#provencewedding

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1: ᴇɴᴛᴀɴɢʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ 💍

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀᴇᴅ💍

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴍᴏʀ💍

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜꜱ💍

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴄᴏɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ💍

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛᴇꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀꜱ💍

💍ᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʙɪɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇ💍

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

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ (ᴡᴇᴅᴅɪɴɢ ᴘʟᴀɴɴɪɴɢ)

ᴍɪʟᴅ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ (ʟɪɢʜᴛ ʜᴜᴍᴏʀ)

ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴄʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ

ᴄʜɪʟᴅʙɪʀᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛʜᴏᴏᴅ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ

ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ

ʟᴏᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ (ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄʀʏ) 🥲

The hardest part wasn’t planning a wedding. It was planning her own.

For years, (Y/n) had made a career out of perfection, flawless ceremonies, seamless receptions, last-minute miracles pulled from thin air. She was the woman behind the magic, the calm amidst the chaos. Her clipboard had become a symbol of authority. Her timeline spreadsheets were practically holy scripts. There wasn’t a crisis she hadn’t handled, a breakdown she hadn’t soothed, or a fire, sometimes literal, she hadn’t put out.

But now? Now she was the bride. And everything she knew felt like it had unraveled.

She’d sit in her office, normally her command center, with swatch books spread across the desk like a battlefield. Menus were stacked in teetering piles, sample favors cluttered every surface, and the air was thick with the scent of too many floral candles. For every decision, a second guess followed. Then a third. Should the color palette be champagne and ivory, or soft blush with accents of gold? Was a string quartet too formal, or just classic enough? Did she want a six-tier cake or something minimal and modern?

It was exhausting.

Celeste, her closest friend and business partner, was absolutely no help.

“You’ve become your own worst client,” she quipped one afternoon, watching (Y/n) flip between two nearly identical linen samples with a look of pure despair.

(Y/n) groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I hate me. I want to file a complaint.”

Celeste cackled. “Denied. But I will be charging you double.”

And Lando? Lando wasn’t any better.

He’d waltz into her workspace during meetings, track pants and tousled curls, with the kind of smug ease only he could pull off. Feet on her desk, hands behind his head, watching her stress spiral with blatant amusement.

“Tell me again,” he’d say, tipping his chair back precariously, “why you won’t just let me take you to Vegas?”

Every time, she’d roll her eyes. Every time, her pulse would skip a beat.

“You think this is bad?” she’d mutter. “You should’ve seen me trying to pick napkin rings.”

But the truth was... it wasn’t just a wedding. Not anymore.

This wasn’t just about seating charts and cake tastings. It wasn’t a job or a production or a client she could detach from when the night ended. This was them. Their story. Their next chapter. Every flower, every note of music, every whispered vow—it mattered now in ways she hadn’t expected.

It was their day.

And despite the chaos, the indecision, and the weight of her own impossible standards...

She wanted it to be perfect.

The venue was easy to choose.

The private estate in Provence, where the Verstappens once spent a quiet summer together.

It held good memories. It was theirs now.

After Max and Kelly’s wedding, the couple had quietly offered it to (Y/n) and Lando—“For whenever your time comes.”

They’d bought it together two years ago, a small vineyard, olive groves, stone villas.

Their own little piece of paradise.

Now, it would witness their vows.

Guest list? That was another story.

Neither of them wanted an enormous spectacle. But with their lives, everyone wanted to be there.

So the list grew.

Lando’s family—Adam, Cisca, his brother Olly, his sisters Flo, and Cisca. His McLaren family—Zak Brown, Andrea Stella, his engineers, his beloved race engineer.

McLaren Team.

Oscar Piastri and his girlfriend.

Drivers from up and down the grid—Max and Kelly, Charles and Alexandra, George and Carmen, Lewis, Alex and Lily, Carlos and Rebecca—plus the other wives, girlfriends, partners of other drivers.

(Y/n)’s family—parents, cousins, childhood friends. Celeste, of course. Her entire planning team.

And—one of Lando’s last surprises—he’d pulled a few strings to book a live performance by Ed Sheeran, as a personal gift.

“He said he owed me for fixing his sim rig,” Lando grinned.

(Y/n) had nearly cried.

PROVENCE, FRANCE

The morning of the wedding dawned bright and clear, like the world itself had paused to celebrate with them.

