F1 GIRLIE

I could hardly believe it. The crowd around me was ecstatic, a sea of fans screaming, jumping, celebrating. Max had just secured his championship, but all I could focus on was the man standing on the podium, champagne dripping from his race suit, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face.

Lewis had done it. Without me.

The weight of that realization settled into my bones. He had just achieved one of his best results of the year, and I wasn’t there. I wasn’t in his garage, cheering him on. I wasn’t at the paddock, waiting to embrace him. I wasn’t part of his moment. And worst of all, it didn’t seem like he needed me to be.

I felt like a ghost, as if I had erased myself from his life before he had the chance to.

The shame crept in deeper. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just move on, like Franco told me to?

I clenched my fists, blinking back the rising emotion in my throat. I needed to get out of here. The noise, the flashing images of Lewis smiling, the reminder of what I’d lost—it was too much.

I turned on my heel, pushing through the crowd, heading down the stairs as fast as I could. I couldn’t watch anymore. I didn’t want to see his face on the screen, to witness the moment that solidified my irrelevance in his life.

---

I found myself hovering near the entrance to the Williams garage, unsure of what I was even doing there. Maybe it was muscle memory—after all, for weeks now, Franco had been the place I ran to when everything else felt like it was crumbling. Maybe I just needed familiarity.

I spotted him instantly, standing near his strategist, talking with one of his mechanics. His expression was serious, his body language stiff with frustration. He looked annoyed, no doubt disappointed with his own race. I wondered if he had even noticed where Lewis had finished, or if he even cared.

A photographer passed by, nearly brushing my shoulder. I suddenly felt suffocated by the crowd, the flashing cameras, the F1 staff buzzing around. It felt like everyone was looking at me. Like everyone knew.

I ducked my head down, folding my arms tightly over my chest as I lingered near the back.

After a few minutes, Franco’s eyes found mine across the garage. His frustration seemed to soften slightly as he excused himself from the conversation and made his way over to me, his strides easy but purposeful.

Without hesitation, he gently guided me down the hall, toward his driver’s room.

“What?” he asked, scanning my face the moment the door clicked shut behind us.

“Nothing… I’m just… I don’t know? Anxious,” I admitted, rubbing my forehead.

He smirked slightly, leaning back against the doorframe. “You? No way.”

His teasing tone made me roll my eyes, but it didn’t shake the nerves buzzing under my skin.

Franco turned and started peeling off his race suit, unzipping it and stepping out of the fireproofs underneath. I swallowed as my eyes trailed over his toned body, his abs flexing as he pulled the damp shirt over his head. He caught my gaze and smirked.

“You’re staring, hermosa,” he said, his voice low.

I scoffed, turning my attention away. “You wish I was staring.”

He laughed before walking over to the small bathroom, flipping on the shower and leaving the door cracked as steam started filling the air.

“That was shit,” he called through the open door. “Pretty bad race for me.”

I sat down on the couch, still feeling the residual anxiety from earlier. “You’ll get over it.”

“Oh, I will,” he said confidently. “And I think we should go out. Celebrate. Or at least let Vegas entertain us.”

I raised a brow, surprised. “Go out? Clubbing?”

“Yes!” he responded enthusiastically. “Come on, hermosa, we don’t have to stay out late. I’m exhausted anyway. But we should at least have fun, no?”

I hesitated, chewing my lip. I wasn’t sure I was in the mood for a club, but… maybe this was exactly what I needed. Maybe drowning in loud music and expensive cocktails would make me forget about Lewis standing on that podium.

Maybe it would help me forget him altogether.

“…Fine,” I finally agreed.

“Good girl,” he teased.

I rolled my eyes. But as I sat there listening to the sound of water running and feeling the weight of the night pressing down on me, I decided—tonight, I was going to let loose. No guilt. No Lewis. Just me and Franco.

---

The Uber ride was a blur of neon lights and F1 advertisements. Everywhere I looked, Lewis’s face was plastered on massive posters, flashing across casino billboards. It was inescapable.

I forced myself to focus on Franco, who was beside me, warm and solid. He reached for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, and leaned in to press soft kisses to my cheek, moving closer to my lips each time.

“Let’s have fun, no?” he murmured between kisses. “Enjoy yourself, maybe?”

I exhaled, smiling as I finally kissed him back. His hands moved to my waist, slowly sliding up to my chest, squeezing me. I hummed against his lips, already feeling lighter, letting myself enjoy the way he made me feel—present, wanted, free.

I don’t need Lewis. I don’t need him. I don’t need…

The thought drifted away as the car pulled up to an exclusive club, where the line was long, and the cover charge was an insane $500. But just as we approached, I heard an unmistakable Dutch accent.

“Lovely! Lovely place!” Max Verstappen called out, already tipsy as he stumbled toward the entrance. Before we could react, he threw his arms around Franco and me, leading us inside like VIPs.

