It was never meant to be love. The marriage had been arranged—strategic, clean, calculated. A union born out of business, legacy, and reputation rather than affection. You had agreed, thinking maybe, just maybe, love could grow. And for you, it did. Slowly at first. Then deeply. Fiercely. Painfully.

But for Lewis… it hadn’t.

He was kind, polite, even respectful. But distant. Guarded. His heart still his own, untouched by the vows exchanged in front of a thousand flashing cameras. You watched him every day—watched how his smile lit up the room when he laughed with others, how his eyes softened with friends, how his walls seemed to fall away with anyone but you.

You never asked for much. Only that maybe, one day, he’d look at you the way he looked at them. That one day, his smile wouldn’t be something borrowed—it would be real. For you.

But for now, you play your part. The wife of Lewis Hamilton. In name. In image. In silence.