🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴡʜᴏ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ🕶️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ ᴀᴜ | ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴅɴɪ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ
ꜱɪɢɴɪꜰɪᴄᴀɴᴛ ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ
ᴍɪʟᴅ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ
ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ
The sun burned brightly over the Riviera, turning the cobblestone streets of Monaco into a shimmer of warmth and sea salt. The glint of expensive watches, the rustle of designer skirts, and the whisper of languages laced with wealth and influence wrapped around Lewis Hamilton like silk—comfortable, familiar, but also, lately, insufferably predictable.
At forty, he had grown accustomed to the cadence of adoration. He knew what it meant when strangers glanced at him for a beat too long, when they crossed the street subtly to intercept his walk, when their phones lifted discreetly under the guise of texting but angled perfectly for a snapshot. He wore sunglasses and a hoodie not for fashion today, but for escape.
That’s why when he noticed her, again, his patience wavered.
A young woman with long, unbothered strides, hair pulled back carelessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline, pretending not to look at him. He first clocked her outside of Café de Paris. Then again at the marina when he’d stopped to check messages. And once more near the old casino steps. It was subtle, but the kind of subtle that raised alarms when you’ve spent years in the public eye.
By the fourth time, when he slowed at a quieter side street and saw her again across the way, Lewis stopped walking altogether.
He turned. Waited.
And she froze.
Her eyes widened slightly—an expression of a deer caught mid-thought, not quite guilt, but something adjacent. Surprise.
That did it.
“Alright,” Lewis muttered under his breath, then strode toward her with calm resolve.
She took a tentative step back, but stood her ground as he approached. Her eyebrows furrowed now, lips parting as if to speak, but Lewis got there first.
“Okay, seriously, are you following me?” he asked, arms crossing in a casual yet unmistakably defensive posture.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been behind me since the harbor,” Lewis said, pointing vaguely over his shoulder. “I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but this is Monaco, not Times Square. It’s kind of obvious.”
She stared at him, stunned. Her lips moved, but no words came. Then, a beat later, her brows lifted, and she scoffed with soft disbelief. “You think I’m stalking you?”
Lewis tilted his head. “Well, aren't you?”
A pause. Then her cheeks flushed, not with guilt, but with something closer to offense.
“I have no idea who you are,” she said plainly.
He blinked.
“I’m not following you. I’m... I’m following them,” she continued, stepping sideways and subtly motioning across the plaza. “My best friend is on a date. A suspicious one. She asked me to keep an eye.” (Author: It's a lieee~)
Lewis followed her gesture. A couple sat on the terrace of a rooftop café, seemingly engrossed in one another. Nothing about them screamed drama, but Lewis could see how someone might be wary.
Just then, as if summoned by the very act of being observed, the woman at the table turned. Her eyes narrowed. Recognition dawned.
“Oh no,” the woman beside him muttered.
The friend stood abruptly and made her way across the plaza with brisk, purposeful steps.
“I take it that’s her?” Lewis asked dryly.
She winced. “Yeah.”
The approaching woman came to a sharp stop in front of them and crossed her arms. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais là?” (“What are you doing here?”) she hissed, voice low but sharp.
The woman beside Lewis stammered. “Je… Nous passions juste par là. C'est une coïncidence.” (“I... We were just passing by. It's a coincidence.”)
Lewis watched the exchange, bemused as her friend scolded her rapidly in French. The young woman’s shoulders slumped in surrender. Finally, she raised both hands in mock defeat, responding calmly in fluent French, her tone soothing even as her friend remained riled.
Then, without warning, she turned back to Lewis. “Sorry about that,” she said quickly, and before he could react, she slipped her hand into his.
His brows lifted.
Her friend’s mouth dropped open.
“Bye, Clémence!” she called over her shoulder, already tugging Lewis down the street. Her fingers gripped his for only a few seconds, but it was long enough to leave a strange warmth on his skin.
Once they rounded the corner and out of sight, she let go with an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “Well, that was dramatic.”
Lewis looked at her, still baffled. “Did you just use me as an escape plan?”
She met his gaze unapologetically. “Yes. And thank you for playing along, even if unintentionally.”
He smirked. “You could’ve just told her the truth.”
