Untitled

The first time Lewis Hamilton kissed you, it was in a hotel room in Monaco that neither of you were supposed to be in.

You were twenty-three then, fresh out of university and trying to figure out what it meant to be Toto Wolff's daughter in the world of Formula 1 without being just Toto Wolff's daughter. You'd spent the evening at a team dinner, nursing a glass of wine and trying to ignore the way Lewis kept looking at you from across the table—not the polite, friendly glances he'd given you for years, but something else. Something that made your skin feel too tight, your breath too shallow.

When he texted you later that night—Room 2847. Just to talk. I promise.—you should have said no.

You didn't.

The door clicked shut behind you, and for a moment, you just stood there in the dim lamplight, taking him in. He was still in his dinner clothes, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal those tattooed forearms. His braids were pulled back, and there was something vulnerable in his expression that you'd never seen before.

"I shouldn't have asked you to come," he said, but he didn't move away when you stepped closer.

"Then why did you?"

"Because I can't stop thinking about you." His voice was rough, honest in a way that made your heart stutter. "And I know that's wrong. I know your father would kill me. I know you're too young for this, for me, but—"

You kissed him before he could finish. Before he could talk himself out of it. Before you could.

His hands came up to cup your face, gentle and reverent, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark with want and worry.

"We can't tell anyone," he whispered against your lips. "Not yet. Not until—"

"I know," you breathed. "I know."

That was the beginning of the secret that would consume the next two years of your life.

The thing about secrets is that they become their own kind of addiction.

Those first few months were intoxicating in a way you'd never experienced. Every stolen moment felt like a rebellion, a delicious defiance of the world that wanted to keep you apart. Lewis would text you at three in the morning—You awake?—and you'd slip out of your hotel room, heart pounding, to meet him in empty hallways or parking garages or the back of a car with tinted windows.

During race weekends, you became experts at the art of invisible proximity. You'd brush past each other in the paddock, his hand grazing the small of your back for just a second, and that brief touch would sustain you for hours. You learned the hidden corners of every track—the storage room behind the Mercedes hospitality suite in Barcelona, the unused garage in Silverstone, the shadowy space between the motorhomes in Monza where he'd pull you close and kiss you breathless while the world rushed by just meters away.

"You're so beautiful," he'd murmur against your neck, his hands sliding under your shirt, and you'd have to bite your lip to keep from making sounds that would give you away.

The hotel rooms became your sanctuary. Lewis would book them under fake names—Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson—and you'd meet him there after the crowds had dispersed, after your father had gone to his own room, after the world had stopped watching.

In those anonymous spaces, you could be real. You could be yourselves.

He'd order room service at midnight, and you'd eat strawberries and drink champagne in bed, talking about everything and nothing. He told you about his childhood, about the pressure of being the first, about the loneliness that came with being a legend. You told him about growing up in your father's shadow, about feeling like you had to be perfect all the time, about the fear that no one would ever see you as just you.

"I see you," he'd say, tucking your hair behind your ear. "I see exactly who you are."

And god, you believed him.

The sex was intense, consuming, the kind that left you marked and trembling and completely undone. He'd worship your body like it was sacred, taking his time, learning every sound you made, every place that made you gasp. Afterwards, he'd hold you close, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare shoulder.

"I wish we could stay here forever," you whispered once, in a hotel room in Singapore, rain pattering against the windows.

"Someday," he promised. "When the timing's right. When we can do this properly."

You wanted to ask when that would be, but you were afraid of the answer.

Carmen was the only person who knew.

George's girlfriend had caught you sneaking back to your room one morning in Bahrain, your hair messy, your lips swollen, wearing the same dress from the night before. She'd taken one look at you and known.

"Please don't tell anyone," you'd begged, tears springing to your eyes. "Please, Carmen. If my dad finds out—"

"Hey, hey," she'd pulled you into her room, sat you down on the bed. "I'm not going to tell anyone. But babe, are you okay? Is he treating you right?"

"He's everything," you'd whispered. "He's everything, Carmen."

She'd looked worried even then, but she'd hugged you tight and promised to keep your secret.

She became your lifeline, the only person you could talk to about the relationship that was slowly taking over your entire existence. When Lewis cancelled plans, when he went days without texting, when the secrecy started to feel less like excitement and more like shame, Carmen was there.

"He loves you," she'd assure you. "I can see it in the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching."

You held onto those words like a prayer.

