theonlyonesora

[theonlyonesora]

The Man Who Married Me

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen

CH – 32

The late afternoon sun bathed Maranello in golden warmth, casting soft light over the small, picturesque streets. The restaurant terrace overlooked rolling hills painted with vineyards and olive trees, the air thick with the scent of basil and old brick, of warm bread and something lost.

You sat at a table dressed in white linen, the stem of your wine glass untouched between your fingers, sunglasses hiding the storm in your eyes. You had chosen a black sundress, not just for the summer heat—but because somewhere inside, it felt like mourning.

He arrived a few minutes late, as always, dressed in soft cream trousers and a crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up, as if nothing in the world had changed. But your world had.

“I was surprised when I saw your message,” Lewis said, sliding into the chair across from you. “You should have called me earlier. I would’ve sent someone to pick you up.”

You smiled faintly. “No need. I’m not staying long.”

He blinked. “Oh… I thought you were flying with me to Madrid.”

You looked down at the tablecloth, fingers smoothing a wrinkle that didn’t exist. “No. I came to talk to you about something important.”

His face shifted—serious now, focused. “Are you pregnant?”

Your head snapped up. “What? No. What are you talking about?”

He exhaled sharply, laughing nervously. “Oh, thank God. I got scared.”

You didn’t laugh. “Lewis, focus.”

“Right, sorry. You said it was important, I thought—”

“I want a divorce.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.

His smile died slowly. “What?”

“I want a divorce,” you said again, soft but steady. “I’m tired, Lewis.”

“No,” he whispered, barely audible.

“I don’t have the energy to keep trying. This marriage ended the day I agreed to your proposal to open everything. I thought I was being strong by staying. I told myself that I could handle it, that love meant sacrifice. But all I’ve done since is bleed, quietly, a little more every day.”

His jaw clenched. You saw it—the flicker of disbelief, then guilt, then a slow and steady panic rising behind his eyes. The Lewis Hamilton who always had an answer, who always knew what to say, how to fight—he was quiet now.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” you continued, voice trembling. “I owed you that. I didn’t want it to be over a call, or in the press. I wanted to end this with dignity… while we can still remember how it felt to love each other properly.”

“You don’t love me anymore?” His voice cracked.

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what?” he snapped, suddenly desperate. “If you love me, if you still love me, let’s fix this. We’ll go to therapy. You can move here, like we talked about. You’ll love it. This is where we got married, for God’s sake.”

You looked away, blinking back tears.

“I love you,” he said again, softer this time, as if he could will your heart to turn back toward his.

You closed your eyes.

“That’s the problem,” you whispered.

He stared at you, confusion folding into something deeper—something wounded. “The problem is that I love you?”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “The problem is that I don’t believe you anymore. I don’t believe in us anymore. If I did… if I really believed, I would still fight for this. But I don’t.”

His hand gripped the edge of the table like he might fall apart without it.

“Please,” he whispered, “don’t do this to me.”

“I’m sorry, Lewis.”

You stood.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you.

You walked out of the restaurant, the heels of your shoes clicking against stone, the silence behind you deafening. When you reached the car, the tears came—hot and bitter, blurring the world around you. Your hands trembled as you turned the key, engine roaring to life in the quiet countryside.

The hills blurred as you drove away from Maranello, from the restaurant, from him—from the place where your marriage had once begun, and now, where it had ended.

.

📸 MEDIA HEADLINES:

The Daily Mail:

“Heartbreak in Maranello: (Y/N) Hamilton seen in tears after emotional meeting with Lewis – Is the divorce confirmed?”

Sky Sports F1:

“Lewis Hamilton and wife (Y/N) spotted in Maranello amid growing divorce speculation. Private conversation ends with visible distress.”

Page Six:

“From power couple to heartbreak: (Y/N) Hamilton cries as she leaves – Lewis photographed alone and stunned.”