Thank god he loves his gin and tonics.

---

The music was deafening, the lights flashing wildly over the packed dance floor. Bottles of expensive champagne lined our table, courtesy of Max, who was laughing drunkenly with some of his Red Bull crew.

The drinks kept coming, and before I knew it, I was… drunk. Really drunk. More than I would usually allow myself to be.

Lewis wouldn’t like this, a small voice in the back of my head reminded me. Lewis would never let me get this drunk.

I downed another drink. Well, screw that.

The music pulsed through my body as Franco pulled me onto the dance floor, his hands gripping my hips as we moved together. Intentionally, grinding into him, making his eyes darken on me.

“You’re so cute,” he murmured in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “Having fun?”

I giggled, nodding. The alcohol flooded my system, making everything feel lighter, bigger, better. I pressed closer to him, our bodies moving in sync, my lips trailing along his jaw. I felt his grip tighten on me, his hands never leaving my body.

I liked this side of him. Attentive. Possessive.

I could get used to this.

After what felt like hours, I started to feel overwhelmed, the heat of the club and the alcohol making my head spin.

“Water,” I slurred, leaning against Franco.

He nodded, guiding me back to the table.

———

The music throbbed through the club, a deep bass vibrating in my chest as the flashing lights painted streaks of red and blue across Franco’s face. The night had been electric—intoxicating, reckless, necessary. Everything about it had been a perfect escape from the chaos I’d left behind. The moment I walked into the club with Franco, I had sworn to myself that I wouldn’t think about Lewis tonight. That I couldn’t.

But now, standing in front of the VIP section, his eyes locking onto mine across the crowded room, I knew I had failed. Miserably.

My heart lurched violently, a sickening drop that made my stomach churn. I should’ve expected it. This was Vegas. Lewis was Lewis. Of course, he’d be here, somehow looking as effortlessly magnetic as ever.

He was mid-conversation with Max, a drink in his hand, laughter on his lips—but when Max pointed toward us, and Lewis followed his gaze, his smile faltered. The room didn’t feel so fun anymore. The music didn’t feel so loud. The warmth of alcohol in my system suddenly wasn’t enough to dull the overwhelming feeling of oh shit.

I shifted on my heels, swaying slightly, my head still dizzy from the drinks and dancing. Franco, who had just handed me my water, caught sight of Lewis too. His entire posture stiffened. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his fingers instinctively curling around my waist, as if that would somehow shield me from whatever was about to happen.

The moment Max pointed in our direction, I knew I was screwed.

Lewis’s gaze locked onto mine, his easy, charming laughter freezing mid-sentence as his expression shifted. His dark eyes flickered, scanning the scene in front of him—me, tangled up in Franco’s arms, both of us flushed, drunk, looking every bit like we were exactly what he suspected.

His lips parted slightly, almost like he was trying to process the sight of me, here, with him.

I didn’t know what to do. My body felt like it had turned to lead, my stomach twisting into something awful.

Franco stiffened next to me, his hand on my lower back instinctively pressing me closer. But I knew it wasn’t just out of possessiveness—it was defense.

Because we both knew exactly what we were dealing with.

Lewis wasn’t a man who needed to yell. He wasn’t a man who needed to cause a scene to get his message across. His power was quiet, unshakable. He didn’t need to remind people of who he was. They already knew.

And right now, Franco and I were both looking at a man who had the ability to take everything away.

Lewis took a slow sip of his drink, his fingers tapping against the glass, as he turned slightly, fully facing us now.

“Max,” he said smoothly, without looking away from me, “you’ve had a few too many. Might want to sit down before you start making things worse.”

Max, blissfully unaware of the situation he had just made infinitely worse, laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Ah, come on, mate. Just having a good time.”

Lewis’s eyes finally flicked to Franco, assessing him for a moment, before settling back on me. He looked… amused. But not in a way that made me feel any relief.

His tongue ran across his teeth before he spoke, his voice low and calm.

“Well,” he said, tilting his glass toward Franco slightly, “I hope you’ve been enjoying yourself, kid.”

Franco’s jaw tensed. I felt it in the way his muscles flexed beside me, the way his grip on my waist subtly shifted. But he didn’t take the bait. He didn’t say anything.

Lewis let the silence hang for a moment, a small smirk playing on his lips.

Then, in that same smooth, level tone, he said, “Shame, though. It’d be unfortunate if you didn’t have a seat next year.”

My stomach dropped.

I felt my body go rigid, my breath catching in my throat. My already-drunk mind struggled to process what I’d just heard.

The words were casual, offhanded, said with the ease of someone discussing the weather. But the weight behind them? The power behind them? It was devastating.