Fourteen months in, Lewis surprised you with a trip to the Maldives.

"Pack a bag," he'd texted. "Meet me at the private terminal. We're going somewhere no one knows us."

The villa was paradise—overwater bungalow, crystal blue ocean, complete privacy. For five days, you existed as a real couple. He held your hand as you walked on the beach. He kissed you in the ocean with the sun setting behind you. He made love to you with the doors open, the sound of waves mixing with your moans, and you didn't have to be quiet.

On the third night, lying tangled in white sheets, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip, you said it.

"I love you."

He went still for a moment, and your heart stopped. Then he rolled over, cupping your face in his hands, his eyes intense and serious.

"I love you too," he said. "God, I love you so much it scares me."

"Then why are we still hiding?"

He sighed, pulling you closer. "Because the world is cruel, baby. Because the media would tear you apart. They'd say terrible things about you, about us. They'd make it ugly when it's the most beautiful thing I've ever had."

"I don't care what they say."

"I do." He kissed your forehead. "I care about protecting you. Your father would lose his mind. The age gap—people would say horrible things. They'd say I'm taking advantage of you, that I'm too old for you. I can't let them do that to you."

"So what do we do?"

"We wait," he said softly. "A few more years. Until you're older, more established in your own right. Until the timing is better. Then we can go public, do this properly. I promise."

You wanted to argue, but he kissed you, and the conversation dissolved into something else.

There were other trips after that—Bora Bora, a private villa in Ibiza, a secluded resort in Thailand. Each time, you'd exist in your bubble, playing house, pretending the outside world didn't exist. Each time, you'd believe him when he said someday.

Each time, someday felt a little further away.

Your father knew something was wrong.

Toto Wolff hadn't built a championship-winning team by being oblivious. He noticed things—the way you'd disappear during race weekends, the way you'd smile at your phone and then quickly hide it, the way you'd flinch when Lewis's name came up in conversation.

One evening in Austria, he'd knocked on your hotel room door.

"Liebling, can we talk?"

Your heart had hammered in your chest. "I'm tired, Papa. Can it wait?"

He'd studied you through the crack in the door, his expression unreadable. "Are you happy?"

The question had caught you off guard. "What?"

"Are you happy?" he repeated. "You seem... different lately. Distant. I worry about you."

"I'm fine," you'd said, too quickly. "Just stressed. You know how it is."

He'd looked like he wanted to say more, but he'd just nodded. "If you ever need to talk, about anything, I'm here. You know that, right?"

"I know, Papa."

But you'd closed the door, and the conversation had ended there.

The guilt of lying to him ate at you constantly. He'd given you everything, supported you unconditionally, and you were repaying him by sneaking around with one of his former drivers. The weight of it sat heavy in your chest, but not heavy enough to make you stop.

Nothing could make you stop. You were in too deep.

The cracks started showing around month nineteen.

Lewis became distant, preoccupied. He'd take hours to respond to texts that he used to answer within minutes. He'd cancel plans at the last minute—Sorry, baby, something came up with the team. When you did see him, he seemed distracted, like his mind was somewhere else.

And he started talking about the age gap more.

"Your dad would kill me if he knew," he'd say, pulling away when you tried to kiss him. "You're twenty-five. I'm forty. That's fifteen years."

"So what? We love each other."

"It's not that simple." He'd run his hands over his face, looking exhausted. "People would crucify me. They'd say I'm grooming you, taking advantage. Your whole life is ahead of you. You should be with someone your own age, someone who—"

"I don't want someone my own age. I want you."

But he wasn't listening anymore.

The sex changed too. It became less frequent, more mechanical. He'd hold you afterwards, but it felt different—like he was already somewhere else, already pulling away.

You tried to talk about the future, about when you'd finally go public, but he'd change the subject every time.

"Let's just focus on now," he'd say.

But now was slipping through your fingers, and you were powerless to stop it.

The end came in a hotel room in barcelona.

You'd had enough of the distance, the excuses, the feeling that you were losing him. So you'd confronted him, your voice shaking but determined.

"What's changed, Lewis? Why are you pulling away from me?"

He'd been standing by the window, looking out at the city lights, and he didn't turn around. "I think we need to talk."

Those five words made your blood run cold.

"I've been thinking a lot lately," he continued, his voice carefully controlled. "About us. About what we're doing. And I think... I think this was a mistake."

The room tilted. "What?"

