love, your mom following to help, leaving you with Carmen and Béa.

"Lewis mentioned you've been having a hard time since Love was born," Béa said carefully.

Your spine straightened. "He told you that?"

"Just that the adjustment's been difficult. Which is completely normal." Béa's expression was kind. "I've worked with families going through postpartum depression before. I know how to support parents through that."

"I don't have postpartum depression," you said automatically.

Carmen reached over and squeezed your hand. "Sweetheart, even if you don't have a diagnosis yet, you're struggling. And that's okay."

"But I should be fine by now—"

"According to who?" Béa asked again. "You had a baby three months ago. You're still healing, still adjusting. Add in your husband's demanding career, the public scrutiny, managing three small children... anyone would struggle."

"Béa's worked with families all over the world," Carmen added. "Athletes, executives, people with very public lives. She understands what you're dealing with."

You looked at Béa, really looked at her. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Twenty-five years. Started when my own children were young, helping other families. Now my babies are grown—one's a doctor, one's a teacher, one's an engineer, and my youngest is studying marine biology." Béa's smile was proud. "And I love what I do because I get to help parents be their best selves."

"If we hired you," you said slowly, "what would that actually look like?"

Béa pulled out her journal. "However you need it to look. Some families want full-time live-in help. Others prefer someone who comes during the day and goes home at night. We'd work out a schedule that supports your family's needs."

"I don't want someone living here," you said quickly.

"Then we won't do that. What about starting with mornings? I could come at seven, help with breakfast and getting the girls ready, stay through lunch and nap time?"

"That's... what, six hours?"

"Which would give you time to shower without rushing. To go to therapy without feeling guilty. To actually eat a meal sitting down." Carmen's voice was gentle. "Basic things that shouldn't feel like luxuries but do when you're outnumbered by tiny humans."

Despite yourself, you laughed weakly. "They are exhausting."

"The best things usually are," Béa said with a warm smile.

That evening, after your mom had taken the girls for a walk and Carmen was doing dinner prep, you found Lewis in his office reviewing race data.

"You told Béa I've been struggling," you said without preamble.

Lewis looked up from his laptop. "I told her we've been having a hard adjustment period. That's not the same thing."

"It feels the same."

"Y/N." Lewis closed the laptop and stood. "If we hire someone to help our family, they need to know what's actually going on. Otherwise they can't support us properly."

You sank into the armchair by his desk. "I liked her."

"Yeah?" Lewis's voice warmed with hope.

"Yeah. She was good with the girls. Natural. And she gets it—the public scrutiny thing. Carmen said she's worked with other athletes."

"She came highly recommended. Seb's family used her for a while."

That surprised you. "Vettel? Really?"

"Hanna swears by her. Said Béa was a godsend when they had their son."

You processed this information, picking at the armrest. "I still don't know if I want this."

"What are you afraid of?"

The question made you pause. What were you afraid of? That Béa would be better at caring for your kids? That the girls would prefer her? That hiring help meant admitting you couldn't do it alone?

"All of it," you admitted finally. "I'm afraid of all of it."

Lewis knelt in front of your chair, taking your hands. "Béa can't replace you. She doesn't want to replace you. She wants to help you be present with our girls instead of just surviving them."

"When did you get so wise about this?"

"When I watched my wife hide in pantries crying because she felt like she was drowning." Lewis's voice was gentle. "I can't fix this for you, baby. But I can make sure you have support while you work through it."

You squeezed his hands, feeling tears prick your eyes. "She could start part-time. Mornings only. See how it goes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But if the girls start calling her Mummy, I'm firing her immediately."

Lewis laughed, pulling you into his arms. "Deal. Though for what it's worth, I don't think that's possible. Those girls are absolutely crazy about you."

You wanted to believe him. Some days you did believe him. Other days you felt like you were failing them in ways you couldn't articulate.

"Dr. Morales says I need to challenge my negative thoughts," you said against Lewis's chest.

"How's that going?"

"Terrible. My brain's very good at negative thoughts."

"We'll work on it. Together." Lewis pressed a kiss to your hair. "Speaking of which, I need to ask you something."

You pulled back to look at him. "What?"

"Next week, there's the Alaïa show in New York. I'm supposed to go." Lewis paused. "I want you to come with me."

The suggestion sent immediate anxiety through your chest. "Lewis, I can't just leave the girls—"

"Your mum and my mum will be here. And we could have Béa start that week, ease her into the routine." Lewis's hands framed your face. "It's two nights in New York. Fancy hotel, good food, time just for us."

"Love is barely three months old—"

"And she'll be fine with her grandmothers. You know she will." Lewis's thumb brushed your cheek. "Baby, you need this. We need this. Just two days to remember we're not just parents."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to list all the reasons it was a bad idea. But looking at Lewis, at the hope in his eyes, you felt your resistance weaken.

"And then after New York, we go to Maranello for testing," Lewis continued. "I want you there for that too. My first proper session with Ferrari—I want my family there."

"Lewis—"

"Before you say no, just think about it. Your mum and Carmen will be here. Béa can help. It's not like the girls would be alone." Lewis's voice was soft but persuasive. "And honestly? Getting away might be good for you. Give you space to breathe without feeling like you have to be 'on' all the time."

You closed your eyes, feeling pulled in too many directions at once. "What if something happens while we're gone?"

"Then we'll come back. We can be on a plane in hours if we need to be." Lewis's forehead pressed against yours. "But nothing's going to happen. The girls will be fine. And you'll come back feeling more like yourself."

"I don't even know what that means anymore."

"Then let's find out together. New York. Maranello. Just us for a few days, then all of us as a family." Lewis pulled back to meet your eyes. "Please?"

You wanted to argue. Wanted to list all the ways it could go wrong. But there was something in Lewis's expression—not just hope, but need. He needed this too. Needed more time with just you, needed to not feel like you were slipping away into exhaustion and anxiety.

"Okay," you whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. New York. Then Maranello." You managed a small smile. "But I'm calling home every two hours."

Lewis grinned, relief flooding his features. "I'd expect nothing less."

Béa started the following Monday, the same week Lewis had scheduled the New York trip.

You heard her arrive while you were attempting to wrestle Lake into clothes—a daily battle that Lake seemed determined to win through sheer force of toddler will.

"No!" Lake shrieked, twisting away from the shirt you were trying to pull over her head. "No clothes!"

"Lake Elizabeth, you cannot run around naked—"

"Sounds like someone's having a morning," Béa's voice came from the doorway, warm with amusement and that musical Haitian accent.

You looked up, harassed and exhausted, your hair still wet from a shower you'd barely had time to take. "She's decided clothes are optional."

"Ah, the naturist phase. Classic." Béa set her bag down and crouched to Lake's level. "Lake, chérie, I have a question."

Lake stopped struggling long enough to look at Béa suspiciously.

"Do you think your shirt would like to be a superhero cape? Because I brought special clips that make shirts fly."

Lake's eyes went wide. "Fly?"

"Absolutely. But only if you put it on properly first."

Five minutes later, Lake was dressed and running around the kitchen with her shirt clipped to look like a cape, and you were staring at Béa like she'd performed actual magic.

"How did you—"

"Twenty-five years of practice," Béa said with a wink. "And four children of my own who all went through the naked phase. Now, what can I do to help with breakfast?"

Your mom appeared in the doorway with Love. "This one just woke up. Should I feed her or...?"

"I can take her," you started, but Béa gently touched your arm.

"Why don't you finish your tea while it's still hot? Your maman and I can manage breakfast."

"But—"

"Y/N," your mom said gently. "Let us help. That's why we're here."

The morning passed in a blur that felt almost... easy.

Béa handled the girls with effortless efficiency while your mom took care of Love and Carmen directed the chaos like a pro. Lewis came down for breakfast to find everyone dressed, fed, and remarkably calm.

"Is this real life?" he asked, stopping in the doorway.

"Béa is magic," Leia announced through a mouthful of pancakes.