Because Lewis could do that. He could make sure Franco never touched an F1 car again. He had the influence. The connections. If he wanted Franco gone, it wouldn’t take more than a few calls to ensure every door in the paddock shut in his face.

And Franco knew it.

I felt his whole body go tense beside me, his shoulders rising with barely concealed anger. His fingers twitched against my back, but still—he didn’t react.

That was the thing about threats from someone like Lewis. They didn’t need to be loud. They didn’t need to be said twice.

Franco forced a smirk, exhaling through his nose. “That’s funny,” he said, keeping his voice light, but I could hear the steel underneath it. “Didn’t realize you were in charge of Williams’ contracts now.”

Lewis gave him a small, knowing smile. “I don’t need to be.”

It was so subtle. So quiet. But it made my stomach churn.

Franco’s arm around me felt heavier now, like he was holding onto me for balance. My pulse was racing, and for the first time in a while, I felt a real, gnawing fear.

Because Lewis wasn’t bluffing.

I knew him. I knew his influence. And I knew that if he wanted to, he could make this happen.

The tension between the three of us was suffocating, the noise of the club fading into a dull hum in the background.

“Y/N,” Lewis finally said, his voice shifting slightly, “You should probably drink some water.”

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. I nod, like an idiot.

I knew what he was doing. He was playing this like a game of chess, always three moves ahead, always controlling the room without even raising his voice.

I felt Franco shift beside me, and before he could speak, I reached for his arm, gripping it lightly.

I needed to de-escalate this.

I needed to get out of here.

But before I could say anything, Lewis’s expression shifted just slightly. His eyes dropped down, just for a second, to where Franco’s hand rested on my waist.

When he looked back up at me, something darker flickered behind his gaze.

“Enjoy your night,” he said smoothly, before downing back the rest of his drink and walking away, back towards his friends, like he had never had this conversation at all.

I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath.

Franco’s hand on my waist tightened. “That,” he said, voice low, “was not good.”

I shook my head, my head spinning for multiple reasons. “No,” I muttered. “It wasn’t.”

I glanced toward where Lewis had disappeared, my chest tightening painfully. The way he spoke, the way he owned the room without lifting a finger, the way he could take someone’s career and crush it without even trying…

I felt sick.

I had broken his heart. And now?

Now he was reminding me that no one crosses Lewis Hamilton without consequences.

————————————-

LOL idk 😭😭 guys I’m trying!!!

Please give me feedback on what you’d like more off/ less of!

ALSO IM SO HAPPY TO BE BACK YAYYY💟

Like.. okay slay delusional we love it!

But actually… it’s kinda not… that… vibe..

Basically she praises Lewis to the MAX (as he deserves) but the moment AND I MEAN THE MOMENT, Lewis is spotted with a woman…

Girl she didn’t like that…

I kinda went down a rabbit hole to find SEVERAL “anonymous” twitter accounts who seem to be dedicated to … like.. hating on her? Idk. They are constantly fighting with her on Twitter.

The odd thing to me is that these other accounts straight up tweet about this crazy user but don’t even tag her?

I was sitting there reading all this like “wait a minute..”

I wouldn’t be surprised if all the accounts are literally just her..

I also wouldn’t be surprised if it’s all a JOKE. Like… there’s no way…

ALSO

She straight up DM’d a random man on Twitter and said ALL THAT because he said something about her…

Then

She said this LOL

She also constantly tweets like she’s Lewis’s personal assistant or like… she knows him closely.

I have to be honest.. this has to be 100% fake?? Like there’s no way she’s Fr?

Neither thought brought me comfort.

I was sitting in Franco’s hotel room earlier, scrolling through my phone as I tried to figure out what to do. Texts between us had been frequent, but his most recent one had left me feeling more conflicted than ever.

**Franco:** *You could come… but maybe you should do something else?*

**Me:** *I know, but I feel like I should support Lewis.*

**Franco:** *I don’t think so.*

I sighed in frustration, staring at the screen. Franco’s tone in text was as calm and measured as ever, but his words felt like a subtle warning. He didn’t want me at the track. Maybe he thought it would stir up more drama. Maybe he didn’t want to risk running into Lewis. Or maybe… maybe he didn’t want to share me.

I didn’t respond. Instead, like the idiot I am, I opened a new text to Lewis. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting over and over again.

*I’m sorry.* Delete.

*I shouldn’t have done what I did.* Delete.

*Are you okay?* Delete.

Nothing felt right. No words could bridge the canyon between us. And yet, I still found myself heading to the track, my credentials burning a hole in my pocket. I wasn’t sure who I was there for—Lewis or Franco—but something inside me said I needed to be there.