"This whole thing. Us. It never should have happened." Now he turned, and his face was composed, almost clinical. Like he was discussing race strategy, not destroying your entire world. "You're too young. I'm too old. The age gap—it's not right. I should never have let it get this far."

"You said you loved me." Your voice was barely a whisper.

"I do love you. That's why I have to end this. Because I'm not good for you. Because being with me would ruin your life. The media attention, the scrutiny, the judgment—you don't deserve that. You deserve someone age-appropriate, someone who can give you a normal relationship, a normal life."

Tears were streaming down your face now, but you couldn't speak. Your throat had closed up completely.

"You have so much potential," he continued, and each word was a knife. "You're brilliant and beautiful and you have your whole life ahead of you. You should be out there, living it, not hiding in hotel rooms with a man old enough to be your father. I'm holding you back. I'm being selfish."

"Lewis—" you finally managed.

"This is for the best," he said firmly. "For both of us, but especially for you. Someday you'll understand. Someday you'll thank me."

"Don't," you choked out. "Don't do this to me. Please."

"I'm sorry." And he did look sorry, but not sorry enough to stay. "I really am. But this is over. It has to be."

You sat there on the edge of the bed, crying silently while he gathered his things. He paused at the door, looked back at you one last time.

"Take care of yourself," he said softly.

Then he was gone.

You stayed in that room for hours, curled up on the bed, sobbing into the pillows that still smelled like him. Your phone buzzed with texts from Carmen, from your father, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at them.

He'd said it was for your own good. He'd said you'd thank him someday.

But all you felt was shattered.

The next few weeks were a blur of grey.

You cancelled everything—race appearances, social events, dinners with friends. You told your father you were sick, told Carmen you needed space, told everyone who asked that you were fine when you were anything but.

You spent hours in your room, curtains drawn, scrolling through old text messages at four in the morning. Reading and rereading conversations, looking for signs you'd missed, trying to pinpoint the exact moment he'd started pulling away.

I love you so much it scares me.

Someday we'll do this properly.

You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.

All lies. They had to be lies, because if they were true, he wouldn't have left.

You deleted the photos—all those secret snapshots you'd taken when he wasn't looking, the selfies from your hidden holidays, the candid shots of him sleeping peacefully beside you. Each deletion felt like a small death, but looking at his face hurt too much.

Carmen called every day. You ignored her.

Your father knocked on your door, worry evident in his voice. You told him you were fine through the closed door.

You weren't fine. You were drowning.

Sleep became impossible. You'd lie awake, replaying the breakup conversation, analyzing every word, every inflection. It was a mistake. You're too young. This is for the best. The words looped endlessly in your mind, a cruel mantra.

Food tasted like ash. Colors seemed muted. The world continued spinning, but you were stuck, frozen in that hotel room, watching him walk away over and over again.

You told yourself it would get better. That time would heal this. That eventually, you'd be able to breathe again without it hurting.

You were wrong.

Two weeks after you'd finally started leaving your room, started pretending to be human again, Carmen sent you a link.

I'm so sorry. I didn't want you to find out this way.

Your hands shook as you clicked it.

The headline made your stomach drop: "Lewis Hamilton and Kim Kardashian Spark Romance Rumors After Cozy Night Out."

The photos were everywhere. Lewis and Kim at an after-party, his hand on her lower back. Lewis and Kim at a charity gala, her hand in his. Lewis and Kim on a yacht, laughing, touching, looking at each other the way he used to look at you.

You scrolled through article after article, each one a fresh wound.

"The Formula 1 champion and reality star were spotted getting cozy at..."

"Sources say they've been dating for a few weeks..."

"Kim was seen cheering Lewis on from the Ferrari paddock..."

The Ferrari paddock. Public. Visible. Everything he'd said he couldn't do with you.

More photos emerged over the following days. Lewis and Kim at a restaurant, no attempt to hide. Lewis and Kim at a movie premiere, walking the red carpet together, her hand in his, both of them smiling for the cameras. Lewis and Kim at a race, her wearing Ferrari red, him kissing her cheek in full view of everyone.

Every single thing he'd said he couldn't do with you, he was doing with her.

And Kim—Kim was everything he'd claimed to be afraid of. She was older than him. She was confident, established, famous in her own right. She was the opposite of you in every way.

Which meant You were the problem. You weren't enough. You weren't the right kind of woman. You weren't worth the risk.

The realization broke something fundamental inside you.

