୧ 𝓡 ＯＢＥＲＴ ＬＥＷＡＮＤＯＷＳＫＩ

IT WASNT THE DINNER IN THE QUIET CORNER OF THE BARCELONA RESTAURANT. It wasn’t the late-night walks where his cap was pulled low and your hood was up. It wasn’t even the way you slipped into the players’ entrance when the stadium was empty.

It was one picture.

A grainy shot, caught through the tinted glass of his car — your hair falling forward as Robert leaned over the console to press a kiss to your forehead. It was soft. Small. Innocent, even. But innocence doesn’t make headlines.

The next morning, your phone buzzed until it felt like your hands might go numb. Headlines didn’t just hint — they accused:

“Lewandowski’s Secret Affection — Mystery >Woman Identified.” “Not His Wife: The 20-Year-Old Involved With >the Captain.” “From Student to Scandal: Who Is She?”

They dug like they were hunting for blood. Old Instagram photos — the ones you posted at eighteen in a too-short dress at a summer party, laughing with a drink in hand. Screenshots from when you worked at a bar last year, pouring beers with your hair tied up and your tank top low. A picture you didn’t even know existed — you sitting on the lap of a guy you barely dated, cigarette in hand, eyes half-closed under neon lights.

They took it all out of context. Turned it into a narrative. Gold digger. Homewrecker. Too young to know better.

Robert’s phone didn’t stop either — his agent, the club, even old teammates telling him to ”get ahead of it.” When he came home that night, he didn’t speak at first. Just shut the door, locked it, and stood there watching you like you might disappear.

“They’re going to make you into something you’re not,” he said finally. His voice was steady, but his jaw was tight enough to hurt.

When he crossed the room, he didn’t hesitate — just pulled you against him and pressed another kiss to your forehead. The same one that started all of this. The one they’d twisted into proof of something filthy.

@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