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The chequered flag waved beneath the hazy Dutch sky, a roar of orange thunder erupting across the Zandvoort grandstands. Lando stepped out of his car, helmet still on, visor down, not out of routine, but out of necessity.
He didnât want anyone to see his eyes.
The P3 finish meant little. Applause sounded distant, hollow, like it was echoing down the corridors of a life that was no longer his. Mechanics clapped his back. Oscar gave a faint smile. George nodded his way.
But all Lando could feel was the burn in his chest. An acid ache that pulsed with every heartbeat.
He should have run. To the hotel. To her. But the moment he crossed the garage threshold, Zak was waiting.
So was Andrea.
So was Oscar.
They didn't speak until he was behind the safety of the motorhome walls.
Then the questions started.
âWhat the fuck did we witness today?â Zakâs voice wasnât loud, but it cracked like thunder.
Lando flinched.
âDo you know how many photographers were almost in that damn alley? Youâre lucky she blacked the woman out before someone got a picture.â Andreaâs arms were crossed tightly, fury written in the lines of his face.
Oscar was the quietest, but it was his silence that felt the sharpest. His expression wasnât angry. It was disappointed. Deeply so.
Zak stepped closer, jaw clenched. âWho is she?â
Lando swallowed. âHer nameâs Clara.â
âIs she the only one?â Oscar finally spoke. His voice was low, trembling, not with emotion for Lando, but for (Y/n). âOr are there others?â
Lando shut his eyes. Shame crawled up his spine like a disease. âShe wasnât the only one.â
Zakâs hand slammed the wall. âJesus Christ.â
âHow long?â Andrea asked, voice taut as piano wire.
Landoâs fingers tangled in his hair. âClaraâs been⌠on and off. Three months.â
Oscar paced. âSo youâre telling me the woman who makes your coffee every morning, who makes sure your suits are pressed, who memorizes your race calendar down to the millisecond, she's the one getting crumbs of your time while you're out screwing someone else in supply trucks?â
âIt wasnât like that,â Lando mumbled, but the words tasted foul. âIt didnât mean anything.â
âYou really think that makes it better?â Zak barked. âShe saw you. And you didnât even flinch until you were caught.â
Landoâs voice cracked. âI panicked. I didnâtâGod, I didnât know she was there.â
Oscar spun around. âThat's what makes it worse. You didnât know because you werenât thinking about her. Sheâs been your wife for three years, Lando. And somehow, she didnât cross your mind.â
âI thought we were drifting,â Lando whispered, chest caving inward. âI thought she didnât want this life anymore. Sheâd get quiet sometimes. She stopped coming to races. I thoughtââ
âYou thought,â Andrea interrupted coldly, âinstead of talking to her?â
âSheâs a writer,â Lando said, as if that explained everything. âShe never told me outright, but I knew. It was in the way sheâd vanish into silence, like the world outside her thoughts didnât exist.â
He looked down, jaw tight. âShe was always lost in her work. I felt like⌠like a footnote.â
âYou felt like a footnote,â Zak repeated, the words venomous. âAnd so you decided to destroy the whole damn book.â
Landoâs lips parted, a protest forming, but it died before it reached air. What argument could possibly justify what he did?
The door slammed open.
Max Verstappen strode in, eyes storm-dark, jaw locked like a vice.
Behind him, Kelly stood in the hallway, her expression stricken.
âMax,â Zak began, but Max raised a hand.
His eyes locked on Lando.
âYou fucking prick.â
Before anyone could react, Maxâs fist collided with Landoâs face, brutal, unrelenting. Lando stumbled backward, crashing into a chair, blood already rushing from the corner of his lip.
Oscar stepped between them, hands up. âMax, donâtâ!â
Max shoved him aside, grabbing Lando by the collar, yanking him upright.
