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theonlyonesora · 20 hours ago

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The Man Who Married Me

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen

CH – 22

The Los Angels sun hadn’t even hit its peak when the sleek, black car rolled up the driveway of the ridiculously oversized mansion that screamed money, divorce settlements, and perfect lighting for Instagram stories. Thanks to Lewis’s private jet, the four of you had landed that morning like royalty—and now, you were cruising through L.A. in a car Brian insisted on driving, claiming he didn’t trust Lewis with anything that didn’t break 60 mph in under three seconds.

As the gates parted and the oceanfront home revealed itself, so did Jessica—all legs, golden hair, and unapologetic enhancement.

She waved both arms like she was landing a plane, a massive grin on her lips—and two other, far newer features bouncing proudly beneath her sundress.

“Wow,” you said under your breath, your brows climbing.

Before anyone else could comment, Lizzie stepped out, sunglasses perched dramatically on her nose, lips pursed.

“Look, I know you're not a good driver,” she began, eyeing Jessica’s upgraded chest, “but manual airbags? Isn’t that a bit much?”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “Haha, very funny.”

Lewis, still inside the car, finally spoke up: “Wow, it's a beautiful…”

He paused. You turned your head just in time to catch it.

“...a beautiful house,” he recovered quickly.

You arched a brow. “It is a beautiful house,” you repeated, dry, as you opened the door and stepped out.

Jessica reached you first, wrapping you in a tight hug that smelled like vanilla and someone’s ex-husband’s money. You hugged her back, laughing.

Brian, now stepping out of the car, gave Lewis a sidelong glance. “Eyes in the clouds, Mr. Hamilton. Eyes in the clouds.”

Lewis blinked, caught, but grinned and followed you both out.

Jessica practically squealed. “Hello, Brian!”

Lizzie didn’t even hesitate. “Okay, bitch, he’s mine,” she said, grabbing her husband’s hand. “Honey, go get the bags.”

Brian saluted her like a soldier. “Yes, ma’am.”

You couldn’t help the burst of laughter that escaped you.

Jessica turned to Lewis. “Hello, Lewis.”

“Hi, Jess. Long time no see.”

She didn’t linger. “Come on, let’s go in,” she said, grabbing both you and Lizzie by the arms, dragging you toward the house like it was her turn to play host on a reality show.

And honestly?

It kind of was.

Because the three of you weren’t just stepping into a beach mansion with ocean views and chilled rosé waiting.

But for now, you let yourself smile, let yourself play the part, heels clicking against marble floors, sun catching the shimmer in your sunglasses, and laughter echoing around the giant foyer.

Outside, the sea lapped rhythmically against the cliffs. Inside, laughter floated above expensive furniture, vintage jazz playing faintly from speakers tucked somewhere in the walls.

You were curled up on the oversized couch, your back resting against Lewis, who had tucked himself behind you like a human-sized, extremely affectionate koala. His arms were draped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder, his thumb brushing small circles against your hipbone—absentminded, familiar.

Across from you, Jessica was recounting every detail of her divorce like it was a TED Talk titled How to Leave Your Billionaire and Keep the House.

“Brian’s a genius,” she said proudly, throwing an adoring look at the man in question. “My ex had this close to a bulletproof prenup. But this one—” she pointed her manicured finger at Brian, “—found a clause that even my ex’s pit of lawyers missed. The house, a sizable chunk of the shares, and enough cash to keep my wine rack full till the next recession.”

Brian gave a humble shrug, sipping his whiskey. “It was... a challenge. But Jessica gave me good material. He really underestimated her.”

Lewis chuckled behind you. “Remind me to never piss you off, Brian.”

“I already have a file on you, just in case,” Brian replied dryly.

Everyone laughed—Lizzie loudest, until she noticed Jessica resting a little too comfortably against her husband’s side and snapped, “Scoot it, breast implants. He’s mine.”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “Relax, I only steal money, not men.”

You were halfway through a sip of your drink when Lewis, as casual as if he were discussing tire strategy, murmured into the room: “We don’t have a prenup.”

The room fell dead silent.

Jessica blinked. “Wait, what?”

Even Brian sat forward. “You’re joking.”

Lizzie’s voice was dry. “I’m sorry. What the fuck did you just say?”

You cleared your throat, straightening up a bit. “We don’t. I offered one before we got married, actually. He didn’t want it.”

Jessica gawked. “You offered to sign a prenup and he said no?”

Lewis squeezed your waist. “She was already Toto’s assistant back then. Smart. Hardworking. Never asked me for anything.” His voice softened, earnest. “She never even let me pay for her coffee, even after we started dating. I didn’t see the point in putting a price tag on our marriage.”

Jessica raised her eyebrows. “That’s very... romantic.”

Brian sighed like he was watching a train crash. “Or very risky.”

“How much are we talking about?” Lizzie asked, blinking.

Lewis shrugged. “I don’t know. Around 800 million, maybe.”

You turned your head to look at him. “735. To be exact.”

The collective “WOW” that echoed in the room could’ve triggered a small earthquake.

“You two are crazy,” Brian muttered.

“Or stupid,” Lizzie added, still recovering.

Lewis just grinned. “Probably both.”

Jessica leaned forward with a grin. “I should’ve married you instead.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Get in line.”

Lewis tightened his arms around you, brushing a soft kiss against your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “I already won.”

But as the laughter returned and glasses clinked, you wondered—did he win? Or were you both still playing a game with rules neither of you had agreed on, hoping love would be enough to hold the pieces together?

The sun had dipped beyond the water, and the air was filled with warmth and secrets.

The water was hot, a soothing cascade over your back, steam curling into the air like silk when you felt arms slide around your waist. You didn’t need to look. You already knew that touch.

