I just dropped an F1 Rom-Com on Amazon, if any of you are interested!

SUMMARY BELOW!

Read it HERE! $4.99 Ebook, $14.99 Paperback, FREE on Kindle Unlimited!

Prologue:

Remi

It's the end of her relationship with Mitch. She's packing her bags and heading to work with Velocity Racing. Mitch tries to maintain control, insisting she isn't allowed to leave. Rory and Liam watch from the stairs as their mom walks away from Mitch, who's been narcissistic and controlling for ten years.

Ten years of the same cycle, day after day. Taking care of my beautiful boys while battling life with Mitch, who acts as if he owns me. Finally, one day, I decided enough was enough. I needed to prioritize myself. I applied for a job in Public Relations at Velocity Racing. When the offer came through quickly, I took it as a sign.

One warm July morning, I'm packing my bags for Silverstone when Mitch walks in. "Where the fuck are you going?" he yells. I roll my eyes and ignore him, finishing up the last of my things. I grab a folder with my contract and weekend schedule. Mitch snatches it from my hands.

"Seriously, Mitch, fuck off," I say, reaching for it back.

"Velocity Racing? What is this, Remi?" he spits out.

"I'm leaving, Mitch. I have a job now, and I'll find a new home for the boys and me," I say, tossing divorce papers at him.

"Bahaha, you think you can work in Formula One? You can barely manage a household without getting overwhelmed. You'll be begging me to come back in a month to fix this fucking mess," he says in that stern voice of his.

I grab my purse. "Well, I'm not asking for permission, Mitch. I'm telling you I'm done. And this"—I gesture between us—"frankly is so fucking done." I push past him toward the stairs.

Liam and Rory stand at their bedroom doors, wide-eyed. I lean down to their level. "Mommy's going to work for a few weeks, okay? I'll be back," I say, pulling both into my arms.

Liam looks at me. "Mommy, be safe," he says.

"Always, Lee. Always," I say, kissing his cheek.

Rory looks confused. "Mommy will be back. Be good for daddy, okay, Rors?"

Rory nods.

I head toward the bottom of the stairs as Mitch blocks my path. "You aren't allowed to leave, Remi," he says, his hand tightening on the banister. The mask of the "perfect husband" finally slips. "I literally provide everything. You're a mother, Remi. Start acting like one."

I push past him and zip up my bag—the sound echoes through the entryway. I look up at Rory and Liam on the stairs, then back at the man who spent ten years trying to dim my light. "I am acting like one," I whisper. "I'm showing them how to leave when you're not being treated right."

I open the door and close it behind me as I walk toward the waiting car.

"Mrs. Scott?" the driver asks as I climb in.

"That's me," I smile.

The drive to the airport takes about an hour. As we drive, I watch the landscape pass by, saying goodbye to Canada and the life I once knew. I arrive at the airport and board a flight to Heathrow, London.

✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1: ᴛᴇʀᴍꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʀʀᴀɴɢᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ✈️

✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ, ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀᴘᴀʏᴀ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇ✈️

✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ʟɪɴᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ✈️

✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ꜰʀᴀᴄᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ✈️

✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ʙʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇꜱ✈️

✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇꜱʜᴏʟᴅ✈️

✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴀᴍᴇ✈️

✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ɴɪɢʜᴛ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ✈️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ ᴀᴜ | ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴅɴɪ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

ꜱɪɢɴɪꜰɪᴄᴀɴᴛ ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ

ᴍɪʟᴅ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ

ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ

The sun burned brightly over the Riviera, turning the cobblestone streets of Monaco into a shimmer of warmth and sea salt. The glint of expensive watches, the rustle of designer skirts, and the whisper of languages laced with wealth and influence wrapped around Lewis Hamilton like silk—comfortable, familiar, but also, lately, insufferably predictable.

At forty, he had grown accustomed to the cadence of adoration. He knew what it meant when strangers glanced at him for a beat too long, when they crossed the street subtly to intercept his walk, when their phones lifted discreetly under the guise of texting but angled perfectly for a snapshot. He wore sunglasses and a hoodie not for fashion today, but for escape.

That’s why when he noticed her, again, his patience wavered.

