a-moment-captured

[a-moment-captured]

[a-moment-captured]

THE COMEBACK LAP (part 3) • sir lewis hamilton (iamquaintrelle)

# pairings: lewis hamilton x afrolatina!fem reader

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @ggaslyp1 @snowseasonmademe @beauty-gurl @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @boujiestpoet @gg-trini, @summergirljay, @kristyiana, @rethasavedlives @jajouska @determinednot2fall, @lovingayla

# summary: It's been almost five years since you last saw Lewis, and in those almost five years, so many things have changed......

# author’s note: This is a very short series, only 12 parts

# previous chapter | next chapter

Thursday, May 8th - Lewis's NYC Penthouse

The Almave bottle sat half-empty on Lewis's coffee table, the non-alcoholic tequila doing absolutely nothing to dull the ache in his chest. He'd been staring at his phone for the better part of an hour, scrolling through old photos and videos that he should have deleted years ago but couldn't bring himself to erase.

There you were in Monaco, 2020, wearing nothing but a pair of lace underwear, laughing at something he'd said off-camera. Your hair was longer then, and you looked younger, softer around the edges in a way that made his throat tighten. The video was barely ten seconds long—just you turning toward him with that smile that used to make him forget his own name, reaching out to pull him back into bed.

"Come back here," your voice said through the phone speaker, sleepy and warm and full of affection. "I'm not done with you yet."

Lewis's voice, younger and carelessly happy: "The camera's still recording, love."

"Good. Maybe I'll watch this when you're gone for three weeks and miss you so much I can't sleep."

The video ended, and Lewis felt something twist in his chest. You'd said things like that so easily back then—casual admissions of how much you'd miss him, how much you'd cared. He'd been stupid enough to think it was just pillow talk, sweet nothings said in the afterglow of good sex.

Now he wondered if you'd meant every word.

He scrolled to another photo—this one from Silverstone 2020, taken in his motorhome after he'd won his home race. You were curled against his side, wearing nothing but a black bra and the biggest smile he'd ever seen, your hand resting on his chest right over his heart. He remembered taking that photo, remembered the way you'd felt in his arms, warm and solid and real.

"I'm so proud of you," you'd whispered against his skin. "You were incredible out there."

He'd kissed your forehead, tasted the salt of happy tears on your skin. "Couldn't have done it without you watching."

"Bullshit. You're Lewis Hamilton. You could win races in your sleep."

"Maybe. But it feels better when you're there."

The memory hit him like a physical blow because it was true—everything had felt better when you were there. Racing, winning, losing, the pressure of being perfect all the fucking time. You'd made it all bearable, made him feel human instead of just a carefully constructed public image.

Lewis set the phone down and leaned back against his couch, staring at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Tribeca penthouse. The city sparkled below him, all lights and movement and life, but he felt disconnected from it. Had been feeling disconnected from everything since Saturday.

Since Luna.

He'd spent his entire adult life choosing racing over everything else. Over relationships that couldn't survive his schedule. Over the possibility of a normal life with someone who understood what it meant to love someone who was never really present. He'd told himself it was worth it—the championships, the records, the legacy he was building.

But sitting here now, half-whatever on fake tequila and drowning in memories of what he'd lost, Lewis couldn't remember why any of it had seemed more important than you.

The thing was, he wasn't even close to retirement. Still had fuel left in the tank, still had things he wanted to accomplish before hanging up his helmet. The eighth championship. A few more wins. Maybe even a ninth title if the stars aligned and Ferrari finally gave him a car that didn't fight him every step of the way.

But if Luna was his—and God, the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that she was—how would it work?

Other drivers had made it work. Seb had kids, had somehow managed to balance being a father with the demands of Formula 1. Kevin Magnussen, too. Plenty of guys on the grid had families, had found ways to make the impossible logistics work.

It wouldn't be easy. Would be uncomfortable as fuck, actually, with growing pains and complicated planning and probably more sacrifice than he'd ever made before. But it wasn't impossible.

And the fact that you worked in sports media would help. You understood the schedule, the pressure, the way the sport consumed everything in its path. Maybe Luna could come to some races, maybe you'd both travel with him sometimes. Maybe the two of you could make it work.

If you'd even let him try.

Lewis had gone out Monday night after the Met Gala, had hit three different clubs in Manhattan looking for a distraction. Some model or influencer or whatever had been all over him at the second place, beautiful and eager and exactly the kind of meaningless hookup that used to help him forget his problems.

But when she'd leaned in to whisper what she wanted to do to him, all Lewis could think about was you. The way you used to look at him like he was something precious instead of just famous. The way you'd touch him like you couldn't get enough, like you were trying to memorize the feel of his skin.

He'd gone home alone, to this empty penthouse that cost more than most people made in a lifetime, and he'd sat on this same couch wondering how his life had become so fucking hollow.

The intercom buzzed, jolting him out of his spiral.

"Sir Hamilton? Your team is here."

"Send them up."

Lewis screwed the cap back on the Almave and tried to make himself look less like a man having an existential crisis. Marc Hynes, his agent, would take one look at him and start asking questions Lewis wasn't ready to answer. At least, not until he had to.

The elevator doors opened a few minutes later, and Marc walked in followed by Penni Thow and Chelsea, his publicist. They were all smiles and professional efficiency, tablets and coffee cups and the kind of focused energy that meant business.

"Lewis!" Marc's voice was warm, familiar. He'd been Lewis's agent for over a decade, had guided him through contract negotiations and sponsorship deals and more drama than either of them cared to remember. "Looking good, mate. How was the Met Gala? The photos were incredible."

"Thanks. Grace killed it with the design."

"Absolutely. And the coverage has been fantastic. Very positive response to your role as co-chair." Chelsea settled into one of the leather chairs, already pulling up metrics on her tablet. "Engagement is through the roof, brand sentiment is excellent. Really reinforced your position as more than just a driver."

Lewis nodded automatically, but he wasn't really listening. These meetings usually energized him, got him excited about the next project or partnership or opportunity to expand his influence. Today, it all felt like background noise.

"So," Penni said, opening her own tablet, "shall we go through the upcoming commitments? You've got the Dior event next week, then the Richard Mille shoot, and we need to finalize details for the new RIMOWA partnership—"

"Actually," Lewis interrupted, "there's something else we need to discuss first."

Marc's smile faltered slightly. He'd been in this business long enough to recognize when a client was about to drop a bomb. "What kind of something else?"

Lewis took a breath. "I need to hire a private investigator."

The silence in the room was deafening. Chelsea's fingers froze over her tablet screen. Penni looked like she'd been slapped. Marc's expression went carefully neutral, the way it did when he was trying to process information that could potentially explode in their faces.

"A private investigator," Marc repeated slowly. "For what purpose?"

"I think... I think I have a daughter."

If the silence had been deafening before, it was atomic now. Chelsea actually dropped her tablet.

"You think you have a what?" Marc's voice was dangerously quiet.

"A daughter. Her name is Luna. She's three years old, and her birthday is November eleventh." Lewis felt the words tumbling out of him, days of suppressed panic finally finding an outlet. "Her mother is a motorsports reporter. We had... a relationship. A few years back. She left without explanation, and now she's back with this kid who looks exactly like me."

Marc was on his feet, pacing. "Jesus Christ, Lewis. Jesus fucking Christ."

"I know how it sounds—"

"Do you? Because it sounds like someone's looking for a massive payday." Marc's protective instincts were in full swing now, the same ones that had gotten Lewis through dozens of potential scandals over the years. "How much does she want?"

"It's not like that. She doesn't know that I know. She's been avoiding me, actually."

"Then what's her angle? Why come back now?"

"She's working. She was in Miami for ESPN, probably covering the race. We ran into each other by accident."

Chelsea finally found her voice. "We should sue her. If she's been hiding your child for three years, that's—"

"No." Lewis's voice was sharp. "I don't even know for sure yet. That's why I need the PI. I need to know if Luna is mine before I do anything."

Penni had been quietly listening, and now she pulled out her phone. "What's the mother's name?"

Lewis told her, and she started typing. Within minutes, she was scrolling through what looked like social media photos from the Miami weekend.

"Is this her?" Penni showed him the screen—a photo of you from someone's Instagram story, taken in the media center.

"Yeah, that's her."

Penni kept scrolling until she found what she was looking for—a paddock photo that included Luna in the background, her face partially visible as she looked up at something off-camera.

"And this is the little girl?"

Lewis's breath caught. Even in profile, the resemblance was unmistakable. "Yeah."

Penni stood up and walked over to Lewis, holding the phone next to his face. "Stay still," she ordered.

The three of them—Marc, Chelsea, and Penni—all looked between the photo and Lewis's face, comparing, analyzing. Lewis felt like a specimen under a microscope.

"I mean, the whole fucking face is yours, Lewis," Marc said finally, his voice flat with resignation. "Take away the nose piercings and she's your twin."

Lewis nodded, feeling something settle in his chest. He'd known, deep down, from the moment Luna had read his tattoo with those big brown eyes that were exactly the same shade as his own. But hearing someone else confirm it made it real in a way that terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.

"So what do you want to do?" Marc asked, settling back into business mode. "Because this is about to get very complicated very quickly."

"I want to know for sure. DNA test, legal confirmation, whatever it takes. And then..." Lewis ran both hands over his face. "Then I want to be in her life. However that works. Are you going to help me or not?"

Marc looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Of course we're going to help you, you idiot. But Lewis, this isn't just about wanting to be a father. If Luna is yours, you have rights. Legal rights. And if her mother has been deliberately keeping her from you..."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

But even as he said it, Lewis felt sick to his stomach. The thought of going to court, of fighting you for custody, of turning Luna into the center of some legal battlefield... it made him want to throw up.