"Apparently," Lewis said, catching your eye with a significant look.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't quite hide your own smile.

By Wednesday, you had to admit Béa was making a difference.

She arrived at seven like clockwork, handled morning chaos with calm efficiency, and had the girls fed, dressed, and entertained by the time you finished your second cup of coffee. Your mom and Carmen seemed to love working with her—the three of them had developed an easy rhythm that made the house feel less chaotic.

"How's it going with Béa?" Dr. Morales asked during your Thursday session.

"Good. Really good, actually." You shifted on the leather couch. "The girls love her. My mom loves her. Carmen loves her. And she's... helpful without being intrusive."

"That's wonderful. How does it feel for you?"

The question made you pause. How did it feel? "Guilty," you admitted. "Like I should be able to do what she's doing."

"Why should you be able to do it?"

"Because I'm their mom. Because I wanted this. Because other people manage without help."

"Do they?" Dr. Morales tilted her head. "Or do they just not talk about the help they have? The grandparents who babysit, the partners who work from home, the families who can afford cleaners and meal services?"

"I guess I never thought about it like that."

"We have this cultural narrative that mothers should be able to do everything alone. But humans evolved to raise children in communities. Having help isn't a moral failing—it's actually the more natural state." Dr. Morales paused. "And you do have help. Your mother, your mother-in-law, now Béa. That's your community. Your village."

The words settled something in your chest that had been tight since Béa started. Maybe needing help wasn't weakness. Maybe it was just being human.

"Lewis wants me to go to New York with him next week," you said. "For some fashion event."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"Terrified. Love is so little. What if something happens while I'm gone?"

"What if something good happens while you're gone?" Dr. Morales countered. "What if you get to remember that you're more than just a mother? That you're also a wife, a woman, a person with needs and desires?"

"But what if I'm not ready?"

"What would ready feel like?"

You considered that. "I don't know. Less anxious? More confident?"

"Ready might not feel like confidence. It might feel like fear and going anyway." Dr. Morales leaned forward slightly. "You have a support system in place. Your children will be well cared for. What's the worst thing that could actually happen?"

You opened your mouth to list disasters, then stopped. Because realistically? The girls would be fine. Your mom and Carmen were capable. Béa was proving herself competent. The worst thing was probably just you feeling guilty and anxious.

"The worst thing is probably me having a panic attack in New York," you admitted.

"And if that happens?"

"Lewis will be there. I could come home early if I needed to."

"Exactly. You have options. You have control, even if it doesn't always feel like it." Dr. Morales smiled. "Maybe going is an experiment. See how it feels to step away for a short time. You might surprise yourself."

The day before New York, your mom found you in the nursery, reorganizing drawers that didn't need reorganizing.

"Baby," she said gently. "What are you doing?"

"Just making sure everything's in the right place. For Béa. So she knows where things are."

"Béa's been here all week. She knows where everything is." Your mom sat in the rocking chair, watching you. "You're anxious about leaving."

It wasn't a question.

You sat back on your heels, abandoning the pretense. "What if Love needs me?"

"Then Carmen or Béa or I will handle it. Just like we've been handling things all week."

"But what if she cries and won't stop?"

"Then we'll call you, and you will come home early. But baby, Love has been fine with us. She's eating well, sleeping okay. You leaving for two days isn't going to traumatize her."

"You don't know that," you said, but your voice cracked.

Your mom knelt beside you on the floor, pulling you into a hug. "I do know that. Because I raised you. And yes, there were times I had to leave you with your grandmother for work or other obligations. And you turned out okay, didn't you?"

You laughed wetly against her shoulder. "Debatable."

"You turned out better than okay. You're a wonderful mother, Y/N. But you're also allowed to be other things too."

"Like what?"

"Like Lewis's wife. Like a woman who enjoys fashion and travel and adult conversation. Like a person who deserves a break." Your mom pulled back to look at you. "This isn't selfish. It's necessary."

"Dr. Morales said something similar."

"Smart woman." Your mom stood, pulling you up with her. "Now, go finish packing. And if you try to bring a milk bag to a fashion show, I'm confiscating it."

"But—"

"Y/N. Two days. Love will survive on formula for two days. Enjoy yourself. Go pump and dump."

You laugh and then nodded, though the thought still made your chest tight with guilt.

That evening, Béa stayed late to help with the girls' bedtime routine—practice for the next few days when you'd be gone.

You watched from the doorway as she bathed Lake and Leia together, their giggles echoing off the bathroom tiles while Béa sang softly in Creole.

"They're having fun," Carmen observed, appearing beside you with Love in her arms.

"Yeah," you said, trying to sound happy about it instead of inexplicably sad.

"Y/N," Carmen said gently. "This is good. The girls being comfortable with Béa, with me, with your mum—that's healthy."

"I know."

"But it still hurts a little, yeah?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

"That's normal too. Every mother feels that pang when someone else can soothe their baby or make their kid laugh." Carmen shifted Love to her shoulder. "But you know what? Those girls absolutely light up when you walk in a room. Béa's wonderful, but she's not Mummy. She'll never be Mummy."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've watched you with them all week. The way Leia saves her best stories for you. How Lake only wants you when she's really hurt. The way Love's whole face changes when she hears your voice." Carmen's smile was soft. "You're irreplaceable, love. Help just means there are more people to love your babies. It doesn't mean they love you less."

From the bathroom, Béa called out: "Y/N? Leia's asking for you to pick her pajamas."

"See?" Carmen said. "Still Mummy."

You moved into the bathroom where Leia was wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping wet.

"Mummy! Can I wear the unicorn ones?"

"Of course, baby." You kissed her wet head, breathing in her shampoo smell. "Go pick them out. I'll be right there."

Watching Leia scamper off, you felt that familiar ache in your chest. But maybe Carmen was right. Maybe help didn't mean replacement.

New York was everything you'd forgotten the world could be.

The hotel was elegant, your room overlooking Central Park. The Alaïa show was intimate and beautiful, Lewis stunning in a perfectly tailored suit. You'd dressed up for the first time in months—hair done, makeup on, wearing something that wasn't covered in spit-up.

"You look incredible," Lewis said in the car on the way to the show, his hand warm on your thigh.

"I feel like I'm playing dress-up," you admitted.

"You look like yourself. Like the woman I married." Lewis's smile was soft. "I've missed her."

The show was breathtaking—flowing fabrics, sculptural silhouettes, the kind of art you'd forgotten fashion could be. You sat next to Lewis in the front row, his hand holding yours, and felt something in your chest loosen.

This was still you. Not just Mom. Not just Lewis Hamilton's wife managing his household.

You. The woman who loved art and design and beautiful things.

After the show, at the after-party in a gorgeous SoHo loft, Lewis introduced you to designers and models and creative directors. You held conversations about cut and drape and inspiration, your brain engaging in ways it hadn't in months.

"You're glowing," Lewis said later, his arms around you as you swayed to music on the small dance floor.

"I forgot," you said.

"Forgot what?"

"That I'm more than just... logistics. Feeding schedules and diaper changes and managing chaos."

"You were never just that, baby. I just think you forgot how to see yourself clearly." Lewis's lips brushed your temple. "This is you too. Smart and interesting and beautiful."

You let yourself lean into him, into this moment, into the possibility that maybe you could be both—devoted mother and whole person.

Your phone buzzed in your clutch. A photo from your mom: your oldest girls asleep in a pile on the couch, Love asleep in her bassinet, Béa reading in the chair nearby.

Everyone's perfect. Stop worrying and enjoy yourself.

You showed Lewis, who laughed. "Told you they'd be fine."

"Yeah," you said, tucking your phone away. "You did."

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lewisfanforever: oooh she's a baddie!!! love them ⤷ user67836 replied to lewisfanforever sexy mama!! deuxmoi: sources say that she left the kids in colorado to go to this. neglectful mom or not???? ⤷ user7878 replied to deuxmoi if you don't stfu! she's allowed to have fun wtf

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The second day in New York felt like a gift.

