The Contract

Helena's POV

There was something particularly annoying about a man who could switch emotions like a light switch. On camera? Toto was the image of devotion—hand at the small of my back, soft smiles, warm glances that fooled half the paddock into thinking we had late-night Netflix sessions and slow Sunday mornings in bed.

Off-camera?

He acted like I was a stranger who accidentally got added to his Outlook calendar.

It was Saturday. Post-qualifying. He'd vanished into a string of technical debriefs without a word. I didn't care. No, really—I didn't. So what if he'd barely looked at me since breakfast? I wasn't going to beg for his attention like some tragic side character in a workplace rom-com.

I sat alone in the Mercedes hospitality cafeteria, legs crossed, swirling a half-glass of Pinot Noir like I was in a French film. The room buzzed with engineers, PR reps, and interns. Toto's voice floated from somewhere upstairs in a meeting room—stern, direct, commanding. Of course.

"Excuse me," a voice said, smooth and confident.

I looked up.

Tall. Early forties. Handsome in that 'expensive divorce lawyer who also surfs' way. Sharp blazer over a black team polo. His lanyard said Media Team. His smile said charming problem.

"Would you mind if I sat here? I've got some time to kill before I can leave the track."

I blinked. "If you say something like 'a beautiful woman shouldn't drink alone', I'll walk away from my own glass."

He chuckled. "Noted. No clichés. Just an empty seat and tired feet."

"Then it's all yours," I said, motioning to the chair. "I'm Helena."

He extended his hand. "Marc. Media Manager."

I shook it. Firm grip, warm skin, easy grin.

"So... do you manage all the media, or just boss everyone around from a godlike height?"

He laughed. "Bit of both, depending on the day. And you? What do you do around here?"

I took a slow sip of wine. "I'm just... here."

"That's mysterious."

"I try."

Marc leaned in a bit, forearms on the table, eyes curious. "Here, as in... PR? Family? High-level sabotage?"

"Something like that," I said with a smirk. "You're bold for asking though."

"I'm bold when the wine's not mine."

We kept talking—about weather in Suzuka, awkward sponsor events, why the team kit made everyone look like they were attending a space funeral. He made me laugh. Really laugh. He didn't look at me like I was a pawn in someone else's game. For a moment, I felt like just... me.

And then, like a walking storm cloud, Toto appeared.

He didn't say hi. Or how nice to see you chatting instead of spiraling from neglect.

He just said, "We need to go."

Marc's brows flicked up. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," I said quickly, standing and grabbing my phone. "Nice meeting you."

"Likewise." His voice was calm, but I could feel the shift in the air. Men always knew when another man stepped too close.

We walked out of hospitality in silence, Toto two paces ahead like I was some intern who'd spilled coffee on a spreadsheet.

When we reached the car, I threw myself into the seat with a dramatic sigh. "You were rude."

"I was being efficient," he snapped. "You're not here to flirt."

"No," I said sweetly. "I'm just here to play trophy wife in a game show I didn't sign up for."

"You're getting paid," he shot back. "You'll play the role, not embarrass me in front of the team."

I twisted in my seat. "You're jealous."

He scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Oh, come on. You stormed in like some furious husband out of a telenovela."

"We have a contract," he growled. "And that includes not making me look like a fool."

We made it back to the hotel without another word. Elevator. Hallway. Room. Tension hanging so thick it could suffocate us both.

I closed the door behind me and finally exploded. "You don't get to treat me like this, then act like I'm the problem!"

Toto dropped his bag. "You're walking around the paddock like you're single—"

"Newsflash: I am single!"

He moved toward me. "You think this is a game?"

I moved back. "You're acting like it is!"

"I told you—"

"I don't care what you told me, Toto!" I was yelling now. "I'm not your doll. I'm not your distraction. I'm not—"

He grabbed my wrists suddenly, pushing me back until my spine hit the wall. "You're mine, Helena. For better or worse."

My breath caught.

"Let me go."

He didn't. His fingers burned against my skin.

"You don't get to pretend you don't care," I said, trying to sound strong.

He leaned closer, breath brushing my cheek. "You keep pushing me like this, Liebling, and one day I won't stop at the wall."

The tension cracked like lightning between us.

"Then maybe you should."

We didn't kiss. We didn't need to. The air between us was already sin. He stepped back eventually, jaw tight, chest rising and falling fast.

I stumbled into the bathroom, heart pounding, hands shaking—not from fear.

From heat.

What the hell was happening to me?

⸻

The sunlight was soft through the window when I stirred.

I was still in bed.

And so was Toto.

One of his arms was wrapped lazily around my waist. My head—somehow—was on his chest, the rise and fall of it warm and steady beneath my cheek.

Panic flickered in me.

I sat up fast, brushing hair from my face. Toto blinked awake slowly.

"What... happened?" he mumbled, voice still rough with sleep.

"Nothing," I lied, already walking to the bathroom. "Nothing happened."

Same day. Same routine. Backstage coldness. On-camera perfection. And when someone else so much as looked at me?

Toto Wolff became the overprotective husband with a vengeance.

But I wasn't stupid.

Something had shifted.

And neither of us knew what the hell to do with it.