Provence in early summer was a dream come to life. The skies were a painter’s perfect blue, clouds soft as spun silk, the breeze warm and fragrant with lavender. Bees floated lazily through the air. Birds chirped as though rehearsed. It was a morning that didn’t just promise beauty—it delivered it.

(Y/n) stirred awake in the bridal suite of the old stone villa, sunlight filtering in through gauzy white curtains. Her heart thrummed with a nervous rhythm, too fast to ignore but somehow comforting, because this was it. The day she had imagined, the day she had curated a thousand times for others, was finally hers.

Around her, the room buzzed with quiet, joyful chaos.

Celeste and her team worked like artists—brushing, curling, pinning, dusting. The scent of hairspray and roses filled the air. Someone laughed softly in the background. Someone else adjusted a steamer. The fabric of her gown hung like a breathless promise on the mannequin nearby.

“Deep breaths,” Celeste said gently, her voice low as she squeezed her hand. “You’ve done this a hundred times. You’ve got this.”

(Y/n) let out a shaky laugh. “Never like this.”

Because nothing, nothing had ever felt quite like this.

Meanwhile, across the sunlit estate, Lando was a pacing mess.

In the groom’s suite, he couldn’t sit still. His hands fidgeted with his cufflinks. His tie felt too tight, even though it wasn’t tied yet. He’d peeked out the window ten times in the last hour, searching for something he didn’t even know he was hoping to see.

Oscar, reclining like he had all the time in the world, grinned lazily from the couch.

“You’re more nervous than before a race,” he teased, sipping something suspiciously alcoholic.

Lando shot him a look. “That’s because this matters more.”

Zak stuck his head in through the doorway, tie already loosened, looking entirely too amused. “Ready to lose your last shred of freedom?”

Lando didn’t even blink. “Happily.”

Guests began arriving by mid-afternoon, their footsteps soft on gravel paths as they wandered through the vineyards and gardens, glasses of champagne in hand. The mood was warm, intimate, like a celebration with a hundred friends rather than an overwhelming social event.

The ceremony had been set in the heart of the olive grove, the trees arching overhead like old, gentle witnesses. White chairs lined the aisle, draped in soft muslin and garlands of greenery. Pale roses peeked from the arrangements like shy smiles. The breeze rustled through the branches, carrying the distant hum of acoustic strings.

And there, beneath a canopy of woven linen and olive leaves, stood Ed Sheeran—yes, the Ed Sheeran—strumming his guitar beneath the dappled light. He played quietly as guests settled in, the music curling around the grove like a blessing.

Then, the hush fell.

Everyone turned.

And there she was.

(Y/n), framed by sun and stone, walking slowly down the aisle.

Her gown was simple, yet breathtaking—ivory silk and delicate lace, flowing like water over her frame. Her hair was swept into soft waves, a few tendrils curling against her cheeks. There were no jewels, no dramatic veil, just her. Radiant. Unmistakably hers.

Lando’s breath caught audibly. His eyes shone, his lips parted slightly like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

He had never seen anything more beautiful.

As she walked, each step seemed to echo with the years they had shared, the choices they had made, the love that had grown between them in quiet, steady ways.

When she reached him and slipped her hands into his, the world narrowed. The grove, the guests, the sunlight—they all faded into something soft and distant. There was only the warmth of her fingers, the steady tremble of their shared heartbeat, and the absolute certainty in her eyes.

The vows were not rehearsed. Not polished. But they were real.

“I used to be afraid of the future,” (Y/n) whispered, her voice catching on the edge of emotion. “But with you, I can’t wait for what’s next. You made the unknown feel like a promise instead of a threat.”

Lando’s voice cracked when he answered, his thumb brushing across her knuckles.

“You gave me the life I didn’t know I needed,” he said. “You gave me home. And I promise, every day, for as long as I breathe, I will never stop choosing you.”

When they kissed, it was soft, unhurried, like something sacred.

The guests rose to their feet in a wave of joy, cheers erupting around them. Confetti burst into the air, petals and paper and laughter, and they walked hand in hand down the aisle, husband and wife, as the olive grove shimmered with sunlight and celebration.

The reception was a dream spun into reality.

Long wooden tables stretched under strings of golden lights. The scent of rosemary and citrus drifted from the kitchens. Glasses clinked. Wine flowed like music. Every corner of the estate glowed with joy—laughter, stories, impromptu dancing.

Speeches were given. Some were touching. Some were hilarious. All of them were heartfelt.

Ed Sheeran’s private set turned the courtyard into a dance floor. His voice was velvet, his guitar warm, and no one cared about rhythm or choreography. They danced like they’d waited forever to do it.

Lando twirled (Y/n) under the stars, his grin wide and boyish, his eyes never leaving her face. She laughed with her whole body, the silk of her dress catching the light as they spun.

At one point, Zak pulled Lando into a tight hug, his voice rough with emotion.

“Best win of your life,” he said.

Lando didn’t hesitate. “Easiest decision I’ve ever made.”

And that night, beneath the French sky, surrounded by the people who loved them most, they celebrated not just a wedding… But a beginning.

Later, much later, after cake, fireworks, after even the drivers had danced themselves out, Lando whisked her away.

They snuck off just as the final sparklers fizzled and the music softened into distant echoes, slipping away from the vineyard in a vintage convertible Lando had borrowed from a collector friend in Nice. It was ivory white, with red leather seats that gleamed under the moonlight, and a soft engine purr that barely rose above the cicadas in the fields. (Y/n) kicked off her heels the moment she sat down, her bare feet curled up on the seat, silk skirt hiked around her knees as Lando reached across the console to squeeze her thigh.

“Just us now,” he said, grinning, eyes crinkling at the corners.

They drove through winding country roads, past olive trees swaying in the twilight, stone cottages bathed in the amber hue of old lanterns. The stars had come out in full. Wind tangled in her hair. His hand never let go of hers.

Their honeymoon destination was a complete mystery to her. Lando had insisted—borderline begged—that she let him plan it. “You plan everyone else’s big day,” he’d told her. “Let me plan what comes after.”

And he didn’t disappoint.

By morning, after a private flight and a winding coastal drive, they arrived at a secluded villa carved into the cliffs of the Amalfi Coast. It looked like it had leapt from a postcard: white stone walls draped in bougainvillea, shutters flung open to the sea, turquoise waves crashing far below. The air smelled of salt and citrus. Lemon trees framed the entrance, and ivy hugged every corner.

For an entire week, they disappeared from the world.

There were no headlines, no media, no race weekends, no schedules. Just the two of them.

Long, slow mornings tangled in linen sheets, sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains as they dozed in and out of sleep. The world outside waited, but neither of them cared. They made love without urgency, with that quiet devotion that came only from deep, rooted love.

Late breakfasts followed—warm pastries, freshly squeezed juice, slices of local cheeses and figs laid out on a sun-drenched terrace overlooking the sea. (Y/n) wore his shirt, and Lando wore nothing but a satisfied grin.

Afternoons meant adventures. Swimming in hidden coves where the sea was so clear you could see the stones beneath your feet. Renting scooters and riding through narrow streets of sleepy villages. Sharing scoops of gelato that melted faster than they could eat it. Wandering into shops where no one knew their names and buying little trinkets, just because.

They drank cold limoncello on balconies and watched the sun bleed into the sea. They cooked pasta together, clumsy but laughing. Sometimes they spoke, sometimes they didn’t need to.

And the nights, those were sacred.

Nights wrapped around each other like silk. Candlelit baths. Late-night dances to soft Italian jazz. Making love with no time limit, no rush, no destination except each other. He’d kiss her shoulders, her fingers, the corner of her mouth. She’d run her hands through his curls and whisper things she never had the courage to say out loud before.

On the fifth afternoon, golden light filtering through the shutters, they lay tangled together in the middle of the bed, skin warm and bare against the rumpled sheets.

Lando’s head rested on her stomach, fingers tracing lazy, invisible circles on her ribs. There was nothing but the sound of waves in the distance and the occasional cry of gulls swooping across the horizon.

“Married life suits you,” he murmured against her skin, voice thick with sleep and love.

(Y/n) smiled, eyelids fluttering. “I was thinking the same about you.”

He lifted his head, kissed the inside of her wrist, then her shoulder.

“I love you, Mrs. Norris.”

Her chest tightened with something fierce and beautiful.

“And I love you,” she whispered, threading her fingers through his hair.

He grinned into her collarbone. “Forever, yeah?”

She nodded. “Forever.”

And in that moment—sun-warmed, sea-kissed, wrapped up in each other—forever felt like something they could hold.

FOUR YEARS LATER

The villa in Provence was no longer just their wedding venue.

It had become home.

What began as a breathtaking backdrop to their vows had transformed into the heart of their world. The stone walls still held the warmth of summer, the scent of lavender still drifted through the windows in June, and the same olive grove where they exchanged vows now shaded lazy afternoons and children’s laughter.