A young woman with long, unbothered strides, hair pulled back carelessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline, pretending not to look at him. He first clocked her outside of Café de Paris. Then again at the marina when he’d stopped to check messages. And once more near the old casino steps. It was subtle, but the kind of subtle that raised alarms when you’ve spent years in the public eye.

By the fourth time, when he slowed at a quieter side street and saw her again across the way, Lewis stopped walking altogether.

He turned. Waited.

And she froze.

Her eyes widened slightly—an expression of a deer caught mid-thought, not quite guilt, but something adjacent. Surprise.

That did it.

“Alright,” Lewis muttered under his breath, then strode toward her with calm resolve.

She took a tentative step back, but stood her ground as he approached. Her eyebrows furrowed now, lips parting as if to speak, but Lewis got there first.

“Okay, seriously, are you following me?” he asked, arms crossing in a casual yet unmistakably defensive posture.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been behind me since the harbor,” Lewis said, pointing vaguely over his shoulder. “I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but this is Monaco, not Times Square. It’s kind of obvious.”

She stared at him, stunned. Her lips moved, but no words came. Then, a beat later, her brows lifted, and she scoffed with soft disbelief. “You think I’m stalking you?”

Lewis tilted his head. “Well, aren't you?”

A pause. Then her cheeks flushed, not with guilt, but with something closer to offense.

“I have no idea who you are,” she said plainly.

He blinked.

“I’m not following you. I’m... I’m following them,” she continued, stepping sideways and subtly motioning across the plaza. “My best friend is on a date. A suspicious one. She asked me to keep an eye.” (Author: It's a lieee~)

Lewis followed her gesture. A couple sat on the terrace of a rooftop café, seemingly engrossed in one another. Nothing about them screamed drama, but Lewis could see how someone might be wary.

Just then, as if summoned by the very act of being observed, the woman at the table turned. Her eyes narrowed. Recognition dawned.

“Oh no,” the woman beside him muttered.

The friend stood abruptly and made her way across the plaza with brisk, purposeful steps.

“I take it that’s her?” Lewis asked dryly.

She winced. “Yeah.”

The approaching woman came to a sharp stop in front of them and crossed her arms. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais là?” (“What are you doing here?”) she hissed, voice low but sharp.

The woman beside Lewis stammered. “Je… Nous passions juste par là. C'est une coïncidence.” (“I... We were just passing by. It's a coincidence.”)

Lewis watched the exchange, bemused as her friend scolded her rapidly in French. The young woman’s shoulders slumped in surrender. Finally, she raised both hands in mock defeat, responding calmly in fluent French, her tone soothing even as her friend remained riled.

Then, without warning, she turned back to Lewis. “Sorry about that,” she said quickly, and before he could react, she slipped her hand into his.

His brows lifted.

Her friend’s mouth dropped open.

“Bye, Clémence!” she called over her shoulder, already tugging Lewis down the street. Her fingers gripped his for only a few seconds, but it was long enough to leave a strange warmth on his skin.

Once they rounded the corner and out of sight, she let go with an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “Well, that was dramatic.”

Lewis looked at her, still baffled. “Did you just use me as an escape plan?”

She met his gaze unapologetically. “Yes. And thank you for playing along, even if unintentionally.”

He smirked. “You could’ve just told her the truth.”

She scoffed lightly. “You don’t know Clémence. Telling her the truth would’ve meant a full interrogation, and I wasn’t in the mood for that.”

Then, muttering in French, she added something that sounded irritated and vaguely poetic. Lewis, not fluent beyond basic phrases, frowned.

“What did you just say?”

She glanced sideways at him. “Nothing.”

That look in her eyes—annoyed, intelligent, amused—sparked something in him. Before she could disappear again, Lewis called after her, “Wait.”

She turned, arching a brow.

He hesitated for only a second. “What’s your name?”

She tilted her head slightly, considering. Then: “(Y/n) Robinson.”

He smiled, extending his hand. “Lewis.”

“Just Lewis?” she asked, not taking it.

“That’s all you get until you stop pretending not to know me,” he said, half teasing, half challenging.

But she only shrugged. “I wasn’t pretending. Still not sure why you’re familiar.”

Lewis chuckled, genuinely thrown. It was such a foreign experience, he wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or intrigued.

She turned away again and began walking. He followed.

“You’re not going to shake me off that easily,” he said casually.