You woke up late—actually late, not baby-late—to room service breakfast and Lewis already awake, watching you with a soft expression.

"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing. Just... you look peaceful. Haven't seen that in a while."

He was right. You felt peaceful. Rested. The knot of anxiety that had lived in your chest for months felt looser.

You spent the morning at the Met, then lunch at a tiny bistro in the West Village. No strollers, no diaper bags, no sippy cups. Just you and Lewis, talking about everything and nothing.

"So Maranello," Lewis said over coffee. "You still good to come?"

"Yeah. I am." And you meant it. The thought of traveling with the girls felt less overwhelming after this. "When would we go?"

"Next week. We could bring everyone—your mum, my mum, the girls, Béa."

"That's a lot of people."

"Ferrari's arranging everything. Private plane, accommodations, the whole thing." Lewis reached across the table. "I want you there. Want the girls there. My first proper test with the team—I want my family to see it."

"Okay," you said. "Let's do it."

Lewis's smile could have lit the whole city.

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*****************************************************

You arrived back in Colorado to chaos.

Not bad chaos—just the beautiful mess of three small children happy to see their parents. Leia launched herself at Lewis while Lake clung to your legs, and Love was crying but in that angry "where have you been?" way rather than distress.

"How was it?" your mom asked as you scooped up Love, breathing in her baby smell.

"Good. Really good." You settled on the couch with Love, who immediately started rooting for your breast. "How were they?"

"Perfect. Béa's amazing." Your mom sat beside you. "Actually, we wanted to talk to you about that."

Something in her tone made you look up. "About what?"

Carmen appeared with tea, Lewis following with the older girls. Béa was in the kitchen, giving you space.

"Béa's current living situation isn't ideal," Carmen started carefully. "She's been staying in a short-term rental in Boulder, driving up here every day."

"That's over an hour each way," your mom added.

You shifted Love to your other breast, suddenly wary. "Okay?"

"We were thinking," Carmen continued, "what if Béa moved into the guest room? Became live-in help instead of just mornings?"

"No," you said immediately. "We talked about this. I don't want live-in help."

"Just hear us out," Lewis said gently, settling on the arm of the couch. "Not permanently. Just for a few months while we figure out the schedule. I've got testing and media and the season starting. We're traveling to Italy next week. Having Béa here full-time would make everything easier."

"Easier for who?"

"For all of us," your mom said. "Y/N, she's already here most of the day anyway. This just means she's here for the hard evening hours too. And for overnight if Love has a rough night."

The thought of someone else handling Love's night wakings should have felt like relief. Instead it felt like one more way you were failing.

"I can handle the nights," you said.

"You can," Lewis agreed. "But you don't have to. That's the point."

You looked around at all of them—your mom, Carmen, Lewis—all waiting for you to agree to something that made sense but felt wrong.

"Can I think about it?" you asked finally.

"Of course," Carmen said. "But maybe talk to Béa too? Hear what she thinks?"

You found Béa in the kitchen later, cleaning up from dinner.

"You don't have to do that," you said. "That's not your job."

"I don't mind. Keeps my hands busy." Béa smiled. "How was New York?"

"Good. Different." You leaned against the counter. "They told you? About the live-in idea?"

"They mentioned it, yes. But only if you're comfortable." Béa dried her hands on a towel. "I'm happy with the current arrangement if you prefer."

"Why would you want to live here? You have your own place, your own life."

"My place is a rental. Temporary while I figure out where I want to settle." Béa paused. "And honestly? Living here would make my job easier. Those early mornings driving from Boulder are hard. And evening transitions are often when families need the most support."

"I don't want the girls to think you're their mother."

"They won't. You're their maman, Y/N. I'm just... extra help." Béa's voice was gentle. "In Haiti, we have this concept—the extended family home. Grandparents, aunts, cousins, all living together, all raising the children together. No one questions who the mother is because it's clear. The children know."

"But—"

"Your daughters know who you are. They know who loves them most in this world." Béa smiled. "I'm here to help you be the mother you want to be. Not to replace you."

You wanted to argue, but the words stuck in your throat. Because wasn't that what Carmen had said? What Dr. Morales kept trying to tell you?

"It would just be temporary?" you asked.

"As temporary or permanent as you need. We can try it for a month and see how everyone feels."

"And the third floor guest room is fine?"

"Yes, it'll be fine." Béa's eyes were kind. "This is your home, chérie. I'm a guest here to help. Nothing more."

You thought about the trip to Italy. About Lewis's season starting. About the nights you'd spent walking Love for hours while Lewis tried to sleep before training. About the mornings you'd cried from exhaustion while trying to get three kids ready.

"Okay," you heard yourself say. "One month trial. See how it goes."

Béa's smile was warm. "Thank you for trusting me."

As you walked away, you wondered if trust was the right word. Or if it was just surrender—finally admitting you couldn't do this alone.

Béa moved in that weekend, her belongings fitting neatly into the third floor guest suite.

It was strange at first, knowing someone else was in the house all the time. But Béa had a way of making herself invisible when needed and present when helpful.

The first night she was there, Love woke up at 2 AM crying. You started to get up automatically, but heard soft footsteps on the stairs before you could even throw off the covers.

Lewis's hand on your arm stopped you. "Let Béa handle it."

"But—"

"Baby, that's why she's here. Let her do her job."

You lay in the dark, listening to Béa's soft voice singing in Creole, Love's cries gradually quieting. Within minutes, silence.

"See?" Lewis murmured. "All good."

But you lay awake for another hour, fighting the feeling that you'd just given up something essential.

"How do you feel about Béa living with you now?" Dr. Morales asked at your next session.

"Weird. Good weird, maybe? But still weird." You shifted on the couch. "I keep waiting to feel relieved, but mostly I just feel guilty."

"Guilty about what specifically?"

"About having help. About not doing it all myself. About..." You paused, trying to articulate the feeling. "About being replaced."

"Has anything happened to make you feel replaced?"

You thought about the last few days. Béa handling night wakings. Your mom and Carmen cooking while you rested. The girls playing happily with Béa while you took a shower.

"No," you admitted. "The girls still want me for important stuff. Leia still saves her bedtime stories for me. Lake only wants me when she's hurt."

"So you're not being replaced. You're being supported."

"I guess."

"Y/N, what would it look like to accept help without guilt?"

The question stopped you cold. "I don't know. I've never done that."

"Maybe that's something to work on. Not just accepting help, but believing you deserve it."

****************************************************

The trip to Maranello was organized chaos.

A private plane—Ferrari's—carried your whole circus: you, Lewis, the three girls, your mom, Carmen, and Béa. The flight was long but manageable with so many hands.

Leia was fascinated by everything, asking a million questions about Italy and Ferrari and why Daddy was changing teams. Lake mostly just wanted to run up and down the aisle. Love slept through most of it, passed between you and Béa and the grandmothers.

"This is insane," you said to Lewis at one point, watching your mom chase Lake while Carmen entertained Leia and Béa changed Love.

"This is our life," Lewis corrected with a grin. "Beautiful chaos."

The accommodations in Maranello were stunning—a private villa with enough room for everyone. Béa took the third floor again, your mom and Carmen had adjacent rooms on the second floor, and you had the master suite with a nursery attached for Love.

"Ferrari really went all out," your mom said, looking around in awe.

"They know how to make people feel valued," Lewis said, but his eyes were on you. "Everyone good?"

You looked around at your family—girls happy, mothers comfortable, Béa already unpacking and organizing. "Yeah. We're good."

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Watching Lewis test the Ferrari for the first time was surreal.

You stood in the garage with Love in your arms, your mom managing Leia and Lake, while Lewis suited up in red for the first time. The color looked right on him in a way you hadn't expected.

"Daddy looks different," Leia observed.

"He does, doesn't he?" you agreed. "But still Daddy."

