Chapter Text
**1.**
Lando Norris's Instagram follower count had been stuck at 987,342 for three full weeks.
That wasn't a good number. 987,342 was only 12,658 away from a million, but those twelve thousand people had apparently all decided, collectively, that none of them was going to hit the follow button.
He stared at the number like it was a fly that refused to die. Refresh. 987,342. Refresh again. Still 987,342. He tossed his phone to the other end of the sofa, screen-down, and pinned it under a Gucci cushion like that would make the number disappear.
Three weeks. Zero growth. His last brand deal was three months ago—an energy drink—and the money still hadn't cleared. Their marketing department had cycled through three rounds of layoffs since then, and Lando was starting to suspect that money would end up like all broken promises: lost somewhere in a company spreadsheet he'd never see.
His bank balance was like sand in an hourglass. Every time he looked, there was less. Rent was due next month. His credit card bill had been sitting there for seventeen days. He'd even started thinking about selling that Porsche he couldn't actually afford—not that it mattered, since the car was just a rental he used for photos anyway.
It was 1:17 AM in East London. Lando was sprawled on a cream velvet sofa—fake Gucci robe (real one cost too much, but this fake was good, you couldn't tell unless you got up close), real sofa (bought it last year with his entire brand deal paycheck, don't ask). The sunset lamp he'd spent way too much money on was on, painting the whole room orange-red like a Mediterranean sunset.
Except it was November in London, and rain was hitting the windows in that slow, dull way that makes you feel like nothing exciting will ever happen again.
Lando held his phone above his face, the screen light washing over him. Twenty-three years old. Messy dark brown curls falling over his forehead. Blue-green eyes that looked extra bright in phone-screen lighting. A sprinkle of freckles across his nose. Chapped lips. Good jawline—he'd known he was good-looking since forever. That wasn't vanity, it was just facts.
He'd practiced in front of the mirror enough times to know exactly which angle made him look hottest, how to smile like he was innocent, how to blink like he didn't know what flirting was. That face was his biggest asset. Worth more than any brand deal.
He was scrolling through Carlos Sainz's Instagram.
Carlos had posted four hours ago from some restaurant in Madrid. Navy blue polo, big smile showing teeth, sitting next to a dark-haired girl who was the kind of pretty that didn't need filters. Caption was a wine glass emoji and a Spanish flag. No tag. But everyone knew who she was—Sofia, Spanish model, 3.2 million followers. More than triple Lando's count.
Comments were already blowing up. Top one: "New gf???" Second: "Carlos finally found someone worthy of him." Third: "Sofia and Carlos ❤️❤️❤️"
No one mentioned Lando. No one remembered that a year ago, Carlos and Lando had also been photographed together. Had also been rumored. Had also trended.
Lando stared at the photo for maybe ten seconds. Then he unfollowed Carlos. Then he thought that was too obvious, so he followed him again. Then he unfollowed again. Then he followed again.
Finally he put the phone down on his chest and said to the ceiling: "Lando Norris, you're twenty-three years old. Can you do literally one mature thing in your life?"
The ceiling didn't answer.
He picked up his phone, opened his banking app. Balance: £4,237. London rent due next month: £2,200.
That meant after rent, he'd have about two grand to get through December. Food, transport, phone bill, gym membership, plus the stylist he had to pay every month—because if he didn't keep up appearances, brands wouldn't work with him, and if brands didn't work with him, he'd have even less money.
There was one brand deal in negotiation. An energy drink. £8,000 quote. They'd been ghosting for three weeks. Rachel said "they're waiting on your numbers." Which meant: your follower count isn't growing, so they don't wanna pay.
Lando closed the banking app, opened Instagram, looked at 987,342 again. Then he did what he did every night—scrolled through his follower list, looking for a verified account that had followed him.
No. No. No.
One verified account—a comedian, two million followers—but Lando clicked through and realized the guy had just liked a post, not followed. He sighed and threw his phone to the other end of the sofa.
It landed on a cushion with a soft thud.
The apartment was quiet. One bedroom, open kitchen, living room with floor-to-ceiling windows facing a narrow street. When Lando moved in, this was the nicest place he'd ever lived. Three years ago he'd been in a ZONE 2 shared flat with five other influencers, fighting for mirror time in the bathroom every morning.
Now he had his own bathroom. Even a bathtub, though he'd never used it because filling it took forever and water was expensive. But he liked *knowing* he had a bathtub. That was enough.
