🧜🏻♀️ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ʜᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇᴅ🧜🏻♀️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜰᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ + ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ
ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ ɪɴ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴇ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢꜱ
ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟ ᴜꜱᴇ
ᴍɪʟᴅʟʏ ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ
Two months passed, and the soft breath of the Italian evening once again wrapped itself around the shadowed entrance of La Notte Alta. The bar remained unchanged, still tucked in the chest of old stone alleys, still guarded by men with silence in their bones, and still cloaked in that familiar air of danger disguised as sophistication. But that night, something felt subtly different. Not in the architecture, not in the lighting, but in the weight of the room itself.
Lando Norris had returned.
He did so without announcement. Without spectacle. The staff barely noticed him until he was seated in his usual corner, beneath the low-hung lamp that swayed gently in the evening’s breeze, illuminating nothing but the edges of his expression. His suit was tailored, expensive but not ostentatious. His demeanor was relaxed, almost bored, but beneath it pulsed something guarded, distant, almost impenetrable.
He was still the same as before: quiet, observant, enigmatic. He watched the room with the kind of stillness that made people nervous, but not because he was dangerous. No, it was because he made you question whether you were interesting enough to hold his gaze.
(Y/n) noticed him the moment she walked on stage. Not because he made himself known, but because her eyes had been searching for him ever since he first disappeared weeks ago. And though she wouldn’t have admitted it, not even to herself, his absence had lingered longer than she’d liked.
That evening, her performance carried a different note. She sang as she always did: poised, elegant, haunting. But her melody meandered, dipping into minor keys, subtle inflections, moments of hesitation that betrayed an inner unrest. Every few verses, her gaze drifted to the corner of the room where he sat, expression unreadable, posture precise.
But it wasn’t Lando who beckoned her after the final note fell silent.
It was his companion, a sharply dressed engineer with an easy smile and wandering hands. His request passed through Madam’s lips like any other, and (Y/n), as always, obeyed without question. It was routine. A ritual. A dance they all knew.
She moved through the crowd like water, gliding between tables, trailing silence in her wake. When she reached them, she didn’t even look at Lando. Instead, she perched herself delicately onto the lap of the man who had asked for her, her laugh low and syrupy, eyes half-lidded with practiced seduction.
The engineer was all too eager, hands curling around her waist, fingertips ghosting along the outer curve of her thigh, lips brushing the skin just beneath her ear. She let him. She always did. That was her power: to grant desire without ever giving herself.
Across the table, Lando watched.
He didn’t shift. Didn’t frown. Didn’t offer so much as a glance of disapproval. His face remained impassive, a mask of detached interest. But his gaze met hers, briefly, and in that moment, something unspoken passed between them.
It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t disdain.
It was curiosity.
She held his gaze for longer than necessary, lips parting slightly as if she wanted to say something—then turned back to the man beneath her, giggling at some throwaway comment. Lando’s gaze dropped. He picked up his glass of neat whiskey and took a slow sip, unbothered. Or so it seemed.
And that, infuriatingly, intrigued her more than she cared to admit.
It became a pattern. A slow, deliberate ritual that stretched over the course of several months. Lando would return, always unannounced, always part of a small group—usually engineers, sometimes CEOs, men of influence who understood the language of power. They’d sit at their usual table, whispering about things she neither cared for nor understood.
And eventually, someone would request her.
She entertained each request with the same elegance she was known for. She draped herself across laps, whispered soft nothings into ears, accepted touches and compliments as part of the game. But her eyes, her eyes never stopped watching him.
She never once saw him smile. Not at her. Not at anyone. He rarely spoke during those evenings. He observed, a flicker of thought always behind his eyes, but he never once reached for her. Never asked. Never even suggested. He remained on the fringes of the game, untouchable.
Until, one night, the rules shifted.
It was late spring. The scent of jasmine drifted in from the open terrace doors. The room was quieter than usual, the crowd smaller, more intimate. The lights were dimmer, casting long shadows over polished marble.
(Y/n) had just finished a slower number, her voice trailing off like the final curl of smoke from a dying candle. Applause swelled politely, and as she stepped off the stage, Madam caught her with a single look.
"Table three," she said, lips barely moving.
(Y/n) didn’t have to ask. She walked.
Only when she reached the table did she realize the difference.
It wasn’t the usual engineer or sleek media executive who had called for her. It was the CEO—a powerful, confident man with a jaw like stone and fingers that drummed constantly against the table. He gestured lazily toward Lando.
"Tonight," he said with a smirk, "he gets the honor."
(Y/n) hesitated.
Lando did not look at her. He looked at his glass, jaw tight.
"It’s just a game," the CEO added, grinning like a man who never got told no. "Loosen him up."
Lando’s voice came low and clipped. "I’m fine."
"Nonsense," the man countered. "She doesn’t bite. Unless you ask nicely."
(Y/n) looked at Lando, weighing the air between them. He didn’t give permission. But he didn’t object again. He simply leaned back, shoulders tense, eyes cast elsewhere. That was enough.
She stepped forward, slowly, and settled herself on his lap.
The first thing she noticed was how still he was. Not rigid, not recoiling, just still. Like a statue carved from hesitation. His hands remained at his sides. His breathing shallow. He didn’t look at her, and she didn’t speak.
So, she leaned in.
A whisper against his ear, nothing intelligible. A test.
No response.
She brushed her fingers lightly down his tie, adjusted the knot, let her hand rest briefly on his chest. Still, nothing.
He was made of stone.
And for reasons she couldn’t explain, that challenge lit something inside her.
So she tried again. Different tactics. A compliment murmured against the corner of his jaw. The softest laugh, practiced but not fake. Her fingers toyed with the edge of his cuff. A woman used to being wanted had met a man indifferent to want.
And something about that felt like provocation.
From that night on, a new ritual formed.
He never requested her. Never suggested it. But each time he came back, it was as if the table expected it. Someone would summon her, and she’d find herself, against all better judgment, seated once again on Lando Norris’s lap.
She learned quickly that he did not like being touched without warning. That he preferred silence. That his discomfort did not stem from shyness, but control. So, she adjusted. Sometimes, she said nothing at all. Sometimes, she leaned close enough for their breath to mingle, and did nothing else. Sometimes, her presence alone was the performance.
Weeks passed like this. And through them, she remained unaware.
Unaware that he disappeared for days at a time not because of business, but because of circuits and podiums and roaring engines in countries she never thought to pronounce. That the man who sat so still beneath her was not a financier or an executive, but a driver whose name echoed through stadiums across the globe.
The irony, of course, was cruel.
Because (Y/n) Amato had made one rule for herself, forged from pain and legacy and all the hollow spaces her mother had left behind: never race car drivers. Never again.
And yet, there she was. Night after night. Perched. Poised. Intrigued by the one man she thought exempt from her past.
And he, for reasons unknown, kept letting her.
Neither of them spoke about it. Neither of them acknowledged the strange rhythm they had fallen into. But it was there. Lingering in glances, in silences, in the frictionless space between proximity and permission.
Lando Norris knew exactly who he was. But (Y/n) Amato still didn’t.
And if fate had a sense of humor, it was only just beginning to laugh.
To be continued...🧡
🧜🏻♀️ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ ᴋɴɪᴠᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀᴄɪɴɢ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱ🧜🏻♀️
📝 Note from the Author: Hello, Alarwynnites! （￣︶￣）↗ Second post for today, yes, it’s scheduled, by the way, HAHAHAHA. Look at me, being organized like my life isn’t a dumpster fire with a scented candle on top.
This chapter is basically two emotionally repressed people slow-burning their way into mutually assured emotional destruction. One of them is a siren who vowed never to go near race car drivers, the other is literally a race car driver pretending to be a decorative wall plant. What could possibly go wrong?
To my loyal Alarwynnites and the readers who are still here, thank you. Whether you like, comment, reblog, or just quietly read and vanish into the void like a cryptid, your presence means more than you think. Even lurking fuels my villain arc.
Alright, I’ll stop talking before I make this darker than it needs to be. Goodbye for now, see you in the next chapter.
With love, me 🧡
