✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1: ᴛᴇʀᴍꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʀʀᴀɴɢᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ✈️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ + ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪᴍʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ
The rain had stopped just as the city lights flickered on, casting golden reflections on the cobblestone streets of Monaco. (Y/n) shifted in her seat at the back of the tram, the buzzing glow of her phone illuminating her face in the dusk. Her bank app blinked back at her with a ruthless certainty: balance, 142.76 EUR. It wasn’t even enough to cover next week’s groceries, let alone another flight simulation module.
She tucked her phone into her coat, staring out the window as the tram wound its way along the polished boulevards of a city she could barely afford to breathe in. It was beautiful here, no doubt. High-end boutiques, yachts anchored like glistening whales in the harbor, sleek cars humming down the roads like they belonged on magazine covers. But it wasn’t made for people like her.
When she arrived back at her cramped student apartment—four floors up with no elevator—her flatmate, Camille, was lounging on the sofa with her laptop propped on her knees.
"You look like hell," Camille said, tossing her a protein bar. "Eat. You haven't all day."
(Y/n) caught it with a tired smile. "Still working off the lunch I couldn’t afford."
Camille frowned. "You’re going to break down at this rate. You need help."
(Y/n) peeled back the wrapper and chewed in silence. Her dreams of being a pilot weren’t unrealistic. She had the grades. The drive. Even a small scholarship. But aviation courses weren’t kind to bank accounts. Between fuel costs, simulator hours, exams, uniform fees, and the ever-growing list of certifications, she was barely staying afloat with her part-time job at a cafe.
Camille hesitated. Then: "Have you ever thought about...sugar dating?"
(Y/n) choked on a bite. "What? No. Gosh, no."
"Okay, relax. I don’t mean selling yourself. I mean, companionship. A few dinners. Maybe some gifts. It doesn’t have to be seedy. I know someone who does it. She got her entire semester paid. Designer laptop and everything."
(Y/n) raised an eyebrow. "And what, she just had to sit across from an old man and smile?"
"Not old. Not always. Look, just...download this app. Browse. If it creeps you out, delete it. No strings."
(Y/n) didn't answer. That night, she lay awake in her bed, the hum of the fridge filling the silence, fingers hovering over the app store on her phone. She thought about her father’s proud face when she got accepted into the program. Her mother crying over how they couldn't help more. The dream she'd carried since she was seven years old.
The profile creation was easy. Surprisingly tasteful, even. She left out her full name, didn’t upload anything scandalous. Just a casual photo from the park—sunlight in her hair, smile soft. Her bio was short: Aviation student. Ambitious. Looking for meaningful arrangements.
The messages started rolling in an hour later. Most were instant no's. One man wanted to fly her to Dubai that weekend. Another sent a photo of his watch collection with the caption, All this could be yours.
She almost deleted the app until she saw his profile.
LN_04 Age: 25 Location: Monaco Bio: I value discretion, intelligence, and good conversation. Let’s keep it simple.
No flashy cars. No shirtless photos. Just one clear picture: dark hoodie, sunglasses, seated at a cafe. Jawline sharp, posture relaxed. Something about him felt...real.
She hesitated. Then she messaged him.
Hi. I'm (Y/n). Your profile stood out. I hope that doesn't sound weird.
He replied in five minutes.
Not weird at all. Hello, (Y/n). Care to join me for coffee sometime this week? Somewhere not public, of course.
She picked a neutral outfit—jeans, a fitted sweater, her worn sneakers cleaned as best she could. The cafe he chose was tucked between two designer stores near the marina. Elegant, but not showy.
He was already there when she arrived, sitting at a corner table, one hand loosely curled around a ceramic cup. His sunglasses rested on the table, and now that she saw him up close, she was surprised at how young he looked. Definitely not a fifty-year-old oil baron.
"(Y/n)?" he asked, standing.
He extended a hand. "You can call me Lando."
Lando. That was all. She didn't recognize it. Why would she?
"So," he said, glancing at the menu, "are you a coffee or tea person?"
She smiled. "Depends on the weather."
He grinned. "You passed the first test."
They talked easily. Surprisingly so. About school, her dreams of flying, his vague mentions of travel and business. He didn’t push her to explain why she was on the app. Didn’t mention money right away. He listened. He asked questions. He laughed at her dry jokes and didn’t mind when she rambled about Bernoulli's principle.
After an hour, he leaned back. "I like you, (Y/n). You’re sharp. You know what you want."
She swallowed. "Is this where we talk about… terms?"
He nodded. "If you’re comfortable."
She took a breath. "I won’t lie. I’m here because I can’t afford my program. Not unless I give up eating or sleeping. I don’t want to sell myself. But I’m not against companionship. I don’t expect someone to just hand me money. But help, in exchange for time, company, honesty? I can do that."
Lando studied her carefully. Then reached into his coat pocket and slid a slim envelope across the table.
"Inside is a prepaid card. Monthly allowance of 4,000 euros. You can use it as you like. Travel, food, tuition. The terms are simple. We meet once or twice a week. Dinners, occasional weekends. No obligations beyond that. You can walk away anytime. No questions."
Her fingers hovered over the envelope. "And if I say no?"
"Then I pay for your coffee, wish you the best, and you walk out with your pride."
She stared at him. This man—Lando, with his calm voice and unshakable confidence—was unlike anyone she’d ever met.
And she was so damn tired of struggling.
She picked up the envelope.
"Okay," she said softly. "Let’s try this."
That night, back in her apartment, (Y/n) sat on her bed and stared at the card. It was real. Activated. She bought groceries for the week. Paid off the remainder of her simulator fees. Ordered a new headset for her flying class. Not once did he message her to ask how she was spending it.
Her next meeting with Lando was two days later.
He met her outside a gallery opening, dressed casually in all black, and whisked her into a room of modern paintings and quiet music. She felt out of place at first, but he never left her side. Introduced her as a "student with a brilliant mind," never as a companion or date.
"You don’t act like other men on that app," she murmured as they walked along the promenade after.
"That’s because I’m not really like other men on that app."
"Then why are you there?"
He paused. "Because sometimes... even people with everything get lonely."
That weekend, he sent her a photo of a book on aircraft mechanics with a simple note:
Thought of you. Page 73 is brilliant.
She didn’t know what this was becoming. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t dating. But it was something steady. Something kind.
And still, she hadn’t Googled him. Not once. Not until the day her classmate showed her a video of the Monaco Grand Prix.
And there, stepping out of a papaya-orange car, grinning at the cameras, was Lando.
✈️ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ ʀɪꜱᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ, ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀᴘᴀʏᴀ ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇ✈️
📝 Note from the Author:
This is Chapter One of Flight Risk ✈️
I hope you all enjoy this opening chapter and the start of this story.
Feel free to like, reblog, comment, or do whatever you feel like HAHAHAHA. And if you don’t, that’s completely okay too. Thank you so much for reading and for being here🧡🧡🧡