---

The Vegas track was as dazzling as the city itself, every corner lit up with neon and flashing lights. The air was crisp, almost biting, and I pulled my coat tighter around me as I moved through the hospitality area, keeping my head down. My heart was racing, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the anxiety of running into either of them. I texted Franco to let him know I was there, but his reply was short, almost dismissive: *Okay.*

I decided to find somewhere quieter, away from the crowds and the chaos. My feet led me to a spot Lewis had shown me once—behind the Haas motorhome, where it was quieter, less busy. I leaned against the wall, the noise of the crowd muffled by the distance. My thoughts raced as I stared at the ground, trying to make sense of why I’d come.

Was I here to support Lewis? To apologize? To make things right? Or was I here because I wanted to see Franco, to feel the way he made my heart race and forget all the guilt I carried?

I didn’t have an answer.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the sound of approaching footsteps until they were too close. When I looked up, my heart stopped. Lewis was standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable, his eyes locking onto mine like he’d been searching for me.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The tension between us was thick, heavier than the chill in the air. I pushed off the wall, standing straighter as I tried to gather my thoughts.

“Lew—”

“You came—”

We both spoke at the same time, our words colliding awkwardly before falling into silence again. I swallowed hard, my nerves making it impossible to think straight.

“I didn’t know you were going to come,” he said, his voice low but steady.

“Well… I wasn’t sure if I should,” I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. “I just…”

I trailed off, unsure of how to explain myself without giving too much away. His eyes stayed on me, sharp and calculating, like he was trying to figure out what had changed about me in the last 24 hours.

“I saw you hadn’t left Vegas yet,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, more serious now.

I blinked, surprised. “You… you’ve been looking at my location?” My voice came out more accusatory than I’d planned.

He shrugged, his gaze hardening just a little. “Of course I have. What did you expect? You disappear into another hotel, don’t tell me where you are, and I’m just supposed to act like I don’t care?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

“Why didn’t you just get another room at my hotel? You didn’t have to go to another one,” he said, his voice sharp and edged with irritation.

I shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “Well, I didn’t exactly know what to do because you kicked me out,” I shot back, sharper than I meant to. My frustration was bubbling to the surface, and I couldn’t hold it back.

His expression shifted, a flicker of guilt crossing his face before it hardened again. “I didn’t kick you out, Y/N. I asked you to leave because I needed time to think. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, is there?” I retorted, my voice rising slightly. “Because it felt pretty clear to me.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his composure faltering for just a moment. “I needed space, okay? I needed to figure out what the hell to do after… after what you told me.”

My heart ached at the pain in his voice, the way his words cracked slightly as he tried to keep his emotions in check. I wanted to apologize, to explain myself, but I didn’t know where to start. Everything I said would sound like an excuse, and he deserved more than that.

“I’m sorry, Lewis,” I said softly, my voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You didn’t mean for it to happen? That’s supposed to make me feel better?” His eyes met mine again, and I could see the hurt behind the anger. “Do you even understand what you did? You didn’t just hurt me, Y/N. You made me question everything.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I felt tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “I know I did,” I said, my voice breaking. “And I hate myself for it.”

For a moment, his expression softened, like he was on the verge of reaching out to me. But then his walls went back up, and he shook his head. “I can’t do this right now,” he said, his voice low. “I have a race to focus on.”

I nodded, my heart sinking. “I understand.”

He hesitated, like he wanted to say more, but instead, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there in the cold, feeling more alone than ever.

The Williams hospitality area was buzzing with activity. Engineers shuffled around, team members compared notes, and the media vultures were circling as usual. I slipped inside unnoticed, blending into the chaos as I tried to steady my racing thoughts. Being here felt safer—less fraught than hanging around Mercedes, where every glance or conversation might lead me back to Lewis. I needed a break from the tension, from the guilt. From everything.

As I lingered near a corner, scanning the room absentmindedly, I spotted him. Franco. His easy smile lit up his face as he charmed a group of media people, gesturing animatedly while they laughed at something he’d said. I couldn’t help but watch, drawn to the way he carried himself—so effortless, so magnetic.

Then his eyes found mine.

For a brief moment, everything else faded. His gaze softened, and his smile faltered, just slightly. I quickly looked away, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. When I dared to glance back, he was already excusing himself from the group, weaving through the crowd toward me.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm but laced with concern as he stopped in front of me. His hand reached out, brushing against my upper arm in a gesture that felt too intimate for the public space. His thumb rubbed gently, a reflexive move he seemed to forget wasn’t appropriate here.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, his brows furrowing slightly as he searched my face.

I forced a smile, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “I’m fine.”

His lips pressed into a thin line as he studied me, clearly unconvinced. “Come with me,” he said softly, his hand lingering for a moment before he dropped it. He turned and led me toward the back of the hospitality area, weaving through the halls until we reached the door to his driver’s room. He opened it, motioning for me to step inside.

Once the door clicked shut behind us, the noise of the bustling hospitality melted away, leaving only the quiet hum of the air conditioning. I stood awkwardly in the center of the small room, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, while Franco leaned against the door, watching me.