“Are you the stalker now?”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

She stopped abruptly outside a small patisserie tucked between two narrow buildings. It wasn’t flashy, no golden signs or velvet ropes, just a quaint spot with a chalkboard menu and glass display filled with confections. She looked at him. “You really don’t have anywhere better to be?”

“Right now?” he said, hands in his pockets. “No. Got some time.”

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re being weird.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She pushed open the door. He followed.

The smell of butter, sugar, and espresso wrapped around them like a memory. Inside, only three other patrons sat scattered between tables. The soft clink of china and faint jazz music filled the space.

(Y/n) stepped up to the counter and pointed to a slice of raspberry cheesecake. “And a lavender latte, please.”

Lewis ordered something simpler, an Americano and a plain almond croissant.

They sat at a small table near the window. The afternoon sun slanted through the glass, streaking the table with warm light.

He watched as she quietly opened a novel from her tote bag and began to read, seemingly unbothered by his presence. She didn’t ask him questions, didn’t glance at her phone, didn’t fish for details.

Lewis studied the side of her face, her soft expression as she turned pages. He sipped his coffee and tried to place what felt so unusual about the moment.

It was the silence.

It wasn’t uncomfortable or expectant. It was... easy. She wasn’t pretending not to care, she genuinely didn’t.

For once, he wasn’t the spectacle in someone else’s story.

Eventually, after a few attempts at small talk that were met with polite nods and monosyllables, he gave up trying to draw her into conversation. Instead, he leaned back and let himself enjoy the peace.

She finished her cheesecake slowly, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and finally closed her book. Standing, she looked at him and offered a simple smile.

“Well. That was oddly pleasant,” she said.

Lewis nodded. “Yeah. It was.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the company, Lewis.”

“Anytime, (Y/n),” he replied.

And just like that, she walked out.

He watched her disappear down the street, her figure weaving through late afternoon foot traffic.

For a long moment, Lewis sat alone. Then he looked down at the empty table, at the fork she had set gently across her plate, at the faint imprint her coffee cup left on the tablecloth.

No selfies. No squealing. No asking him to rev the engine of his fame.

Just cheesecake, silence, and the odd feeling of not being known.

He smiled to himself, pulled out his phone, and opened the notes app.

He typed two words:

Find her.

To be continued...❤️

🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ʙʟᴜᴇ-ᴇʏᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴛɪᴏɴ🕶️

📝 Note from the Author: Hello my dear Alarwynnites! First post again for this very first title of the month of September hehehe, I hope you like this one! There will be some MDNI moments here, and a huge age gap I tell y’all. If you’re uncomfortable with these kinds of things, it’s totally okay to skip it, yes? Yeeeesss.

I love you guys so much, thank you for always supporting me! To my new followers—welcome, welcome! I’ll try to post as much as possible for this title. Andddd, anyone wants to request something? Another title maybe? I’m running out of ide—just kidding HAHAHA. This author has way too many ideas, but I’d love to hear yours too so the stories don’t all feel the same. So, if you have any, just drop me a message or leave it on my wall, okay?

Also, a huge thank you to Firefly Graphics for the amazing border—they make everything look so beautiful!

Thanks again, always.

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ + ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴀᴄʜᴇ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ

ᴜɴʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴇx-ʟᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ

ᴅɪꜱᴄᴜꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍɪᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ

ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴠꜱ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ

ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴘᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

The sharp hiss of the espresso machine echoed through Maison de Lys, one of Monaco’s most exclusive wedding planning studios. The sun had just begun pouring through the massive windows, lighting up the airy space, high ceilings, soft pastel florals, shelves lined with thick binders of swatches, invitation samples, and mood boards.

(Y/n) sat perched on one of the plush cream chairs near the central consultation table, flipping through fabric samples. Her calendar for the day was packed. A cake tasting at noon. A site visit at four. And at eleven, a mystery new client, someone who’d apparently requested her specifically.

Across the room, her co-planner, Celeste, strode in balancing two coffees.

“Here,” Celeste said brightly, handing one over. “Extra shot. You’re going to need it today.”

(Y/n) chuckled softly, accepting the cup. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Celeste dropped onto the seat opposite, phone already in hand. “Oh my god! You’ll love this. Guess who got caught with another mystery blonde last night?”

(Y/n), half-distracted by her planner, barely looked up. “I’m almost scared to ask.”