She scoffed lightly. “You don’t know Clémence. Telling her the truth would’ve meant a full interrogation, and I wasn’t in the mood for that.”
Then, muttering in French, she added something that sounded irritated and vaguely poetic. Lewis, not fluent beyond basic phrases, frowned.
“What did you just say?”
She glanced sideways at him. “Nothing.”
That look in her eyes—annoyed, intelligent, amused—sparked something in him. Before she could disappear again, Lewis called after her, “Wait.”
She turned, arching a brow.
He hesitated for only a second. “What’s your name?”
She tilted her head slightly, considering. Then: “(Y/n) Robinson.”
He smiled, extending his hand. “Lewis.”
“Just Lewis?” she asked, not taking it.
“That’s all you get until you stop pretending not to know me,” he said, half teasing, half challenging.
But she only shrugged. “I wasn’t pretending. Still not sure why you’re familiar.”
Lewis chuckled, genuinely thrown. It was such a foreign experience, he wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or intrigued.
She turned away again and began walking. He followed.
“You’re not going to shake me off that easily,” he said casually.
“Are you the stalker now?”
He grinned. “Maybe.”
She stopped abruptly outside a small patisserie tucked between two narrow buildings. It wasn’t flashy, no golden signs or velvet ropes, just a quaint spot with a chalkboard menu and glass display filled with confections. She looked at him. “You really don’t have anywhere better to be?”
“Right now?” he said, hands in his pockets. “No. Got some time.”
She stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re being weird.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
She pushed open the door. He followed.
The smell of butter, sugar, and espresso wrapped around them like a memory. Inside, only three other patrons sat scattered between tables. The soft clink of china and faint jazz music filled the space.
(Y/n) stepped up to the counter and pointed to a slice of raspberry cheesecake. “And a lavender latte, please.”
Lewis ordered something simpler, an Americano and a plain almond croissant.
They sat at a small table near the window. The afternoon sun slanted through the glass, streaking the table with warm light.
He watched as she quietly opened a novel from her tote bag and began to read, seemingly unbothered by his presence. She didn’t ask him questions, didn’t glance at her phone, didn’t fish for details.
Lewis studied the side of her face, her soft expression as she turned pages. He sipped his coffee and tried to place what felt so unusual about the moment.
It was the silence.
It wasn’t uncomfortable or expectant. It was... easy. She wasn’t pretending not to care, she genuinely didn’t.
For once, he wasn’t the spectacle in someone else’s story.
Eventually, after a few attempts at small talk that were met with polite nods and monosyllables, he gave up trying to draw her into conversation. Instead, he leaned back and let himself enjoy the peace.
She finished her cheesecake slowly, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and finally closed her book. Standing, she looked at him and offered a simple smile.
“Well. That was oddly pleasant,” she said.
Lewis nodded. “Yeah. It was.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the company, Lewis.”
“Anytime, (Y/n),” he replied.
And just like that, she walked out.
He watched her disappear down the street, her figure weaving through late afternoon foot traffic.
For a long moment, Lewis sat alone. Then he looked down at the empty table, at the fork she had set gently across her plate, at the faint imprint her coffee cup left on the tablecloth.
No selfies. No squealing. No asking him to rev the engine of his fame.
Just cheesecake, silence, and the odd feeling of not being known.
He smiled to himself, pulled out his phone, and opened the notes app.
He typed two words:
Find her.
To be continued...❤️
🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ʙʟᴜᴇ-ᴇʏᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴛɪᴏɴ🕶️
📝 Note from the Author: Hello my dear Alarwynnites! First post again for this very first title of the month of September hehehe, I hope you like this one! There will be some MDNI moments here, and a huge age gap I tell y’all. If you’re uncomfortable with these kinds of things, it’s totally okay to skip it, yes? Yeeeesss.
I love you guys so much, thank you for always supporting me! To my new followers—welcome, welcome! I’ll try to post as much as possible for this title. Andddd, anyone wants to request something? Another title maybe? I’m running out of ide—just kidding HAHAHA. This author has way too many ideas, but I’d love to hear yours too so the stories don’t all feel the same. So, if you have any, just drop me a message or leave it on my wall, okay?
Also, a huge thank you to Firefly Graphics for the amazing border—they make everything look so beautiful!
Thanks again, always.
With love, me 🧡