You'd believed him when he said he was protecting you. You'd believed him when he said the timing wasn't right. You'd believed him when he said it was about the age gap, about your father, about the media.

But it was all bullshit.

He just didn't want you enough.

Kim was worth going public for. Kim was worth the scrutiny, the judgment, the media attention. Kim was worth everything you weren't.

You stopped eating again. Stopped sleeping. Stopped pretending.

Carmen found you on your bathroom floor at three in the morning, sobbing so hard you couldn't breathe.

"He replaced me," you gasped. "He replaced me with her. He's doing everything with her that I wanted to do with him. Everything he said we couldn't do."

"I know, babe. I know." She held you while you fell apart. "He's a fucking asshole. He doesn't deserve you."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? You didn't want to be deserving of someone better. You wanted to be deserving of him.

And apparently, you weren't.

"You have to go to this race."

Carmen was standing in your living room, arms crossed, wearing her most determined expression. You were on the couch in sweatpants and one of your father's old Mercedes shirts, looking like death warmed over.

"No."

"Yes. Mercedes is having an incredible season. George and kimi are winning races. Your dad needs you there. The team needs you there."

"I can't." Your voice cracked. "I can't see him, Carmen. I can't watch him with her."

"Kim won't be there. She's in LA for some event. It'll just be Lewis, and you can avoid him. The paddock is huge."

"I said no."

"And I'm saying you don't get a choice anymore." Carmen sat down beside you, her voice softening. "Babe, you can't hide forever. You can't let him take this from you too. Formula 1 is your world, your family's legacy. You can't let him steal that."

"He already stole everything else."

"Then don't let him have this too." She grabbed your hand, squeezed it. "Come to the race. Hold your head high. Show him that he didn't break you."

But he had broken you. You were shattered into so many pieces you didn't know how to put yourself back together.

Still, three days later, you found yourself getting ready for the Monaco Grand Prix.

You chose your outfit carefully—a sleek black dress that made you look older, more sophisticated, more like the kind of woman Lewis apparently wanted. You did your makeup meticulously, covering the dark circles under your eyes, adding color to your pale cheeks. You styled your hair in loose waves, the way Lewis used to love.

Then you looked at yourself in the mirror and wanted to cry.

You were trying to be someone you weren't. Trying to be enough. Trying to be worth it.

"You look beautiful," Carmen said from the doorway.

"I look desperate."

"You look strong."

You didn't feel strong. You felt like you were about to shatter.

But you went anyway.

The Monaco paddock was chaos, as always—a crush of people, cameras, noise, energy. You walked beside Carmen, your father somewhere ahead in meetings, and tried to keep your breathing steady.

You can do this. Just a few hours. Smile, wave, avoid Ferrari hospitality. You can do this.

You were so focused on not looking toward the Ferrari garage that you didn't see him until you'd literally collided with him.

The impact was gentle, but it might as well have been a car crash for how it affected you.

"Sorry, I—" The voice stopped abruptly.

You looked up.

Lewis was standing right in front of you, close enough to touch, wearing Ferrari red that looked wrong on him, so wrong. His eyes widened when he saw you, his expression shifting from surprise to something that looked almost like pain.

"Y/N," he said softly, and the sound of your name in his voice after weeks of silence broke something inside you.

The tears came instantly, hot and humiliating, spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but stand there and fall apart in front of him, in front of everyone.

"I—I can't—" you gasped, and then you were turning, walking away as fast as you could without running, your vision blurred with tears.

"Y/N, wait!" His voice behind you, urgent. "Please, just wait—"

But you couldn't wait. You couldn't stand there and look at him and pretend you were okay. You couldn't—

His hand caught your arm gently, and you let him pull you into a secluded area between the motorhomes—one of your old hiding spots, where you used to meet in secret, where he used to kiss you like you were the only thing that mattered.

The irony was devastating.

"Please, just let me—" he started.

The slap came before you'd even decided to do it.

Your palm connected with his cheek hard enough that the sound echoed in the small space, hard enough that his head snapped to the side, hard enough that your hand stung.

He stared at you, shocked, his hand coming up to touch his reddening cheek.

And then everything you'd been holding in for weeks came pouring out.

"You broke me," you sobbed, your voice raw and jagged. "You completely fucking broke me, Lewis."

He opened his mouth, but you didn't let him speak.

