𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 | 𝐋𝐍𝟒

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈

18 August 2024 - Eindhoven

He wasn't even sure how long he'd been standing there.

The SUV behind him—rented and nothing flashy... He'd picked it up in Amsterdam, kept his head down, wore a plain hoodie and sunglasses. Kept things quiet. No attention. No headlines. Just him and this gravel road, this old wooden gate, and the quiet ache in his chest.

The sign still hung there, crooked, its paint worn and chipped by the wind: Vanboven.

It had been Johan's once. Now it was hers.

Lando shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and stared at the house at the end of the drive. The landscape around it looked like something out of a postcard—flat fields, soft trees, a swing that swayed lazily in the wind. Sunflowers leaned toward the light. Everything was still. Peaceful. Like it hadn't changed in decades.

It was August 18th.

A week before Zandvoort.

A week before Johan Vanboven's birthday.

Lando didn't know why that mattered so much right now—except that maybe it did. Johan had been part of the reason he ever stepped into a kart as a kid. He'd believed in him before most people even knew his name. And now, standing in front of the place Johan built, Lando felt like a trespasser. Like he had no business being here. Like Johan might walk out and tell him to leave.

But Johan was gone.

And Milaine was here.

God, what was he doing here?

It had been weeks—just under three, but it felt like a lifetime. Summer break had burned by in a haze of noise, pressure, silence, and guilt. After Ibiza, things unraveled faster than he could piece them back together. He remembered only parts of that night clearly—fragments that clung to him like thorns.

Milaine in the bathroom. Her hand on the back of his neck. Her voice—steady, calm—even as he fell apart.

And then... the things he'd said afterward. In front of Max, Pietra, and Magui. Words he couldn't take back, even if he barely remembered saying them. But they remembered. Magui definitely did.

The next morning, she'd been dressed. Her bags were packed. She didn't yell. Didn't even cry—not then. She just said she was leaving.

He'd begged her to wait. Let him clear his head. Talk properly.

And she did.

They had breakfast downstairs at the hotel café, and he confessed everything. About Milaine. About what happened in Monaco after Roland Garros. About the kiss that ruined whatever chance he had at being the man Magui deserved.

He didn't see her hand coming until it cracked across his cheek.

It hurt.

Not as much as watching her walk away afterward, though.

And weirdly, even as guilt chewed at him, some part of him felt... lighter. Like he'd finally let go of something that had been weighing him down. Like he'd stopped pretending.

And now, here he was.

Viv had been nearly impossible to convince. But when he'd texted her—begged her, really begged her—and finally promised to get her the rare Birkin she'd been hunting for, she gave in. Sent him a pin.

«Just don't make a mess» she'd said.

And the coordinates brought him here. To this quiet farm. To her world.