âShe was there when you were spiraling. I remember Bahrain. I remember Silverstone. She was the one backstage, talking you down when you couldnât breathe. She flew across Europe on a red-eye because you forgot your passport in Monaco.â
Lando coughed, gripping Maxâs forearm. âI knowââ
âDo you?â Max snarled. âShe held you together when you were nothing but shattered glass. And now youâve broken her.â
âI didnât meanââ
âYou donât do that to someone who loves you with their whole soul.â
Landoâs voice collapsed into sobs, hoarse and fractured. âI know. I know I ruined it. I know I donât deserve her.â
Max dropped him.
âYouâre right,â he said, stepping back, fury radiating off his frame. âYou donât.â
He stormed out.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Lando pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes, willing the tears to stop, but they wouldnât. He was weeping openly now, grief, guilt, rage, all curling into a single overwhelming storm.
âI was lonely,â he whispered to the floor. âBut it was my fault. She wasnât distant. I was blind.â
Zak looked at him, really looked at him. For a moment, his expression softened, like he saw the broken boy beneath the wreckage.
âThen you better start figuring out how to pick up the pieces,â he said. âBut donât expect her to hand you the glue.â
Upstairs in the hotel, (Y/n) didnât bother turning on the lights. She sat by the window in silence, the sky outside melting into shades of plum and silver.
She hadnât changed out of her clothes. Her blouse was wrinkled. Her eyes were swollen. She hadnât eaten. The untouched tray of room service sat beside her, long gone cold.
A soft knock echoed.
She didnât answer.
â(Y/n),â came Kellyâs voice, muffled through the door. âItâs me.â
She stood slowly and opened it.
Kelly stepped in without a word, her arms immediately wrapping around her.
And for the first time since it happened, (Y/n) let herself cry, not the silent, contained kind, but the sobbing that broke in waves, splintering through her ribs.
âI brought your favorite tea,â Kelly murmured. âAnd cookies. The stupid almond ones you always hide in your purse.â
(Y/n) smiled through tears. âThank you.â
Kelly stroked her hair like a sister. âYou didnât deserve this. None of it. You were good to him.â
âI thought we were happy.â
âYou were, sweetheart. You were.â
They sat in silence, tea cooling between their hands. No one needed to speak. The air itself mourned.
Later, beneath the garish lights of the podium, Lando stood like a statue, trophy in his hand, champagne soaking into his suit. But he didnât smile. He didnât even lift his gaze.
Oscar glanced at him, hesitated, then looked away.
George nudged his shoulder gently in the cooldown room. âP3. It was a good race.â
Lando didnât respond.
He sat down slowly, trophy resting by his feet, head in his hands.
âSheâs gone,â he whispered.
No cameras heard him.
No one clapped.
And for the first time in his life, even victory felt like ash.
To be continued...đ§Ą
âď¸ á´ĄĘá´Ęá´ á´Ęá´ ęąÉŞĘá´É´á´á´ á´á´á´á´ Ęá´Ę - á´Ęá´á´á´á´Ę 5: á´ĘᴠɢɪĘĘ á´ĄĘá´ á´ á´É´ÉŞęąĘá´á´ âď¸
đ Note from the Author: Okay, okay, I promise this is the last one for today 𼚠But I just couldnât leave this part out, itâs too raw, too important, too real. Thank you again to everyone whoâs been here through it all. Your likes, reblogs, comments, and even quiet reads mean more than you know. You keep this story breathing.đ§Ą
Letâs talk about this line:
âYou felt like a footnote,â Zak repeated, the words venomous. âAnd so you decided to destroy the whole damn book.â
That line?? It punched straight through the ribs. The sheer weight of that sentence, itâs not just about betrayal. Itâs about how easily someone can burn everything down in the name of their own insecurity. About how sometimes, we donât even realize the love weâre throwing away until weâre standing in its ashes.
Lando might have gotten a podium. But in this story, it meant nothing. Because the moment she walked away, he lost the real prize, someone who built her world around him, only for him to rewrite the ending in the ugliest way.
Thank you for being here. Always.
With love, me đ§Ą