Celeste grinned wickedly, flashing the screen toward her. “Lando Norris! Again. ‘F1’s Manwhore of the Century Strikes Again: Norris Parties in Ibiza with Yet Another Mystery Girl.’”

A grainy photo showed Lando at a packed rooftop bar, bottle of something expensive in hand, arm casually draped over a laughing woman.

(Y/n)’s breath hitched for the briefest second, just a flicker, before she forced a light laugh. “He really is the tabloid gift that keeps on giving.”

Celeste rolled her eyes. “Please, at this point it’s like... is anyone even surprised? The guy’s got a new girl on his arm every other week. I mean, I get it, he’s hot, filthy rich, famous, but he’s such a walking cliché. Imagine dating someone like that. Exhausting.”

(Y/n) hummed noncommittally, focusing on her coffee. “People grow out of that phase eventually.”

Celeste smirked. “Doubt it. That man is the poster child for commitment issues.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You know, I heard from a friend in PR that he’s been like this for years. Total player. Can’t imagine what poor girl actually thought she could change him.”

(Y/n) only smiled faintly, pen tapping rhythmically on her planner. “Mmm. Yeah. Poor girl.”

Celeste didn’t notice the tension behind the casual words. They’d only been working together for six months, long enough to become friendly, but not enough for Celeste to know the full story. Not enough to know that a little over a year ago, (Y/n) had been that girl.

She’d loved him, God, had she loved him. And then... she’d left.

But that was another lifetime. She was different now.

Before Celeste could launch into more gossip, the studio’s email chimed. Celeste checked the tablet. “Ah! Our eleven o’clock just confirmed. Max Verstappen and Kelly Piquet. Holy crap. That’s huge, (Y/n).”

(Y/n)’s brows rose. “Really?”

“Yup. Says they’re bringing a friend too, no assistant. They want a full design consultation. This could be a career-maker.”

(Y/n) set her coffee down, smoothing her planner with deliberate calm. “Then let’s make sure everything is perfect.”

Still, somewhere deep in her chest, a strange knot twisted. She shook it off. It was just another client. Another wedding. Nothing she couldn’t handle.

By 10:45, the studio gleamed. Crystal vases held fresh peonies and eucalyptus. Soft instrumental music drifted through the space.

(Y/n), dressed impeccably in a tailored ivory blouse and navy slacks, double-checked the consultation setup. Mood boards, fabric swatches, champagne flutes on standby. All ready.

Celeste adjusted a chair. “Bet they want a French Riviera wedding. All these F1 couples do.”

(Y/n) smiled. “We’ll see.”

At exactly eleven, the glass door opened with a soft chime.

Max Verstappen entered first, sharp in an open-collar linen shirt and perfectly tailored pants. Kelly Piquet followed, elegant and poised, her sundress catching the morning light.

And then—

Lando.

He trailed in behind them casually, jeans, white tee, expensive sneakers. Messy curls, tanned skin. The same smile that had once been hers, except now it was gone, replaced with something stunned and uncertain the moment his eyes locked onto hers.

The room seemed to tilt for a heartbeat.

Shock. Real, unmistakable shock on his face.

(Y/n)’s heart thudded painfully, but she smoothed her expression into professional grace. “Max, Kelly,” she greeted warmly. “Welcome. It’s lovely to meet you both.”

Kelly beamed. “We’ve heard incredible things about you, (Y/n). Everyone says you’re the best in Monaco.”

“You’re very kind.” (Y/n)’s smile didn’t falter. She glanced, briefly, at Lando. “And welcome to you too.”

He still hadn’t spoken.

Max clapped him on the shoulder. “Lando insisted on tagging along. We figured he could keep us in line.”

(Y/n)’s voice remained steady. “You’re very welcome here.”

They took their seats around the large marble table, (Y/n) at the head. Lando sat across from her, visibly tense.

“Now,” (Y/n) began smoothly, flipping open her leather-bound planner, “tell me what you envision for your wedding.”

Kelly’s face lit up. “We want something elegant but intimate. Not over-the-top. Provence, maybe? Close family and friends.”

(Y/n) nodded, pen gliding across her notes. “That sounds beautiful. I already have a few venues in mind that might suit your style.”

Throughout the conversation, she kept her tone warm and professional, her focus on Kelly and Max. But every so often, she’d feel it, Lando’s gaze. Heavy. Questioning.