"Let's start with the PI," Chelsea said practically. "Get the facts first, then we can figure out next steps."

Lewis nodded, already reaching for his phone to make the calls that would change everything.

Saturday, May 10th - Private Investigation Agency, Manhattan

The conference room was sterile and intimidating, all glass and steel and the kind of expensive minimalism that was supposed to inspire confidence. Lewis sat at one end of the long table, flanked by Marc and one of his lawyers, David Chen. Across from them sat two private investigators who looked like they'd stepped out of a crime drama—professional, serious, and probably capable of finding out anything about anyone.

The only other people in the room were Miles and Rachel Keen—known professionally as RAYE—who'd flown in from London the moment Lewis had called them. Rachel was one of his closest friends, had been since they'd met at a music industry event years ago. She understood the pressure of fame, the way it could isolate you from normal human connection, and she was one of the few people who could talk him off a ledge when his anxiety got the better of him.

"So let me make sure I understand," said Jennifer Walsh, the lead investigator. "You want us to conduct a full background check on the subject, confirm the child's parentage, and provide a comprehensive report on their living situation."

"That's right," Lewis said, his voice steady despite the fact that his hands were shaking under the table.

"And you understand that this investigation will likely require surveillance, interviews with associates, and potentially some... intrusive methods of gathering information?"

Lewis felt Rachel squeeze his hand under the table, a silent reminder that he wasn't alone in this.

"I understand. But I need to know the truth."

David Chen leaned forward, his expression serious. "Lewis, I have to advise you that if paternity is confirmed, you'll have significant legal options. Depending on the circumstances of why the child was kept from you, we could pursue anything from visitation rights to full custody."

"I don't want full custody," Lewis said quickly. "I travel forty weeks a year. No judge is going to give me full custody, and I wouldn't want that anyway. Luna needs stability, needs her routine."

"But you do want to be involved in her life?"

"Yes. However that works out."

David nodded, making notes. "We'll need to document everything. Every interaction you've had with the mother, any attempts she's made to contact you or avoid contact, any evidence that she knew you were the father."

Lewis thought about that text you'd sent four years ago, about the way you'd disappeared so completely it was like you'd never existed. About the way you'd looked at him in Miami—guilty, scared, like you were hiding something massive.

"There's something else," he said slowly. "When she left, she sent me a text. Said she needed to focus on her career, told me not to contact her. But the timing... if Luna is mine, if she was pregnant when she sent that..."

"We'll need to see that text," David said.

Lewis pulled out his phone, scrolled back through four years of messages until he found it. The words were burned into his memory, but seeing them on the screen still made his chest ache.

Please don't ever contact me.

"Short and to the point," Jennifer observed. "Almost like she was trying to end things as quickly as possible without explanation."

"That's what I thought too."

Rachel cleared her throat. "Lewis, can I ask... how are you feeling about all this? I mean, beyond the legal stuff. If Luna is your daughter, that's huge."

Lewis looked at her, grateful for the question. Everyone else was focused on the logistics, the legal implications, the potential PR nightmare. Rachel was the first person to ask about the emotional reality of what he was facing.

"Terrified," he admitted. "And excited. And guilty as hell."

"Guilty for what?"

"For not knowing. For not being there. For letting her grow up without a father because I was too focused on racing to see what was right in front of me."

Miles spoke up for the first time since they'd arrived. "Mate, you can't blame yourself for something you didn't know about. If she chose not to tell you..."

"But what if she had a reason? What if I did something, said something that made her think I wouldn't want Luna?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with possibility and regret.

David's voice cut through the moment. "That's exactly why we need a full investigation. We need to understand not just the facts, but the context. Why she left, why she's been avoiding you, what her intentions are now."

Lewis nodded, even though something about the lawyer's tone made him uncomfortable. David was talking about you like you were an adversary, someone to be defeated rather than someone he'd once loved.

"How long will this take?" Lewis asked.

"Two to three weeks for a comprehensive report," Jennifer said. "Less if we get lucky with key information early on."

"And what about the DNA test?"

"That's trickier. We'll need a sample from the child, which means either cooperation from the mother or more... creative methods."

Lewis felt his stomach drop. "What kind of creative methods?"

"A hair from a hairbrush, saliva from a drinking cup, anything with genetic material. It's not uncommon in paternity cases."

The idea of someone secretly collecting Luna's DNA made Lewis feel sick. But what choice did he have? You weren't going to voluntarily submit to a paternity test, and he needed to know for sure.

"Do whatever you have to do," he said finally. "But be careful. I don't want Luna scared or traumatized by any of this."

Jennifer nodded. "We'll be discreet. The child will never know we were there."

As the meeting wrapped up and contracts were signed, Lewis felt like he was crossing a line he couldn't uncross. In two weeks, he'd know for certain whether Luna was his daughter. And then... then he'd have to figure out what came next.

Because whatever happened, there was no going back to the way things were before Miami.

The truth was coming, whether any of them were ready for it or not.

Tuesday, May 13th - ESPN Seattle Bureau

You were staring at your computer screen, trying to focus on an article about the upcoming Indianapolis 500, when the email arrived. The subject line made your blood run cold: Urgent - Assignment Change for Emilia Romagna GP.

Your hands were shaking as you opened it.

Hi Y/N,

Hope you're well. Unfortunately, Tom has come down with food poisoning and won't be able to cover Imola this weekend. I know it's short notice, but would you be available to fly out tomorrow? We need someone who knows the sport and can handle the driver interviews.

Let me know ASAP.

Best, Sandra

You stared at the email for a full minute, your heart hammering against your ribs. Of all the weekends, of all the races, of course you'd be called up for Imola. The one race where you'd definitely run into Lewis again, where there'd be no avoiding the conversation you'd been dreading for four years.

Your first instinct was to say no. To claim you were sick, that Luna needed you, that you had some unmovable commitment. But this was work, professional work that you needed to keep your career on track. And saying no to a last-minute assignment would raise questions you couldn't answer.

You typed back a response before you could lose your nerve.

Hi Sandra,

Yes, I can cover Imola. Will need to arrange childcare but should be able to fly out tomorrow evening.

Thanks, Y/N

The moment you hit send, you wanted to throw your laptop across the room. Instead, you called Gabriel.

"Hey babe, what's—"

"I have to go to Italy," you said without preamble. "Tomorrow. For work."

There was a pause. "Italy as in...?"

"As in Emilia Romagna Grand Prix. As in I'm going to have to face Lewis again whether I want to or not."

Gabriel was quiet for a long moment. "Maybe this is a sign."

"A sign of what?"

"That it's time to tell him the truth."

You closed your eyes, leaning back in your desk chair. "Gabe..."

"I'm serious. You can't run forever, and Luna's going to start asking harder questions. Maybe this is the universe giving you a push."

"The universe can mind its own business."

But even as you said it, you knew Gabriel was right. Every day, Luna asked more questions about other kids' fathers, about why she didn't have a daddy, about the fuzzy photos she'd seen of you from your reporting days. You were running out of deflections, out of age-appropriate explanations that didn't involve outright lies.

"I'll watch Luna," Gabriel said finally. "Your parents can help too. We'll make it work."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. But Y/N? Promise me you'll at least think about it. About telling him."

You promised, even though you had no intention of keeping that promise.

********************************************************

Wednesday, May 14th - Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

Luna was a trooper about the early morning goodbye, clinging to you in the departure area while Gabriel waited patiently with her princess backpack and enough snacks to feed a small army.

"Mama, can you get the car man's signature?" she asked, looking up at you with those big brown eyes that were so much like Lewis's it made your chest ache.

"What?" you managed.

"The car man! From the garage! Can you get his autograph for me?"

Gabriel shot you a look over Luna's head, eyebrows raised.

"We'll see, baby girl," you said, kissing her forehead. "Be good for Uncle Gabe and Grandma, okay?"

"Okay! Love you, Mama!"

"Love you too."

Your mother appeared as you were getting ready to go through security, pulling you into one of her crushing hugs that smelled like vanilla and home.

"You look tired, mija," she said in Spanish, smoothing your hair back like you were still five years old.

"I'm fine, Mami."

"No, you're not." She pulled back to look at you seriously. "You've been carrying this secret for too long. It's eating you alive."

You glanced around, making sure Luna was distracted by something Gabriel was showing her on his phone. "Mami, not here."

"When, then? When Luna is fifteen and asking why her father never wanted her? When she finds out on her own and realizes you lied to her her whole life?"

The words hit like physical blows. "It's not that simple."

"It is that simple, mija. You tell him the truth. You let him decide what kind of father he wants to be. And you stop making decisions for everyone else." Your mother kissed your cheek and stepped back, her expression softening. "God gave you this chance for a reason. Don't waste it."

As you walked through security and toward your gate, your mother's words echoed in your head. But so did the memory of that text message, the one that had sent you running four years ago. The anonymous number telling you that Lewis didn't want kids, that you should disappear before he did it for you.

You'd never found out who sent it. Had been too scared and hurt and overwhelmed to investigate. But it had felt real enough at the time, had confirmed all your worst fears about what Lewis would say if he knew you were pregnant.

Now, sitting in the departure lounge waiting for your flight to board, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were walking into a trap of your own making.

********************************************************

Thursday, May 15th - Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari, Imola

The Italian sun was warm on your face as you walked through the paddock, press badge swinging from the lanyard around your neck. Imola had always been one of your favorite circuits—historic, challenging, and somehow more intimate than some of the bigger venues. But today, every step felt like you were walking toward your own execution.