"I loved you. I loved you so much it consumed me. I would have done anything for you—I did do anything for you. I lied to my father every single day. I hid in shadows. I made myself small and quiet and secret because you asked me to. Because you said it was to protect me. Because you said the timing wasn't right."

Your chest was heaving, tears streaming freely down your face, and you didn't care anymore. Didn't care who might hear. Didn't care about anything except making him understand what he'd done to you.

"And I believed you. God, I was so stupid. I believed every word. When you said you loved me, I believed you. When you said we'd go public someday, I believed you. When you said it was about protecting me from the media, from my father, from the world—I fucking believed you."

"Y/N, please—" His voice was thick, his eyes glassy.

"No. You don't get to talk. Not yet." You stepped closer, your finger jabbing into his chest. "You want to know what the worst part is? It wasn't even the breakup. It was the lies. Everything you said to me was bullshit. 'You're too young.' 'The age gap is too much.' 'The media would destroy us.' But then two weeks later—two weeks, Lewis—you're all over the tabloids with Kim fucking Kardashian."

He flinched like you'd slapped him again.

"You're parading her around like a trophy. Red carpets. Yachts. The fucking Ferrari paddock where everyone can see. You're doing everything—everything—you told me we couldn't do. So what was it really? What was the real reason you threw me away?"

"That's not—I didn't throw you away—"

"Then what do you call it?" Your voice cracked, broke completely. "What do you call telling someone you love them and then discarding them like they meant nothing? What do you call replacing them before the bed's even cold?"

"It wasn't like that—"

"Then what was it like?" You were screaming now, you didn't care. "Tell me, Lewis. Make it make sense. Because from where I'm standing, the only logical conclusion is that I wasn't good enough. I wasn't worth the risk. I wasn't worth fighting for. Kim is older, more famous, more established—she's everything you told me you were afraid of, but apparently she's worth it. So what does that make me?"

"You're twisting this—"

"Am I?" Tears dripped from your chin onto your dress. "You loved me enough to fuck me in secret for two years, but not enough to be seen with me in public. Kim gets two weeks and a red carpet. So tell me how I'm twisting anything. Tell me how that doesn't mean I was just... not enough."

Your voice broke on the last word, and suddenly all the anger drained out of you, leaving only the grief. You wrapped your arms around yourself, feeling small and pathetic and so, so broken.

"I haven't slept in weeks," you whispered. "I can't eat. I can't function. I look at my phone and I still expect to see your name. I wake up reaching for you and then I remember you're gone, and it destroys me all over again. Every single morning, I have to remember that you don't want me anymore."

"That's not true—"

"You ruined me, Lewis." You looked up at him through your tears, and your voice was small and devastated. "You were my first real love do you know that. You were everything to me. And you treated me like I was disposable. Like those two years meant nothing. Like I meant nothing."

He was crying now too, silent tears tracking down his face, but you couldn't stop. It was all pouring out like blood from a wound that had never been allowed to heal.

"I gave you everything. My trust, my body, my heart—everything. I would have waited forever if you'd asked me to. I would have stayed secret forever if that's what you needed. But you didn't even give me a choice. You just... ended it. And then you immediately moved on like I never existed."

"You did exist. You do exist. What we had was real—"

"Was it?" Your laugh was bitter, broken. "Because it doesn't feel real anymore. It feels like a lie. Like I imagined the whole thing. Like I made up this fantasy where you actually loved me when really, you were just killing time until someone better came along."

"Stop. Please stop." His voice was wrecked, pleading. "You're killing me."

"Good," you spat, even as fresh tears spilled over. "Now you know how it feels."

"It's not what you think," he said desperately, his hands reaching for you but not quite touching. "Kim—it's just PR. My management set it up. Ferrari wanted the publicity, she wanted the exposure, and they thought it would be good for my image. It's fake. All of it. The photos, the appearances—it's all staged."

You stared at him, and something inside you went very still.

"It's you," he continued, his voice breaking. "It was always you. I never stopped—I still love you. I think about you every single day. I hate myself for what I did, for how I ended things. But my management, they told me it couldn't work. They said the age gap would destroy my reputation, that your father would make things difficult, that the media would crucify both of us. They wouldn't allow it. They said I had to end it."

The anger drained out of you completely, leaving behind something far worse. A hollow, aching sadness that made your whole body feel heavy.

When you spoke, your voice was barely a whisper.

"If you really loved me, you would have fought for me."

He flinched like you'd struck him again.