When Lewis climbed into the car, you felt your chest tighten with emotion. This was huge for him. A new chapter, a new challenge. And you were here to see it.

Fred Vasseur, Ferrari's team principal, appeared beside you. "Thank you for coming. It means a lot to Lewis, having his family here."

"Thank you for having us. This is... it's special."

"It is." Fred smiled at Love in your arms. "Beautiful baby. How old?"

"Three and a half months."

"Ah, the hard stage. My wife says nothing prepares you for that first year."

You laughed. "Your wife is very wise."

Watching Lewis drive felt different in red. The car sounded different, moved different. But his style was the same—smooth, precise, utterly in control.

When he came in after his first stint, pulling off his helmet with that huge smile, you felt something shift in your chest. Pride, yes. But also hope.

Maybe new chapters weren't just for Lewis. Maybe you were allowed to have them too.

That night, after the girls were asleep and the house was quiet, you found Lewis on the terrace overlooking the Italian countryside.

"Big day," you said, settling beside him.

"Huge day." Lewis pulled you close. "Thank you for being here."

"Where else would I be?"

"I don't know. Three months ago, I wasn't sure you'd make it. Wasn't sure you'd want to."

You leaned against his shoulder, breathing in the Italian night air. "Three months ago, I wasn't sure about a lot of things."

"And now?"

"Now I'm figuring it out. Slowly. With a lot of help."

"That's all any of us can do." Lewis kissed your hair. "I'm proud of you. For doing the work, for asking for help, for being here even when it's hard."

"It's getting easier. Not easy, but easier."

"That's progress."

You sat in comfortable silence. Somewhere inside, Béa was probably reading before bed. Your mom and Carmen were likely having tea together. The girls were all peaceful in their rooms.

Your family. Your village. Your support system.

"Lewis?" you said quietly.

"Yeah, baby?"

"I think I might actually be okay."

Lewis pulled back to look at you, his smile soft in the terrace lighting. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Not today, maybe not tomorrow. But eventually. I think I'm going to be okay."

"I know you will be." Lewis's hands framed your face. "You're the strongest person I know, Y/N. Even when you don't feel like it."

You kissed him then, soft and slow, tasting possibility and hope and new beginnings.

When you finally headed inside, Béa was coming down from the third floor.

"Everyone settled?" you asked.

"All sleeping peacefully. Though I think Lake might wake up soon—she didn't eat much dinner."

"I can handle it," you said, then paused. "Or we can handle it together?"

Béa's smile was warm. "Together sounds perfect, chérie."

And walking up the stairs beside her, you realized it did sound perfect. Not because you couldn't do it alone, but because you didn't have to.

Maybe that's what healing looked like—not doing everything yourself, but building a life where you didn't have to.

Where asking for help wasn't weakness.

Where accepting support was strength.

Where being human was finally enough.

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He'd spent months on this look with his stylist Eric McNeal and Grace Wales Bonner. Every detail meant something—the ivory color denoting purity and status, the cowrie shells as ancestral protection, the baobab flower motifs, the garnet-colored diamonds in his brooches. His custom Stephen Jones beret sat perfectly on his head, Manolo Blaniks on his feet, rings heavy with meaning on his fingers.

This was important. This mattered. Using fashion to honor Black dandyism, to tell stories through clothing, to shine a light on the culture.

But right now? Fuck all of that.

Because she was three interviews down from him, and even with a hundred other people on this carpet, Lewis couldn't take his eyes off her.

The dress was incredible. Champagne-colored silk that moved like liquid gold, all 1920s Art Deco beading and fringe that caught every camera flash. The neckline plunged—not obscenely, but enough. Enough to make his mouth go dry. The waist was cinched tight, emphasizing those curves he'd been thinking about for weeks, and when she moved the fringe swayed, catching light like water.

Her hair was in finger waves, sleek and shining. Very Josephine Baker, very intentional. Diamond chandelier earrings swung when she laughed at something the interviewer said, and that laugh—that sound carried over all the noise straight to him.

Lewis felt it low in his stomach. In his chest. Everywhere.

"Lewis? Can you talk about the symbolism in your outfit?"

He blinked, brought his attention back. Smiled—that easy, practiced smile he'd perfected over years of interviews and press conferences. "Yeah, absolutely. Eric and I, we spent three months on research alone. Every detail has meaning—the cowrie shells, they're protective talismans in African culture. The garnets reference January birthstones. Even the cufflinks, they're shaped like African Daisies, which felt like a beautiful metaphor for growth and heritage, you know?"

The interviewer was nodding, eating it up. Good. He was saying the right things.

But she was turning now, showing the back of her dress to the photographers, and Christ—the back was even better than the front. Completely backless, dipping low, showing smooth brown skin that he wanted to put his hands on.

"—really hope people take the time to research and think deeply about what they're wearing tonight," he finished, and honestly he had no idea if that made sense in context with what they'd been talking about.

The interviewer seemed satisfied though, moved on to asking about Ferrari's season, his goals for the championship, the F1 movie with Brad. Lewis answered on autopilot—he'd been doing this long enough that he could talk about racing in his sleep.

All while tracking her movement down the carpet with his peripheral vision.

Focus, Hamilton. For fuck's sake.

He'd been chasing this woman for weeks. Actual weeks. And she was playing him—giving him just enough to keep him interested but never enough to actually get anywhere.

It was maddening. Honestly? He fucking loved it.

Three Months Earlier

Lewis had been lying in bed at 2 AM, scrolling through TikTok like a bored man in his early forties that he was, when her video came up on his For You Page.

It was from some late-night talk show appearance. She was telling a story about accidentally texting the wrong person some wildly inappropriate message meant for her best friend, and the way she told it—animated, self-deprecating, with perfect comedic timing—had him laughing out loud in his empty bedroom.

Then the camera cut to a close-up, and Lewis's laughter died in his throat.

She was stunning. Not in that conventional, safe way that Hollywood usually promoted. She was striking. Deep brown skin that glowed under the studio lights, natural hair styled in soft curls that framed her face, deep dimples that appeared when she smiled—and God, that smile. Wide and genuine and a little mischievous, like she knew secrets you wanted to learn.

And her body. The dress she wore was modest by industry standards but couldn't hide the curves underneath. Thin waist, wide hips, the kind of proportions that made a man's brain short-circuit.

Lewis sat up in bed, immediately clicked on her profile, and fell down a rabbit hole.

She was an actress, singer, and dancer—triple threat didn't even begin to cover it. At twenty-eight, she was the youngest person ever to be one award away from an EGOT. She had an Emmy for a limited series, a Grammy for a soundtrack album, and a Tony for a Broadway revival. All she needed was the Oscar, and people were already predicting she'd get nominated for the film she'd just wrapped.

Her interviews were gold. Funny, quick-witted, charming without being fake. She talked about her craft with genuine passion, made interviewers laugh, had this way of being completely herself that felt rare in an industry of carefully managed personas.

And every single video had comments from men losing their minds over her. Celebrities, athletes, regular guys—everyone was in love with her. Some rapper had written a whole song about wanting to wife her up. An NBA player had publicly said she was his dream woman. Even some British actor had mentioned her in an interview as his celebrity crush.

Lewis understood the hype completely.

He'd watched video after video—talk show appearances, red carpet interviews, behind-the-scenes footage from her projects. There was one clip of her dancing at some industry party, really dancing, and Lewis had watched it maybe fifteen times before he realized how obsessed he was acting.

"Fuck it," he'd muttered, and texted Spinz.

Lewis: Need you to do something for me.

Spinz: It's 2 AM, bro.

Lewis: I know what time it is. I need you to reach out to someone's talent agent. Get them to the Australian Grand Prix.

Spinz: Who?

Lewis sent her name, a link to her Instagram.

There was a long pause before Spinz responded.

Spinz: THE [her name]??? Bro, she's literally the most sought-after woman in entertainment right now. Every man with a pulse wants her.

Lewis: Good thing I'm not just any man with a pulse.

Spinz: You're serious about this?