“You’re not fine,” he said gently, his voice low. He stepped closer, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t have to pretend with me, hermosa.”

I sighed, my shoulders sagging as the weight of everything pressed down on me. “It’s just… it’s a lot.”

He nodded, stepping closer until we were only inches apart. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the small couch against the wall. I obeyed, sinking into the cushions while he knelt in front of me, his hands resting lightly on my knees.

“You talked to him, didn’t you?” Franco asked, his voice soft, almost coaxing.

I hesitated, looking down at my hands. “Yeah. I saw him. It wasn’t… bad, but it wasn’t good either.”

Franco’s fingers brushed against mine, a small, reassuring gesture. “What did he say?”

I looked up, meeting his expectant gaze. “He wasn’t angry. Not really. I mean, he asked why I didn’t stay at his hotel… but he’s hurt. And I can see it all over his face. I just… I feel awful, Franco. I need to make it right somehow. I need to make sure he’s okay.”

At that, Franco’s jaw tensed, and a flicker of irritation crossed his face. He tried to hide it, but I noticed the slight clench of his teeth, the way his fingers gripped my knees a little tighter.

“You don’t owe him anything, Y/N,” he said, his tone even but firm. “You’ve already done what you could. Staying here, trying to reach out—it’s only going to make it harder for both of you.”

I frowned, unsure how to respond. “I can’t just… walk away, Franco. I hurt him. He loved me, and I—”

“And you’re not with him anymore,” Franco interrupted, his voice sharper than usual. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he tried to rein in his frustration. “He’s going to be fine. He’s Lewis Hamilton. He’ll survive. But you? You need to move on. You need to stop carrying this guilt around like it’s your responsibility to fix everything.”

I stared at him, my heart twisting at the intensity in his eyes. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he insisted, his voice softening. “You’re here with me now. That means something, doesn’t it?”

I didn’t know how to answer. I liked Franco—more than I wanted to admit—but the weight of everything I’d done, the wreckage I’d left behind, made it impossible to feel anything but guilt. I tried to smile, to lighten the mood. “You’re really jealous, huh?”

His eyes darkened slightly, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his hand moving to cup my cheek. “But can you blame me? He had you first. And now…” He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my temple, his lips lingering for a moment. “Now, I want you to be mine.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. I nodded slightly, leaning into his touch, but the guilt gnawed at the edges of my mind. “I just… I don’t want to hurt anyone else,” I whispered.

Franco smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then stop hurting yourself, hermosa. Let him go.”

——-

The start of the race crept closer, and the energy at the track shifted, growing more intense as the sun dipped lower in the sky. I stood in the grandstands, bundled in my coat as the cool desert air nipped at my skin. My heart pounded as the cars lined up on the grid, the roar of engines filling the air.

My eyes scanned the track, finding the familiar silver-and-neon yellow of Lewis’s Mercedes. My chest tightened as I thought about him, about the pain in his eyes when we’d spoken earlier. I wanted to run to him, to explain, to somehow make him understand that I never meant to hurt him. But I stayed rooted in place, watching as he climbed into his car, his helmet masking whatever emotions he was feeling.

Then my gaze drifted to the Williams garage, where Franco was preparing for the race. He looked so focused, so determined, and I felt a flicker of pride watching him. But the pride was tinged with anxiety. Somehow, I’d gotten myself tangled between these two men, and no matter how much I wanted to believe I could fix everything, I knew it wasn’t possible.

As the lights went out and the cars roared to life, I clenched my fists, my heart racing as fast as the cars on the track. This wasn’t just a race—it was the beginning of whatever came next. For me, for Lewis, for Franco.

After a minute, I toss my phone onto the bed and drag myself up, grabbing my robe and slipping it on as I pad toward the door. The long staircase feels like an eternity to descend, and I make my way down the hall toward the kitchen, the faint sound of movement catching my attention.

When I walk in, I see Lewis standing by the counter, sweaty and flushed, a water bottle in hand, his headphones in. His t-shirt clings to him, damp with sweat from a run, and his muscles are tense, glistening slightly. He looks up and sees me, jumping a bit before pulling out one of his AirPods.

“Hey, cutie,” he says casually, his voice light, like we didn’t argue half the night. He takes a step closer to me, but I instinctively step back, not ready to let him off the hook just yet.

“You’re sweaty,” I reply flatly, sidestepping him and walking toward the coffee machine.

I hear him sigh behind me as I grab a coffee pod and slide it into the machine. The tension in the room is palpable, the air thick with everything we haven’t said.

“Well… I went for a run,” he says plainly, his tone neutral but tinged with curiosity. I can feel his eyes on me, watching my every move as I press the button to start brewing my coffee.

“Y/N… you okay?” His voice softens, the concern evident, but it only irritates me more. He knows I’m not okay. He knows exactly what’s wrong.

