🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ɢʜᴏꜱᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀɪᴅ🌅
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ + ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ
ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ / ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴅᴇᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ & ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ
Singapore Grand Prix – Five Years Later
The sun hung heavy over the city, blinding in its brilliance, casting every steel edge of the Marina Bay Street Circuit into sharp, merciless contrast. It was qualifying day, and the paddock thrummed with the familiar rhythm of urgency—a symphony of hydraulic whirs, media chatter, and the low, persistent throb of engines spinning in the distance. The scent of burning rubber mingled with perfume and sweat, a strange concoction unique to Formula One weekends.
But amidst the chaos, one woman moved with unshakable calm.
Her name was (Y/n) Young. Not Norris. Not anymore.
She walked between the lines of hospitality tents and garages with the kind of presence that turned heads long before anyone recognized her face. The loose silk blouse she wore, ivory against her skin, billowed slightly with the breeze, tucked neatly into high-waisted tailored trousers of midnight black. Her heels made no sound, yet her footsteps echoed in the air. People whispered in hushed tones, unsure if they should look, or look away.
Perfect. Unreachable. Like a woman carved out of memory.
The lanyard around her neck bore the symbol of one of the race weekend’s biggest sponsors, a direct nod to her presence here. She hadn’t come by choice. Not really. She had refused twice. The third time, her father had simply handed her the itinerary, kissed her on the forehead, and said, “Your grandmother would have gone.”
She was Young, the only daughter of one of Singapore’s most powerful dynasties. Sister to Alaric and Cassius, both titans of industry before the age of forty. Heiress to a legacy steeped in generational wealth, political diplomacy, and social obligation. Her presence at the Grand Prix was a symbol—not of nostalgia, but of stature.
Even if this city held ghosts.
The VIP box loomed above the grid, glassed in and lined with white linen chairs and gold-accented champagne coolers. From here, she could see it all: the glint of helmets, the blur of mechanics, the blurrier line between theatre and war beneath the sun. She sat, legs crossed, hands resting lightly on her lap, her gaze steady but distant—watching, but not really watching.
Not to the track, nor the standings. But to a boy with sun-soft curls and a laugh that once filled the spaces between walls and hearts. A baby who should be five now. Should be here. Should be…
She closed her eyes for a second, inhaled slowly, then let it go.
Engines died down. Screens flashed with sector times and pole positions. Verstappen first. Lando Norris, second. His name lingered onscreen for longer than necessary.
She stood without a word.
Instantly, like a tide rolling in without warning, the media descended. Their voices sharp, too eager, slicing through the space between her and silence.
“Miss Young! Miss Young! Is this your first time back at a Grand Prix since—”
“Are you here supporting Lando—?”
“Did McLaren invite you? Will you two be reconciling—?”
“Is it true you’ve taken over the Young family jewelry house? Was this an official appearance—?”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Her posture never wavered. She moved through them like mist—untouchable, regal. Her silence wasn’t resistance. It was command. She owed them nothing.
Her heels clicked down the stairs of the VIP suite and onto the paddock walkway, each step purposeful. Around her, staff and media gave way, instinctively aware that though she was no longer a fixture in Formula One, she hadn’t lost her crown, she had simply traded it.
Soft. Familiar. Almost trembling with hope.
Cisca Norris stood a few paces away, partially in the shade of the McLaren motorhome. Her shirt was pressed, her hair pinned in its usual casual style, but her eyes—those warm, ocean-grey eyes—swam with emotion.
(Y/n)’s face melted. Just a little. She smiled.
They walked to each other and embraced with the quiet intensity of women who had once been family, still were in some parallel realm untouched by grief and law. There was no need for words at first. Just the ache of reunion, of time passed.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Cisca said softly once they pulled apart.
“I didn’t either,” (Y/n) murmured. “Not until I was already in the car.”
A low chuckle passed between them. And then another voice broke in.