Lewis: Dead serious. Reach out. Offer whatever we need to offer.

Spinz: Alright, man. I'll try. But don't get your hopes up. She's known for turning down these kinds of invitations.

Lewis didn't respond. He didn't do "don't get your hopes up." He'd built a career on manifesting what he wanted, on believing things into existence when everyone said they were impossible.

He wanted her. Simple as that.

Spinz reached out. Offered everything—VIP paddock access, travel arrangements, accommodations, the full Ferrari experience.

She declined. Prior commitments. Schedule conflicts. Maybe another time.

"Maybe another time" in celebrity-speak meant never.

But Lewis didn't give up easy. He'd gotten her number from a mutual friend in music, crafted a text that was casual but clear.

Lewis: Heard you turned down my GP invite. Can't say I'm not disappointed. Would've been good to meet you properly.

Two days of radio silence.

When she finally responded: Sorry, been swamped. Maybe next time you're in LA?

Maybe. Next time. As noncommittal as it gets.

Lewis grinned at his phone anyway. It was something.

Lewis: I'm in LA next week actually. Thursday work?

Another day: Thursday's tough. Maybe the week after?

He showed up the next week regardless. Made sure their mutual friend mentioned it. She texted with a coffee shop and a time.

He arrived early. Ordered her favorite—he'd done his homework. Waited.

She showed up twenty minutes late in an oversized hoodie and leggings that somehow still made her look incredible.

"Traffic," she said, sliding into the seat across from him. Not apologetic at all.

"You live ten minutes from here." He'd maybe looked that up.

She smiled. Those dimples. "Okay, fine. I was hoping you'd get bored and leave."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because most men do when you make them wait."

"I'm not most men."

"So I'm learning." She studied him, took the coffee he'd ordered without asking how he knew. "You know every man in Hollywood wants to date me, right?"

"I'm aware."

"And you think you're different because...?"

"Because I want to know you," Lewis said, leaning forward slightly. Not crowding her space but making his interest clear. "Not just date you. Not just sleep with you—though I absolutely want that too, let's be honest. But I want the real you. The one behind what you show cameras."

She blinked. Clearly hadn't expected that level of directness. "That's smooth."

"It's honest."

Two hours they talked. She was smarter than her bubbly persona suggested, more guarded than her openness in interviews implied. Passionate about creating opportunities for other artists of color. Funny in ways that surprised him. Sharp enough to keep him on his toes.

When they finally left, Lewis walked her to her car—a practical SUV, not the flashy sports car he'd expected—leaned against the driver's door.

"When can I see you again?"

"I don't know. I'm busy."

"Make time."

"You're confident."

"I know what I want." He let his eyes drop to her mouth. Back up. "And I want you."

She looked up at him. For just a second her guard dropped. He saw interest. Heat. Real attraction.

Then she smiled, patted his chest, slid past him into her car.

"We'll see," she said, and drove away.

Six weeks ago.

Since then it had been a game. He'd text, she'd respond eventually. He'd call, she'd let half of them go to voicemail. He'd send flowers—expensive, excessive arrangements—and her assistant would post them but she wouldn't mention them to him directly.

He sent gifts. First editions of her favorite books. Custom jewelry from a Black designer she'd talked about wanting to work with.

Each gift carefully chosen. Showing he paid attention.

She'd send polite thank you texts. Nothing more.

It was frustrating as hell. Made him want her even more.

Lewis been around beautiful women who'd been happy to fit his schedule, make things easy. He'd never been anti-relationship exactly—just never actively looking for one. Liked keeping things simple. Fun. Uncomplicated.

This woman was destroying all of that with her complete refusal to make anything easy.

And somehow that made it better.

Back on the Met Gala Carpet

Lewis finished his interviews and made his way inside, nodding at people, stopping for photos, playing his role.

But he was tracking her through the venue like a heat-seeking missile.

She was near the cocktail area, surrounded by people. Other celebrities, designers, photographers. She was magnetic, drawing people in with that laugh, those dimples, the way she made everyone feel seen.

Lewis had watched her do it in interviews. She had this gift of making people feel important, valued. It was part of why everyone loved her.

But he knew better. He'd seen glimpses of who she really was—sharper, more calculating, playing a game most people didn't realize was happening.

She wasn't the "good girl" the media painted her as. She was smart, strategic, in complete control.

And God, it was attractive.

He watched her touch some actor's arm, lean in to whisper something that made him laugh. Watched her adjust her posture slightly when she noticed cameras, tilting her chin to catch the light.

She was good. Really good.

Lewis waited until she was between conversations, then made his move.

"That dress is incredible," he said, appearing at her elbow, offering champagne from a passing waiter.

She turned, and for just a second something flickered in her eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by that practiced smile.

"Lewis. Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself."

His outfit had subtle details that only revealed themselves up close. He'd spent time on this look because he knew he'd see her tonight.

"Law outdid himself," Lewis said, gesturing to her dress. "Very Josephine Baker. I heard you talking about the inspiration."

"You were listening to my interview?"

"I always listen when you talk."

"That's a dangerous admission."

"Why dangerous?"

"Because now I know you're paying attention." She sipped her champagne, eyes never leaving his. "And I'll have to be more careful."

Christ, she was good at this.

"I've been paying attention for weeks," Lewis said, lowering his voice, stepping closer. "You know that."

"Have I?" Playing innocent.

"You're lying." He smiled. "You notice everything."

"Maybe." She looked up at him through her lashes. "Or maybe I'm just good at ignoring things that aren't important."

"And I'm not important?"

"I didn't say that."

"You're implying it."

"I'm implying that you're persistent. And I'm wondering if it's because you actually want me, or because I'm the first woman in a while who hasn't immediately said yes."

Lewis laughed, genuinely amused. "Can't it be both?"

"I suppose." She glanced around, nodded at someone, looked back. "But I'm not interested in being a conquest, Lewis. I'm not trying to be another woman who said yes to you just so you can move on."

"I don't want that either."

"Since when? You've never exactly been relationship material."

"Things change."

"Do they?" She was challenging him now, those eyes sharp. "Or did you just get bored with easy?"

"Maybe I realized easy isn't what I want anymore." He held her gaze. "Maybe I saw your video at 11 PM and realized I wanted something real for the first time in years."

That got her. He saw it—the way her expression shifted, guard dropping slightly.

"That's a pretty speech," she said softly.

"Not a speech. Truth."

"Dinner's starting soon." She broke eye contact first. "We should head in."

"We're sitting together."

"Are we?"

"I'm co-chair. I can make it happen."

She laughed, shook her head. "You're something else."

"So I've been told."

Lewis did make it happen. A quiet word with organizers, some seat adjustments, and suddenly she was next to him at dinner.

She raised an eyebrow at the place cards but didn't protest.

Dinner was elaborate—multiple courses, artistic presentations, servers explaining each dish. Lewis barely tasted any of it.

They talked through the meal. Easy on the surface, but underneath was constant tension. Every time her hand brushed his. Every time she laughed and her leg pressed against his under the table. Every time she looked at him with those eyes that saw right through him.

"Tell me something real," she said during the fourth course. "Something you don't tell everybody."

"Like what?"

"Like... what do you actually want? Not from racing. From life."

Most people asked about championships, records, goals. No one asked what he wanted from life.

"I want to build something that lasts," Lewis said after a moment. "Beyond racing. I want to create opportunities for people who look like me, who come from where I came from. I want to be remembered for more than just driving fast." He paused. "And I want someone to build that with. Someone real."

She nodded slowly. "I get that. Sometimes I feel like I'm performing so much—for auditions, for interviews, for cameras—that I forget which version is actually me."

"They're all you," Lewis said. "Just different parts. But I think the real you is sitting here right now, not this good girl persona thing....nah."

Her eyes flashed. "Who says I'm not a good girl?"

"Everything about you. The way you move, talk, look at me right now like you're deciding whether to let me in or shut me out." He leaned closer. "You're not a good girl. You know exactly what you want and how to get it. And right now, you want to make me work for it."

"Maybe I just want you to prove you're worth my time."

"Haven't I?"

"Not yet." But she was smiling, real this time. "But you're getting closer."

"What do I have to do?"

"I don't know yet." She took a sip of wine. "Surprise me. Show me something I haven't seen. Stop trying so hard and just... be yourself."

It was the most honest thing she'd said, and it hit him harder than expected.

"Alright," he said. "I can do that."

After dinner came dancing. The Met transformed into something between nightclub and art installation, music heavy, famous people letting loose in million-dollar outfits.

Lewis found her at the edge of the dance floor.

"Dance with me."

She looked at him, tilted her head. "Why?"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't need people talking about me being another one of Lewis Hamilton's girls."

"What if you're not?" He kept his hand extended. "What if we just have a good time tonight?"

She studied him for a long moment, like she was weighing whether he was worth the potential headache.

Finally, she took his hand. "One dance. You step on these Louboutins, I'm leaving."

"Deal."

The song was slow, heavy bass that you felt in your chest. Lewis pulled her close—one hand settling on her waist where fabric gave way to bare skin, the other holding hers. She fit against him like she was meant to be there.

They moved together easily. She followed his lead but also challenged it, made it a back-and-forth instead of just him leading.

"You're a good dancer," she murmured, close enough that he felt her breath on his neck.

"So are you. But I already knew that."

"From stalking my Instagram?"

"From doing my research." He grinned. "I'm thorough."

"That's one word for it." But she was smiling, those dimples appearing. "Most people would call it obsessive."

"Most people don't know what they want badly enough to go after it."

She pulled back slightly to look at him. In the low lighting, she looked different than she did in interviews—less performed, more real. "And what do you want, Lewis?"

"Tonight?" He let his eyes drop to her mouth, back up. "You. Just you."

"For what? A good time?"

"For whatever you'll give me." His hand splayed across her bare back, thumb brushing her skin. "I'm not picky."

She laughed, throaty and real. "You're trouble."

"So I've been told."

"I don't do trouble."

"Liar." He pulled her closer as the song shifted to something with more bass, more rhythm. "You love trouble. You just like being in control of it."

"You think you have me figured out?"

"Not even close. But I want to."

The song changed again—something more upbeat now, something that had people moving differently on the dance floor. She turned in his arms, her back to his front, and started moving in a way that made his breath catch.

"You good with this?" she asked over her shoulder, grinding against him to the beat.

Lewis's hands found her hips, fingers gripping that thin waist. "More than good."

She moved like she did in that video he'd watched too many times—confident, sensual, completely in control. Her ass pressed back against him, her body rolling with the music, and Lewis had to focus on keeping his breathing even.

"You're a bad, bad girl," he said in her ear, his mouth close enough to her neck that he could smell her perfume.

"And you like it."

"Never said I didn't."

She turned back to face him, hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders. "What's your endgame here, Hamilton?"

"Right now? Convincing you to come back to my place in SoHo."

She raised an eyebrow, still moving against him. "Does that usually work? That line?"

Lewis made a face—slight grimace, sheepish almost—that silently admitted yes, it usually did.

"Thought so." She laughed, shaking her head. "I'm not some ho you can sweet talk into bed."

"Never called you that." His voice was serious now. "Never even thought it."

"Then why you trying to get me to your place?"

"Is it so bad to say I want you all to myself?" He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. "No crowds, no performance, just you and me?"

She studied him, those sharp eyes looking for the lie.

"Plus," he added, grin returning, "my view is incredible. Can see all of Manhattan lit up at night. It's something else."

"Using your expensive view to lure women home now?"

"Is it working?"

"Maybe." She bit her lip, still moving with him. "But first, Colman's throwing an afterparty. You coming?"

**************************************************

Colman Domingo's afterparty was everything the Met Gala wasn't—looser, wilder, people actually letting go instead of performing for cameras. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and Lewis found himself in a corner with her, their bodies close in the packed space.

"I love this song," she said when something with a dirty bassline came on.

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm." She turned around again, pressing back against him, her hips moving in a slow grind that had his hands tightening on her waist. "You gonna keep up again?"

"Always."

For the second time that night, she moved on him like she was trying to drive him crazy—slow rolls of her hips, her ass pressing back against him, her head tilting back against his shoulder. Lewis's hands roamed—her waist, her hips, splaying across her stomach to pull her closer.

"You're really bad," he said in her ear.

"You already said that."

"Worth repeating."

She turned her head, lips close to his jaw. "You're not so innocent yourself. I can feel exactly what this is doing to you."

"Not trying to hide it."

"Good." She ground back against him harder, deliberate. "Don't start now."

The song shifted, something with more tempo, and she spun to face him. Her hands were on his chest, his neck, in his hair—touching him like she had every right to, like she'd been doing it for years instead of hours.

"What are you doing to me?" Lewis asked, his hands on her hips, pulling her flush against him.

"What you've been doing to me for weeks." She smiled, wicked. "Driving you crazy."

"It's working."

"I know."

"So come home with me."

"You don't give up, do you?"

"No, I don't."

She looked up at him, her expression shifting—something softer underneath all that bravado. "Don't waste my time, Lewis. I'm not interested in games."

"Neither am I."

"No?" She challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, you're very good at playing them."

"I told you that I know what I want." His thumb brushed her hip bone through the dress.

She was quiet for a moment, swaying with him even though the song had changed to something slower. Around them, people were dancing, drinking, laughing. But it felt like they were in their own world.

"Okay," she said finally.

"Okay?"

"Your place. But I'm not making any promises about what happens when we get there."

Lewis grinned, pulled her closer. "I'll take my chances."

************************************************

The elevator ride up was charged—Lewis backed against one wall, her against the other, the air between them crackling with want and anticipation.

"You're staring," she said.

"Can't help it."

"You've been staring at me all night."

"All six weeks, actually."

She smiled, shook her head. "You're persistent."

"Just a little bit."

The elevator dinged, doors opening to his penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed Manhattan lit up like a photograph, the city sprawling out in all directions.

"Okay," she admitted, walking toward the windows. "The view is pretty incredible."

"Told you." Lewis came up behind her, close but not touching. "You want something to drink?"

"Water's fine."

He went to the kitchen—sleek, modern, barely used since he was always traveling—grabbed two bottles of water. When he came back, she was still at the window, the city lights reflecting in her eyes.

"It's beautiful up here," she said softly. "Quiet."

"My favorite thing about it." He handed her the water, their fingers brushing. "Being up above all the noise."

She took a sip, then turned to face him. "So now what?"

"Now?" He set his water down, stepped closer. "Now we stop pretending we don't want this."

"Who says I'm pretending?"

"You are." His hand came up to her face, thumb brushing her cheek. "You've been playing hard to get since the coffee shop."

"And you've been eating it up."

"Never said I didn't like the chase." He stepped closer, his other hand finding her waist. "But I think we're done chasing now."

"Are we?"

"Unless you want to keep playing games."

She set her water down, both hands coming to his chest. "I don't play games, Lewis. I just don't give myself away easily."

"Good. I wouldn't want you to."

"No?" She tilted her head up, their faces close now. "What do you want then?"

"Right now?" His thumb traced her bottom lip. "To kiss you. To see if you taste as good as I've been imagining."

"And what have you been imagining?"

"A lot of things." His voice dropped lower. "Want me to show you?"

She studied him for a long moment—those sharp, intelligent eyes looking for any sign this was a game, a performance, anything but real.

Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because she smiled—small, genuine—and said, "Show me."

Lewis didn't need to be told twice.

He kissed her like he'd been thinking about for weeks—deep, thorough, taking his time. She tasted like champagne and mint, her lips soft and responsive. When she opened for him, when her tongue met his, Lewis felt it everywhere.