“Hm? Yeah. I’m fine,” I lie, plastering a fake half-smile on my face before turning back to the machine. The hum of the coffee maker fills the silence between us, the tension stretching taut like a rubber band ready to snap.

“Y/N, stop being such a brat,” he says, his tone shifting to annoyance, his patience clearly wearing thin.

I scoff, spinning around to face him, my eyes narrowing. “Lewis… don’t even start with that. I’m actually still upset.” My voice is sharp, clipped, my irritation bubbling to the surface.

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, his brows furrowing. “Okay. Fine. Be mad. I apologized.”

“Did you, though? Did you really?” I snap, my voice dripping with attitude.

His jaw tightens, and he steps closer, his presence overwhelming as he looks down at me. “Yes, I did. Last night. I told you I was sorry.”

I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter, defiant. “Saying ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t mean much when you don’t actually understand what you’re apologizing for, Lewis.”

His nostrils flare slightly, and I can see the frustration building in his eyes. “I do understand,” he says, his voice low, controlled. “You think I don’t get it? You’re mad because I showed up, because I didn’t tell you I was coming, and because… what? You think I’m selfish for wanting to be with you?”

I roll my eyes, letting out a bitter laugh. “Oh, you think this is about you showing up unannounced? It’s not just that, Lewis. It’s everything. You make everything about you. You can’t stand when the attention isn’t on you, when it’s not all about your career, your races, your schedule.”

His eyes narrow, and he takes another step closer, his voice rising slightly. “That’s not fair. You know I’ve supported you in everything you’ve done.”

“Have you?” I counter, raising an eyebrow. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like it when you’re constantly making me feel guilty for doing what I love. You don’t even know what my life is like, Lewis. You saw me yesterday, with my crew, in my element, and it’s like… you didn’t even recognize me. Because you’re never here. You don’t know this part of me.”

He opens his mouth to respond but falters, his expression shifting to something softer, almost vulnerable. “That’s not true. I do know you. I know how much you love what you do. I know how hard you work—”

“Then why does it always feel like you resent me for it?” I interrupt, my voice cracking slightly, betraying the anger that’s been festering inside me.

He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration evident as he lets out a heavy sigh. “I don’t resent you, Y/N. I just… I miss you. All the time. And it’s hard, okay? It’s hard to feel like I’m losing you to something I can’t compete with.”

His words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I feel the fight leave me, replaced by a pang of guilt. But I push it down, unwilling to let him off the hook just yet.

“You’re not losing me, Lewis,” I say, my voice softer now but still firm. “But you make it so hard to feel like we’re equals in this relationship. I’ve spent so much time supporting you, being there for you, but when it’s my turn? When it’s my career? You can’t handle it.”

He looks at me, his expression pained, and for a moment, I see the weight of my words sinking in. But then his jaw tightens again, and he shakes his head. “That’s not true,” he says quietly.

“Isn’t it?” I press, stepping closer now, my voice rising slightly. “When was the last time you came to LA just to be with me? When was the last time you asked me about my work without making it about how much time it takes away from you?”

He doesn’t answer, his silence speaking louder than any words could.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair, the anger giving way to exhaustion. “Look, I get it. Your life is chaotic. Mine is too. But if we’re going to make this work, you have to stop making me feel like I’m failing you every time I prioritize myself.”

His shoulders slump slightly, and he looks down, his expression conflicted. “I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nod, my chest tightening as I turn back to my coffee, gripping the counter to steady myself. The tension in the room hasn’t disappeared, but there’s a shift, a crack in the wall we’ve both been building.

I grab my coffee and take a slow sip, bracing myself for the inevitable next round of tension. Lewis is still standing there, watching me, his expression somewhere between guarded and curious. The air between us feels heavy, thick with all the unresolved frustration and everything we haven’t said. I know I should just rip off the Band-Aid and tell him about tonight before it turns into another argument, but I can already feel the resistance building in my chest.

“Look… Lewis, I have an event tonight, so I won’t—” I start, but he cuts me off almost immediately.

“What event?” His tone is sharp, impatient, and it grates on me instantly.

I sigh, rolling my eyes slightly as I set my coffee down. “It’s for some acting thing,” I mumble, deliberately keeping it vague as I grab the creamer from the fridge and pour a splash into my mug.

“You… didn’t mention it,” he says, his voice low but pointed. I can feel his eyes on me, and when I glance up, he’s standing there with his arms crossed, his brows furrowed in that way that tells me he’s already irritated.

“Yeah… sorry,” I mumble, keeping my gaze on the swirling cream in my coffee. The tension between us is still palpable, and I can feel it clawing at my patience.

He takes a step closer, his voice firm. “I’ll come with.”

