✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴀ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ✒️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ + ʀᴇᴅᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴꜰʟɪᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ɪɴ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ
ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ɪɴꜰɪᴅᴇʟɪᴛʏ (ɴᴏɴ-ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ)
ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀʀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴋɪɴɢ
ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴜᴀʟ ʟɪᴠᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜꜱ
ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴀᴅᴜʟᴛ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ ʜᴜᴍᴏʀ
ꜱʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴇʟɪɴɢ
The sunlight spilled lazily through gauzy curtains, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor of their Monaco apartment. Outside, the gentle hum of the city stirred, a muffled rhythm of engines, bicycle bells, and espresso machines firing to life. But inside, everything was slow. Peaceful. Familiar.
The kettle whistled just as the toaster clicked, a perfect morning symphony timed to muscle memory. (Y/n) moved through the kitchen like choreography, barefoot and serene, her silk robe tied neatly around her waist. Her fingers were delicate but swift, one hand stirring Lando’s coffee, the other flipping open his planner to slide a small note between the pages: You’ve got this today. I love you—Y.
She placed his favorite travel mug beside his protein shake, both within reach on the marble counter. His keys were already aligned next to them, his watch freshly polished, the strap adjusted. The quiet ritual of taking care of him had become a kind of love language, one he never asked for, yet she gave freely.
She heard footsteps behind her, soft and dragging with sleep. A moment later, Lando appeared, shirtless, a pair of black joggers riding low on his hips. His hair was tousled in every direction, and his eyes still held the weight of sleep. Despite herself, she smiled.
“You’re up earlier than I expected,” he murmured, voice gravelly as he wrapped his arms around her from behind.
“I always wake up before you,” she said, teasing gently, her head tilting to the side as he pressed a kiss just below her ear. “Someone has to make sure you don’t leave without breakfast.”
“I wouldn’t forget.” He lied with a tired grin.
She looked over her shoulder with a playful glare. “You forgot three days ago.”
“Okay, but that was one time.”
“It was three.”
Lando chuckled, releasing her to reach for the protein shake first. He took a long sip, his jaw working lazily. “You’re too good to me.”
“Someone has to be,” she said, only half-joking, turning to place his team jacket on the back of the chair. “You’ll freeze in that paddock if you don’t take this.”
“You sound like a mum,” he teased.
“Then stop acting like a boy,” she returned smoothly.
He raised an eyebrow, amused, then glanced at his planner and saw the note. He didn’t comment, only tucked it deeper between the pages with a tight-lipped nod. If she noticed how his expression shifted for half a second, how the guilt crept back into his posture, she said nothing.
He excused himself and took a bath not long after, silence trailing in his wake like a second skin.
When he returned, hair damp and sleeves rolled up, she reached for a bowl of fresh berries and slid it in front of him. “Have you decided yet?”
“Decided?”
“About the next Grand Prix. If you want me to come.”
Lando blinked. “Oh. Right.”
She watched him, her fingers folding into one another gently.
“I mean, it’s in Zandvoort,” he said finally. “You know how chaotic the Netherlands gets. I thought maybe you’d prefer staying here, less travel, less media stress.”
A soft pause lingered.
“Is that what you prefer?” she asked carefully.
He looked up at her, caught off guard. “It’s not about me. I just want you comfortable.”
(Y/n) smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m always comfortable around you.”
A beat of silence stretched too long between them.
Lando stood then, brushing the crumbs from his fingers and grabbing his keys. “We’ll talk about it more later, yeah? I’ve got that strategy briefing this morning.”
She nodded. “Of course. You’ll be late if you don’t leave soon.”
He leaned in to kiss her cheek, his lips lingering half a second longer than usual. “Thanks for everything.”
“Go win,” she said, brushing a wrinkle from his sleeve.
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with the same gentle finality he always left with. She stood in the quiet for a long moment, fingers tightening around her coffee cup. Something in her chest shifted, but she swallowed it back.
After all, she had her own work to do.
By the time the apartment had emptied of Lando’s presence, (Y/n) had already shed her soft robe and replaced it with an outfit sharp enough to cut: tailored black trousers, a beige blouse with pearl buttons, and pointed heels that echoed against the marble floors as she walked. Her face was soft, barely touched with makeup, but her eyes burned with focus as she opened the sleek laptop at the corner of their study.
Her fingers hovered over the keys briefly, then began to move with precision.
The login screen blinked open, followed by a clean interface covered in drafts, editorial schedules, encrypted correspondence, and publishing contracts. Her pen name stared back at her from the top of the dashboard:
Verity Blackthorne.
A ghost to the public. A storm to the literary world.
Her books were bestsellers across Europe, translated in 19 languages, with three adapted for the screen. She was one of The Times’ highest-grossing contributors, her editorials devoured and dissected in political panels and book clubs alike. No one knew the face behind the name. And she preferred it that way.
The pseudonym had started as a game. Then it became an armor. Now, it was freedom.
She clicked open a message from her publisher, another offer for a televised interview, this time with an international literary festival in Florence.
She declined.
Verity Blackthorne did not do press.
(Y/n) began typing her next article, an exploration of the ethics of performance culture in high-risk professions, subtly inspired by watching the paddock from the sidelines for years. Every paragraph was tight, evocative, layered. When she wrote, she bled truth, but she always made it beautiful.
Time passed. She barely noticed.
It wasn’t until her phone buzzed that she blinked out of her trance.
Lily: Heard a rumor the mysterious wife of Monaco’s Golden Boy is finally free today. Coffee? Girl date? Spill secrets?
A soft chuckle escaped her lips.
(Y/n): Only if you promise not to ask me about Lando’s skincare routine again.
Lily: No promises. Picking you up in 20.
The café Lily chose was tucked into a side street just off Boulevard des Moulins, a small, sun-dappled spot with ivy crawling up the windows and lemon slices floating in every glass of water. The kind of place that smelled like vanilla and espresso, with antique chairs that invited long conversations and unfiltered laughter.
(Y/n) arrived first, sunglasses low on her nose, a book tucked beneath her arm that no one knew she wrote.
Lily swept in like a breeze, oversized sunglasses, flowy trousers, and an aura of confidence most people spent their whole lives faking. She spotted (Y/n) immediately and beamed.
“You look gorgeous, you evil introvert,” Lily said, pulling her into a tight hug.
“And you look like you walked out of a Vogue spread.”
“That’s because I did,” Lily deadpanned. “Oscar made me pose for some sponsor shoot this morning. Said I looked too pretty to waste on Zoom calls.”
They both laughed as they slid into the booth.
“Now,” Lily said, resting her chin on her hand. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Lily raised an eyebrow. “Please. I see you two in the paddock all the time. Still disgustingly cute. What’s your secret? Lavender oil? Blood sacrifices?”
(Y/n) smiled gently, stirring her coffee. “Routine. Trust. And good coffee.”
“And sex, surely.”
She nearly choked on her cappuccino.
“Kidding,” Lily said, grinning. “Sort of.”
(Y/n) shook her head with a laugh. “You’re insane.”
“Guilty. So, what have you been up to? Any writing lately?”
(Y/n)’s fingers twitched around her spoon. “A little. Nothing serious.”
Lily tilted her head, smile knowing. “Verity Blackthorne doesn’t write ‘nothing serious.’”
(Y/n) looked down, the edges of her mouth barely lifting. “She hasn’t been around much lately.”
“And when she is?”
“She keeps quiet. These days, she only writes when it hurts too much not to.”
“Liar. You always say that and then publish something that makes every woman in Europe cry.”
She tilted her head, amused. “You read them?”
“Of course I do. She makes me believe in words again.”
(Y/n)’s heart fluttered, but she kept her expression still. “She’s… special.”
“She’s a genius,” Lily said, waving a hand. “And I still think you two would be best friends if you ever met.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, smiling into her cup.
They spent the rest of the afternoon hopping between boutiques and laughing like they were seventeen again. It felt good to exist outside of the apartment, outside of the role of The Supportive Wife. To be seen as a person, not an accessory to someone else’s glory.
And yet, even with the warmth, even with the joy, something tugged at her ribs. A small ache, barely noticeable. Like a thread pulled just slightly out of place.
She didn’t know that just a few days ago, another woman had clawed at her husband’s back while he lost himself in someone who would never know the weight of his truth.
But that truth was coming.
And it would unravel everything.
To be continued...🧡
✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴛᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ✒️
📝Note from the Author: It’s my 14th day back on Tumblr—two full weeks of chaos, catharsis, and caffeine. It keeps getting better and better... nah, I’m just joking. I’m still the same author, my dear Alarwynnites—still spilling heartbreak and honey one chapter at a time.
This one’s soft in a different way. Not the kind of softness that soothes, but the kind that creeps in during quiet mornings—through sunlit kitchens, familiar footsteps, and a love wrapped in routine. The kind of softness that feels like safety until it starts to feel like silence. I hope you feel it too.
With love, me 🧡 (your author, still crying tbh 😭)