And when she dared to meet it, even briefly, it was like looking into the eye of a storm.

He looked... older. A little leaner. Tired, maybe. Or was that just her imagination?

The last time she’d seen him, really seen him, had been the night she’d left.

The consultation flowed smoothly. Kelly and Max bounced ideas excitedly, while (Y/n) offered gentle guidance and a wealth of suggestions.

But Lando... barely said a word. He sat there, fingers drumming on the table, blue eyes darting between her and the pages of her planner.

Finally, as Kelly scrolled through Pinterest boards on her phone, Max chuckled. “You’ll probably be seeing a lot of us here. Lando’s our unofficial wedding consultant now.”

Kelly laughed. “He has opinions.”

(Y/n) allowed herself a polite smile. “I look forward to it.”

For the first time, Lando spoke, his voice lower, rougher than she remembered. “Didn’t know you were... doing this now.”

(Y/n) met his gaze evenly. “People change.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

Before anything more could be said, Kelly turned her screen toward (Y/n). “What do you think of this for the table arrangements?”

(Y/n) slid easily back into the conversation, offering suggestions with practiced ease.

Two hours later, the meeting wrapped.

Kelly rose, visibly thrilled. “This has been amazing. Thank you so much, (Y/n). I can’t wait to start working with you.”

Max shook her hand. “We’ll follow your lead.”

(Y/n) smiled warmly. “I’ll send over a proposal and venue list this afternoon.”

As Max and Kelly moved toward the door, Lando hesitated.

For a moment, it seemed as if he wanted to speak. His eyes locked on hers, so many words hovering unsaid.

But then—

“Lando?” Kelly called lightly. “You coming?”

A beat. He swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. Without another word, he followed them out.

The door clicked softly shut behind them.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Celeste blinked, wide-eyed. “Well. That was... intense.”

(Y/n) exhaled slowly, setting her pen down.

Celeste turned to her. “You okay? He looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

(Y/n) managed a faint smile. “I’m fine.”

Celeste shook her head, clearly oblivious to the history she’d just witnessed. “God, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that man’s carrying some serious baggage.”

(Y/n) stood, smoothing her blouse. “Let’s focus on the proposal. We have a wedding to plan.”

Celeste grinned. “That’s why you’re the best.”

And as (Y/n) returned to her desk, heart still racing, she reminded herself, again, that this was just business now.

Just business.

No matter how tangled the past might be.

To be continued...🧡

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀᴇᴅ💍

📝 Note from the Author: Ties That Still Bind was inspired by the beautiful Harry Potter one-shot “Love and All Things Fake” (James Sirius Potter) by everlovingdeer from Wattpad, a piece I’ve returned to many times. The way it captured longing and emotional restraint stuck with me, and this story is my way of exploring that same feeling in a different world—with new characters, different stakes, and a final sense of closure.

If you feel this story crosses any lines, feels too familiar, or unintentionally disrespects the original, I truly apologize. That was never my intention. I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially not the original author. This was written with love, reverence, and a desperate need to give closure to a story that never left me.

Thank you for reading.

With love, me 🧡

Taglist:

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ)

ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ/ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ

ᴍɪʟᴅ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴏʀʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀʟᴏᴀᴅ (ɴᴏɪꜱᴇ, ᴄʀᴏᴡᴅ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ)

ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴄᴛ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴛᴇɴꜱᴇ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ

ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅɪᴇᴛᴀʀʏ ʀᴇꜱᴛʀɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ (ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ)

The sky above Monaco burned a pale orange by the time Sunday rolled around, painting the Grand Prix weekend with a postcard-perfect glow. Crowds thickened along the barricades. Helicopters hovered like lazy flies overhead. The air reeked of octane, sunscreen, and champagne dreams.

(Y/n) hadn’t planned to go anywhere near the race. But Amara had dragged her out of bed with a coffee bribe and a VIP paddock pass, something Carla had scored last-minute through a friend in PR. She couldn’t refuse, not without raising suspicion.

Besides, part of her was tired of hiding.

Still, standing near the paddock now, tucked behind sunglasses and her loose jacket, she felt like an intruder. Mechanics buzzed like bees around the cars. Pit crews shouted numbers and tire pressures. Celebrities posed near hospitality suites.

And there, like gravity pulling her gaze, was Lando Norris.

He hadn’t seen her yet. He was busy, head down, listening to his engineer, laughing at something Oscar Piastri muttered. He looked lighter, more focused than the version of him from that alley. But she could see it in his shoulders: the tension, the pressure.

A tug on her arm.

"Come on," Amara whispered. "Carla says they’re doing a quick meet-and-greet by the McLaren truck. We’ll just peek. I swear."

(Y/n) followed, her stomach twisting.

Luca was already there. Tall and sharply dressed in a black button-up tucked neatly into tailored slacks, he stood near a group of journalists, his dark hair pushed back with deliberate ease and a pair of sunglasses resting casually atop his head. He held a clear plastic cup of iced coffee in one hand, the condensation dripping slowly down his fingers. His presence was effortlessly confident, the kind that didn’t need attention but always drew it anyway. His eyes found hers quickly. He raised a brow in silent question.

She nodded once. Just observing, she mouthed.

"Ms. (L/n)?" a voice said behind her.

She turned, too fast, and found herself face-to-face with someone from the PR tent, a clipboard in hand. "We had your name down as one of the boutique partners for styling this week, right? McLaren wants a quick photo with the designers."

(Y/n)'s heart stopped. "I—what?"

"It'll be thirty seconds. Just by the garage. Promise."

Before she could decline, Amara was pushing her forward with a grin that said you’ve got this.

She stepped past the gate.

Lando looked up. Their eyes locked.

The change in him was immediate. His shoulders straightened. His smirk vanished. He blinked as if she’d caught him mid-dream.

And then, as if the universe wanted to toy with her one more time—

Boom.

A tire jack slipped from one of the pit stations, clanging onto the concrete with a deafening crash. She flinched. Lando instinctively stepped forward, catching her by the elbow.

"You okay?"

(Y/n) stared at him. Too close. Too fast.

Luca appeared a second later, placing a firm hand on her back. "She’s fine. Just startled."

Lando's gaze flicked to Luca, then back to her. "Are you sure?"

(Y/n) nodded. “I’m good.”

The PR woman waved them over. “Just one photo. Smile!”

Lando hesitated, but she was already moving to stand beside him.

The camera flashed. Once. Twice.

Then she was gone.

Retreating before anyone else could say her name. Before Lando could ask the questions that sat so dangerously close to the truth.

Back in the boutique’s staff lounge, she sat down heavily, peeling off her jacket. Her body felt heavy, not just from the heat and tension, but from the decisions she still hadn’t made.

She reached for her water bottle, taking slow sips of the filtered cucumber water she kept on hand now. Hydration was crucial, her doctor had said. So were small, consistent meals. Nothing too greasy. Lots of leafy greens. She had a small stash of almonds and crackers in her bag, and ginger chews for when the nausea came in waves.

She avoided cold cuts now, and soft cheeses. No more tuna sandwiches or over-sugared bubble tea. Sushi was off the table. She had switched her morning coffee to decaf, though she missed the jolt. Fruit smoothies with oat milk were her new lifeline. Her meals had gone from careless to cautious overnight.

Everything she ate now had to think twice for two.

Amara walked in, flopping down beside her with a sigh. “You did great back there. Didn’t even faint.”

(Y/n) gave a tight smile. “Barely.”

Amara opened a protein bar, took a bite, then looked over. “I saw you dodging the prosciutto skewers earlier.”

(Y/n) shrugged, casually. “Not in the mood for cold meats.”

Amara raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it. “I packed your almond crackers and that oat smoothie just in case.”

(Y/n)’s expression softened. “Thanks. You’re the best.”

Before Amara could say more, Carla burst through the door. “They’re replaying the photo on the big screen outside! You and Lando looked like a promo for a Netflix show.”

Amara laughed and stood. “Come on, you’re gonna want to see this.”

(Y/n) exhaled in relief, grabbing her jacket.

She still hadn’t told him.

But soon.

Maybe too soon.

To be continued... 🧡 🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ꜱʜɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ ʟɪɴᴇꜱ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: Good morning from my side of the world ☀️ I’m finally awake, so here’s a fresh update for you to enjoy while I prep the next two chapters in the lineup. Thank you for being patient and staying with me through all the drama, tension, and tender moments 🧡

I’ll be working on the upcoming chapters next, so stay tuned, it's only going to get more intense from here 👀

Until then, enjoy this one and feel free to scream in the comments. You know I live for that.