I pause mid-stir, my fingers tightening around the spoon as I process what he just said. “Lewis… I don’t have, like, a plus-one or something. My manager had to get me invited,” I say, my tone sharper than I intended.

“And?” he replies, the defensiveness creeping into his voice as he steps closer again. “I can easily get an invite.”

His words hang in the air, and I feel a twinge of irritation ripple through me. This is exactly what I was talking about. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand that this isn’t about him, that this night—this event—has nothing to do with his connections or his status or his ability to show up anywhere and instantly be the center of attention.

“You’re doing it again…” I mutter under my breath, my voice laced with annoyance as I grab my coffee and brush past him, leaving the kitchen.

“Doing what?” he calls after me, his tone rising with frustration as he follows me down the hall. “What am I doing, Y/N?”

I spin around to face him, my patience finally snapping. “Making it about you, Lewis! You always make it about you.”

He looks genuinely taken aback for a moment, his brow furrowing deeper as he stares at me. “That’s not fair,” he says, his voice lower now, almost defensive. “I just want to be there for you.”

“No, you don’t,” I reply sharply, my voice shaking slightly. “You want to show up and make a statement. You want people to see us together so they can say, ‘Wow, Lewis is such a great boyfriend for supporting her.’ But it’s not about me, Lewis. It’s about you. It’s always about you.”

His jaw tightens, and I can see the hurt flash across his face before he quickly masks it. “That’s not true,” he says, his tone firm. “I came to LA to support you. I’ve been trying to show you that I care.”

“Yeah? By showing up uninvited to my set? By crashing an event I didn’t even invite you to?” I counter, my voice rising. “Do you even hear yourself, Lewis? You’re not supporting me; you’re taking over.”

He takes a step back, his hands on his hips, and for a moment, he looks like he’s searching for the right words. “I just want to be with you,” he finally says, his voice softer, tinged with frustration. “I don’t know what else to do.”

I shake my head, letting out a bitter laugh. “You could start by asking me what I need instead of deciding for me.”

He stares at me, his expression hard, and I can tell he’s biting back a retort. “Fine,” he says after a moment, his tone clipped. “What do you need, Y/N?”

I let out a heavy sigh, suddenly feeling drained, the fight leaving me as quickly as it came. “I need you to trust me,” I say quietly. “I need you to stop thinking that every time I focus on myself, it means I’m pulling away from you.”

His shoulders drop slightly, and I can see the tension in his jaw easing, but his eyes are still stormy, conflicted. “I do trust you,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “I just… I don’t want to feel like I’m losing you.”

“You’re not losing me,” I reply, my voice gentler now, though there’s still an edge to it. “But if you keep pushing like this, you might.”

The words hang between us, heavy and unspoken, and I can see the weight of them sinking in as he looks at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, I think he might say something—an apology, a reassurance, anything—but instead, he just nods slightly, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“I’ll back off,” he says quietly, his tone resigned. “Go to your event. Do your thing. I’ll be here when you get back.”

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the lump in my throat at bay. “Okay,” I say softly, turning and walking away before the conversation can spiral any further.

As I head upstairs to get ready, I can feel his presence lingering in the back of my mind, the unresolved tension still sitting heavy in my chest. I don’t know if we’ve made progress or just widened the gap between us, but for now, it feels like all we can do is keep moving forward, one step at a time.

Later that evening, I’m seated in my vanity chair, surrounded by the buzzing energy of my glam team. Layla, my hairstylist, tugs at my hair with the curling iron while James, my makeup artist, perfects the last details on my face. Clara, my stylist, is laying out the final accessories to go with the dress hanging on the rack nearby. The banter flows easily between us, and I can’t help but laugh at one of Layla’s jokes about how I somehow look good even in pajamas. Over the past year, we’ve gotten close enough that I actually consider them friends, not just people I work with.

In the corner of the room stands Jude, my ever-watchful manager. He’s quiet but calculating, his eyes darting between my glam team and me like he’s mentally running through a checklist. Jude is a control freak, always has been, and it’s something I’ve grown used to. He was there for me when I first moved to LA, took a chance on me when no one else would, and even let me crash with his family when I couldn’t pay rent. I owe him a lot. But sometimes, that need for control bleeds into parts of my life where it doesn’t belong—like my relationship.

I don’t think Jude likes Lewis. Scratch that—I know Jude doesn’t like Lewis. He sees him as a distraction, a shiny object pulling me away from my work. We’ve had arguments about it before, though I’ve never told Lewis about them. Jude thinks I’d be better off focusing on my career, free of the complications that come with dating someone like Lewis Hamilton.

On the other side of the coin, Lewis doesn’t like Jude either. He hates how Jude seems so close to me, how he constantly tells me what to do, how he’s always hovering, micromanaging my life. It’s a tension I’ve been navigating for months, and tonight, it feels like I’m standing on a tightrope between the two of them.

