🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴀᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ 🧡
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
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇᴅ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ
ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴠɪʀɢɪɴɪᴛʏ ʟᴏꜱꜱ
The next morning, as the Riviera city stirred slowly awake beneath lemon-colored light, (Y/n) stood behind the boutique counter, pretending to rearrange a display of silk scarves. Her hands trembled, betraying her nerves.
Amara was there too, unpacking a new box of accessories, but kept sneaking glances toward the door.
Carla, humming softly to herself, was fixing a jewelry stand near the window when the bell above the door jingled.
And there he was.
Baseball cap low, sunglasses on, hoodie zipped halfway to the neck.
Lando Norris.
No entourage. No camera flashes. No press.
Just him.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her, really looked.
Carla froze. Her mouth dropped open slightly as recognition hit.
She glanced between (Y/n) and Lando, then mouthed to Amara across the room: Is that Lando freaking Norris?
Amara rolled her eyes playfully, nodded once, and signed to her to be quiet.
Then quietly, Lando said: “Can we go somewhere?”
(Y/n) glanced at Amara, who raised both brows but gave a single, slow nod of encouragement.
Without a word, (Y/n) stepped out from behind the counter.
“Let’s go,” she said.
The door jingled behind them.
Silence.
Then—
“What in the actual Monaco was that?” Carla hissed, rushing over to Amara. “Was that seriously Lando Norris or did I eat expired yogurt this morning?!”
Amara just grinned, folding tissue paper like nothing had happened. “Yep. That was him.”
Carla smacked her arm lightly. “And you’re just—what—chill about it?! Do you know how many people would scream if he walked into their shop?”
“I mean, I could scream,” Amara teased, “but I think (Y/n) would kill me.”
Carla narrowed her eyes. “Okay, but why was he here? Why did he look at her like she just slapped him with a love letter? And why did she just… leave?”
Amara gave her a pointed look, lips twitching. “You ask too many questions.”
“Oh my God,” Carla whispered dramatically, hand over her mouth. “Is this like… a thing?”
Amara only smiled again and turned back to the accessories box. “Not our story to tell, Carla.”
Carla gasped. “So it is a thing!”
“Shhh,” Amara warned, laughing now. “Let them figure it out.”
The walk from the boutique to Lando’s car was quiet.
He didn’t speak, just opened the passenger door of a discreet black SUV and waited for her to get in. She hesitated only briefly, just long enough to question if this was a mistake, then climbed in. The door shut with a quiet click, sealing them inside a space too silent and too small.
Lando slipped into the driver’s seat, pulling away from the curb like he’d done it a thousand times before, like this wasn’t the most surreal morning of either of their lives.
He drove up the winding hillside roads, far from the city’s hum, until the coast stretched wide and blue on one side, villas on the other. After ten minutes of tension-thick silence, he turned onto a small overlook tucked behind flowering hedges and parked.
Still, he didn’t speak.
(Y/n) unbuckled her seatbelt, but didn’t move. “You said five minutes.”
“I know,” he said, gripping the steering wheel. “I just… didn’t want anyone to see.”
“You’ve said that before.”
His head turned sharply at that. “Yeah. And you walked away before I could explain.”
“I didn’t need an explanation,” she replied, staring out the window. “I got the message when you offered me money.”
Lando winced.
“Look,” he said after a pause. “I was drunk. Not as drunk as I should’ve been to justify what I said, but drunk enough to think I was solving a problem instead of… making one.”
He wasn’t looking at her, and she wasn’t looking at him. The car was a capsule of half-swallowed truths.
“I remember more than I let on,” he continued. “Not everything. But enough. You were quiet. Sharp. You asked about the stars.”
(Y/n) turned to him slowly. Her voice barely above a whisper. “You said you didn’t even know my name.”
“I didn’t,” he admitted. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”
A beat of silence passed. Wind rustled the hedges outside.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she said, eyes fierce now. “This isn’t some trap. I didn’t track you down. You showed up.”
“I know.” He finally looked at her. “And I’m not here out of guilt. Or pity. I’m here because... I think something happened that night that matters. More than just a mistake.”
She scoffed lightly. “You think?”
He exhaled. “I’m trying, okay?”
“Trying what, exactly?”
“To understand. To be decent. To make this right.”
(Y/n) stared at him, lips parted like she was about to speak, but nothing came out. Her hands curled in her lap.
Finally, she asked, “And what would right even look like?”
Lando didn’t have an answer. Not one he trusted yet. But he looked at her then, not her sunglasses, not the tension in her jaw, but her. And he saw the weight she was carrying. The exhaustion. The fear.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly.
Tears threatened the edges of her vision. She blinked them away quickly.
“You say that now,” she murmured.
“I’ll keep saying it,” he said. “As long as you let me.”
They sat there, still as the air around them.
Then she said the words she’d been holding in for days:
“I’m pregnant, Lando.”
There was no dramatic music. No gasp. Just the words, dropped between them like a fragile, living thing.
Lando blinked. Once. Twice.
“How far?”
“About seven or eight weeks.”
His brows knit together.
“So... right around then.”
She nodded slowly.
He stared straight ahead. “And... there’s no chance it’s someone else’s?”
(Y/n)’s expression changed instantly. “Excuse me?”
“I just—” he ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “That Luca guy. He was there. At the paddock. He knew you. I’d be an idiot not to ask.”
Something inside her snapped.
“Oh my God,” she said, voice sharp. “You think I’m lying? You think I’m trying to trap you or pin this on someone?”
“I didn’t say that,” Lando replied, but it was too late.
She was already reaching for the door handle.
“I’ve had enough of this,” she muttered. “Enough of being looked at like I’m some—some whore who can’t even remember who got her pregnant.”
She flung the door open, halfway out already. “If you want proof, Lando, there was blood on the sheets that morning. That’s your proof.”
His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, not rough, not tight, just firm enough to make her stop. “Wait. Please.”
She froze.
Lando’s voice was quieter now, steadier.
“I’m sorry. That was... wrong of me. I just—this is a lot. And I’m scared too.”
(Y/n) didn’t say anything.
He let go of her wrist.
“I don’t want to fight you,” he said. “I don’t want you to walk away thinking I think the worst of you.”
She still didn’t move.
“So let’s fix this,” he continued. “Together. However this goes, whatever you decide… I want to be part of the conversation.”
(Y/n) hesitated, caught between exhaustion and the stubborn little hope he’d just reignited.
“Then stop accusing me,” she said. “Because I’ve been alone with this for weeks. And it’s already been hell.”
Lando nodded once, voice quiet. “Okay.”
She closed the door again.
And for the first time, silence didn’t feel like punishment.
It felt like the start of something real.
To be continued... 🧡
🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8: ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘɪᴛ ʟᴀɴᴇ 🧡
📝 Note from the Author: This is the third post for today (I know, I know 😭), again, I hope you like it! Don’t forget to like, reblog, comment, or anything your heart feels like doing 💭
With love, me 🧡