The Man Who Married Me
PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen
CH – 03
Monday morning hit you like cold water.
Your phone buzzed violently on the nightstand just after 6 a.m., dragging you out of shallow, restless sleep. You blinked at the screen, squinting against the low light. Toto Wolff – Incoming Video Call.
You answered on instinct, still wrapped in sheets, voice hoarse. “Toto?”
His face filled the screen—sharp, serious, and very much not in the mood. “Kimi’s connecting. So is Dieter. We need to talk. Now.”
That was all the warning you got.
A few moments later, your team’s top executives began to appear one by one in the call—Kimi from her apartment in Monaco, Dieter already in the office, and several others scattered across Europe. You pulled on a hoodie and tied your hair up as fast as you could, dragging yourself out of bed and into the kitchen for coffee, still emotionally hungover from your weekend with Lewis.
And then Toto dropped the bomb.
“Max fucking Verstappen has signed with us.”
The room went silent.
You froze mid-step, blinking as if your screen had glitched.
Kimi’s mouth fell open. “What?”
Toto’s expression was unreadable. Controlled fury. “Red Bull lost him over internal politics and Helmut’s refusal to approve some demands. We didn’t even pursue him. His management came to us. And it’s done. Paper signed. Effective immediately. This season.”
You stared at your laptop, heart suddenly beating faster. Max Verstappen. Four-time World Champion. Red Bull’s prodigy. Mercedes’ future.
It was unbelievable. Historic. Chaotic. And absolutely brilliant.
You felt… something. For the first time in days, you actually felt something other than despair or numbness. You stood straighter. You reached for your notebook. You were awake.
“Toto,” you said carefully, finally unmuting yourself, “are we announcing this today?”
He gave you a look. “Do we have a choice?”
You nodded. Already shifting gears in your mind—PR strategies, team restructure meetings, integration timelines, preparing George’s farewell statement. George would be leaving—sad, yes. But Max Verstappen? A generational talent. And now your driver.
And that was the moment it hit you.
You loved your job. You loved the team. The sport. The chaos. The adrenaline. It had been your sanctuary before Lewis, and somewhere along the way, you’d forgotten that.
But now? Now, the fog inside you cleared, just a little.
You weren't just his wife.
You were Head Executive of Mercedes F1. And Max Verstappen was coming to drive your car.
For the first time in over a week, you didn’t feel like crying. You felt like working.
.
The entire day pulsed with adrenaline, the kind only Formula 1 could conjure.
Calls from media outlets, sponsors, FIA representatives, journalists digging for details—they all came flooding in like a tsunami. WhatsApp pinged non-stop. Your inbox was a battlefield. There were statements to revise, press timelines to coordinate, and internal memos to update. Everyone wanted a piece of the story: Max Verstappen signs with Mercedes.
You barely left your desk.
Your fingers moved quickly, eyes scanning contracts, your voice brisk in back-to-back Zoom calls. The house around you faded—walls, silence, time. Even hunger. It all blurred as you threw yourself into the work, the strategy, the escape.
Because that’s what it was. An escape.
You couldn’t bear to sit in your living room and wonder where Lewis was emotionally—or worse, who he might end up with now that your marriage came with an invisible asterisk.
You couldn’t keep checking your phone to see if he texted some vague “Thinking of you” while possibly planning something physical with someone else in the near future.
So you threw yourself into your old religion: work.
.
By mid-afternoon, you were on your third coffee and fifth call of the hour when you felt him watching you.
Lewis stood by the doorway to your home office, a glass of water in hand, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. His hair was pulled back, a slight crease in his brow. He wasn’t angry. Not exactly. But there was a question in his eyes.
You placed a hand over the mic, muting yourself. “Give me ten minutes,” you whispered.
He nodded once, quietly turning to leave.
And for a second—just a second—you hated that he looked hurt.
Because hadn’t you been hurting all weekend? Hadn’t he started this?
You didn’t owe him your stillness.
.
When the last call ended an hour later, you stepped into the kitchen and found him there, scrolling on his phone, long legs folded beneath him at the counter. He looked up when you walked in.
“You’ve been at it all day,” he said casually.
You shrugged. “It’s a big day.”
“Still… season hasn’t even started. You usually try to slow down a bit when I’m home.”
You paused, then leaned against the counter across from him. “Yeah, well. I needed the distraction.”
He looked at you for a long moment, then set his phone down.
“Is this about us?”
You let out a soft laugh—bitter, tired. “What part isn’t?”
Lewis stood, walking toward you. “I’m not doing anything yet. You know that, right? I haven’t even looked at anyone.”
You stared up at him. “But you will.”
He didn’t deny it. Just studied you with that frustrating calm of his, the kind that made you want to scream and collapse into his arms all at once.
“This thing—this arrangement—we agreed it wouldn’t change us.”
But it had. You both knew it.
You gave him a faint, polite smile and turned away.
“I’ve got another call in ten minutes,” you said softly.
And you left him standing there. In your kitchen. In your home. Feeling like a stranger again.