“You don’t need to be drinking coffee before an event,” Jude says, interrupting my thoughts as he gently plucks the matcha latte out of my hand.

I glare at him, rolling my eyes. “It’s matcha, not coffee.”

“Caffeine is caffeine, Y/N,” he replies matter-of-factly. Layla tugs at my hair with the curler, and I wince slightly.

“Can I live, Jude? Just for one second?” I mutter, annoyed.

Before Jude can respond, Lewis walks in, casually leaning against the doorway. He’s dressed in a simple but sleek outfit—effortlessly stylish, as always. Nobody here knows we’ve been arguing all day, and I’d like to keep it that way. Especially Jude. The last thing I need is one of his rants about how Lewis isn’t right for me.

“You look hot,” Lewis says, his voice low and smooth as he leans down and kisses my cheek. I let him get away with it this time, though I feel Jude’s eyes boring into the back of my head.

“Thanks,” I say softly, not wanting to make a scene.

Layla smiles, clearly enjoying the moment. “Aw, you two are so cute.”

Jude, however, doesn’t look nearly as charmed. “You’ve got to be jet-lagged, Lewis,” he says, his tone neutral but laced with something sharp. “Came all the way here and… what? You have to leave tomorrow?”

I shoot Jude a warning glare, silently begging him to stop. But he doesn’t even glance at me.

Lewis shrugs, unfazed. “Nah, I’m used to the jet lag.” He crosses his arms, leaning casually against the wall as he watches me.

“I wish I had that problem,” Layla jokes, and I can’t help but laugh softly.

Lewis chuckles too, the tension in the room easing slightly. But then Jude, ever the instigator, speaks up again.

“Well, I’m sure Y/N was excited to see you on set,” he says, his tone friendly on the surface but dripping with passive-aggressiveness.

I feel my stomach twist. Why did I tell Jude about Lewis showing up at my set? I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Now he’s using it to stir the pot.

“Yep. It was very cool to see,” Lewis replies evenly, his tone calm but measured. He’s trying to balance the room, to not give Jude the reaction he’s fishing for.

Layla, James, and Clara are still working, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air. I glare at Jude, silently begging him to drop it, but he raises an eyebrow at me, a smug look on his face.

“Don’t even think about talking to Tyler,” Jude says suddenly, his voice sharp.

I freeze, heat rising to my cheeks. Why would he bring that up? Why would he say that in front of Lewis?

“I wasn’t going to,” I reply quickly, my voice tight with irritation.

“Why would she talk to him?” Lewis asks, his tone casual but curious as his gaze flicks between Jude and me.

I feel my chest tighten. Lewis doesn’t know about Tyler, doesn’t know about the brief, messy situation I had with a former castmate before I met him. And now is definitely not the time for him to find out.

“Just making sure she’s thinking,” Jude says, patting my head like I’m a child.

I bite back a retort, clenching my jaw as Jude straightens up. “I’m going downstairs. I’ll get you water,” he says, his tone brisk. “You need water. I’ll get you water.” And with that, he leaves the room.

Lewis raises an eyebrow at me, his expression questioning. I shake my head quickly, silently pleading with him to let it go. For once, he does.

After another half hour, my glam team is finished, and I can’t help but smile as I look at myself in the mirror. I feel beautiful—like, incredibly beautiful. My dress hugs my figure perfectly, and the makeup is flawless.

“You guys make me look so good every time,” I say with a grateful smile, hugging each of them.

“It’s you, not us,” James replies, snapping a photo of me on his phone.

I leave the room, heading down the hall toward my bedroom to find Lewis. I pop my head in and see him lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone. For a moment, guilt pricks at me. It’s not like he’s been doing nothing. He came all this way to see me, and I’ve been cold and distant.

“Lew?” I say softly, stepping inside.

He looks up, and his eyes widen as he takes me in. “Goddamn, baby,” he murmurs, standing up and walking over to me. His gaze sweeps over me, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You look so beautiful,” he says, his voice gentle as his fingers brush over my hand, holding it lightly.

I swallow, feeling my stomach flutter. He looks down at me, his eyes filled with something deeper, something vulnerable. “I want to talk… for real. Tonight? Please?” His tone is quiet, almost pleading.

I nod slowly, my resolve faltering. “Yeah… okay,” I mumble, looking away.

His hand tightens around mine briefly before I pull it away. Just as I hear Jude calling for me downstairs, Lewis’s tone shifts, playful but with an edge of truth.

“Don’t you dare talk to any fucking guys,” he teases, though I know he means it. His eyes holding a hint of possessiveness.

I crack a small smile, rolling my eyes. “Yeah, yeah… okay. Bye,” I say as I leave the room.

“Have a good time, baby girl,” he calls after me, and I can feel his eyes on me as I walk away.

——————————————

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Princess