Max’s fingers brushed against yours, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through your veins. He was so close now, his body heat enveloping you like a warm blanket, making the chaotic roar of the crowd fade into the background. Your breath hitched as his gaze dropped to your lips, and for a moment, it felt like time itself had stopped.

"Maybe you’d like to get away from all this noise sometime," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, the playful edge replaced by something far more enticing.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "I’d like that," you whispered, barely audible over the muffled cheers still echoing around you. The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them, but there was no taking them back now.

Max leaned in closer, his lips just a breath away from yours. You could feel the tension between you crackling like static electricity, sharp and undeniable. His hand slid down to your waist, his touch firm yet tender, pulling you infinitesimally closer.

But before the moment could fully ignite, the sound of clapping and voices calling Max’s name broke the spell. He pulled back slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before it smoothed into a polite smile. You both turned to see one of his team members waving him over, clearly eager to celebrate.

"Later," Max mouthed to you, his eyes lingering on yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip. Then he was gone, disappearing into the swarm of people congratulating him, leaving you standing there, your pulse still racing.

---

The race had been nothing short of exhilarating. You’d spent most of it perched on the edge of your seat, gripping the railing as Max surged ahead of the pack, his driving almost reckless in its precision. Every time he zipped past your vantage point, you caught a glimpse of his focus—sharp, unyielding, and completely in control despite the chaos around him. It was intoxicating to watch, and you couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through you every time he crossed the finish line.

You weren’t a regular at these races, but something about Max Verstappen drew you back each time. Maybe it was the way he exuded confidence without arrogance, or the way his raw talent seemed to defy logic. Whatever it was, you found yourself coming back, hoping to catch just a glimpse of him. And today, that glimpse had turned into something entirely unexpected.

As the celebration around you continued, you lingered near the pit lane, trying to catch your breath. The adrenaline from the race still buzzed beneath your skin, mingling with the anticipation of what had almost happened between you and Max. Your mind replayed the moment over and over, the sensation of his fingers brushing yours, the warmth of his breath so close to your lips…

"Great race out there," you’d said earlier, your voice trembling slightly as you approached him. You hadn’t planned to say anything—you’d intended to keep your distance, to avoid the awkwardness of fan-worshipping a celebrity. But when his eyes met yours, everything else fell away.

Max had grinned then, a rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Thanks. Glad I could keep you on the edge of your seat." His voice had been teasing, but there was something deeper there, something that made your cheeks flush.

You chuckled nervously, unsure of how to respond. But Max didn’t seem to mind your silence. Instead, he began talking about the race—his strategy, the adrenaline rush, the satisfaction of victory. You listened intently, nodding along, though your focus kept drifting to the way his hands gestured as he spoke, the way his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

Then, without warning, the conversation shifted. He asked you about yourself—what brought you to the races, why you always seemed to be watching from the same spot. You stammered out a response, half-embarrassed by your fangirl tendencies, but Max didn’t laugh or brush you off. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his attention fixed on you as if you were the only person in the world who mattered.

"You know," he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful, "it’s weird. I notice you here every time. Like… you’re always just there, in the corner of my vision. It’s kind of nice, actually."

Your breath caught at his words, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. The air between you grew heavier, charged with something you couldn’t quite name but knew was significant. And then, slowly, deliberately, Max stepped closer.

His fingers brushed against yours again, this time lingering longer. You could feel the callouses on his fingertips, a reminder of the physical demands of his sport. The spark between you flared hotter, and you found yourself leaning toward him, your body betraying your logical mind.

"What are you doing?" you wanted to ask, but the question died on your lips as his gaze dropped to your mouth once more. His thumb traced the edge of your palm, a slow, deliberate movement that sent shivers up your arm.

And then came his invitation, soft and intimate, full of promise. "Maybe you’d like to get away from all this noise sometime. Just the two of us."

You could hardly believe the words were real. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not here, not now, not with someone like him. But denying the pull between you felt impossible. "I’d like that," you whispered, your voice trembling.

Max’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, it seemed like he might kiss you right then and there. But reality intruded, as it often did, and he was called away before the moment could fully unfold. Still, the memory of his closeness lingered, burning brighter with every passing second.