Rain got heavier. Lando sat up, bare feet on cold floor, walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Takeout boxes on the counter—he was trying to eat clean, which meant ordering a salad and eating half of it before throwing the rest away.
Next to the salad box was an unopened pack of Aldi biscuits. Chocolate Digestives. Red packaging. Lando looked at it but didn't pick it up.
He never ate those biscuits.
But he bought a pack every time he went to the supermarket.
He didn't know if that counted as a problem.
His phone rang. Rachel.
Lando picked up. Before he could say anything, Rachel's voice exploded out of the speaker: "You're awake?"
"Obviously."
"You're scrolling through Carlos's Instagram again."
"...No."
"You're lying."
"I'm lying."
Rachel sighed. She was his manager, and also one of the few people he'd call a friend—except "friend" wasn't quite right, because Rachel took 15%. She booked his brand deals, negotiated rates, handled PR disasters, and took her cut.
But other than the 15%, she was also the only person who'd call at 1 AM to ask "you awake?"
"Lando," Rachel said, "I've told you a hundred times. Carlos is done. He was never serious, and you knew that from the start."
"I know."
"You know, but you still scroll his Instagram?"
"I don't scroll."
"You unfollow and refollow him. I can see it on my end."
Lando went quiet.
Rachel could see his follow/unfollow history because she was one of his "managers" on the account. Her rule, after the time Lando got drunk and posted a half-naked selfie with the caption "night night 🌙" and Rachel spent twenty minutes yelling at him.
"Just looking," Lando said. "Curious."
"Curious about what? Whether his new girlfriend is better than you?"
Lando didn't answer.
"She's not," Rachel said. "She's just better *for him*. It's not about you being good or bad. It's about fit. Carlos needs someone who won't outshine him. You're too loud, Lando. You shine so bright he can't hide you even if he wants to."
Lando laughed—actually laughed this time. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"That's me doing free therapy, which I normally charge £200 an hour for."
"Take it out of my cut."
"Already did."
Lando carried his water back to the sofa and sat cross-legged. The sunset lamp was still on, wrapping him in orange-red light like a layer of thin syrup.
He looked at the white wall across from him. There was a black-and-white photo of himself on it—side profile, looking off into the distance, very artsy. Cost him £300. The photographer said "this'll get you high-end brands." So far, the only brands coming were energy drinks and fast fashion.
"There's a Loewe party Saturday night in Soho. I got you an invite. Sports and fashion crowd. Go network, and don't just stand there drinking free champagne." Rachel's voice crackled through the phone.
"I don't *just* drink the champagne. I also eat the canapés." Lando rolled his eyes even though she couldn't see him.
"Rachel," he said.
"Yeah."
"The Loewe thing. Do I really have to go?"
"You really have to go."
"I don't know anyone there."
"That's why you go. To meet people."
"I'll go and still not know anyone. I won't know them, they won't know me. I'll just stand there like a—"
"Like a what?"
Lando wanted to say *like a luxury item nobody's buying*. But he didn't. Instead he said: "Like a nobody."
Rachel was quiet for a moment. Then: "Lando Norris, you're not a nobody. You've got almost a million people following you on Instagram. You've been in The Sun. The Daily Mail has photographed you at least twenty times. You've had rumors with a Ferrari driver. You're not a nobody. You just don't have a *new story* right now."
"A new story."
"Yeah. You need something new. Something that makes people interested in you again."
Lando put his water glass on the coffee table. The glass bottom clicked against marble. He looked at the water, which was reflecting the orange-red light from the lamp like a glass of something on fire.
"Who's gonna be at this sports crowd party?" he said.
"Let me check the list," Rachel said. Keyboard clacking. "Some Premier League guys. Tennis. Couple of F1 drivers. McLaren's new guy—Oscar Piastri. Did well last year, probably gonna be even better this season. Australian. Single. Apparently very nice."
"How nice?"
"Nice to the point of boring."
"Boring's perfect. Boring people are the easiest to fool."
"I'm not telling you to fool anyone."
"You're telling me to network. What's the difference between networking and fooling someone?"
Rachel said: "Networking, you still answer their calls after. Fooling someone, you don't."
Lando laughed. He put the phone on his chest and stared at the ridiculously over-the-top crystal chandelier on the ceiling—also fake, four of the bulbs had burned out, he'd been too lazy to replace them.
Rachel was right. He needed to make some noise.
