🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 9: ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴꜱᴇᴇɴ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ 🧡
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ
ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀᴛᴇʀɴɪᴛʏ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛ
ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ꜱɪᴄᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ, ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴘᴀɪɴ, ꜰᴀᴛɪɢᴜᴇ
ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ/ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ (ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ, ɢᴜɪʟᴛ, ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜꜱɪᴏɴ)
ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ & ɪɴᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ
ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ʙᴏᴅʏ ɪᴍᴀɢᴇ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ (ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇꜱ)
ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ
ʙʀɪᴇꜰ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʟᴜᴄᴀ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏɴꜰʟɪᴄᴛ
ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴘᴏʀᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴘʀᴇɴᴀᴛᴀʟ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ-ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ
ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀɢᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏ-ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
POV: Lando
It wasn’t the noise of the track that got to him.
He was used to that, used to the roar of engines, the sharp commands over radio, the choreographed chaos of pit walls and team briefings. But lately, the silence between the noise felt heavier.
Lando sat alone in the back corner of the team hospitality suite, a water bottle untouched in front of him as engineers huddled at another table, reviewing telemetry data. He was supposed to join them five minutes ago.
His head throbbed.
Part of it was exhaustion. The rest? Guilt, confusion, fear, emotions that didn’t slot neatly into spreadsheets or tire strategies.
He pulled out his phone again.
No new messages.
He hadn’t texted her since she stopped replying last night. Part of him wanted to give her space. The other part, the stubborn, panicked, disbelieving part, still wrestled with the weight of her words from that quiet parking lot.
“I’m pregnant.”
“It’s yours.”
He wanted to believe her. God, a part of him did. But something in his brain, the logical, skeptical, broken-bit-of-him part, kept whispering: What if it’s not?
What if she was playing him? What if Luca really was involved? What if—
He stood up, too fast.
Oscar caught him on his way out. “Where you going?”
“Air,” Lando muttered. “Need some air.”
He found it out back, on a narrow fire escape with a view of the harbor. The wind off the water hit his face and cleared some of the fog, but not all of it.
He thought about her again. The way her hands had trembled. The way she’d looked at him, not like someone trying to trap him, but someone bracing for impact.
She wasn’t lying.
He could feel it. And still… the thought of Luca, the fact that they knew each other, it gnawed at him. It made him feel like an idiot.
“Stop thinking like that,” he muttered to himself. “She didn’t ask for anything.”
That was the part that unsettled him most. She hadn’t demanded money. She hadn’t threatened headlines. She hadn’t even asked him to stay.
She just told him the truth, and braced for him to walk away.
And he almost had.
He reached for his phone again and typed a contact into a secure group chat he rarely used.
Lando: Need a private referral. Someone discreet. Monaco-based OB or clinic. No PR risk.
He stared at the message.
Then hit send.
If she really was pregnant, if this really was his, then hiding wasn’t an option anymore.
POV: (Y/n)
It had become harder to hide.
Not just the nausea or the food aversions, but the fatigue. The constant thirst. The way her lower back ached if she stood too long in one position.
(Y/n) moved slowly behind the counter, pretending to adjust a jewelry display while secretly pressing a hand to her side. She hadn’t slept well, not because of discomfort, but because of replaying the same moment again and again.
Lando’s face. His doubt. His question.
“Are you sure it’s mine?”
The words still sat on her chest like bricks.
She had almost walked out. Would have, if he hadn’t stopped her, voice low, eyes unsteady, asking her to let him help. Not promising much. Just asking.
Still, it stung.
“You good?” Amara asked as she walked by, voice low.
“Yeah,” (Y/n) lied.
Amara didn’t push. She only placed a protein bar in front of her and kept walking.
Carla was near the window, scanning through Instagram reels with the brightness turned down. “You know,” she said casually, “McLaren just posted a video of Lando walking into the paddock this morning. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.”
(Y/n) didn’t react.
Carla peeked over her shoulder. “Girl, I’m not trying to stir the pot. But if he’s acting off, and you’re acting off... maybe you should actually talk again.”
“We did talk,” (Y/n) muttered, pressing a hand to her belly briefly. She was around eight weeks now. Still early, still in the danger zone, but she could feel things shifting. The tenderness, the small fluttering changes in her core.
Carla hummed. “You sure he’s ready for this?”
“No one’s ready for this.”
Amara passed by again, muttering, “Especially not the media. So whatever you do, don’t open Twitter.”
(Y/n) looked up. “What now?”
Carla’s grin vanished. “It’s... just gossip. People wondering who the girl in the McLaren paddock photo is. Some fans think you’re a cousin or team intern. Others are already pairing you two in edits.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Welcome to F1 TikTok.”
(Y/n) sighed and leaned against the wall. “I just wanted a quiet life.”
Amara handed her a chilled bottle of ginger tea. “Well, now you’ve got a fast one.”
(Y/n) took a sip. The boutique felt suddenly too bright, too loud. The chime over the door rang again, just a customer. Not him.
Still, part of her hoped.
POV: Lando
Back at his apartment, Lando’s phone buzzed.
Referral confirmed. Appointment slot held next week. Private. No press.
He exhaled.
Then sent a message to (Y/n):
Lando: Got us a place. Private. Clean. No attention. You don’t have to decide now—but it’s yours if you want it.
There was a pause.
Then her reply:
(Y/n): Thank you.
And then, a minute later:
(Y/n): I’m scared, Lando.
He stared at that one the longest.
Then wrote back:
Lando: Me too. But I’m not running anymore.
To be continued... 🧡
🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 10: ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ ᴡᴀʟʟꜱ, Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ꜱᴛᴇᴘꜱ 🧡
📝 Note from the Author: This is the second post for today (I’m on a roll, huh? 😭), back again with more chaos, feels, and everything in between.
Thank you as always for reading and sticking with the story. Don’t forget to like, reblog, share, and comment, I love hearing from you 💬💖
With love, me 🧡