La Gazzetta dello Sport:

“La fine dell’amore? (Y/N) Hamilton in lacrime, Lewis resta da solo: l’addio in Italia.” ("The end of love? (Y/N) in tears, Lewis left alone: the goodbye in Italy.")

🧑‍💻 Twitter:

🥺 #Team(Y/N)

@RacingQueen77: Seeing (Y/N) cry like that? I'm sick to my stomach. She gave up everything for this man. #JusticeForYN

@FormulaFemmes: A woman crying alone in a car, and a man just sitting there watching it happen. It tells you everything. #YNDeservesBetter

@AccountableF1: Let’s not forget: she built her career next to Lewis, not because of him. They took her down when she was winning.

🤷‍♀️ Mixed Opinions:

@WheelsAndWives: Maybe it's mutual? Love fades, and they’ve clearly been struggling for a while. Doesn't mean one person is the villain.

@PitLaneGossip: It's hard to watch, but are we sure this isn’t just part of the messy open relationship unraveling? #OpenMarriageMyAss

🏎️ #TeamLewis

@44TilIDie: You all judging Lewis like you were in the restaurant. Maybe she blindsided him. He looked crushed too. #LetHimHeal

@HammerTimeBack: Look, he made mistakes. But they were both in an open marriage. Let’s not pretend it was perfect before.

.

Lewis sat alone on the edge of the bed, the quiet around him deafening. The divorce papers had just been sent to his lawyer. It felt surreal—like watching his own life collapse from the outside.

His hands trembled as he unlocked his phone, scrolling through contacts until he found his father’s name. He hesitated. Then pressed “Call.”

The line rang once. Twice.

“Hey, son,” came Anthony’s warm but tired voice on the other end.

Lewis couldn’t speak. His lips parted, but no words came. Just a soft inhale.

“Lewis?” Anthony asked, voice sharper now. “What’s going on?”

Lewis swallowed, the pressure in his throat finally breaking.

“She filed for divorce,” he choked out. “She’s really done, Dad. She’s gone.”

Silence. Then Anthony sighed, heavy and full of quiet pain.

“I’m so sorry, son.”

Lewis let the tears fall freely now, covering his face with one hand. “I don’t know what to do. I—I ruined everything. She loved me. She was always there for me. I thought I had time to fix it, but I kept pushing her away. And now she’s gone.”

Anthony’s voice was gentle but firm. “I know how much she meant to you. I saw what she brought out in you. She stood by you in ways not many could.”

Lewis sniffled, his voice shaking. “She didn’t even have anyone, Dad. No family. No one to help her through this, and I still hurt her. What kind of man does that make me?”

Anthony’s heart ached. For his son. For the woman who had become like a daughter. For everything that was breaking.

“You messed up,” he said plainly. “You know that. And so does she. But son, it doesn’t mean you’re beyond redemption. It means you’ve got to live with the consequences—and maybe learn something from the pain.”

Lewis was quiet, his breathing uneven.

“I’m proud of the man you’ve become on the track, Lewis. But this—this is where character is really tested. You can’t undo what happened. All you can do is face it. Own it.”

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” Lewis whispered.

“I don’t know,” Anthony said honestly. “But I do know this: whether or not she does, you need to learn to forgive yourself. And next time—if there is a next time—you hold on to it like hell.”

Lewis pressed the phone closer to his ear, the silence between father and son filled only with shared grief.

“I’ll be here,” Anthony said softly. “No matter what. I’ll always be here.”

I was fired yesterday so I'll have a lot of free time to finish and start new fanfics, anyway I'm fine but some prayers would be nice in my situation right now

TAG LIST: @virtualperfectioncat , @starrgir1 , @the-secret-formulaone, @anunstablefangirl, @tillyt04, @dakotapaigelove, @loadedwafflefries, @forensicheart, @lorena-mv33, @d0llyh3rtz, @teenagetoadghostwobbler, @mizelophsun11, @herdetectivetheorist

[theonlyonesora]

[theonlyonesora]

Who woke up at 6 in the morning, made a 1-hour journey to work, worked 8 hours and was fired at the end of the shift, is it just me or anyone else?

[theonlyonesora]

his babies 🥺❤️‍🩹

[theonlyonesora]

[theonlyonesora]

[theonlyonesora]

i missed drawing her 🥲

[theonlyonesora]

[theonlyonesora]

[theonlyonesora]

[theonlyonesora]

The Man Who Married Me

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen

CH – 31

Then – 2020 You were just an assistant. Officially, Executive Support to the Team Principal. Unofficially, the one who kept Toto Wolff from forgetting flights, losing documents, and publicly snapping at journalists.

You weren’t supposed to talk to the drivers much. Just quick hellos, logistical relays, polite smiles when you passed in the hallway. But Lewis Hamilton was impossible to ignore.

Especially when he looked at you like that.

It started small. You brought him the wrong coffee once — oat milk instead of almond. He’d smiled like you’d handed him gold.

“Perfect,” he said, sipping it. “You sure you don’t race? You’ve got quick hands.”

You’d rolled your eyes and walked away.

But the next morning? He brought you coffee.

“Almond milk. No sugar, just like you didn’t ask for,” he grinned.

From then on, it became a rhythm. A coffee here, a shared laugh there. Notes passed between briefings. A glance across the garage when Toto was yelling and neither of you could take him seriously.

It was harmless, at first. You were careful. He was… Lewis Hamilton. The living legend. The playboy with a political soul. And you were the girl with a clipboard and too many NDAs to count.

But one night after a long race weekend, everyone was gone. You stayed behind to finish expense reports. You were tired, slumped over a laptop in a dark office when a knock came at the glass door.

Lewis.

Wearing sweats, hair tied up. Holding takeout containers.

“You didn’t eat, did you?”

You blinked at him, confused.

“I—how do you know that?”

“Because I saw you at 3PM drinking your third coffee and you haven’t left this building since.”

He set the food down and sat across from you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to.”

And he did. He asked you questions no one ever did. Where you were from. What you wanted in five years. Why you smiled when you were nervous. He laughed at your dry jokes and confessed he hated fame most days.

The world outside faded.

At one point, you admitted something quietly.

“You scare me a little.”

He tilted his head.

“Why?”

“Because when you look at me, I forget to breathe. And I can’t afford to be distracted.”

He reached across the table, brushed your fingers gently.

“Then I’ll breathe for both of us.”

That night, nothing happened.

No kisses. No lines crossed.

But the way he looked at you?

You knew. It had already begun.

.

You were standing by the espresso machine, exhausted and tense. You hadn’t seen Lewis since that night. Messages had been brief. And now, as if summoned by your thoughts, he walked in — hoodie, sunglasses, mask around his chin.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

You both stood there in silence. And then he pulled something from his pocket.

A note. Folded into a tiny square.

“You once said you don’t like being asked out in public.”

“Because I don’t.”

He smiled.

“Good. So I thought I’d do this the way you’d like.”

You unfolded the note.

In neat, careful handwriting, it said:

Would you like to go out with me?

☐ Yes ☐ No ☐ Only if you bring coffee first

You laughed — for the first time that day. And ticked the third box.

“So is that a yes?” he asked.

“Only if you bring coffee first.”

He grinned, leaned down, and whispered in your ear:

“Then it’s a date.”

December 12, 2021 – Abu Dhabi

You had never seen him like that.

You were standing in the back of the paddock as the champagne sprayed. You weren’t watching the podium.

You were watching Lewis.

He hadn’t spoken much since the last lap. Not after the radio cut. Not after Max crossed the line. Not when he got out of the car and hugged his father.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t try to fix it.

When the Mercedes garage cleared, he walked into the hospitality suite where you waited alone, still in your team badge and headset, your fingers trembling.

He stood there, his face unreadable.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Now?”

“I don’t want to be here anymore.”

The suite at the Yas Hotel was silent.

The only sound was the hum of the city in the distance and the occasional boat in the marina below.

You helped him take off his jacket. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“I don’t know how to process this,” he said quietly.

“You don’t have to.”

You kneeled in front of him, resting your hands on his thighs, looking up at the man who had carried the weight of so many hopes.

“You don’t have to be okay tonight. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to smile for me.”

He looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world that had just broken him.

“You’re the only thing that still makes sense.”

Your heart cracked.

And then he stood, walked to the desk, and picked up something from his jacket pocket.

He held it in his hand — something small, velvet, completely out of place on a night like this.

“I was going to wait,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I had this whole thing planned.”

“Lewis…”

“But life clearly doesn’t care about my plans. And I don’t want to wait anymore.”

He knelt.

He knelt.

After everything. After the loss. After the silence. He knelt.

And held out the ring with hands still trembling from the weight of the world.

“You make everything in my life bearable. You see me when no one else does. You never wanted the headlines or the money or the fame. You just… showed up. Every time. Quiet and fierce and mine.”

“I don’t want to win anything if I don’t come home to you. I don’t want a legacy that doesn’t have your name in it.”

Your eyes blurred as he whispered:

“Marry me. Please.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You dropped to your knees, too. Pulled him into your arms, tears mixing between you both.

“Yes. Of course, yes.”

And in that hotel room where the world had decided Lewis Hamilton didn’t deserve his eighth title — You gave him something greater. You gave him forever.

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[theonlyonesora]

[theonlyonesora]

[theonlyonesora]

non-writers will never understand the mental illness of writing an entire conversation in your head while doing dishes and then forgetting every word the second you open a blank doc

[theonlyonesora]

[theonlyonesora]

[theonlyonesora]

The Man Who Married Me

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen

CH – 30

The months passed slowly in London—quiet and steady, like the constant hum of a refrigerator late at night. You'd disappeared from the headlines and resigned yourself to silence. No statements, no paparazzi flashbulbs, no inbox overflowing with damage control. Just the soft sound of Roscoe's feet on your hardwood floor and a handful of unread messages from people pretending to care more than they actually did.

The only ones who truly did care? Anthony Hamilton… and Max.

Anthony had started stopping by once or twice a week, usually in the evenings. He brought you tea bags he thought you might like or fresh produce from the farmer’s market. He never pried, never pushed. Just asked how you were sleeping and reminded you that, in his eyes, you were still family. “Lewis can be stubborn,” he said once, sipping his tea. “But he’s not stupid.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you weren’t waiting anymore.

Lewis was in Italy, surrounded by vineyards and nostalgia. The house in Monaco was untouched—too much history, too many memories. It didn’t feel like home anymore, not for either of you. So Roscoe came with you to London. Your quiet companion. Your shadow. He slept by the door most nights, as if waiting for someone who never knocked.

And then there was Max.

Max, who texted you almost every night—sometimes a meme, sometimes just a “you up?” Max, who dropped by unannounced with takeaway or walked your dog when you were too drained to get out of bed. Max, who never asked for more than you could give, even when his eyes said otherwise.

He didn’t try to replace Lewis, and you didn’t pretend he could. But somehow, Max found all the cracks in your life—and instead of filling them, he sat with you in the hollow spaces.

You hadn’t seen Lewis in weeks, but you still talked sometimes. Short, tense phone calls. A forwarded email about a legal document of ferrari. A text saying, "Hope you're eating well." It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t loving. It was something in between—a space neither of you had figured out how to navigate.

And Lewis had stopped pushing. He said he’d take care of things. He said he’d fix it. But fixing things required both of you to want the same ending—and deep down, maybe you didn’t anymore.

You stood by the window one afternoon, watching the rain streak down the glass, phone in your hand, Roscoe asleep at your feet.

.