Not because he liked fame. Because he needed money.
Those two things had always been the same thing in his life.
---
**2.**
Lando Norris wasn't born like this.
That's what he told himself more than anything else.
Every time he checked his angles in the mirror, every time he calculated the best time to post for maximum likes, every time he accidentally-on-purpose let paparazzi catch him standing next to someone famous—he'd say to himself: *I wasn't born like this. I was made this way.*
He didn't know if that was true. Maybe everyone who'd turned their life into a transaction thought that. Maybe it was the oldest human defense mechanism—blame who you are now on something that happened before, someone, some moment, and say "see? not my fault."
He got up from the sofa, bare feet on cold wood floor, walked toward the kitchen. On his way, he passed the dining table and his eyes landed on the biscuit pack in the corner.
Aldi biscuits. The cheapest kind. Bright red packaging with a picture of a chocolate cookie that looked like plastic.
He bought a pack every time he went to the supermarket. Then didn't eat it. Just left it there until it expired, threw it away, and bought a new one.
The first time Rachel saw it, she asked: "You don't even eat them. Why do you buy them?"
"Decoration," he said.
Rachel didn't ask again. Rachel was smart enough to know that some questions make things awkward.
Lando knew why.
He was ten years old, living in Bristol. Not a nice area. Just him and his mum. Dad left when he was five. Didn't even leave a photo.
Sometimes Lando tried to imagine what his dad looked like. Then he stopped, because he realized he didn't need a made-up face to fill the "father" shaped hole.
One afternoon, in Aldi. He didn't remember why they were there—maybe for milk, maybe his mum was too tired after work to go alone. He just remembered standing in front of the cookie aisle, seeing a new pack of chocolate Digestives with "Limited Edition" on the packaging, and thinking his mum would like them.
He picked up the biscuits and walked to the checkout. His mum was there, digging through her wallet.
"How much?" she said.
"Two fifty," he said.
Her hand stopped moving in her wallet. Just for a second. Then she took the biscuits from Lando's hands, looked at them, and put them back on the shelf next to the register.
"Too expensive," she said. "Next time."
Lando said: "I don't want them anyway."
He remembered his voice being flat. No crying, no tantrum. Like a kid who'd had a lot of practice.
His mum crouched down and hugged him. Her eyes were red, but she didn't cry. "Sorry, baby," she said.
"It's okay," Lando said.
That night, Lando lay in bed, listening to the TV in the next room. His mum was watching some reality show. Laugh track going off every few seconds.
Lando stared at the ceiling and made a promise. He didn't know then that he'd spend his whole life trying to keep that promise. Or that it would turn him into someone he barely recognized.
He promised: *Never say sorry again. Never say "I don't want it" just because you can't afford it.*
After that, his life had only one rule: if you want something, you better be able to buy it yourself. Don't wait for someone to give it to you. Don't pretend you don't want it just because you can't have it.
If you want to buy things, make money. If you want to make a lot of money, get people to know you. If you want people to know you, become someone—someone who gets seen.
He never saw that pack of biscuits again. But every time he walked into any supermarket and saw that red Aldi packaging, he'd buy one. Take it home, put it on the table, not eat it, just look at it.
Like proof. *I can afford this now. Two fifty. I wouldn't even blink.*
He'd never eaten a single pack.
Because he didn't remember what they tasted like anymore.
From that day on, he stopped treating feelings like feelings. He treated them like transactions. You give companionship, looks, emotional labor. You get security, money, fame in return. That's not manipulation. It's just wrapping a transaction in something pretty. And who doesn't do that?
---
**3.**
The night before the Loewe party, Lando tried on four outfits.
First: all black. Saint Laurent leather jacket, skinny pants. Thirty seconds in front of the mirror, then a shake of the head. Too try-hard. Like he was screaming "LOOK AT ME."
Second: Gucci floral shirt, white pants. Too loud. Like a parrot going to a wedding.
Third: Celine cream sweater, jeans. Too soft. Not enough edge.
Fourth—he stopped.
Celine black leather jacket (borrowed, hadn't returned it), plain white t-shirt underneath with the collarbones deliberately showing, jeans, white Balenciaga dad shoes. A thin silver chain—some niche brand sent it for free in exchange for "wear it on camera."
He tilted his head at the mirror. Side view. Turned back. Smiled.
He knew he looked good.
Not vanity. Just fact. In that shitty Bristol neighborhood, he'd been the best-looking kid. