𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 | 𝐋𝐍𝟒

𝐗𝐋𝐗𝐕𝐈

A/N: ‼️PLEASE COMMENT YOUR THOUGHTS ‼️

••••••

São Paulo Grand Prix 2024

After the dinner with Carlos's family in Mexico, something in Lando's chest had quieted.

It wasn't peace, not really. But it was a little warmth.

Rebecca's words still lingered in his mind — That night, when the table lights dimmed and laughter dissolved into soft chatter, he caught himself thinking that maybe, maybe things could still be fixed.

And that hope was what he clung to when the F1 circus moved to Brazil.

Because all he wanted was to get through the weekend. Get home, and talk to her. Properly. Face to face.

Not through a phone, not through a stupid text. He wanted to see her eyes again — the way they narrowed when she got annoyed, the way they softened when she forgot to be angry.

He wanted to tell her that he couldn't do this — the space, the silence, the pretending — that he missed her so much it physically hurt.

He wanted to tell her he was sorry.
And he wanted to touch her. God, more than anything, he wanted to touch her.

But first, Brazil. And Saturday gave him hope.

Pole position.

He'd done it — against all the noise, against the pressure, against the whispers that he was cracking. Max was starting P17, and for the first time in weeks, Lando felt that familiar adrenaline rush that came with possibility.

Maybe, just maybe, this was the race that could turn everything around.

He didn't allow himself to say it aloud, but the thought was there, burning bright: I can win this. I can close the gap. I can still fight.

He smiled more that night. Even joked with Oscar and his engineers.

Sunday destroyed that version.

It started bad as he lost the lead to Russel, but he kept going.. It wasn't too bad— but F1 never lets you breathe for long.

Within laps, the track turned on him.

And somewhere between the rain, the pit stops and his own mistakes, Max was already slicing through the grid like a blade.

When he crossed the line — not first, not even close — it wasn't just disappointment.

It was humiliation.

Because Max had gone from P17 to the win.

And the headlines wrote themselves.
Verstappen unstoppable. Norris fades under pressure. McLaren star admits luck played the difference.

He hadn't meant to say that in the interviews — that it was just luck, not talent. But he was tired, and angry, and too raw to filter himself.

That night, He went back to the hotel and packed his things, ignored the texts from his team, and booked the first flight out.

São Paulo to Nice — twelve hours of sky and static and no sleep.

He didn't close his eyes once.
He just stared at the seat in front of him, watching time blur.

His mind was a storm — replaying the race, the mistakes, the headlines,

By the time the plane landed in Nice, he looked like he'd been through a war.
He didn't go home. Didn't even tell anyone he was back.