You'd arrived late the night before and spent the morning in media briefings, trying to focus on tire compounds and aerodynamic updates instead of scanning every crowd for a flash of Lewis's face. So far, you'd been lucky—the driver's conference you'd been assigned to cover hadn't included him, and you'd managed to avoid the Ferrari hospitality area entirely.

But that luck ran out around 2 PM.

You were walking back from interviewing Charles Leclerc about the car's balance issues when you heard it—the distinctive sound of a Ferrari engine being pushed hard. Your head turned automatically toward the sound, and your blood froze.

Lewis was climbing out of an SF-25 that had just pulled up to the garage, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his braids in that gesture you remembered so well. He looked frustrated, probably another difficult practice session, and he was talking animatedly to his engineer about something that clearly wasn't working.

You turned and walked in the opposite direction as quickly as you could without actually running.

But even as you made yourself scarce, disappearing into the media center where you could hide behind your laptop and pretend to work, you couldn't shake the image of him. Days since the Met Gala, days since you'd watched him on your friends' phone looking like he owned the world, and he was still the most beautiful man you'd ever seen.

And somewhere back in Seattle, his daughter was probably asking Gabriel for the hundredth time when Mama was coming home, still clutching that stuffed elephant that had the same stubborn cowlick as the man you were hiding from.

You thought you'd escaped.

You'd made it through the media center, past the paddock club, almost to the parking area where you could disappear into your rental car and drive back to the hotel. Your heart was finally starting to slow down from seeing Lewis by the Ferrari garage, and you were beginning to think you might actually make it through this weekend without having to face him directly.

That's when you heard your name.

"Y/N."

Your blood turned to ice. You stopped walking, your hand frozen on the door handle of your rental car, and slowly turned around.

Lewis stood about ten feet away, still in his racing suit with the top half tied around his waist, leaving him in just a tight fireproof undershirt that clung to every line of his torso. His braids was still mussed from his helmet, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on his skin that made your mouth go dry despite everything.

He'd never been tall—you were both around 5'9", which meant you could look him directly in the eye without craning your neck. You'd never minded his height, especially not when he carried himself with the kind of confidence that made him seem ten feet tall. And God, especially not when you'd discovered that what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in that big dick energy that had made you forget your own name on more than one occasion.

But standing here now, four years later, you realized that his presence still had the same effect on you. He commanded attention without trying, made the space around him feel charged with electricity.

"Lewis." Your voice came out steadier than you felt. "How... how did practice go?"

It was a stupid question, the kind of polite small talk you'd make with any driver, but you needed something to fill the silence that was stretching between you like a live wire.

His jaw tightened. "Really? That's what you want to talk about?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?" He took a step closer, and you could smell his cologne mixed with the lingering scent of rubber and fuel that always clung to drivers after practice sessions. "Because I think you know exactly what I want to talk about."

Your heart was hammering against your ribs, but you forced yourself to maintain eye contact. "Lewis, I'm working. I've got deadlines to meet and—"

"Cut the bullshit, Y/N." His voice was low, dangerous in a way that sent shivers down your spine for all the wrong reasons. "We both know this isn't about work."

"I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

The lie tasted bitter on your tongue, but you couldn't—wouldn't—give him what he was looking for. Not here, not like this, not when you weren't prepared for the conversation that would change everything.

Lewis laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You're really going to stand there and pretend like nothing happened? Like there's nothing you need to tell me?"

"Tell you what?" You crossed your arms over your chest, partly for warmth and partly as a barrier between you and the intensity radiating off him. "Lewis, I don't know what kind of game you think we're playing here, but—"

"Game?" His voice shot up, and you glanced around nervously, hoping no one was close enough to overhear. "You think this is a fucking game?"

"Keep your voice down," you hissed.

"Or what? You'll disappear for another four years?" He took another step closer, close enough that you could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the same eyes that Luna had inherited. "Is that your solution to everything? Just run away when things get complicated?"

The accusation hit like a slap. "You don't know anything about why I left."

"Then tell me." His voice dropped back to that dangerous whisper, and somehow that was worse than the shouting. "Tell me why you vanished without explanation. Tell me why you blocked my number, deleted your social media, acted like we never meant anything to each other."

You could feel yourself wavering, could feel four years of carefully constructed walls starting to crumble under the weight of his stare. There was pain in his eyes, real pain that you'd put there, and for a moment you almost broke.

Almost.

"People grow apart, Lewis. Relationships end. It happens."

"Not like that. Not the way we were." He was close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "We were good together, Y/N. Really fucking good. And you threw it away like it meant nothing."

"Maybe it didn't mean as much as you thought it did."

The words came out crueler than you'd intended, and you watched them hit him like physical blows. His face went carefully blank, the way it did during press conferences when reporters asked questions he didn't want to answer.

"Right," he said quietly. "Of course. How stupid of me to think otherwise."

He started to turn away, and panic flared in your chest. This was going all wrong, spiraling into territory you hadn't prepared for. You'd expected questions about Luna, not this raw excavation of what you'd had together.

"Lewis, wait—"

He spun back around, and the look in his eyes made you take a step back.

"No, you know what? I'm done being nice about this. I'm done pretending like I don't know exactly what you're hiding from me." His voice was getting louder again, and you could see a few people starting to notice the commotion. "Is there anything you want to tell me, Y/N? Anything at all that you think I might want to know?"

Your throat felt like it was closing. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"November eleventh ring any bells?"

Your blood turned to ice. "What?"

"November eleventh. Does that date mean anything to you?"

You forced your expression to remain neutral even as your world tilted sideways. "It's... it's a date. I don't understand—"

"It's your daughter's birthday."

The words hung in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, could feel sweat beading at your hairline.

"So?" you managed.

"So it's also my mother's birthday. Quite a coincidence, don't you think?"

You shrugged, fighting to appear casual. "Birthdays are just dates, Lewis. Millions of people share them."

"Right. Just like millions of three-year-old girls can read numbers and have my eyes and my stubborn chin and my exact hair texture."

Each word was like a knife twisting in your chest. He knew. Of course he knew. You'd been an idiot to think you could keep this secret forever, especially once Luna had started talking to him directly.

But you couldn't give in. Not yet. Not until you knew what he planned to do with the information.

"I think you're seeing things that aren't there," you said carefully.

Lewis stared at you for a long moment, and you could practically see him wrestling with his temper. When he spoke again, his voice was deadly calm.

"You know what? You're right. This isn't getting us anywhere." He took a step back, and somehow that felt more threatening than when he'd been crowding your space. "But I will get the answers I need from you, Y/N. I tried being nice about this, tried giving you the chance to tell me yourself. But the gloves are fucking off now."

The threat in his voice made your knees weak. "Lewis—"

"Save it." He was already walking away, not even bothering to look back at you. "Enjoy the rest of your weekend. I know I will."

You stood there in the parking lot, watching him disappear back toward the paddock, your entire body shaking with adrenaline and terror. The conversation had gone worse than your worst-case scenario. Not only did Lewis clearly suspect the truth about Luna, but you'd just essentially declared war by refusing to confirm what he already knew.

Your hands were trembling as you fumbled for your phone, scrolling to Gabriel's contact and hitting call before you'd even fully processed what you were doing.

"Hey babe," his voice was warm and familiar, a lifeline in the chaos of your panic. "How's Italy? Please tell me you didn't run into—"

"Gabe." Your voice cracked on his name. "Gabe, I need you to tell me the truth about something."

"Okay..." His tone shifted immediately, picking up on your distress. "What's wrong? You sound terrified."

"Have you noticed anyone following you? Anyone watching the house? Any strange cars on our street?"

"What? Y/N, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Please, just think. Has anything seemed off in the last week? Anyone asking questions about Luna, about me?"

There was a pause, and you could practically hear Gabriel thinking. "No, nothing like that. Why would someone be watching us? Y/N, you're scaring me."

You closed your eyes, leaning against your rental car for support. "He knows, Gabe. Lewis knows about Luna."

"How much does he know?"

"I don't know. Enough. He knows her birthday, knows that she's his fucking twin. He's been putting the pieces together, and I just... I couldn't tell him. I couldn't confirm it."

"Oh, honey..."

"He threatened me, Gabe. He said the gloves are off, that he's going to get answers whether I give them to him or not. What if he comes for her? What if he tries to take her away from me?"

"Y/N, breathe. Just breathe for a second."

But you couldn't breathe. Your chest felt tight, your vision was starting to blur around the edges, and all you could think about was Luna—sweet, innocent Luna who had no idea that her entire world was about to implode.

"He's coming for her, Gabe," you whispered into the phone. "Lewis is coming for Luna."

And as you said the words, you realized that your worst nightmare was finally coming true.

.......tbd

[a-moment-captured]

What she wants - Kylian Mbappé fic (P2)

Oops looks like it’s a three part series (sorry)

So sorry for the late update

Ly all x let me know what you think

The door clicks shut behind you.

It’s a small sound, a soft metallic catch, but in the hush of the penthouse, it lands with weight. The kind of weight that says something is about to happen.

The air inside is cooler than the Miami night you’ve just stepped out of, the faint chill laced with that floral, vaguely expensive scent the hotel pumps through its vents. But underneath, threaded through it, you catch something warmer. Sharper. Him. His cologne lingers like an afterthought, like he’s been here long enough for it to settle into the space.

And into you.

He’s standing by the windows, framed against a sprawl of city lights. Black velvet sky pricked with gold. The moon spilling a silver ribbon across the ocean. His reflection bleeds into the glass, still, upright and tense. His phone dangles loosely from his hand, screen dark. Not texting. Not scrolling. Just holding it, like he needs something to do with his hands while he waits.

