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Lance was finally free from school. No more lectures and pretending to care about financial models he never planned to use anyways. He had left Rotman with a degree in business, way too much knowledge of finances than what must be healthy for a singular human and enough all-nighters to guarantee some permanent neural damage.
Finally he could do whatever he wanted. Long days lounging on a yacht in the Monaco harbor, private jets taking him from one destination to the next, nights in penthouses in Switzerland, just chilling with his friends, parties, travel and everything else missed out on during his grind at Rotman. Sweet, sweet freedom.
Except... there was his dad. Lawrence Stroll. Billionaire, Oxford grad, partner of some of the biggest brands out there and, on top of that, the owner of a Formula One team.
Now, for some reason, his dad had decided that Lance’s life wasn’t complete unless he inherited the entirety of the Stroll empire. Chloe was out of the equation—Dad didn’t believe a woman had what it took to protect the family’s legacy, but Chloe didn’t care. She was blissfully free of any obligations, amusedly teasing Lance whenever the topic came up.
Which left Lance with an unpleasant truth: instead of spending his newfound freedom like he’d imagined, he had to accompany his dad on a business trip to Spain. His dad had sponsorship meetings to attend at the team principal’s private estate and apparently these meetings could only happen in Spain.
But Lance chose to look at the bright side of things. A couple weeks in Spain didn’t sound too bad. He could almost feel the European sun turning him into a puddle of human goo on the beach. Maybe he could sneak in some cocktails and naps in between the meetings. He could deal with that.
After all, he knew what investors liked. Sit attentively, nod at the right moments and ask a few questions that subtly flexed his newfound knowledge. Easy.
Then, on the jet to Spain, a champagne flute pressed to Lance’s lips mid-sip, his dad casually dropped a vital piece of information.
“You’ll meet the team principal alone,” Lawrence said, as if announcing the weather. “Throwing you directly into the cold water will teach you best, son.”
Right. So much for this being easy.
Suddenly, all the freedom he’d imagined on a Spanish beach evaporated, replaced by a sinking pit of dread in his stomach. He had spent his entire life watching his dad steer the world like it was a chessboard—and now he was expected to step in and play flawlessly, all while dreaming of doing literally anything else.
Immediately after they touched down, Lance hurried after his father who moved with the same stride he used everywhere, whether it be a boardroom or a breakfast buffet. Lawrence Stroll walked like he knew he’d buy the ground beneath his feet later. Lance however, was still struggling with jet lag and the whiplash of his dad’s decision.
What worsened things was the sight of the assistant trailing behind Lance's dad, struggling under the weight of two massive Rimowa cases. His dad justified the help by announcing, with the same tone one might use to explain a law of nature, that his back “simply wasn’t what it was when he was younger.”
Lance, allegedly still “full of vigor”—his father’s words, definitely not his—was considered perfectly capable of dragging around his own luggage.
Once they reached the secluded parking area, Lance was still catching his breath while his dad was already halfway through outlining the plans for the coming days. He spoke with his usual drone when a glance at his Calatrava wristwatch cut his monologue short.
“But I will spare you with that,” he declared, as if Lance had been listening. “The car that will transport you to the estate should arrive shortly. After a talk with the sponsor in Pedralbes I will meet you there as soon as possible.” He paused, then smiled. A rare, real one.
“Just wait here to get picked up and—well. I am sure you will make your old man proud.”
After a brief hug that punched the air out of Lance's lungs, his father departed in a sleek limousine. Lance plopped down onto his suitcase, exhaling long and dramatic. Only then did he allow himself a bit of wallowing. The idea of one-on-one conversation with some old fart, being expected to impress, made him want to dissolve into the tarmac.
However, when the promised car pulled up, wallowing became a little harder.
With a nice growl, an Aston Martin—a DB12, to be exact—rolled to a stop in front of him. It was painted a deep, tasteful green. Lance's brow rose. Interesting.
With its adaptive shock absorption and smooth suspension the super-tourer was perfect for the long drive across the countryside. Of course a Formula One team principal should know this, but Lance was impressed nonetheless. Squeezing his luggage in the trunk, a look down on the x-pipe exhaust confirmed Lance’s assumption that someone had tuned this thing with intention. Whoever the team principal was, he had taste. And that was…promising.
On the drive, Lance slouched into the leather seat, letting his mind cycle between panic, curiosity, and the faint thrill of having something to talk about besides EBITDA margins. If all else failed, he could always bring up the tuning, because based on the sound during the downshift, the x-pipe wasn’t the only performance upgrade. After all, awkward silence was the mortal enemy of business partnerships, and also his mortal enemy personally.
When the DB12 finally came to a stop, Lance stepped out and stretched, his spine cracking loudly enough to make the driver glance at him. He thanked the man and let his eyes wander.
The driveway was almost a work of art. A corridor of lush Mediterranean greenery framed the path toward the house. Towering cypresses, orange trees dotted with fruit, and pots overflowing with bougainvillea in bright shades. The air smelled humid and floral.
A man in a crisp white shirt who had opened Lance's car door earlier—house staff, judging by the quiet professionalism—began unloading his luggage. His speech was accented, but straight to the point.
“Mister Stroll? Your belongings will be brought to a guest room. Señor Alonso is expecting you in the courtyard, whenever you’re ready. If you would like to freshen up first, please follow me.”
Lance did so, grateful for the polite silence. The house interior was cool, airy, curated with the kind of taste people either were born with or paid architects obscene amounts of money for. Shades of cream and deep wood, clean lines, soft light.