(Y/n) and Lando had restored it with care, modern comforts subtly folded into rustic charm. They kept the weathered shutters, the tiled roof, the old wooden beams. But the kitchen now gleamed with copper pots and polished stone, and the master bath had a soaking tub that looked out across rolling hills.

They split time between the villa and their flat in Monaco, but Provence had become their true base, their refuge.

Together, they planted more vines and watched them stretch taller each year. A kitchen garden flourished under (Y/n)’s hands, full of herbs and vegetables, the scent of basil and rosemary forever clinging to her fingers.

And then there were the animals.

Two dogs—Milo, a floppy, goofy golden retriever who thought he was a lapdog, and Astra, a sharp-eyed border collie with too much intelligence for her own good.

Two cats—Matisse, a sleek Russian Blue who ruled the house with dignified disdain, and Luna, a fluffy ragdoll who lived draped over furniture like royalty.

But their proudest joy, the most miraculous of them all, was their son.

Lucien Adam Norris.

Four years old. Wild curls, lashes too long, eyes that sparkled with curiosity and mischief. He was the perfect blend of both of them—his mother’s quiet cleverness, his father’s grin and impulsive charm.

Lucien toddled barefoot through the gardens chasing butterflies. He climbed into Lando’s sim rig when no one was watching, pretending to race with tiny, determined hands. He had learned to say “vroom” before he learned his own last name. And every guest who stepped foot into their home left utterly enchanted by him.

(Y/n) adored him.

Every sticky kiss, every early morning snuggle, every “mama look” as he held up yet another rock or flower or snail—each moment stitched itself into her heart.

And Lando.

Watching him be a father, the way he knelt to Lucien’s level, the way he carried him on his shoulders, the soft voice he used when reading bedtime stories, made her fall in love with him all over again.

One golden summer evening, they sat on the terrace overlooking the vineyard.

Lucien was napping inside, curled in a sun-dappled patch of the living room floor with Luna asleep beside him. The dogs sprawled at their feet, tongues lolling. A breeze whispered through the vines. Crickets chirped somewhere in the distance.

They sipped wine from mismatched glasses, leftover from their wedding, the kind that made every sip feel like memory.

Lando stretched, exhaling slowly, the day’s warmth still in his skin. He looked utterly content, golden and barefoot, curls tousled and stubble just starting to show on his jaw.

Then, out of nowhere, he glanced sideways at her.

“So,” he said, a mischievous spark in his voice, “think we should give the little guy a sister?”

(Y/n) blinked, caught off guard, then burst into laughter, smacking his arm with mock scandal.

“You just want someone who looks like me,” she accused.

Lando grinned shamelessly, swirling his wine. “Guilty.”

She shook her head, but the smile stayed. “One chaos monster at a time.”

But her eyes were soft, warm, sparkling.

And he saw it.

The thought wasn’t dismissed. Not really.

It had just been planted, like another vine, quietly rooting into the soil of the life they’d made together.

Years ago, she had feared the unknown.

The future had felt like a cliff edge, like something too wide and wild to trust.

But now?

With Lando. With Lucien. With this home they’d built, woven from laughter and small rituals and shared glances, she wasn’t afraid anymore.

Because whatever came next, they would face it side by side.

“I used to be afraid of forever,” she thought, watching the man she loved sip his wine, the sun catching in his curls, his smile soft with quiet joy.

“But with you… forever isn’t long enough.”

𝘞𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦. 𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘱, 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥— 𝘐𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴.

📝 Note from the Author: Third, last, and final post of the day and chapter, my beloved Alarwynnites. This is it. This is the one. And oh my stars—I’m so, so happy to finally share it with you.

Honestly? I’ve always dreamed of writing this kind of ending for Love and All Things Fake. But everlovingdeer—bless her chaotic genius—likes to keep me hanging on a cliff forever HAHAHAHA. Still, I’m beyond grateful for her work. That one-shot was pure magic, and this whole story was 100% inspired by her masterpiece.

Now if anyone thinks this is plagiarism or a form of stealing, feel absolutely free to comment, okay? I’ll take it all down immediately, no questions asked. Like I said, I’m weak in debates and allergic to online drama HAHAHAHA please spare me.

Thank you, as always, for reading, for staying, for screaming with me over flowers and fake fiancés and now forever. I love you all so much it’s actually embarrassing 😭

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to lie down and sob into a bouquet.

With love, me 🧡

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