🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ꜱʜɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ ʟɪɴᴇꜱ 🧡
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (7–8 ᴡᴇᴇᴋꜱ)
ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ
ʙʀɪᴇꜰ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴇxᴘᴏꜱᴜʀᴇ/ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ
ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ ꜱʏᴍᴘᴛᴏᴍꜱ (ɴᴀᴜꜱᴇᴀ, ꜰᴏᴏᴅ ᴀᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ɢɪɴɢᴇʀ ᴄʜᴇᴡꜱ)
ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅɪᴇᴛᴀʀʏ ʀᴇꜱᴛʀɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ (ꜰᴏʀ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ)
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴛᴇɴꜱᴇ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ (ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ)
ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ/ᴛʜɪʀᴅ-ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ (ʟᴜᴄᴀ)
ꜱᴜʀᴠᴇɪʟʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ
The afternoon haze clung to Monaco like a silk curtain, softening the glare of the sun as crowds spilled out into the city after the race. Cheers still echoed faintly between buildings, fans lingering in bars and along the harbor, draped in team colors and plastic flags.
But (Y/n) wasn’t thinking about racing anymore.
She stared up at the massive outdoor screen mounted across from a pop-up hospitality booth. The looping footage replayed their moment again—her standing beside Lando, framed by the McLaren logo, their expressions unreadable under sunglasses but unmistakably intense.
One flash. Two. Then gone.
“I mean,” Carla said, eyes flicking between the screen and her phone, already recording, “if this isn’t marketing gold, I don’t know what is.”
Amara grinned, nudging her. “You two had more chemistry than half the grid.”
(Y/n) swallowed, her mouth dry. “It’s just a photo.”
But the way Lando had looked at her, it wasn’t just recognition. It was confusion. A glitch in his polished world. Like a moment that demanded context but got cut short by circumstance.
She had to get out of there.
“I’m heading back,” she mumbled, already turning away. “Too much noise.”
“You sure?” Carla called. “They’re doing interviews soon. Could be fun to—”
“I’m good,” (Y/n) said, not slowing.
Amara didn’t follow her this time. She knew that tone.
The apartment was cooler, quieter, and mercifully empty. The moment the door shut, (Y/n) leaned against it, exhaling hard.
Her phone buzzed.
Luca: Are you home safe?
She stared at the message for a long time before typing a simple reply: Y/n: Yes. Thanks again.
Then she turned her phone facedown.
The nausea came in soft waves again. She sat at the kitchen table, unwrapped a ginger chew, and let it melt on her tongue while her other hand instinctively rested over her stomach. There was barely any bump yet, just the ghost of a future she hadn’t prepared for.
She was seven, maybe eight weeks along now.
She’d only told Amara.
Not Carla. Not her family. And definitely not him.
Across the city, the McLaren hospitality suite buzzed with post-race chatter. Lando sat in the lounge, tapping his water bottle against his knee. He should’ve been celebrating, P6 wasn’t a podium, but it was solid. Instead, all he could think about was her.
(Y/n). Her name had slipped into his mind like a broken lyric he couldn’t unhear.
She looked different. Calmer. Paler. But there was something else, something tight around her eyes, something guarded. He hadn't had the chance to ask her anything. Hadn’t dared to call her name aloud in front of the cameras.
Oscar dropped into the chair beside him, sipping on a Coke. “You okay? You’ve been zoning out since the cooldown room.”
Lando didn’t answer immediately. “Do you remember that woman by the truck earlier?”
Oscar blinked. “The one in the blazer and jeans? Yeah. Designer for the collab, right?”
“She’s not just a designer.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Old flame?”
Lando stared at the table. “Something like that.”
Before Oscar could press further, Lando stood. “I need air.”
The sun had dipped lower when Lando stepped out onto the upper deck, where a few guests mingled with drinks and cigars. He ignored them all, instead pulling out his phone.
For the first time in weeks, he opened the Notes app. Scrolled past sponsor reminders, restaurant names, and Spotify playlists until he landed on an entry titled: That Night.
A list. A broken recollection of moments, "Black heels." "Accent, Eastern European? Maybe not." "Didn’t give name." "Left. Angry."
He stared at it.
Then deleted it.
Because now, she had a name. And maybe, he was starting to understand why she had run.
Back in her apartment, (Y/n) had just gotten into bed when her phone buzzed again.
A message request.
Unknown number.
She hesitated, then tapped it open.
Unknown: I don’t know what’s going on, but I think we need to talk.
She sat up slowly, heart thudding.
Unknown: Please. Just give me five minutes. No press. No noise.
She didn’t reply.
But her fingers hovered above the screen. She knew the moment she responded, things would change.
No more hiding.
She tapped a single line and hit send.
Y/n: I work at the boutique on Rue Fontaine. I'm there tomorrow morning. If you want to talk, come find me.
To be continued... 🧡
🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ 🧡
📝 Note from the Author: Okay this is the second post for today so I better hear a thank you, just kidding HAHAHAHA 😆 Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! Don’t forget to like, share, reblog, and/or comment. Thank you so much for reading, always 🧡 With love, me 🧡