“Darling,” Adam Norris said gently, stepping forward to wrap her in a hug of his own. “You look well.”
“As do you,” she replied, pulling back to look at him. “I heard about the new foundation. You’ve done good work.”
“Trying,” he said, eyes glancing toward the garage. “Some days are harder than others.”
She knew what he meant. She nodded.
And then the air changed.
It was like a shadow passed over them, though the sky remained bright.
Lando was standing by the garage entrance.
His eyes were on her—unblinking, unwavering— as if seeing a dream made flesh again. Something in him stilled, like the world had narrowed into a single, slivered moment where nothing existed but her presence. He looked older. Not in the lines on his face, but in his stillness. As though the years had carved silence into his bones.
(Y/n) looked back. And for a fraction of a second, barely a breath, her composure cracked. Not visibly. Just in the eyes.
“Come inside,” Cisca said gently, sensing the tension and offering relief. “Please. Just for a little while.”
“I know,” Cisca said, taking her hand anyway. “But I’m asking you. Not as a guest. Just as someone who still loves you.”
Inside the McLaren hospitality suite, it was cooler, quieter. The noise of the outside world faded behind closed glass doors and thick carpet. Familiar photos adorned the walls, but new ones too; unfamiliar faces, new sponsors, newer seasons. The orange and black decor remained, but the era had changed.
Still, something about the place pulled at her memory. That first year. Her standing by Lando’s side. Leo asleep in her arms during a debrief. The way the engineers used to tiptoe around them as if afraid to disturb that strange little pocket of joy.
She sat with Cisca and Adam in a corner booth, sipping chilled tea. The conversation, at first, was light such as pleasantries, business, names dropped and picked up like smooth stones.
“So,” Cisca asked, tilting her head with soft curiosity, “what have you been doing with yourself?”
(Y/n) folded her hands. “I inherited the jewelry house from Ah-Ma last year. She left everything to me. The atelier, the archive, the Paris apartment. It’s… it’s a legacy I never expected to hold.”
“I’ve seen your designs,” Cisca smiled. “The emerald set for Queen Mathilde? Breathtaking.”
(Y/n) nodded, a hint of pride peeking through. “We’ve just opened a boutique in Doha. And I’ve restructured the creative team in Singapore. My brothers are running the conglomerate—Alaric’s more numbers, Cassius is the strategist. But they let me design, lead, manage the cultural arms. It keeps me occupied.”
Cisca reached across the table and touched her hand. “You’re doing brilliantly.”
“I’m doing,” (Y/n) said simply.
Zak Brown passed by at that moment, pausing in mid-conversation when he spotted her. “Well, look who the winds brought back.”
“Hello, Zak,” she said, standing briefly to shake his hand.
“You look incredible,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” she replied, graceful but measured.
“Stay for dinner later. The view’s better here,” he joked, then gave a friendly nod before disappearing again.
And then, the quiet shifted again.
His steps were slow, unsure. He wasn’t smiling. His gaze flicked toward her, paused, then locked in. He hadn’t looked at her like that in years—not on purpose, not since before.
She didn’t speak. Neither did he.
It was as if every breath in the room held still, suspended between their silence. Her shoulders straightened, but her fingers curled ever so slightly in her lap. He had that same nervous tension she remembered from his rookie days, when he didn’t know how to look confident but wanted to be brave anyway.
Their eyes said what their mouths wouldn’t.
I never stopped wondering if you’d come.
She turned toward Cisca, lifting her bag with practiced ease. “I should go. It’s been a long day.”
Cisca stood with her. “Will you come tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’ll be in the box again.”
“We’ll look for you before or after the race,” Adam said gently.
(Y/n) nodded, smiling once more. She didn’t glance back at Lando. Not this time.
As she walked out, the glass doors slid shut behind her, sealing her back into the heat, the noise, the city that once knew her as his.
Inside, Lando watched her go.
And still, somehow, aching.