Her hands were in his hair, messing up the careful styling. His hands were on her waist, her back, pulling her closer until there was no space between them. The kiss went from exploratory to desperate fast—six weeks of want pouring into it.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Lewis rested his forehead against hers.

"Fuck," he breathed.

"Yeah." Her hands were still in his hair, her chest rising and falling against his.

"Worth the wait?"

"Maybe." But she was smiling, dimples out. "Kiss me again and I'll let you know."

So he did.

And again.

And somewhere between the third kiss and the fourth, between her laugh when he lifted her slightly off her feet and his groan when she bit his bottom lip, Lewis knew he was absolutely fucked.

Her fingers tugged at his shirt, pulling it free from his pants, while his hands roamed up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the fabric of her long dress. The dress was a nightmare—layers of buttons down the back, zipper snaking along the seam, all designed to tease and torment. He wanted her skin, bare and hot under his palms, but every time he fumbled with a button, it slipped or stuck, frustrating him more.

She laughed into his mouth, low and breathy, as his fingers worked at the top button near her collar. "Patience," she murmured, nipping at his jaw. "This dress isn't made for quick undressing."

"Fuck patience," he growled, his lips trailing down her neck, sucking at the pulse point that made her gasp. His hands slid lower, gripping her hips and pressing her against the edge of the couch. She arched into him, her body molding to his, and he could feel the heat of her through the layers. One hand slipped under the hem of her dress, fingers tracing up her thigh, finding the lace edge of her panties. She moaned softly when he cupped her ass, squeezing firmly.

Her hands weren't idle. She yanked his shirt open, buttons popping free and scattering across the floor. Her nails raked down his chest, over his abs and tattoos, making him hiss. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall, and captured her mouth again, tongues tangling in a wet, messy kiss. His dick strained against his pants, throbbing as she ground against him, her thigh slipping between his legs to rub just right.

He tried the zipper at her side next, tugging it down an inch, but it caught on the fabric.

"This thing," he muttered against her lips, "is going to be the death of me."

His other hand moved from her ass, fingers dipping under her panties to stroke her slick folds. She was wet already, her pussy clenching around his probing finger as he slid it inside her.

"Oh God," she whimpered, her head falling back. Her hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in as he pumped his finger slowly, thumb circling her clit. He added a second finger, curling them to hit that spot that made her buck against him.

But he wanted more. Needed her naked, spread out, taking him deep. Impatience surged through him like fire. With a frustrated grunt, he hooked his arms under her thighs and lifted her fully, her legs wrapping around his waist. She yelped in surprise, laughing as he carried her toward the living room rug, the soft expanse of it calling to him more than the bed right now.

He lowered her onto the rug, following her down, his body covering hers. The dress bunched up around her waist, buttons half-undone from his earlier efforts, but still in the way. He kissed her fiercely, one hand shoving the fabric aside to expose her breasts. No bra—thank fuck for that. He palmed one, thumb flicking her nipple until it hardened, then leaned down to suck it into his mouth, tongue swirling.

She arched beneath him, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. "Lewis…"

He switched to the other breast, biting gently, while his free hand yanked at the zipper again, finally getting it to give way partway. The dress parted like a reluctant flower, revealing more skin. But it wasn't enough. Growling, he sat back on his heels, grabbing the front placket and ripping the remaining buttons open with a sharp tug. They pinged across the room, forgotten.

Her eyes widened, a playful spark in them. "Impatient much?"

"You have no idea."

He shoved the dress off her shoulders, down her arms, exposing her completely from the waist up. Her brown nipples pebbled in the cool air. He leaned over her again, kissing her deep, his bare chest pressing against hers. His hands explored everywhere—squeezing her tits, tracing her ribs, dipping back between her legs to finger her pussy harder, faster.

She writhed under him, her own hands working at his belt, unbuckling it with frantic tugs. The zipper of his pants came down, and she palmed his dick through his boxers, stroking the hard length. He thrust into her hand, groaning into her mouth.

But then she pushed at his chest lightly, feigning a gasp of disapproval as he settled more firmly between her thighs, the rug soft under her back. "You're fucking me on the rug? I'm not good enough for the bed?"

Lewis grinned down at her, his eyes dark with lust, dick nudging against her through the thin barrier of fabric. "I fuck you all over this penthouse."

She arched a brow, her fingers tightening around him, squeezing just enough to make him hiss. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

He leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. "You wanna bet?"

Her laugh turned into a moan as he ground against her, the friction of his dick against her soaked panties sending sparks up her spine. Lewis's patience snapped like a taut wire. He pulled his boxers down then shoved her panties aside, not bothering to remove them, his fingers slick from her arousal as he positioned himself at her entrance. Her pussy lips parted eagerly, glistening and swollen, begging for him. He didn't think about protection—didn't want to. He craved the raw slide of her heat gripping him bare, nothing between them but sweat and need.

With a low grunt, he thrust forward, burying his dick deep in one smooth stroke. She was tight, so fucking tight, her walls clenching around him like a velvet fist, hot and wet, sucking him in deeper. Every inch stretched her, her pussy fluttering as it adjusted to his thickness, juices coating him until he was slick with her.

"Fuck, baby," he rasped, pulling back slowly before slamming in again, bottoming out against her cervix. "Your pussy's gripping me so good, like it never wants to let go. So wet for me, dripping all over my dick."

She cried out, a sharp whimper that melted into a moan, her body arching off the rug. Her nails dug into his shoulders, then slid down to brace against his pelvis as he started a brutal rhythm, hips snapping forward with deadly precision. Each thrust punched the air from her lungs, her pussy squelching around him, the obscene sound mixing with her gasps.

"Lewis—oh god, slow down," she whimpered, her hand pressing firm against his abs, trying to temper the force of his strokes. Her thighs trembled, inner muscles spasming as he hit that deep spot over and over.

He grabbed her wrist, pinning it to the rug above her head, his other hand hooking under her knee to lift her leg high. "No, take this dick, baby girl," he said, voice rough with lust. He draped her leg over his shoulder, opening her wider, the angle letting him drive even deeper. Her pussy stretched impossibly around him, walls rippling in protest and pleasure.

She moaned louder, head thrashing, her free hand clutching the rug fibers. "It's too much—fuck, you're so deep," she panted, but her hips bucked up to meet him, betraying her words.

Lewis leaned in, his mouth finding the delicate skin of her ankle, kissing it hot and open-mouthed before trailing licks down to her calf. He sucked at the muscle there, teeth grazing as he pounded into her relentlessly. His thumb found her clit, swollen and slick, rubbing tight circles that made her jolt.

"Feel that? Your little clit throbbing under my fingers," he murmured against her skin, nipping her calf.

Her whimpers turned to broken sobs of pleasure, body shaking as the pressure built. "Yes—oh fuck, yes, don't stop," she gasped. The rug burned against her skin, but she didn't care, lost in the raw stretch and rub of him inside her, his thumb relentless on her clit, his lips branding her leg.

Lewis kept his rhythm punishing, hips driving forward as her pussy clenched around his bare dick, her juices slicking every plunge. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a nasty kiss, tongues tangling wildly, saliva spilling between their lips. He sucked on her tongue, devouring her like he owned her, spit trailing from the corner of her mouth as she kissed back just as fiercely, moaning into him.

He broke away, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, to her exposed chest. Her breasts heaved with each breath, nipples hard and begging. He latched onto one, sucking hard, teeth nipping the peak until she arched with a gasp. Switching to the other, he bit down lightly, rolling the bud between his lips, tugging until it throbbed red and sensitive.

"Fuck, these tits," he muttered against her skin, giving one a final sharp suck before pulling back. But he wasn't done. His thrusts slowed to a halt, dick still buried deep as he slid down her body, hooking her legs over his shoulders. He pulled out with a wet pop, her pussy gaping slightly, pink and glistening.

She whimpered at the loss, but he dove in, mouth covering her folds, tongue plunging into her heat. He lapped at her entrance, tasting their mixed arousal, sucking her clit between his lips with firm pulls. Her hips bucked, thighs clamping around his head, heels digging into his back as she writhed beneath him.