The guest room was big without feeling empty, with glass-tile windows that framed a view of a vast garden, a mirror-flat pool, and a low building in the corner that looked suspiciously like a garage built for a reasonably sized car collection. Lance’s chest warmed. This place screamed driver.
After a quick revitalizing shower, he found his luggage already arranged neatly. He got dressed in something casual and headed out to find the courtyard. Which was not hard at all, because he just followed the fresh smell of Mediterranean blossoms.
He slipped through a glass door embedded into a wall of stained glass that cast soft colored shapes over the floor. The courtyard was a natural extension of the garden outside. Climbing vines clung to sun-washed stone and the many terracotta pots were home to herbs, their scents carried by the warm air. In the middle, a tiled fountain with a pink tamarisk tree as a centerpiece filled the space with the gentle sound of whispering water.
The scrape of a chair cut through the soft trickle of the fountain, snapping Lance out of his observations. His head whipped toward a shaded seating area tucked beneath a cluster of old trees with gnarled trunks and sun-bleached bark.
A man rose from one of the wrought-iron chairs.
Older, yes. Shorter than Lance, definitely. But built in an unfair way, broad chest beneath a loose linen shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms tanned by years in the southern sun, dusted with faint scars. A silver watch caught the light on his wrist, simple but undoubtedly expensive.
His smile was effortlessly self-assured.
“Fernando Alonso,” he said as Lance approached him, accent warm and rolling. “Team Principal of Aston Martin Aramco Formula One Team. It’s good to meet you, Lance.”
He extended a hand. Lance took it.
“Good to meet you as well, Mister Alonso.”
The handshake was firm. A calloused palm, rough where the fingers curled, a little too weathered to belong to someone who spent all his life in offices. Lance absolutely felt the once-over Fernando gave him: brief and somehow intimate? Heat crawled up his neck before he could stop it.
Fernando nodded toward the chairs. “Sit. Please.”
He pulled out the one beside him. Practiced, a gentleman’s gesture, before settling in his own.
Lance sat, determined to get a grip on himself. “I do have a question, if you don’t mind, sir?”
A low chuckle escaped Fernando, soft but amused. The corners of his eyes crinkled warmly, crow’s feet deepening with a smile that somehow felt like it saw through him. “Sir? Qué educado… Lawrence raised you well. But go on.”
Lance cursed the way the praise sent a little spark down his spine. He cleared his throat.
“I noticed some aftermarket additions on the Aston that picked me up.”
Fernando’s head tilted slightly. A movement that made Lance notice the line of his throat, the tan skin, the way three—no, four— buttons were undone, exposing the suggestion of a strong chest.
“I’m impressed,” Fernando said, with genuine appreciation. “Most people would not notice that. But yes. I installed a catless downpipe. Gentler on the turbos.”
“You tuned her yourself?”
God help him—the image of Fernando in coveralls, hair damp with sweat, grease smudged across his forearms, immediately exploded in Lance’s brain.
Fernando didn’t even blink. “Of course. I’m good with my hands.” He shrugged a single shoulder, almost lazy. “And I would never let anyone else touch my cars.”
Good with his hands… a whole different set of images hit Lance then—none of them appropriate. He swallowed.
“You… probably have a favorite, right?”
“My Bugatti Divo. W16 engine, great downforce, chassis stiff enough to feel the road.” He paused, eyeing Lance with something teasing.
“One of forty. Very rare.”
Lance raised a brow. “A French car? Not what I expected from an Aston Martin man.”
Another laugh, softer this time. “I have history with the French machines. Good memories. Beautiful roads… beautiful company.” His eyes gleamed. “When I take her out, it reminds me of good times.”
Mysterious. Lance hated how much he liked that. Totally unfair.
Fernando’s gaze drifted over Lance’s features, unhurried. “But you, hm?” he said quietly. “You’re a little French yourself. Canadian.” His eyes warmed. “I know how to handle French beauty.”
What the actual hell.
Lance tugged at the collar of his shirt, suddenly too hot in it. “Yeah?”
Fernando rose from his chair with a measured grace. “I could show you sometime, peligroso.”
Lance’s breath caught. Fernando stepped closer, close enough that Lance could smell the faint notes of aftershave and something sharp, metallic, like a cooling engine.
Two fingers pressed lightly just under Lance’s chin, tilting it up. Barely a touch, but commanding all the same.
“Look at me,” Fernando murmured. “Eye contact is polite.”
Lance lifted his eyes, meeting the dark, steady gaze. And because he was not losing this game, he pouted just slightly. He knew exactly what he looked like. Wide-eyed, maybe a little pliant, but innocent above all. A wet dream for men like Fernando.
“I don’t know if you can really handle me, sir.”
Fernando’s smile sharpened, pleased and predatory, but Lance knew he wasn’t as unaffected as he’d like to seem. The fingers under Lance’s chin shifted, grip tightening just enough to make Lance’s pulse spike.
“Dangerous,” Fernando whispered. “But we’ll see.”
Then his touch vanished. He stepped back, leaving Lance abruptly cold in the shade.
“I would enjoy your company at dinner, peligroso.”
When he left the courtyard, Lance noticed a subtle gait in his walk. But still, he moved like someone who knew exactly how much space he occupied, more aware of his own body than most people ever will be.
Lance watched him through the stained-glass reflections until he disappeared around the corner. Only then did he drag his gaze away, landing straight on a stone statue of a samurai, as if the universe wanted to remind him: This man has history.
Lance was intrigued.