The rain had come and gone that afternoon, leaving the air in London smelling fresh—like wet concrete and blooming flowers. You were curled up on the couch in your hoodie and fuzzy socks when the doorbell rang.

Roscoe had already beat you to the door, tail wagging like it knew who was on the other side.

When you opened it, there he was.

Max Verstappen, standing on your front step in a hoodie, cap pulled low, and a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. And in his hands—tucked into the crook of his arm like some sacred offering—was a tiny black kitten wrapped in a soft towel.

You blinked. “People usually bring flowers.”

Max shrugged. “They say black cats bring good luck.”

“They?”

“The Irish,” he said, feigning seriousness.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve been hanging out with Irish people now?”

“No,” he grinned, stepping inside past you. “But I needed an excuse to give you one.”

You laughed despite yourself, already reaching for the kitten. Its small body fit perfectly in your hands, eyes wide and unblinking, like it already owned the place.

“What’s the name?” you asked, holding the furball close to your chest.

Max tilted his head. “I don’t know. He’s yours.”

“Him?” You paused, then smiled slowly. “Hmm. What about… Anubis?”

He raised a brow. “Like the Egyptian god?”

“They worshipped cats, didn’t they?”

“Roscoe might object to being demoted from only child,” Max teased.

You knelt beside the bulldog, who had padded over, curious and gentle. “Look, Roscoe, you have a brother now.”

Roscoe sniffed the kitten, then let out a low huff and plopped down, completely unbothered.

You both laughed.

The house didn’t feel so quiet anymore. Not with Max here. Not with a new kitten. Not with the slight spark in your chest—hopeful, cautious, fragile.

You glanced up at Max. “You know you can’t just keep bringing me animals every time you visit.”

He smirked. “So next time, flowers?”

You smiled, petting the kitten. “Next time, just you.”

He paused for a beat, then nodded softly. “Deal.”

The living room was dimly lit by the warm glow of the floor lamp beside the couch. The pizza box sat half open on the coffee table, steam still rising from the slices you’d been picking at in silence. Roscoe snored softly on the rug, and Anubis, now a permanent resident, curled up on the window ledge, watching the city lights.

Max leaned back against the cushions, one foot resting lazily on the edge of the table. He was dressed down in sweatpants and the soft fabric brushing against your leg where your knees had been drawn up beside him. It all felt domestic in a way that neither of you said aloud.

"So you're really getting divorced," he said after your casual, almost offhand comment about the public announcement coming out before Madrid.

You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of wine. "No need to sound so happy."

He laughed softly, cheeks tinted with amusement. "I’m not happy,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m... relieved?”

“Uh-huh.” You nudged his knee with your foot.

He looked over at you then—really looked. You were quiet now, staring at the flickering candle on the table like it held answers you didn’t have yet.

“I know you’re sad,” Max added, his voice softer this time. “He crushed you. I get it.”

You didn’t respond immediately. You didn’t need to. The truth sat in the quiet between you.

But Max continued anyway, because sometimes he said what others were too afraid to. “But you’re here. And I’m here. And maybe that means something.”

You glanced at him, and he smiled—a small, unsure smile that made him look a little younger.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly. “You just need time. I get it.”

You sighed and leaned your head on his shoulder. “I hate how patient you are.”

He grinned. “I’m Dutch. We’re not known for patience.”

You chuckled softly, closing your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m fooling a lot of people lately,” he murmured.

You sat like that in silence for a while, your head resting against his shoulder, his fingers gently brushing over your knee. He didn’t ask for more, didn’t push. He just sat with you.

And somehow, in the mess of endings and heartbreaks, that quiet warmth felt like the beginning of something new.

TAG LIST: @virtualperfectioncat , @starrgir1 , @the-secret-formulaone, @anunstablefangirl, @tillyt04, @dakotapaigelove, @loadedwafflefries, @forensicheart, @lorena-mv33, @d0llyh3rtz, @teenagetoadghostwobbler, @mizelophsun11, @herdetectivetheorist