Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

22

5 years later

"Come on, Livy," I say, scooping up my daughter and pressing one last kiss to her soft cheek.

Oliver—my beautiful, perfect husband—leans in to kiss her forehead before heading to the door to grab his coat. I cling to her for just a second longer, then reluctantly hand her over to the babysitter. Oliver stands at the door, smiling gently, holding out my coat like the absolute gentleman he is.

He slides his hand to the small of my back and gently guides me out the door.

"We'll be back tomorrow. I love you, Lyvia!" I yell behind us as we walk toward the sleek McLaren that Oliver is soproud of. I slide into the passenger seat, and the minute the door shuts, my knee starts bouncing like I'm on stage about to bomb a performance.

I haven't been to a racetrack since I quit F1 five years ago.
And I haven't seen Lando Norris in just as long.

I'm dreading this.

The last time I saw him, we poured our entire souls out on a kitchen table—and left, like a final page in a book. I didn't mean for it to end that way, but it had to. We would never work. We couldn't.

Sure, I've kept up with his life. The occasional scroll through Instagram, the headlines, the race results. He's been fully focused on racing. No public love interests. No scandals. Just... Lando.

Me, though?

I moved on. I had to. I met Oliver four years ago on a trip to America. Fell in love. Got married last year. Had my beautiful Lyvia last May—her first birthday is next week.

It's a new life. A better life. A safe life.

"You okay, hun?" Oliver asks, snapping me out of my spiral.

I smile at him and nod. "Just nervous, you know."

"I know, Liz." He squeezes my hand. "But I'm right here. And all your friends are gonna be there. You're worrying for nothing."

I look down at my lap.

But I know I'm not.

The media's been hyping up this Miami appearance like it's some royal comeback, like I'm F1 royalty returning from the dead. And sure, I was supposed to be something. But I never even made a full season. I was a walking headline and a crash-out.

I wasn't a legend.

I was a failure. And pretending otherwise feels... wrong.

We pull into the track at around 11, with the race starting at 2. We slip in through the back entrance to Ferrari hospitality, and I make a beeline for one driver's room in particular.

I knock twice.

The door swings open, and I'm immediately wrapped in arms so tight they almost knock me over.

"Jones, Jones, Jones," Charles murmurs into my ear, and I giggle.

We pull back, and I let a real, real smile take over my face.

"Oh, Leclerc, how I've missed you."

Charles laughs, throwing his head back—an image that hits me right in the heart. God, I've missed this. We lost touch after I left the sport, but about a year ago I posted Lyvia on my private Instagram, and Charles DM'd me. We've been doing double dinners with his girlfriend and Oliver ever since. We're like a weird little extended family now.

"No Lyvia?" a voice pouts behind me—and then Alex pops her head around the corner.

"Alex!" I squeal, running over and pulling her into a hug.

"You just gave her a bigger hug than me," Charles huffs behind us.

"She loves me more, obviously," Alex grins, and I laugh.

The three of us catch up like no time has passed. We're mid-convo when Charles gets the call for the driver's parade, and Alex and I head upstairs to the bar.

I spot Oliver chatting with a Ferrari mechanic, his eyes wide with interest. He's obsessed with how the cars work—yet still doesn't have the faintest clue. It's kind of adorable.

I slide onto the stool next to him and kiss his cheek. His whole face lights up just seeing me.

Alex flops into the seat across. "Tell me your secret to being the most perfect couple ever," she says with a dramatic sigh.

Oliver glances at me, smirking. "My wife is just the most perfect being ever. I'm more like... her number one fan."

I laugh, burying my face into his shoulder.

Alex snorts, shaking her head. We all fall into an easy conversation about Lyvia, while Oliver continues asking questions that totally expose how little he knows about racing. But he's trying, and it's sweet.

Then the race starts.

And I'm back. Not in the car. Not in the suit. Just... in the atmosphere. Among the buzz, the noise, the smell of rubber and adrenaline. It's bittersweet. There's relief, yes—because I'm not being dissected on track. But the regret is there too. The longing. The ache for the little family I once had in this world. Now I'm just a visitor.

The lights go out. They're off.

And I only watch one car.

Bright orange. Number 4.

He speeds by—sleek, fast, in his element. Lando Norris. Better than ever.

Time collapses in on itself. My stomach flips every time his car sweeps past. I remind myself of the ring on my finger. The man beside me. The daughter waiting at home.
I made my choice.

And yet.

When he crosses the finish line first, I feel it—that old familiar ache in my chest. The part of me that remembers him like a muscle memory.

Charles finishes second. We all make our way to the podium, Alex tugging me to the very front. I want to hide in the back, to blend into the crowd. But here I am—front and center.

Max steps out first. Then Charles, grinning. And then—

Lando.

Winning looks good on him. His hair is tousled. Sweat clings to his jaw. His smile is wide and bright, like it could power the sun.

I feel Oliver's arms wrap around my waist, grounding me. I hold onto them like a lifeline, steadying my nerves.

The national anthem plays.

The champagne sprays.

The trophy is handed over.

And then—

His eyes scan the crowd.
Searching.
Hunting.

Until they land on me.

And for a second, just a second, the whole world stops.