"You would have told your management to go to hell. You would have said I was worth it, worth the risk, worth everything. But you didn't." Tears slipped silently down your cheeks now, and you didn't bother wiping them away. "You chose your image over me. You chose your reputation. You chose what was easy."

"It wasn't—"

"Kim is a PR stunt, but you're still doing it. You're still parading her around. You're still choosing to be seen with her instead of fighting to be seen with me." Your voice was so quiet now, so defeated. "If you loved me the way you say you do, you would have fought. You would have told them no. You would have chosen me."

"You don't understand the pressure—"

"I understand that love is supposed to be worth fighting for." Your words came out broken, each one an effort. "I would have fought for you. I would have fought the whole world for you. My father, the media, everyone—I would have burned it all down to be with you. But you didn't fight at all. You just... gave up. You gave up on us without even trying."

"I was trying to protect you—"

"No." You shook your head slowly. "You were protecting yourself. And that's fine. That's your choice. But don't stand here and tell me you love me when you weren't willing to fight for that love. Don't tell me I was everything when you chose nothing instead."

The devastation on his face was complete, but it didn't make you feel better. Nothing could make you feel better.

"Real love fights," you whispered. "Real love risks everything. Real love doesn't need permission from management. And if you didn't love me enough to fight for me, then maybe you never really loved me at all."

"That's not true—"

"Then prove it." Your eyes met his, and they were empty now, all the fire burned out. "Leave her. Tell your management no. Tell Ferrari no. Choose me. Right now. Prove that I was worth it."

The silence stretched between you, heavy and terrible.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away.

And in that hesitation, you had your answer.

"That's what I thought," you said softly.

You turned to go, but his voice stopped you one more time.

"Please, Y/N. Just listen—"

"No." The word came out strangled, and you could feel yourself breaking apart again, fresh tears burning hot trails down your cheeks. "No, I'm done listening to you."

"If you would just let me explain—"

"Explain what?" You whirled back to face him, and the tears were coming faster now, your vision swimming. "Explain how you looked me in the eye and told me you saw me—the real me—and made me believe that meant something? That girl you said you saw, Lewis? She's gone. You destroyed her."

His face crumpled. "Don't say that—"

"It's true. That girl who believed in love, who believed in you, who thought she was enough—she doesn't exist anymore. You killed her when you walked out that door in Barcelona." Your voice was shaking violently, your whole body trembling. "And I don't know who I am without her. I don't know how to be anyone else."

"Y/N—"

"I was enough before you. I was whole. And then you came along and you made me believe in something beautiful and then you ripped it away, and now I'm just... broken. I'm just pieces of a person who used to exist."

"Please don't—"

"Just leave me alone, Lewis." The words came out as a sob. "Please. Just leave me alone."

"I can't—"

"You did it before." You were backing away from him now, your hands held up like you could physically ward him off. "You left me before. So do it again. Just go. Please just go."

"Let me help—"

But you couldn't hear any more. Couldn't stand there and let him see you fall apart like this. Couldn't let him witness what he'd reduced you to.

So you ran.

You pushed past him and ran through the paddock, not caring who saw you, not caring about the tears streaming down your face or the mascara probably running down your cheeks. You just ran, your heels clicking frantically against the pavement, your breath coming in gasps, until you found yourself in the Mercedes motorhome bathroom, the door locked behind you, sliding down to the floor.

And there, alone, you let yourself shatter completely.

You stayed on that bathroom floor until Carmen found you. She didn't say anything, just sat down beside you and held you while you cried yourself empty.

When you finally went back out, Lewis was gone. The race was starting. The world kept spinning.

You stood in the Mercedes garage beside your father, watching George take pole position, and felt absolutely nothing.

"Are you alright, Liebling?" Toto asked quietly.

"No," you said. It was the first honest thing you'd said to him in two years. "But I will be."

He pulled you into his side, kissed the top of your head. He didn't ask questions. He just held you.

On the podium, George sprayed champagne and smiled for the cameras. Somewhere in the paddock, Lewis was doing press interviews, pretending to be fine.

And you stood there, broken but standing, and realized something.

You couldn't control whether Lewis fought for you. You couldn't control whether you were enough for him.

But you could control whether you fought for yourself.

It would take time. It would take therapy and tears and probably more nights on bathroom floors. It would take learning who you were outside of loving him, outside of being his secret.

But you would heal. Not today. Not tomorrow.

But someday.