She definitely tasted better than he imagined, and he was becoming a fein for her already.

"Oh shit, Lewis—you're such a munch," she gasped out, half-laughing through a moan, her fingers twisting in his hair.

He chuckled against her, the vibration making her jolt. "Damn right I am. Gonna eat this pussy till you break."

His tongue flicked faster over her clit, two fingers curling inside her, stroking that spongy spot relentlessly. She thrashed, legs squeezing tighter, body coiling like a spring.

Her orgasm hit like a storm, pussy convulsing as she screamed, a raw, guttural cry echoing off the penthouse walls. Clear fluid gushed from her, squirting in hot spurts over his chin and tongue. He drank her down, licking every drop, prolonging the waves until she shuddered bonelessly.

Only then did he lift his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with hunger. He stood briefly, shoving his pants and boxers down his thighs, kicking them aside. His dick stood rigid, veined and slick with her essence, balls heavy.

"Come 'ere," he rasped, reaching for her. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her up into his embrace. She melted against him, their mouths crashing together in a deep kiss, tongues sliding slowly and thoroughly, sharing the taste of her release.

As they kissed, his dick nudged her entrance, slipping right back in with ease, her walls welcoming him home. He sank to his haunches on the rug, settling her in his lap, her legs straddling his hips. No hesitation this time—she took every inch without a plea to slow, rocking down to meet him like she was built for this, for him.

Lewis gripped her ass, guiding her as he thrust up hard, really fucking her now. Her pussy gripped him like a vice, milking his length with every withdraw and slam, inner walls fluttering in perfect rhythm. Each plunge felt better than the last, her heat pulling him deeper, refusing to let go. He never wanted to leave this—her body molded to his, taking his dick like it was hers to claim.

Bhat. Bhat. Bhat. Bhat. The wet slaps of their bodies colliding filled the room, her pussy so juicy it soaked his thighs, the sounds obscene and rhythmic. Grunts escaped him with every drive, matched by her deep groans, nails raking his shoulders as she rode the intensity.

Pressure built low in his balls, coiling tight. He managed two more brutal thrusts, then a third, burying himself to the hilt as he came. Ropes of cum flooded her, thick and hot, filling her pussy until it overflowed, trickling warm down his thighs and onto the rug.

He yanked her close by the back of her neck, crashing their lips together in a messy kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding tight, both of them breathing raggedly, chests heaving. The kiss slowed, turning languid, tongues brushing softly as aftershocks rippled through them.

They broke apart, foreheads resting together, and she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. A sly smile curved her lips, that teasing glint returning. "So.... are you gonna keep that promise or not? All over this penthouse, was it?"

Lewis felt heat shoot through him despite the fact that they'd just—

"You're insatiable," he said, but he was already pulling her closer.

"You complaining?"

"Never."

She kissed him, deep and slow. "What are we doing then?"

Lewis grinned against her mouth. "You're getting that tour, sweetheart."

***********************************************

Lewis woke slowly, awareness returning in pieces. Sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His body sore in the best way. Sheets tangled around his legs. The scent of her perfume on his pillows.

And memories. God, the memories.

Her on the living room rug, Manhattan glittering behind her. Her on the kitchen counter, his name falling from her lips. Her in the shower, water cascading over both of them. Finally, to the bedroom where they'd finally collapsed, exhausted and satisfied and—

Lewis reached out, expecting warmth, expecting her.

The bed was empty.

He sat up, fully awake now, his heart starting to race. The bedroom was a disaster—sheets half on the floor, pillows everywhere, his Wales Bonner jacket draped over the chair, her dress in a puddle near the door. Evidence of last night everywhere.

Except her.

"No," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "No, no, no."

Had she just—had she fucked him and left? Just bounced without a word?

He leaned over to grab his phone off the nightstand, ready to call her, to text her, to figure out what the hell happened—

The toilet flushed.

Lewis froze.

Water ran in the bathroom. The sink. Someone washing their hands.

Then the door opened, and she came padding out wearing one of his t-shirts—the old Mercedes one he'd worn yesterday before changing for the Gala. It hung to mid-thigh on her, making her look smaller, softer. Her hair was an absolute disaster—the finger waves completely destroyed, sticking up in every direction, a proper bird's nest.

She looked perfect.

She caught him staring, paused. "What?"

"Thought I was gonna have to send out a missing persons report," Lewis said, relief flooding through him so intense it made him lightheaded.

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she climbed back into bed. "Dramatic much? I had to pee."

"You scared me."

"Good." She settled in next to him, curling into his side like she belonged there. "Keep you on your toes."

Lewis leaned over, cupped her face, and kissed her. Sweet this time, gentle, morning soft.

"Good morning, baby girl," he murmured against her lips.

She smiled—a real smile, those dimples appearing, her eyes soft in the morning light. "Morning."

They lay there for a moment, just breathing together, the city waking up outside the windows. Lewis traced lazy patterns on her shoulder, down her arm, not wanting to break the quiet peace of the moment.

"So," she said eventually, her voice still sleep-rough. "Last night was..."

"Incredible?" Lewis supplied. "Mind-blowing? The best night of my life?"

"Cocky." But she was grinning. "I was gonna say 'a lot.'"

"A lot good or a lot bad?"

"Definitely good." She pressed a kiss to his chest. "Very good. Though I don't know if I can walk properly today."

"That's the goal." He was absolutely not sorry.

She laughed, swatted his arm. "You're ridiculous."

"You like it though."

"Maybe." She propped herself up on her elbow to look at him properly. "So what happens now?"

"Now?" Lewis tucked a piece of her disaster hair behind her ear. "Now I make you breakfast. And then maybe we spend the day in bed. And then—"

"I meant with us, Lewis." Her voice was softer now, vulnerable in a way he hadn't heard before. "What is this? What are we doing?"

Lewis looked at her—really looked at her. This woman who'd made him chase her for weeks, who'd driven him crazy, who was now in his bed wearing his shirt looking at him like she was scared of the answer.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I know I don't want this to be just one night. I know I've been thinking about you for weeks and now that I've had you, I want you again. And again." He cupped her face. "I want to see where this goes. For real."

"No promises though, right? No expectations?"

"Just us figuring it out as we go." He kissed her softly. "That work for you?"

She studied him for a long moment, those sharp eyes looking for any sign he was playing her. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her because she nodded.

"Yeah. That works." She bit her lip, that teasing look returning. "So... about that Grand Prix invitation. Is that still on the table? Or was that just part of your game?"

Lewis felt his face break into a huge smile, so wide it almost hurt. "You want to come to a race?"

"Maybe. If the offer still stands."

"Baby girl, the offer always stood." He was already planning it in his head—getting her paddock access, making sure she had everything she needed, showing her his world. "When can you come? We've got Monaco in a few weeks, then Barcelona—"

"Monaco sounds good." She was smiling now too, those dimples out in full force. "I can probably clear my schedule."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She kissed him, slow and sweet. "Besides, I need to see what all the fuss is about. See if you're as good on the track as you are in bed."

"I'm better on the track."

"Impossible," she said, and the way she looked at him made Lewis's chest tight.

"Come to Monaco," he said. "Let me show you around."

"Okay." She settled back against his chest, her hand over his heart. "But you're explaining to Spinz why I'm suddenly accepting his invitations."

Lewis laughed, wrapping his arms around her. "Deal."

They lay there as the morning sun climbed higher, Manhattan coming alive outside the windows, and Lewis thought about how six weeks ago he'd seen her on a video and decided he wanted to know her.

Now she was here, in his arms, in his shirt, with his marks on her skin and her laugh in his ears and the promise of more tomorrows.

He'd chased her. He'd caught her.

And somehow, impossibly, it was even better than he'd imagined.

"Hey," she said softly, tilting her head to look at him.

"Yeah?"

"For what it's worth?" Her dimples appeared. "You were worth the wait too."