The air outside was warmer than before, the golden haze of the late Singapore sun beginning to melt into evening. (Y/n) walked slowly, heels ticking softly against the paddock concrete, her stride elegant but restrained, the way one moves after seeing too many ghosts in too little time. She passed rows of engineers packing down equipment, drivers giving post-quali interviews under blistering lights, cameras flashing with relentless urgency. None of it touched her. None of it reached the place her mind now lingered.
Lando hadn’t said a word.
But what could they possibly say?
The years had built too many walls between them, walls made of silence, of grief, of unanswered questions that neither had dared to reopen. She had managed to keep herself composed. Mostly. Yet now, with each step drawing her further from the McLaren motorhome, she felt the ache grow stronger—not weaker.
Perhaps it was because she had seen his eyes again.
Or perhaps it was because she had caught a glimpse of the life she left behind.
Either way, it stirred something inside her that she didn’t want to name.
She neared the exit gates of the paddock, just as the last threads of sunlight laced through the marina skyline. The crowds had thinned here, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like peace.
She didn’t check it right away. She assumed it was her assistant reminding her about the dinner she was meant to attend with the sponsors. Or perhaps one of her brothers, likely Cassius, sending a sarcastic message about her surviving the circus of motorsport once more.
But then it vibrated again.
And again.
A strange rhythm. Not frantic, not quite, but... weighted. A vibration that seemed to linger longer than it should, pulsing against her palm like a heartbeat made mechanical.
Frowning faintly, (Y/n) slid the phone from her slim clutch.
The screen blinked awake.
One unread message. No name. No contact photo.
Just a string of numbers she didn’t recognise—long, foreign, untraceable.
A strange chill crawled beneath her skin.
Just two words. Nothing more.
Everything around her—the noise, the lights, the blurred laughter in the distance, dropped away as though someone had turned the world’s volume knob down to nothing.
Her fingers, once so poised and certain, began to tremble.
For a moment, she thought it must be a mistake. A sick prank. One of those awful messages people send to public figures for attention or drama. But something about the way it was written, how spare it was—no punctuation, no flourish, just five direct words—gripped her with a force she couldn’t explain.
She swallowed hard. Her heart, once slow and quiet, began to thrum against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Then, just below the text, the phone began to load an image.
The thumbnail appeared grainy at first, blurred and pixelated, the connection momentarily sluggish.
Standing outside—on what looked like a garden path, or perhaps a park. The photo was taken from a slight distance, through glass maybe. The light obscured part of his face, but it didn’t matter.
She knew those eyes. Wide, dark, familiar in a way that no time could erode.
She knew that hair—soft brown curls, now slightly longer, messier.
And the scar—a faint line just above his right brow. He had it as a baby, from bumping into the corner of the sofa when he first learned to crawl.
Her lips parted, no sound escaping. Her eyes stung, not from the humidity, but from the swell of something unspoken. Her knees felt weak beneath her.
Still breathing. Still growing. Still out there.
She gripped the phone tightly, afraid to blink, afraid the image would disappear like a mirage. Her chest heaved, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. There was no space for tears, not in this suspended moment where the axis of her entire world tilted, shifted, turned.
A single message. A single photo. And the life she thought was buried had just clawed its way to the surface again.
🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴇ🌅
📝 Note from the Author:
Everyone suffers, nobody heals, and then I drop a mysterious text message at the end MUAHAHAHAHAHA.
ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ: ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴏꜰ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪᴛ ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟ-ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇꜱ, ᴀʟʟ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ, ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇꜱ. ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ɪɴᴀᴄᴄᴜʀᴀᴄɪᴇꜱ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀᴍᴜʟᴀ 1, ᴍᴏɴᴀᴄᴏ, ꜱɪɴɢᴀᴘᴏʀᴇ, ʟᴇɢᴀʟ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴅᴜʀᴇꜱ, ɪɴᴠᴇꜱᴛɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀʟ ɪɴᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴜᴀʟꜱ ᴘᴏʀᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ.
