The Contract

The View from the Cage

So I followed him, because what else was I going to do? Escape out the window?

He carried my two suitcases like they weighed nothing, and I dragged the smaller ones and my shoulder bag like a mule. The hallway led to a spacious guest suite—more spacious than most apartments in Rotterdam—with a king bed, walk-in closet, ensuite bathroom, and, of course, another balcony door.

He gestured toward it. "It connects to the main balcony. You can use it freely. This room is yours now."

I stared at him. "Thank you, kind sir, for allowing me access to the air."

He looked at me flatly. "If this is going to work, Helena, sarcasm won't help."

"Oh, I know sarcasm won't help," I said sweetly. "But it sure as hell is going to get me through this marriage."

He left without another word, shutting the door behind him. I sighed.

Typical.

I opened the balcony door and stepped out. The view was... ridiculous. Like a painting. The sea stretched endlessly, the sky blushed with hints of orange. Peaceful.

But for how long?

⸻

That night, hunger betrayed me. My pride wanted me to sulk in my suite forever, but my stomach had other plans. I padded barefoot into the kitchen, wearing an oversized sweater and hair in a messy bun, fully intending to scavenge for yogurt or judgment-free pasta.

Instead, I found Toto at the island, typing furiously on his MacBook.

He looked up.

I looked at the fridge.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, startling me with his voice.

"No," I said, pulling open the fridge. "I just love opening expensive appliances for sport."

He ignored that. "Let's go out. Dinner."

I blinked. "You want to dine with me?"

"You're my wife. Or soon-to-be. We have to start acting like it. People are watching."

"Oh, fabulous," I said, shutting the fridge. "I live for performative romance."

He stood. "I'll make a reservation. Be ready in 30."

"Sure. Why not. My calendar's wide open now that I've sold my soul."

⸻

Back in my room, I showered, threw on soft makeup, and slipped into a cream silk blouse tucked into tailored black trousers. Subtle, elegant, deadly.

Toto was waiting by the door when I emerged. He looked me up and down—more than once.

I narrowed my eyes. "Something on your mind, Mr. Wolff?"

He blinked. "No."

Liar.

⸻

The restaurant was exactly what I expected—Michelin-starred, filled with elegant people who pretended not to notice Toto Wolff walk in with a tall blonde woman wearing a wedding ring that looked like a crown.

We sat. We ordered. The waiter pretended not to be eavesdropping.

Toto, of course, got straight to business.

"You'll be joining me in Japan."

I nearly choked on my water. "Come again?"

"For the Grand Prix. And Bahrain. And Saudi Arabia."

I laughed. Laughed. "Am I your wife or your publicist?"

He arched a brow. "Both."

"Can I say no?"

"No."

"Can I come to just one?"

"No."

"Wow," I muttered. "This really is marriage."

He smirked. "Think of it as a business trip. Just with better outfits."

I rolled my eyes. "Do I at least get to pick my own wardrobe or are you assigning me a stylist like I'm some helpless Barbie?"

"Actually, I've hired a stylist."

"You're unbelievable."

"And yet," he said smoothly, "you're here."

I stared at him, trying not to smile. Damn him.

⸻

That night, back in my room, I stood on the balcony again, the sea stretching endlessly before me. A beautiful prison.

This was my life now.

Fake husband.

Real consequences.

And three Grand Prix weekends where I'd have to smile, pose, and pretend I wasn't fantasizing about pushing him into a pool every five minutes.

But hey—at least the view was great.