You set your bag down on the console. The thud is deliberate, a punctuation mark, but quiet enough that it can’t be mistaken for an accident. He doesn’t turn.

“You had fun?”

His voice is low. Almost casual. But there’s an edge under it, man-made artificial evenness, the kind people practice in their heads before they speak.

You slide your sunglasses from your hair, folding them neatly, setting them beside your bag. “Why wouldn’t I?”

That’s when he turns.

The change is subtle, the kind of shift most people would miss. But you don’t. You’ve made an art of reading him. The sharp line of his jaw, tighter than it should be. The mouth, one step shy of a frown. His eyes - controlled, but a little too focused, like he’s holding something back because he doesn’t trust himself with it yet.

“Don’t start,” you warn, before he can get the next word out.

“Don’t start?” A short, humourless laugh slips from him. “You walk in here at—”

“You’ve been timing me?”

“—at one in the morning—”

“It’s twelve forty six.”

“—and you tell me not to start?”

You let your mouth curl into a smile. Not the kind he likes. “Timing me down to the minute. Cute.”

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

You start toward him, slow and measured. The carpet muffles the click of your heels, but you know he can hear them. You want him to hear them.

“That thing where you make me sound crazy before I’ve even opened my mouth.”

“I didn’t say you were crazy.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You stop just short of him, the gap between you thick with unsaid things. “What exactly is it you think I’ve done?”

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze holding yours a beat too long. “Where were you?”

“I was at the rooftop bar. Having a drink.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough.”

Silence stretches, taut and loaded. “Just a drink… with another player?”

You inhale slowly, deliberately. “Ah. So you’ve seen it.”

He huffs out a laugh, short and sharp. “Seen it? Half the world’s seen it.”

You shrug lightly. “You should be used to that feeling.”

His jaw ticks. He shifts his weight, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s keeping himself from saying something worse. “Stop.”

“Stop?”

“Stop turning this on me before I’ve even finished a sentence.”

“You think I staged it for the cameras? That I orchestrated the whole thing?”

“You didn’t stop it.”

“Oh, so now I’m responsible for other people’s phones?” Your fingertips find the back of a chair, tapping once against it. “You really think you have the right to—”

“Yeah. I do.”

“You don’t.” Your voice cuts sharper now. You lean forward, not enough to touch him, but enough to push into his space.

“I’m not the one out there letting strangers take pictures like—”

“Like what? Like I’m single?”

“Like you’re making a point.”

You let your shoulders lift in a slow shrug. “Maybe I am.”

“Jesus, you…” He drags a hand down his face, pacing his breath. “You know exactly what that looks like.”

“Do you know exactly what you look like in that video?”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’s exactly the same thing.”

“No, it’s not—”

“You had your hands all over her—”

“I said it’s not the same—”

“—laughing like she was the only one in the room—”

“Will you let me—”

“No.”

That word drops like a blade.

His eyes narrow. He closes the gap, enough that his cologne sharpens in the cold air. “You think this is funny? This little performance?”

“It’s not a performance.” You don’t blink. “It’s a mirror.”

His brow furrows. “A mirror?”

“Yeah. I’m just showing you what it feels like.”

His laugh is low and breathless, with no warmth in it. “You think I don’t already know?”

“No.” Your voice is even. “I think you’ve convinced yourself you can do whatever you want, and I’ll still be here.”

You shoulder past him just enough for your arm to graze his. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t give you the satisfaction.

“You think some deuxmoi post scares me?” he says.

“No.” Your eyes flick down to his hand, the faint tremor in his fingers. “I think it bothers you that it doesn’t scare me.”

His eyes are dark and alive with something sharp.

“You humiliated me today,” he says, voice low but vicious. “You let people think they had a shot with you. Like I’m not even in the picture.”

You blink. “You’re not. At least not in the ones they posted yesterday.”

He scoffs. “Don’t turn this into that—”

“It is that,” you bite. “You let someone touch your face. You smiled for her like you forgot you ever belonged to me.”

Kylian steps back, pacing once, dragging a hand down his jaw. His voice rises. “It was a fucking greeting.”

“You used to have a crush on her.”

“That was before you.”

“And you think that means anything to the internet? To me? Do you know how many people tagged me in that video, telling me to be careful?”

“I didn’t kiss her!” he snaps. “It was a cheek. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t fuck up.”

“Then why did it feel like you did?”

His breath hitches.

You don’t let up.

“I felt small yesterday, Kylian. And I don’t do small.”

He laughs. Bitter. “So what, today was revenge?”

You look him dead in the eye. “Today was power.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not,” you say. “You walk around the world getting stared at, worshipped. You forget what it feels like to be reminded of your place.”

“My place?”

“In my life.”

His chest heaves. “Don’t pull that superiority crap on me.”

“Then stop acting like I should apologise for being seen.”

“I’m not asking you to apologise,” he says, voice fraying. “I’m asking why the hell it looked like you were trying to fuck someone else on camera!”

“I wasn’t.”

“You let him lean in—”

“I let you walk into a picture with your past crush!”

“That wasn’t my fault!”

“And this wasn’t mine!”

He flinches. Not physically. Just in his expression, that microsecond between pride and pain where the truth hits too hard.

“I couldn’t breathe all day,” he mutters. “I was on the team coach with the guys passing their phones around, showing me you. Wearing that outfit. I saw you smiling at him. Letting him think he had a chance.”

“You didn’t answer when I needed you,” you snap. “You didn’t explain. You didn’t text. You just let it happen. Let it spiral.”

“Because I didn’t think you’d punish me like this.”

“And I didn’t think I had to punish you for you to care.”

His lips part, then close. You watch him swallow. “You came back here just to fight?”

For a moment, nothing moves. The air feels too dense to breathe.

“I came back here for you.”

“And what is this?” His hand gestures sharply between you. “Some game?”

You meet his gaze, steady and unblinking. “No. A reminder.”

“Of what?”

“That you don’t get to touch me like that and touch her like that and think I’ll sit here quiet.”

His jaw works. He paces, small restless steps, keeping you in his periphery.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I meant it differently.”

“Still true.”

Two steps, and he’s in your space again. His shadow swallows you in the dim light.

“Careful,” he says, low. “You’re pushing me.”

“That’s the point.”

You hold him there, locked in a stare that feels more like a dare. The tension between you isn’t moving, it’s tightening.

His eyes drag over your face. His voice, when it comes again, is thinner, quieter,  but sharper. “You think this makes you look strong?”

You arch a brow. “You think this makes you look innocent?”

His jaw clenches. “You disappeared.”

“You kissed someone.” You let that hang, sharp and deliberate.

He exhales hard through his nose. “I didn’t—”

“You did.” You set your bag down carefully, deliberately. “On camera. In daylight. With a smile.”

“She’s no one.”

“She’s someone to the internet.” You turn to face him fully now. “And to me.”

He steps forward. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like, Kylian? Because from where I was standing… actually, no. I didn’t even get to stand. I had to scroll.”

His mouth hardens. “It wasn’t planned.”

“Didn’t look like you were resisting either.”

He’s in front of you now, close, too close, the kind of proximity that makes your skin tighten even though your heart is already steel. His voice is lower. “I was being polite. She came up to me. There were cameras.”

“There are always cameras. You know how this works.”

His jaw ticks, that familiar little twitch when he’s trying not to explode. “You think I did it on purpose?”

“You didn’t stop it.”

“You didn’t stop those pictures today.”

“Oh, here we go.” You cross your arms, leaning into your hip. “You really want to talk about that?”

“I do,” he snaps. “Because you knew what you were doing.”

“I went for a drink.”

“You went out dressed like that.” His eyes flick downward for a fraction of a second, like he can’t help it. “You let him sit with you. You let him lean in.”

“You don’t control my moves.”

“No,” he says, sharper now. “But you’re mine.”

You step into his space this time. “Then act like it.”

His breath stutters, just enough for you to notice. “You humiliated me today.”

“You humiliated me yesterday.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same. Except mine was intentional.”

His head jerks back, just a little. “So you admit it?”

“I admit I wanted you to know what it feels like.”

He drags a hand over his face. “God…”

“You think I don’t see you?” you go on, voice quieter now but sharper. “You think I didn’t notice it was her? You used to want her, Kylian. Don’t pretend you forgot.”

He scoffs. “That was before you.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s still in the footage. And now it’s in my head.”

“It meant nothing.”

“It meant something to me.”

He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath you can’t catch. You don’t let him off the hook.

“And what exactly did you want yesterday?” you press. “A kiss on the cheek and a boner for nostalgia?”

That one lands. He flinches. Barely, but enough.

“You can’t pretend this was nothing. You didn’t even call.” you say softly, deadly. 

“I was trying to avoid making it worse.”

“For who?”

Silence.

“For who, Kylian?” Louder now. “Me or your PR team?”

His eyes narrow. “You think I care about PR more than I care about you?”

“I think you care about being untouchable. I think you care about controlling the story. But you can’t control me.”

“You spent the day making sure I knew exactly how replaceable I am,” he fires back.

“No,” you say evenly. “I reminded you how wanted I am.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s not.”

“You think I’m supposed to just sit there and watch men hang on your every word?”

You tilt your head, letting your hair fall over your shoulder. “You do it to me every day.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s exactly the same.”

His breathing changes, heavier now. His gaze breaks from your eyes for just a second,  to your mouth, then lower, to the neckline of your top. He pulls it back up, forces himself to keep.

“You went out dressed like that—”

“You already said that.”

“—and you know what it does to me.”

You let a slow smile curl at the edge of your mouth. “Maybe that was the point.”

“Don’t—”

“Don’t what? Make you feel what I felt?”

He’s still looking at you, but the fight in his expression is tangled now,  with something slower, darker. His gaze drags down again, lingering. The curve of your skirt. The slit. The skin. Then back to your face, as if he’s trying to remember what the hell you were arguing about.

“I’m trying to be angry,” he says, almost under his breath.

“Maybe you are.” You step closer, until there’s barely air between you. “But you’re also looking.”

His throat bobs.

“And you always look, Kylian,” you murmur. “Even when you shouldn’t.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air feels weighted, electric. You can hear his breathing change, watch the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding something back. His eyes drift down again, to your mouth, your throat, your skirt,and when they lift to yours, there’s nothing but heat.

You don’t move. You don’t have to. He’s already unravelling.

He drags in a breath, heavy and frayed. “And after all that…” His eyes flash. “You’re really going to stand there and pretend this wasn’t a show?” The says, breath hot now, voice cracking under the weight of what he’s holding in. “The bags, the car, the heels, the outfits… how much did you even spend today?”

You blink at him slowly. “Why? You want the receipts?”

“That’s not what I…” He bites it off, running a hand down his face. “You bought two Birkins.”

“Three,” you correct softly.

His mouth opens, jaw tight. “And a Kelly. And Dior. And Prada. And a fucking car-”

“I only bought one,” you interrupt, calm. “Yaelle convinced me.”

He laughs, one sharp breath that doesn’t carry any humor. “Oh, well, that makes it better.”

You tilt your head. “Is it the money that bothers you? Or the fact that I didn’t ask?”

His eyes flash. “The fact that you did it with my assistant. On my card. While the entire world watched you as personal entertainment the entire day.”

You let the silence stretch. Then you smile, soft and slow. “Did you see the lingerie too?”

He’s seething. You can see it in the way his jaw tenses, and in the way his eyes betray him. They keep flicking downward: your waist, your thigh, the soft part of your throat. Each time, he looks away like it costs him.

He drags his gaze back up, like it costs him something. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it worked,” you say.

“Worked?”

You take a step forward, the hem of your skirt shifting just enough to tease. “You noticed.”

His throat bobs. His eyes flicker. “Of course I noticed.”

“You watched every clip?”

“You know I did.”

“Every picture?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

You let it hang. Then, “And still no text all morning?”

“I was trying to stay calm.”

You hum. “Didn’t seem very calm on the phone with Yaëlle.”

His jaw locks. “She told you?”

“She didn’t have to.” You pause, then lower your voice. “I could hear it.”

His jaw tenses, but his eyes betray him. They fall again, to the hem of your skirt, the line of your thighs, the dip at your collar. He catches himself and tries to look angry again, but you’ve already seen it.

“Eyes up,” you murmur.

“You don’t get to do that,” he says, voice uneven. “You don’t get to play the victim while you’re out there putting on a show.”

“And you don’t get to pretend you didn’t enjoy yours.”

He goes still. And that’s when you go for it.

“So. The girl.” You tilt your head. “You enjoyed hugging her?”

His eyes snap to yours. Hard.

“Did it remind you of old times?” you ask. “Did she smell the same? Feel the same?”

“Don’t.”

You ignore him. “You used to like her. It must’ve been… nice. Nostalgic. Familiar.”

His whole body tenses.

You push further, slowly, sweetly. “I’m asking if you got hard. You know…” you gesture vaguely, fingers brushing his arm, “when she leaned in. When you smelled her perfume. When she touched your face.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence.

Then his breath leaves him in one short, broken sound, not arousal this time, but fury.

“You think this is funny?” he spits. “You think what we have is a fucking game?”

You blink at him. Unbothered. “No. But I think it’s interesting how fast you forget.”

“Forget?” His voice cracks, disbelief curling into rage. “Forget? You think I could ever forget what we are?”

You fold your arms across your chest. Quiet. Waiting.

He steps forward. One step. Then another. Until the space between you is gone, until his presence is all you can feel.

His voice is low. Dangerous. Almost shaking. “I would burn this fucking city to the ground for you. Don’t you ever put me in the same sentence as her again.”

Your heartbeat stutters. But you don’t flinch. You hold his stare, silent and sharp.

And that’s when he grabs your hand. Not rough, not quite. But fast. Certain.

He brings it down between you, slow and unrelenting, until your palm is pressed against him through his trousers,until you feel it. the thick, undeniable heat of him, already hard.

His voice is wrecked now. “Do you think she could ever make me feel like this?” His breath hitches. “Do you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.Your hand is still wrapped around him, the weight of him hot and hard through the fabric of his pants. But what pulses beneath your palm isn’t just lust.

It’s restraint. Frustration. The edge of something deeper he’s not saying.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at you, his breath uneven, chest rising and falling too fast, like he’s trying to hold everything in at once.

His voice finally breaks the silence. “Do you feel what you do to me?”

You don’t answer. You squeeze your grip instead, slightly, deliberately,  just enough to make him flinch. His head tips back, his jaw locks, a sound catches low in his throat. But he swallows it.

Then you let go.

He exhales like you knocked the air out of him. His hands twitch at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with them now. Like he wants to reach for you, but won’t.

You take a step back. “You were trying to prove a point,” you say.

He blinks. “I was trying to show you—”

“That you’re hard?” you interrupt, calm and steady. “That I still affect you?”

His eyes flick up to yours. “You always affect me.”

“And yet,” you say, your voice softening without losing its weight, “you still let her touch you.”

His face hardens. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I know.” You pause. “But it still hurt.”

The silence between you carries. It’s no longer braced for impact. It’s bruised. Open. He nods once. Barely. His voice is rough. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You didn’t,” you say. “But you don’t get to forget who I am.”

“I could never forget.”

You study him, eyes, mouth, the tension in his throat.

“Take off your shirt.”

He hesitates for half a second. Then pulls it over his head and drops it to the floor.

You reach out, fingers brushing down his chest, slow and sure, until you feel his breath stutter. You don’t look away. “I wasn’t trying to punish you,” you say. “But I’m not here to be small for you either.”

“I never want you small.”

“Good.” You step closer. “Then let me have you like this.”

His voice is quieter now. “Like how?”

“Willing,” you say. “And honest. And mine.”

He nods again. Not obedient. Not submissive. Just present.

You undo his belt, unfasten his pants, watching the way his breathing alters with every movement. But you don’t touch him again.

Instead, you step in, brushing your mouth against his jaw, barely a kiss. Just breath. Just heat.

“You can follow me to the bedroom,” you say. “But you keep your hands to yourself until I tell you otherwise.”

He says nothing, just watches you turn and walk ahead.

And then he follows.

The bedroom is dark, save for the city light bleeding in through the curtains, fractured silver across the floor, the wall, the bed.

You walk in without looking back. You hear him pause in the doorway. And then the soft sound of his footsteps behind you.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

You stop at the foot of the bed, hands at your hips. You feel the weight of his stare on your back, patient and pulled tight with restraint.

“Kylian,” you say quietly.

He swallows. “Yeah?”

“Sit.”

The mattress moves behind you as he obeys, not hesitating, not questioning. Just watching. Waiting.

You turn slowly. And for the first time tonight, you look at him without the armour. No sharp smile. No dig. No performance.

Just him.

Bare chested, legs slightly apart, arms braced at his sides like he doesn’t trust them near you without permission. And eyes… God, his eyes. They don’t just follow you. They reach for you.

You step forward, standing between his knees. Your hands brush his thighs, firm and slow. Your body doesn’t tremble. Your voice doesn’t crack. Because this isn’t new.

This is remembered.

You tip his chin up with two fingers, your gaze steady on his. “Do you remember the safe word?”

His eyes flicker. Just once. The briefest hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. Not playful, but reverent.

“Paris,” he says.

Your mouth curves. “Of course it is.”

It was Paris the first time. Hotel lights, mirrors, heavy breaths and the sound of him breaking apart under your hands. It’s the only word that makes sense.

You nod. “Good.”

Your fingers trail over his jaw, soft and slow. Like you’re re-learning the shape of him. Like you’re reminding him whose name he was made to say. “I’m still angry,” you murmur.

“I know.”

“I’m still hurt.”

His voice is hoarse. “I deserve that.”

“But I don’t want you quiet,” you say, voice like a slow burn. “I want you honest.”

His brow furrows. “I am.”

You brush your thumb over his bottom lip. “Then tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“Why you didn’t call.”

His breath catches. His jaw tightens under your touch.

“I thought if I gave you space, it would blow over. That maybe you’d be less angry if I stayed out of it.”

You nod slowly. “And was that easier than saying sorry?”

“No.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “It was spineless.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And when you saw me out today… the bags, the car, the headlines…”

He doesn’t flinch. “I felt sick.”

“Why?”

His voice is almost a whisper now. “Because you looked like everything I could lose.”

You don’t reply. Not in words.

You lean down, slowly, your forehead brushing his. Close enough that you feel his breath on your mouth, but you don’t kiss him. Not yet.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his cheek, not a kiss. Just a graze. A claim.

“You don’t touch unless I say.”

He nods once, jaw tight.

“And when I speak, you answer.”

“Yes.”

Your hand moves to the back of his neck, thumb skimming the line of his jaw. He tilts into it. Just a little.

“Do you understand why you’re here?”

“To show you,” he says, voice thick. “That I remember.”

“And?”

“That I’m yours.”

That’s what you were waiting for. Not permission. Not apology.

Submission.

You drag your thumb across his bottom lip, slow and steady. “You’re going to be good for me?”

“Always.”

You kiss him then. And it’s not a reward.

It’s a promise.

Taglist: @ilovepablogavi @skipandahop28 @virgilsgurl @moorningvoice @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @germanapples @scottishthistle @luz45789 @blckinback @haartemis @szariahwroteit @shqyou @almightystylus @gwynbaz - lmk if you want to join xoxo

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I've seen a lot of ff writers apologize for their fic being "self-indulgent" which baffles me cause like is that not the entire concept of fanfiction?????

SAY IT WITH ME FOLKS, "FANFICTION IS SUPPOSED TO BE SELF-INDULGENT"

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a man has one job and it’s to yearn. i better see his ass in the trenches over his beloved or he’s on the chopping block

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Really a sweet, delicate soul, it’s not an act or a face.

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Attn: Prager U scholars, NewsMax dolts, Joe Rogan flunkies, and Charlie Kirk gummy-smile intellectual invertebrates...

You're next.

Open a book. Talk to your neighbors. Don't be so afraid of life. You are being manipulated to not defend or respect yourself.

[a-moment-captured]

summer!lewis 🫶🏾

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men's tits.

bonus tiddy twitch:

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new heights podcast (august 2025) - taylor swift

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🏔️🐶🛠️🏍️.

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BLOOD OATH (chapter 16) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @krystiana @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @fadedintime @theoriginalgirll, @literallysza, @muglermami, @iamryanl, @vellicora @cranberryjulce, @blondfortheweekend

# wc: long-ish....

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

previous chapter | next chapter

Jensen stood on the balcony of his Miami Beach penthouse, watching the sun bleed orange across Biscayne Bay while nursing a glass of aged whiskey. Irony tastes bitter on his tongue—he'd bought this place with money earned protecting Lewis Hamilton.

Now he's using it as his base of operations to destroy the man who'd made it all possible.

He lifts his whiskey glass of an aged Macallan. Takes a slow sip. Doesn't flinch at the burn.

Loyalty. What a fucking joke.

Jensen had recognized the fundamental flaw in his position long before the opportunity to exploit it arose. Lewis was brilliant, ruthless, and utterly focused on expanding his empire. But he was also fundamentally limited by the same British reserve that made him so effective in negotiations—he trusted competence over charm, relied on systems over personalities, and worst of all, he believed loyalty was something that could be bought with fair treatment and steady pay.

The man had never understood that some people wanted more than employment. Some wanted partnership. Some wanted recognition. And some, like Jensen, wanted to surpass their former masters entirely.

The decision to betray Lewis hadn’t been made lightly or quickly. It had been a gradual recognition of opportunities, a careful analysis of risk versus reward, and ultimately, a calculated bet on his own ability to play a longer game than anyone realized he was capable of.

Suarez’s initial approach had come through intermediaries—subtle inquiries about Lewis’s security protocols, casual questions about operational procedures, the kind of intelligence gathering that any competent enemy would attempt. Jensen had played along initially, feeding them enough legitimate information to establish his credibility while gathering intelligence about Suarez’s resources and intentions.

You had been an unexpected complication in Lewis’s otherwise predictable existence. Jensen had watched your arranged marriage evolve from strategic alliance into something that genuinely mattered to his boss, and he’d recognized the vulnerability it created. Lewis Hamilton in love was Lewis Hamilton with weakness, and weakness could be exploited by someone patient enough to wait for the right moment.

Orchestrating your kidnapping had required an immediate shift. Not just the tactical elements—though coordinating with Suarez’s people while maintaining his cover had been challenging—but the psychological groundwork necessary to ensure Lewis would respond exactly as expected.

Because Jensen knew Lewis better than anyone. Knew how he thought, how he planned, how he reacted when something he valued was threatened. The man was predictable in his competence, which meant his responses could be anticipated and countered by someone with intimate knowledge of his methods.

The church had been perfect—a predictable location, familiar security arrangements, enough chaos during the service to mask the coordination required for a successful snatch. Jensen had positioned himself exactly where he needed to be to eliminate Naomi when she got too close to discovering his role, then executed the extraction with professional precision.

However, yesterday's dinner at Suarez’s compound had provided valuable intelligence about the Cuban’s state of mind, his relationship with his associates, and most importantly, the fractures in his alliance with Petrov.

Suarez was becoming unstable. Jensen had recognized the signs during their brief interactions—the manic confidence, the disconnect from tactical reality, the increasing paranoia about everyone except Jensen himself. The man’s obsession with you consumed rational thought, making him vulnerable to manipulation by anyone skilled enough to play to his delusions.

Which was exactly what Jensen had been doing for weeks.

The genius of his position was that Suarez saw him as a valuable asset rather than potential threat. A turncoat from Lewis’s organization, providing insider knowledge and tactical expertise in exchange for generous compensation. The Cuban had no reason to question Jensen’s loyalty because he’d already demonstrated his willingness to betray his previous employer.

But Suarez had made a critical error in assuming that previous betrayal meant future loyalty. Jensen had learned long ago that loyalty was a tool to be used rather than a principle to be maintained. And right now, his analysis suggested that continued alliance with Suarez was becoming a liability rather than an asset.

The man was yanking his chain, treating him like hired help rather than the strategic partner he’d positioned himself to become. Worse, Suarez’s deteriorating mental state was creating unnecessary risks for everyone in his orbit. When Lewis inevitably mounted his rescue operation—and Jensen had no doubt that Lewis would come, probably sooner than Suarez expected—the compound would become a killing ground.

Jensen had no intention of being caught in that crossfire.

Jensen's phone buzzes against the glass table. He glances at the screen—an encrypted message. His mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile.

Showtime.

The message is brief, coded in the kind of business language: "Market analysis complete. Recommend immediate consultation. Venue secured."

Petrov. Right on schedule.

Jensen drains his whiskey, sets the glass down with deliberate precision. His reflection stares back from the surface—older than he feels, harder than he'd planned to become. The scar along his left temple, courtesy of a job in Prague three years ago. The slight bend in his nose from a disagreement in Belfast.

Battle scars. Lewis's battles, fought with Lewis's enemies, for Lewis's empire.

No more.

He stands, joints protesting slightly. Forty-two isn't old, but it's old enough to know that opportunities like this don't come twice. Old enough to recognize that loyalty is just another word for limitation.

The drive to the meeting takes thirty minutes through Miami traffic that moves like congealed blood. Jensen's rental car—a forgettable Honda Civic, the kind that disappears in plain sight—crawls past neon-soaked storefronts and palm trees that look artificial under the streetlights.

The venue is a warehouse in Little Havana, the kind of place where legitimate business and criminal enterprise blur into profitable ambiguity. Jensen parks three blocks away, walks the remaining distance with his hands loose at his sides.

Professional habits.

Petrov is waiting inside, his pale eyes reflecting the single hanging bulb like a cat's. At sixty-three, the Russian still moves like violence is always an option, his expensive suit unable to disguise the predator beneath.

"Jensen." The name sounds foreign in Petrov's accent, syllables clipped and precise. "You have my attention."

"Alexei." Jensen nods, not offering his hand. Petrov doesn't expect it. "Thanks for meeting."

"Your message suggested urgency." Petrov's rings catch the light as he adjusts his cufflinks. "I assume this concerns our mutual... complication."

Lewis. Always comes back to Lewis.

"Suarez is unstable," Jensen says without preamble. "More than we anticipated."

"Elaborate."

Jensen had prepared for this, rehearsed the conversation during his drive. But standing here, face to face with a man who could have him killed with a phone call, the words feel different. Heavier.

"The obsession with Hamilton's wife goes beyond rational strategy," he begins, watching Petrov's face for any tell. "It's personal in ways that make good planning impossible."

Petrov's expression doesn't change. "You are concerned about his... emotional investment."

"I'm concerned about his judgment." Jensen takes a step closer, lowering his voice. "He's making decisions based on what he wants rather than what makes sense. That's dangerous for everyone involved."

A long pause. Petrov studies him with those pale, unblinking eyes.

"And you propose what, exactly?"

This is the moment. The one Jensen has been building toward for months.

"Partnership," he says simply. "Real partnership. Not this hired gun bullshit."

Something flickers across Petrov's features. Interest, maybe. Or amusement.

"You would betray Suarez as easily as you betrayed Hamilton?"

The question hangs in the air between them like a blade. Jensen feels his jaw tighten, the accusation hitting closer to home than he'd expected.

"I didn't just betray Lewis for the money," he says finally. "I upgraded to a better opportunity."

"Ah." Petrov nods as if that explains everything. "And now you wish to upgrade again."

"Now I want to be on the winning side." Jensen's hands are steady despite the adrenaline singing in his veins. "Suarez's organization is held together by fear and cash. It won't survive serious pressure. And Hamilton will bring serious pressure."

"Yes," Petrov agrees softly. "He will."

The Russian begins to pace, his movements economical but restless. Like a caged animal that hasn't forgotten how to hunt.

"You have intelligence," Petrov continues. "About Hamilton's response to recent... developments."

"I have everything," Jensen confirms. "His tactical planning, resource allocation, psychological profile. I know how he thinks, how he operates. I've been inside his decision-making process for two decades."

"And you would share this intelligence with me."

"In exchange for equal partnership in whatever comes next."

Petrov stops pacing. Turns to face him directly.

"What makes you think there will be a 'next,' Jensen? What makes you think any of us will survive what Hamilton is planning?"