"How's my 367.5 million going?" Lewis murmured against her neck, his voice husky and amused.

Your eyes blinked open, water streaming over your lashes. “What?”

“It’s 735 divided by two,” he said, smiling as he kissed the curve of her shoulder.

You laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, pulling you closer, “but you’re definitely the most expensive thing I own.”

You turned in his arms, smirking. “Do you want to stop?”

“I’m gonna have to install a tracker on you, you know,” he teased. “Just in case someone tries to steal you.”

“Lewis.” You reached down playfully, catching him off guard.

“**Hey—**not that kind of tracking device,” he laughed, grabbing your hand gently.

You both dissolved into laughter, the kind that echoed off marble tiles and wrapped itself around your ribs.

He kissed you then, warm and deep, the kind of kiss that tasted like memories and mischief, like years of knowing each other’s rhythms and reactions.

"It's been a while since you visited the guy downstairs," he whispered with a wry smile. "He misses you."You narrowed your eyes at him.

"What's your problem?"

“Come on… you used to like this game.”

You shook your head, water dripping down your body. “Alright. But not in the shower. And you better wash that properly.”

You stepped out with a wink, grabbing a towel and walking toward the bedroom without another word.

Behind you, Lewis chuckled, letting the water rinse over him again. “Yes, ma’am,” he called out, clearly entertained—and clearly not done yet.

The bedroom was dimly lit when you stepped inside, your towel wrapped loosely around you, skin still damp from the steam. The windows were cracked open, letting in the ocean breeze that carried with it the faint scent of jasmine from the garden below.

You sat on the edge of the bed, brushing your fingers through your hair, trying not to overthink anything—especially not the way Lewis had looked at you in the shower, like he'd been starving quietly and only just now realized it.

You heard the water turn off. Footsteps on tile. The soft hiss of a towel being pulled from the rack.

Then silence.

The next thing you felt was the weight of him behind you—warm skin, damp curls, and the scent of his soap mingling with yours. He leaned down, his hands gently parting the towel on your shoulders, his mouth brushing a soft kiss against your spine.

"You're quiet," you murmured.

"I'm thinking," he said, voice low.

"About?"

"How lucky I am. How long it’s been since we did this without any noise between us.”

You turned to face him, one hand sliding up his chest, your fingers skimming over the lion tattoo. You looked at the faint mark you’d seen earlier—barely noticeable, already fading. You didn’t mention it. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you leaned forward, kissed just below it.

Lewis exhaled slowly, like he was unspooling from the inside.

Your hands moved lower, your kiss following the trail, gentle and slow, as if memorizing every inch of him again. There was no rush. Not tonight. Tonight was about knowing—each other, yourselves, what you were still capable of giving, and what you were willing to take.

When your lips found him, Lewis's breath caught, his hands flexing at his sides, but he didn't stop you. He didn’t guide you. He just watched you with parted lips and reverent eyes, his entire body bowing beneath the weight of your attention.

You weren’t doing this to prove anything. Not to him. Not to yourself.

It was just you giving. And him receiving. And the quiet understanding that after everything—open marriages, podiums, silence and spectacle—this was still your language. This was still your way back to each other.

When he finally whispered your name like a confession, you looked up at him and smiled, and it was all there—the heat, the history, the gravity of being wanted by someone who still called you mine.

He reached for you then, pulling you back into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder like he couldn’t bear to let you go again.

You lay like that for a while, breathing in sync, the rest of the world melting somewhere beyond the moonlight and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs.

The room had gone still, cloaked in the kind of silence that felt soft instead of heavy. The sheets tangled around your legs, warm with the fading heat of the moment. Your head rested on Lewis’s chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles across your shoulder like he wasn’t quite ready for the night to end.

Outside, the waves whispered against the rocks like a lullaby, and the moonlight stretched through the open window in silver streaks.

You didn’t speak at first. You just felt—the rise and fall of his breath, the gentle beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

“I forgot how good that could feel,” he said finally, voice low, a little raspy from the way you’d stolen it from him earlier.

“You mean being worshipped?” you teased, lifting your head to meet his smirk.

“I mean being seen,” he corrected softly. “Like that. Like you still want me, even now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I do still want you. I never stopped.”

He smiled, but it was tinged with something deeper. Regret, maybe. Or just memory.

You kissed his chest, right over that lion tattoo. “Besides, you’re lucky you’re cute. And rich. And good in bed.”

“Oh, is that all?” he laughed, tilting his head to look down at you. “What would’ve happened if I was just one of those things?”

“Well…” you said thoughtfully, dragging a finger down his stomach, “if you were just rich, I probably would’ve married Toto.”

Lewis let out a full laugh, the kind that rumbled in his chest. “You’re terrible.”

You grinned. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling you in closer, kissing the top of your head. “I do.”

You both went quiet again, the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. You could’ve fallen asleep like that—wrapped in each other, limbs tangled, hearts a little bruised but still beating in sync.

But then—

“Just so we’re clear,” Lewis said, lips brushing against your temple, “if I lose you to a guy with better tattoos than mine, I’m going to sue for emotional damage.”

You bit back a laugh. “Too bad Max’s tattoos are better.”

His gasp was exaggerated, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

“Just being honest,” you said innocently, tucking yourself further into his arms. “He’s Dutch. They’re born with good ink.”

“You’re never allowed to compliment another man’s tattoos again,” he declared, dramatic.

“I’ll think about it.”

He sighed into your hair. “I missed this.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Then he breaks the silence. “Wait, Max doesn't have any tattoo.”

You just laugh hard and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like you were pretending. It felt like home.

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