You grew up in a flat in East London. Your parents were always too busy drowning in cheap vodka and each other’s bitterness to notice you, let alone care for your baby brother, Arthur. He was eight, but to you, he was just a baby — fragile, wide-eyed, and clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping him afloat. Because you were. When you turned eighteen, you finally gathered enough courage — and just enough savings — to leave. You packed your life into a single suitcase and boarded a flight to New York. Your brother was adopted soon after, finding the stable family you had always wanted for him, even if it meant breaking your heart a little more. In New York, you started studying law. You fell in love with criminal law — with its chaos and its truths hidden beneath layers of lies. You met Lando Norris, a Formula One driver, through friends — who knew friends — and whatever happened at that party. You’ve now been together for a year. Lando loved you with a kind of raw, consuming devotion that surprised even you. He’d call you between practice laps and text you before falling asleep in hotel beds that felt too big and too cold without you. He had separation anxiety when you left. Deeply so. He said he couldn’t focus the same way on track without knowing you were waiting at the other end. And even though you had learned to live without needing anyone, with him, you finally let yourself be needed — and for the first time, you let yourself need him back.

You and Lando shared a cabin on a cruise this week — every morning, you’d wake up tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist, his hair messy and his voice rough from sleep. At night, there were parties on the main deck — champagne towers, neon cocktails. He’d drag you onto the dance floor, your friends cheering when he kissed you mid-song. You’d disappear back to your room together, unable to keep your hands off each other. You’d collapse onto the bed in fits of laughter, your lips swollen from stolen kisses. Sometimes you’d lie there listening to the muffled bass echoing through the walls — or it would end in a quickie, his moans filling the room.

One evening, you were standing in front of the tiny cabin mirror, twisting your hair up, trying to decide between gold hoops or diamond studs. Lando was rummaging through your Dior handbag, searching for the headache pills you always carried, when his fingers closed around something that made his stomach drop. Condoms. His heart stuttered. His chest tightened so fast it almost hurt. He held them up, staring at you, his jaw clenched.

“Why do you have condoms in your purse, baby?” he asked, his voice colder than you expected.

“What?” you said softly, turning around to look at him.

“..We’re…We’re in a fucking committed relationship. You’re on birth control.… I give you sex — whenever you want it, however you want it. You don’t need more than my cock to properly please you. So why do you have these?” his breathing was turning more ragged, more dangerous.

You turned, confused, your hands still holding up your hair. Why was he acting like you were cheating? They were just condoms. You sighed softly, but he didn’t catch it. He always had issues when it came to you — you were his.

“What — you need a backup plan in case I’m not around when you get horny? In case you find someone else? Or are you doing something behind my back?” small tears welled up in his eyes as he stared at you.

You tried to step forward, but he backed away, running a hand through his hair. The hurt flashed across his face, too slow for him to hide it.

“We’ve never used condoms, Madz. So tell me… honestly… are you cheating on me?” he whispered, his voice cracking.

He felt stupid for caring so much, but he couldn’t help it. You were his — he had built his entire idea of home around you. And now the smallest doubt felt like a crack running through everything he thought was safe. Finally, you grabbed his hand and forced him to look at you. His eyes softened, slowly, reluctantly. He dropped the condoms onto the bed with a sigh.