The question cuts deeper than Jensen wants to admit. Because the truth is, he's seen Lewis in full operational mode before. Seen what happens when someone threatens something he considers his.

"Because we'll be ready for him," Jensen says with more confidence than he feels. "Because we know he's coming, and we know what he wants."

"His wife."

"His wife," Jensen agrees. "Which gives us leverage."

Petrov's smile is thin, predatory. Dangerous.

"Leverage," he repeats. "Yes. But leverage cuts both ways, doesn't it? Make Hamilton desperate enough, and he becomes capable of... extraordinary things."

Jensen's heard the stories. Berlin, three years ago, when someone had tried to move against Lewis's operations in Eastern Europe. The bodies found in the Spree, tortured beyond recognition. The complete dismantling of a criminal network that had taken decades to build.

Lewis Hamilton doesn't negotiate when it's personal.

"All the more reason to have the best possible intelligence," Jensen argues. "All the more reason to be prepared for every contingency."

"Indeed." Petrov checks his watch—a Patek Philippe that costs more than most people's houses. "You have forty-eight hours to prove your value. Demonstrate that your intelligence is worth the risk of accepting your... partnership."

"What do you need?"

"Hamilton's timeline. His tactical approach. The resources he's bringing to bear." Petrov's eyes glitter in the dim light. "Everything you know about how he plans to retrieve his wife."

Jensen nods. He'd expected this kind of test.

"And if I deliver?"

"Then we discuss terms." Petrov moves toward the warehouse exit, their meeting apparently concluded. "But Jensen?"

"Yeah?"

"If you're playing games—if this is some elaborate scheme to feed me false intelligence while protecting your true loyalties—I will know. And I will respond... appropriately."

The threat doesn't need elaboration. Jensen has seen enough of Petrov's work to understand exactly what appropriately means.

"Understood."

Petrov nods once, then disappears into the Miami night like smoke.

Jensen stands alone in the warehouse for several minutes, processing what just happened. The die is cast now. No going back, no changing his mind if the situation deteriorates.

All in.

The drive back to his penthouse gives him time to think, to plan his next moves. Petrov wants intelligence about Lewis's response—fine. Jensen can provide that. But he'll need to be careful about how much he provides, and when.

Too much too quickly, and Petrov might decide he's more valuable dead than alive—eliminate the risk of him switching sides again. Too little, and the Russian might conclude he's not worth the investment.

Balance. Always comes down to balance.

Back in his penthouse, Jensen pours himself another whiskey and settles onto the balcony. The city sprawls below him like a circuit board, neon and halogen tracing patterns of light across the darkness.

Somewhere out there, Lewis Hamilton is planning war. Jensen can almost feel it—the cold fury, the methodical preparation, the absolute certainty that his wife will be recovered regardless of the cost.

Jensen's phone buzzes. Another encrypted message, this one from a different source entirely.

Time to earn his keep.

He opens his laptop, begins typing. A detailed intelligence report about Lewis's known associates, their capabilities, their likely deployment in a rescue operation. Information gleaned from years of close observation, packaged for Petrov's consumption.

But edited. Carefully edited.

Jensen includes enough accurate intelligence to establish credibility, but leaves out crucial details that might tip the balance too far in Petrov's favor. He's walking a tightrope now—useful enough to survive, dangerous enough to matter, but not so dangerous that he becomes a liability to eliminate.

The report takes two hours to complete. When he's finished, Jensen reads it through twice, checking for any detail that might reveal more than intended.

Perfect.

He encrypts the file, routes it through multiple proxies, sends it to the address Petrov had provided. Then he sits back and waits.

The response comes faster than expected. A single word: Adequate.

Not good. Not excellent. Adequate.

Jensen's jaw tightens. He'd given Petrov intelligence worth millions, information that could mean the difference between life and death when Lewis finally made his move. And the best response he can manage is adequate?

Fucking Russians.

But it's a start. A foot in the door. And Jensen has learned patience over the years, learned that building trust takes time even in their world of rapid betrayals and shifting loyalties.

His phone rings. Not a text this time—an actual voice call, routed through encryption protocols that make the CIA's security look like child's play.

Jensen checks the caller ID, sees the routing signature he's been hoping for. His entire demeanor shifts, professional calculation giving way to something more personal.

Finally.

He accepts the call, activating his own security measures.

"Yeah?"

"Jesus, finally." The voice is male, British, with a tone that suggests education and fine breeding despite the obvious exhaustion. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

The words hit Jensen like a physical blow. Six months of careful planning, of positioning himself for maximum advantage, of building the resources necessary for the impossible.

And it all comes down to this voice.

"Never," Jensen says, his own voice softening in ways that would surprise anyone who knew his reputation. "Just had to wait for secure comms. You know how it is."

"I do." Bitter humor bleeds through the phone. "Chinese prison isn't exactly ideal for making international calls."

Jensen's free hand clenches into a fist. Six months ago, a deal had gone wrong in Hong Kong. Intelligence had been compromised, law enforcement had been waiting, and someone Jensen cared about more than his own survival had been caught in the resulting net.

The reason. The only reason that really mattered.

Lewis's intelligence networks hadn't been good enough to prevent it. Lewis's connections hadn't been sufficient to fix it. Lewis's power had its limitations, and those limitations had cost Jensen the one thing he couldn't afford to lose.

"How are you holding up?" Jensen asks in genuine concern.

A harsh laugh comes through the encrypted channel. "Day by day. The food's shit, the guards are assholes, and my Mandarin's getting better than I ever wanted it to be."

Jensen closes his eyes. The casual tone doesn't fool him—six months in Chinese custody would break most people. The fact that the voice on the other end still sounds human, still capable of humor, speaks to reserves of strength that humble him.

"But I'm alive," the voice continues, "which is more than some people manage in here."

"I'm working on getting you out," Jensen promises, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "The deal I'm putting together... it'll provide leverage with Beijing. Enough to arrange a prisoner exchange or at least a reduction in sentence."

Please let that be true.

"How long?" The question is simple, but Jensen can hear the desperation beneath it. The careful control that's barely holding together after months of uncertainty.

Jensen wishes he could be more specific. Wishes he could guarantee a timeline, a specific date when this nightmare would end. But honesty is all he has to offer.

"Soon," he replies, hating how inadequate the word sounds. "Few weeks at most. I just need to—"

Shouting erupts in the background of the call. Angry voices speaking rapid Mandarin, footsteps echoing off concrete floors. Jensen catches enough to understand the gist—guards discovering unauthorized communication, moving to shut it down.

No. Not now.

"Shit," comes the voice, tension spiking. "They're coming. I have to—"

The line goes dead.

Jensen stares at his phone for a long moment, the broken connection feeling like a severed artery. All his careful planning, all his strategic maneuvering, all his willingness to betray everything he'd once believed in.

For this.

For someone whose name he hasn't spoken aloud in six months, whose face haunts his dreams, whose imprisonment has become the defining obsession of Jensen's existence.

The betrayal of Lewis Hamilton wasn't just about money or power or professional advancement. It was about desperation. The desperation of a man who'd finally found something worth more than loyalty, worth more than his own survival.

Getting that voice out of a Chinese prison cell was the only thing that really mattered. Everything else—Suarez's obsession with you, Petrov's arms dealing, the coming violence that would tear Miami apart—was just the price of admission to a game where the stakes were measured in human lives.

Jensen sets his phone aside, pours himself another glass of whiskey. His hands are steady despite the emotional earthquake that's just rearranged his entire internal landscape.

Focus.

Emotion is a luxury he can't afford right now. There's too much at stake, too many moving pieces, too many ways this could all go catastrophically wrong.

But for the first time in months, he has something resembling a plan. Petrov represents resources and connections that go far beyond Suarez's Miami operation. The kind of international reach that can influence governments, arrange prisoner exchanges, make the impossible merely difficult.

Jensen just needs to survive the storm that's coming. Lewis is planning something—Jensen can feel it like pressure in his bones, the certainty of violence gathering just beyond the horizon.

When it hits, the chaos will provide perfect cover for Jensen's own maneuvering. Suarez will be distracted, focused on defending his prize. Petrov will be evaluating options for protecting his investments.

And Jensen will be positioned to exploit whatever opportunities emerge from the wreckage.

He stands, moves to the railing of his balcony. Miami stretches out below him like a battlefield waiting to happen—beautiful, decadent, completely unprepared for what's about to engulf it.

Let it burn.

Jensen has been thinking longer term while everyone else focused on their immediate concerns. Lewis on building his empire. Suarez on his delusional romance. Petrov on his arms dealing.

None of them understood that Jensen was playing a completely different game. Had been playing it since the moment that phone call from Hong Kong had shattered his world six months ago.

Everything else was just means to an end.

His phone buzzes again. Another encrypted message, this one from Suarez's organization. A request for updated intelligence on Lewis's activities, couched in the kind of paranoid language that suggested the Cuban was still cracking under pressure.

Jensen smiles—the first genuine expression of amusement he's felt in days. Suarez had no idea what he'd bought when he'd purchased Jensen's loyalty. Had no idea that his new employee was already shopping for a better offer.

By the time anyone realized what Jensen was really after, it would be too late to stop him.

He begins typing his response to Suarez, carefully crafted intelligence that would feed the Cuban's overconfidence while positioning Jensen as an indispensable asset. Let Suarez think he was winning. Let him believe his delusions about Lewis's wife would somehow end happily.

Delusion makes for poor strategy.

While others had been focused on their immediate concerns, Jensen had been building the resources necessary for something much more ambitious.

A prison break. International in scope. Impossible by most standards. But most of all: freedom.

