π Κα΄κ°α΄Κα΄ α΄Κα΄ κ±α΄Ι΄ κ±α΄α΄κ± α΄ α΄α΄‘Ι΄ β α΄Κα΄α΄α΄α΄Κ 1: α΄Κα΄ α΄α΄Κα΄Κ α΄κ° κ±ΙͺΚα΄Ι΄α΄α΄π
κ°1 x Κα΄α΄α΄ α΄Κ | Κα΄Ι΄α΄ α΄ Ι΄α΄ΚΚΙͺκ± α΄α΄ | Κα΄α΄Κα΄ΚΚα΄α΄α΄ + κ±α΄α΄α΄Ι΄α΄ α΄Κα΄Ι΄α΄α΄κ±
β οΈ α΄α΄Ι΄α΄α΄Ι΄α΄ α΄‘α΄ΚΙ΄ΙͺΙ΄Ι’κ±:
α΄ΚΙͺΚα΄ α΄Κα΄ α΄α΄α΄Ιͺα΄Ι΄/α΄Ιͺα΄ Ι΄α΄α΄α΄ΙͺΙ΄Ι’
α΄Ιͺκ±κ±ΙͺΙ΄Ι’ α΄ΚΙͺΚα΄
α΄α΄Κα΄Ι΄α΄α΄Κ Ι’ΚΙͺα΄κ°
α΄ Ιͺα΄ α΄Κα΄α΄/κ±α΄α΄α΄Κα΄α΄Ιͺα΄Ι΄
α΄ α΄α΄Κα΄κ±κ±Ιͺα΄Ι΄ & Ιͺκ±α΄Κα΄α΄Ιͺα΄Ι΄
α΄α΄α΄α΄Ιͺα΄Ι΄α΄Κ α΄Κα΄α΄α΄α΄
α΄α΄Ι΄α΄Ιͺα΄Ι΄κ± α΄κ° α΄α΄Ι΄Ιͺα΄ α΄α΄α΄α΄α΄α΄κ±
Κα΄α΄α΄ Κ α΄Ι΄Ι’κ±α΄
Κα΄κ±κ± & α΄α΄α΄ΚΙ΄ΙͺΙ΄Ι’
Monaco, Then β And Five Years Later
The morning Leo disappeared was too beautiful to be real. Monaco basked in late spring sun, and from their flat perched above the Port Hercules marina, everything looked like it belonged in a postcard. The water glistened like it was holding back secrets, the yachts lined in stately precision, and their son had just giggled at the breeze brushing his cheeks.
He had just learned how to laugh, a real laugh, not the startled hiccup of a newborn but the melodic, unfiltered sound that could break you open from the inside. That morning, Lando had held Leo up in the air while (Y/n) watched from the kitchen, stirring oat milk into her tea with absent-minded grace. The baby squealed, arms flapping like wings, and Lando, grinning in that boyish way of his, looked at her and said, βHeβs going to fly one day, love.β
And he did. Right out of their arms.
ββββββ ββ ββ β ββββββ
It was supposed to be an ordinary Tuesday. (Y/n) had taken Leo for a walk along the promenade while Lando met with his race engineers. The streets were calm, peppered with the usual mix of tourists and locals, the air perfumed with the scent of salt and citrus from the orange trees lining the pavement. She remembered passing the florist, who always greeted her with a cheerful βBonjour, madame Norris!β and giving Leo a daisy to clutch with his chubby fingers.
But somewhere between the promenade and the boulangerie, it happened.
One blink, and the pram was empty.
She screamed. She ran. She threw herself into the street, stopped cars, dropped to her knees, sobbing his name. βLeo! Leo!β But there was no sign of him β not the blue blanket, not his tiny sunhat, not the quiet, gurgling sound he made when he sucked on his thumb.
Gone.
ββββββ ββ ββ β ββββββ
The first twenty-four hours were chaos. Police. Drones. Interpol. CCTV footage combed frame by frame. Landoβs team suspended everything. He didnβt even speak, not at first. He simply stood in the centre of their living room, pale as chalk, staring at Leoβs cot with its mobile still spinning in slow circles, a jungle of giraffes and elephants, untouched.
(Y/n) collapsed. For the first two days, she didnβt sleep. She didnβt eat. Her hands shook constantly, knuckles bruised from clutching the baby clothes pressed to her chest like they could bring him back. The scent of Leo still lingered on the cottonβthat faint, powdered sweetness of milk and dreams.
Lando tried to stay strong. He tried to be the composed one, the one who signed off on detectives and followed leads into dark corners of Marseille and Milan and the edges of Nice. But behind the stoicism, he was unraveling. He punched a wall when the second week turned up nothing. He cursed the heavens when (Y/n) stopped speaking altogether, her voice curled up somewhere deep inside her like a frightened child.
By the third month, the flat grew silent.
ββββββ ββ ββ β ββββββ
They started to mourn differently.
(Y/n) mourned by folding every onesie and bib with surgical precision, laying them into boxes she wouldnβt let Lando touch. She stopped going out. She deleted Instagram. She stopped answering calls from her friends back in Singapore. She spoke only in half-sentences, her Mandarin slipping into every other word as if clinging to something ancestral, something older than grief.
Lando, on the other hand, grieved through motion. He didnβt sleep much. Heβd be gone before sunrise, attending every race, every simulation, every possible briefing. He spent hours sitting in the empty nursery when he got home, tracing his fingers along the crib bars. And at night, he held herβbut it wasnβt her anymore, not the vibrant woman who once danced barefoot on the balcony with Leo in her arms. It was someone hollow, someone frozen in time.
He tried. God, he tried.
But one day, she turned to him and whispered, βIt hurts when you hold me. It reminds me that I once felt joy.β
He didnβt touch her again after that.
ββββββ ββ ββ β ββββββ
The breaking point wasnβt explosive. It came quietly, like most endings do. One morning, six months to the day after Leo vanished, Lando returned from a press conference in Spain and found the flat emptier than usual.
Her violin, gone. Her sketchbooks. The blue memory box labelled Leo.
Sheβd left a letter. A short one.
Lando, Iβm not angry. Just tired. We lost him, and now weβre losing ourselves. I need to go. I hope you find peace someday. β (Y/n)
She didnβt sign it βlove.β She didnβt say goodbye. And just like that, she was gone too.
ββββββ ββ ββ β ββββββ
The divorce papers came quietly, couriered through their solicitors. There was no drama. No court battles. Just signatures and silences. Monacoβs legal offices processed the end of their marriage with all the warmth of a tax form.
The press speculated. Rumours flew. The tabloids spun stories; some about infidelity, some about post-natal depression. None of them got it right. No one mentioned how it feels when you scream into the ocean and it doesnβt echo back.
Lando moved into a smaller flat. More glass. Less furniture. He kept only one photo, the one of the three of them by the beach, Leo in his arms, her hair windswept and wild, her eyes bright.
And (Y/n) disappeared entirely from public view. No social media. No interviews. Nothing.
Just... gone.
ββββββ ββ ββ β ββββββ
Singapore β Two Years Later
The monsoons came early that year.
(Y/n) stood by the window of her motherβs apartment, watching the rain pelt the balcony tiles in furious rhythm. She hadnβt touched a violin in over a year. Not since she tried to play Clair de Lune and burst into tears halfway through.
Her father didnβt speak much anymore. He just brought her jasmine tea every morning and left it on the table. Her mother prayed. A lot. Burned incense. Whispered things like, βMaybe heβs been reincarnated. Maybe God needed him more.β
(Y/n) didnβt believe in any of it.
But she did start volunteering at a childrenβs shelter.
At first, she couldnβt bear it. The way the babies cooed or cried, how some looked a bit too much like Leo. But over time, something began to shift. Not healingβno, healing suggests a return to wholeness. But survival. A rhythm.
One step. Then another.
ββββββ ββ ββ β ββββββ
London β Three Years Later
Lando never stopped looking.
Even when the police closed the case, even when friends urged him to βlet goβ and βlive again,β he continued to hire private investigators on the side. He even funded a foundation for missing children. Not for the PR. Not for redemption. Just... because he had to.
He dated, briefly. A model. Then a journalist. But he never brought them home. He never mentioned Leo.
His parents tried their best. But every conversation eventually dropped into that void. His mother once asked, tears in her voice, βDo you think heβs out there somewhere, still alive?β
Lando had answered, βIf heβs not... I need to believe he is.β
He drove faster now. Harder. Won more. Lost more. His podiums became quieter victories. His fame a shadow he carried.
The smile on TV? That was just theatre.
To be continued...
π Κα΄κ°α΄Κα΄ α΄Κα΄ κ±α΄Ι΄ κ±α΄α΄κ± α΄ α΄α΄‘Ι΄ β α΄Κα΄α΄α΄α΄Κ 2: Ι’Κα΄κ±α΄κ± α΄κ° α΄Κα΄ Ι’ΚΙͺα΄ π
π Note from the Author: First of all, thank you so much for giving this story a chance. I know we're only at Chapter 1, but seeing your support already means the world to me. Whether you're a silent reader, a liker, a reblogger, or someone who leaves comments that make me kick my feet and giggle, thank you (β§ββ¦)γ.
Now, before anyone comes for me...
Yes, his name is Leo Norris.
No HAHAHAHA, I did not realize until halfway through outlining that there is already a very famous Leo in the F1 community (Sorry guysss γβ½γ, literally forgot about it while writing).
Somewhere in Monaco, Charles is probably looking at his dog like: "Why is this child missing and why does he have my dog's name?"
Meanwhile, Lando and Charles are probably arguing over custody of the name Leo.
Charles: "That's my dog." Lando: "That's my son." Charles: "Leo." Lando: "Leo." Charles: "..." Lando: "..."
The real victim here is probably the dog lololololol.
ANYWAYSβ
Welcome to the angst train. Please keep your hands, feet, and emotional stability inside the vehicle at all times because we are about to suffer together. I hope you're ready for grief, mystery, heartbreak, and a lot of questioning my life choices as an author.
With love, me π§‘