Not just for himself, but for the voice on the other end of that broken phone call. The voice that had given Jensen something to fight for, something worth more than money or power or professional advancement.

Love. Even if he'd never said the word aloud.

Even if saying it would mean admitting to a vulnerability that could destroy everything he'd built.

Jensen finishes his whiskey, heads back inside with his laptop. There are plans to finalize, intelligence to gather, alliances to shift.

Soon.

The word echoes in his mind like a prayer, like a promise, like the only thing standing between Jensen and complete surrender to the darkness that had been growing inside him since that first desperate phone call from Hong Kong.

Soon.

Raúl Suarez stands at the window of his private study, Cuban coffee growing cold in his hand as he watches you move through his gardens like you belong there. The morning sun catches the highlights in your hair, transforms your simple white sundress into something ethereal.

Perfection.

You pause beside the fountain—the genuine Roman piece he'd acquired from a collector in Naples—trailing your fingers through the water with unconscious grace. Even from this distance, he can see the elegant line of your neck, the way you tilt your head when something catches your interest.

His fountain. His gardens. His woman.

The thought sends warmth spreading through his chest like aged rum. Everything is falling into place exactly as he'd envisioned during those long months of planning, of waiting, of wanting with an intensity that surprised even him.

Jensen's betrayal had been a masterpiece of timing and execution. The church bombing, the chaos, the perfect extraction that had finally delivered what Suarez had been dreaming about since the first moment he'd seen you.

Two years of careful observation, of strategic patience, of watching Hamilton claim what should have belonged to him.

But now you're here. In his paradise. Away from Hamilton's influence, away from the artificial constraints of that arranged marriage, free to discover what they could build together.

You move toward the pool area now, your bare feet silent on the marble pathways he'd imported from Carrara. Everything about the estate has been designed for exactly this—to showcase beauty, to provide the perfect backdrop for the life he wants to build with you.

The infinity pool stretches toward the bay like liquid sapphire, its edges disappearing into the horizon in a trick of engineering that cost him nearly two million dollars. Worth every penny to see your expression as you take it in, that subtle widening of your eyes that suggests genuine appreciation despite her circumstances.

You're beginning to see. Beginning to understand what he can offer you.

Suarez sets down his coffee cup, moves to his desk where multiple monitors display feeds from the security cameras positioned throughout the grounds. He switches to the pool area, zooming in until he can see your face clearly.

No fear now. No defiance. Just quiet contemplation as you settle into one of the cushioned loungers, your movements fluid and unconsciously sensual.

Beautiful. More beautiful than he'd remembered, and he'd studied every photograph, every piece of surveillance footage his people had gathered over the months of planning.

But seeing you here, in his space, surrounded by the luxury he's created specifically for you... it's almost overwhelming.

The intercom on his desk chimes softly. "Señor Suarez?" Carmela's voice, respectfully neutral. "Shall I bring refreshments to the pool area?"

"Champagne," Suarez replies without hesitation. "The Dom Pérignon Rosé. And those petit fours from the French pastry chef. She has sophisticated tastes."

"Sí, señor."

Suarez returns his attention to the monitors, watching as you remove the simple dress you've been wearing. Underneath is a bikini—conservative by Miami standards, but the sight of your skin, the elegant curve of your waist, the way the fabric clings to you...

Mine. The word echoes in his mind like a prayer, like an affirmation, like the culmination of two years of careful planning and patient desire.

He'd first seen you at a charity gala in New York, long before Hamilton had entered the picture. You'd been barely twenty-three then, fresh from Columbia, radiant in emerald silk that had made your eyes look like precious stones.

Salvatore Ricci's eldest daughter. Beautiful, intelligent, untouchable.

Suarez had watched you navigate that room with unconscious authority, watched you command attention without seeming to seek it. And he'd known, with absolute certainty, that you were meant to be his.

The negotiations with your father had been... disappointing. Salvatore had been polite but firm in his rejection, citing existing arrangements and territorial considerations that seemed laughably irrelevant compared to what Suarez could offer.

Money. Power. Protection. A life of luxury beyond anything Ricci's provincial imagination could conceive.

But Salvatore had chosen differently. Had selected that British pretender Hamilton instead, sealing his daughter's fate with a marriage that was clearly political rather than romantic.

A waste. A beautiful woman trapped in a loveless arrangement, your potential stifled by her father's limited vision and Hamilton's calculating coldness.

On the monitors, you're entering the pool now, your movements graceful as you glide through the water. The sight is hypnotic—every stroke, every turn, every breath perfectly choreographed by genetics and unconscious elegance.

Suarez imagines joining you there. Imagines the conversations they'll have once you're free of Hamilton's influence, once you have time to see clearly again. He's researched your interests exhaustively—classical music, Renaissance art, modern architecture, international finance. They have so much to discuss, so much to discover about each other.

You complete several laps, then float on your back, face turned toward the sun. Your expression is peaceful, almost meditative, as if you're beginning to appreciate the sanctuary he's created for you.

Yes. This is how it should be. How it will be, once Hamilton is eliminated and you're free to embrace your true feelings.

Suarez knows she must be confused right now, torn between the artificial loyalty Hamilton has cultivated and the natural connection you'll feel toward someone who truly appreciates your worth. But confusion will pass. Clarity will come.

Time. All you needs is time away from Hamilton's manipulation, time to remember who you were before that arranged marriage constrained your spirit.

The intercom chimes again. "Señor, Señor Jensen is here to see you."

Suarez reluctantly turns away from the monitors. Business, unfortunately, must occasionally interrupt pleasure. But Jensen's intelligence has been invaluable, his insider knowledge of Hamilton's psychology providing crucial insights into how their enemy will respond.

"Send him up."

While he waits, Suarez allows himself one more glance at the monitors. You pulled yourself from the pool now, water streaming from your hair as you reach for a towel. The sight is almost artistic—like a goddess emerging from the sea, perfectly framed by his carefully designed landscape.

Jensen enters without ceremony, his expression professionally neutral as he approaches the desk. "Morning update," he says simply, extending a tablet loaded with intelligence reports.

Suarez accepts the device, though his attention remains divided. Half his focus on Jensen's briefing about Hamilton's mobilization efforts, half on the monitors where you are settling back into the lounge chair, champagne and pastries arriving as he'd requested.

Perfect service. Just as it should be for someone of your quality.

"Hamilton's moving faster than anticipated," Jensen is saying, his tone carrying subtle warning. "Full tactical deployment, military-grade equipment. He's not approaching this as a negotiation."

"Good," Suarez replies, genuinely meaning it. "Let him come in force. Let him demonstrate the violent, primitive nature that she's finally free of."

Jensen's expression flickers—surprise, perhaps, or concern. "You're not worried about the assault capabilities he's bringing to bear?"

"I'm prepared for them." Suarez gestures toward the windows overlooking his compound. "This isn't just a home, Jensen. It's a fortress. Electronic surveillance, reinforced structures, professional security personnel with military backgrounds. Hamilton can bring his little army—they'll find themselves outgunned and outmaneuvered."

On the monitors, you accepted the champagne, sipping it while watching the peacocks strut across the lawn. Your expression is thoughtful rather than distressed, as if you are genuinely considering the beauty of your surroundings.

Appreciation. The first step toward acceptance.

"There's something else," Jensen continues. "Petrov's asking questions about timeline, about exit strategies if things go south."

Suarez's attention snaps back to Jensen, irritation flaring. "Petrov can ask all the questions he likes. This isn't his operation, and she isn't his concern."

"He's invested significant resources—"

"In my vision." Suarez's voice carries an edge that makes Jensen step back slightly. "Petrov's job is to provide the tools I need to succeed. My job is to ensure that success. And I will succeed."

Because failure isn't an option. Not when he's finally so close to everything he's wanted, everything he's planned for, everything he deserves.

You set down the champagne flute, lies back in the lounge chair with your eyes closed. The picture of serene contentment, as if some part of you recognizes that you are exactly where you belong.

Home. This is your home now, even if you don't fully understand that yet.

"Continue monitoring Hamilton's preparations," Suarez instructs Jensen, dismissing him with a wave. "But remember—when he comes, we'll be ready. And when it's over, she'll see exactly what kind of man she was married to, what kind of weakness drives someone who claims to love her."

Jensen nods, though something in his expression suggests disagreement with this assessment. No matter. Jensen is useful for intelligence and tactical support, but he lacks the vision to understand what's really happening here.

Destiny. Two years in the making, carefully orchestrated through patience and planning and unwavering commitment to an outcome that lesser men would have abandoned as impossible.

As the door closes behind Jensen, Suarez returns his full attention to the monitors. You're swimming again, strokes powerful and sure as you cuts through the crystal-clear water.

His pool. His estate. His woman.

Hamilton will come, and Suarez will demonstrate exactly why some prizes are worth any price, any risk, any amount of violence to claim and keep.

Soon you'll understand that everything happening now—the kidnapping, the separation from your previous life, even Hamilton's inevitable death—is just the necessary prelude to the happiness the two of you would build together.

Perfect love requires perfect commitment. And Suarez has never been more committed to anything in his life than he is to making you his, completely and forever.

You emerge from the pool again, and this time when you look toward the house, Suarez imagines he can see acceptance beginning to dawn in your eyes.

......tbd

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If you want to cry, cry! If you want to scream, then scream! Do whatever you feel like doing while dealing with grief babe. Even post on here! I promise, we won’t mind!

Thank you💜 it’s definitely a process! I’ve lost my fair share of people but nothing compares when it’s your mom 😞.

[a-moment-captured]

POV: It's your wedding and Pedro is waiting for you at the altar.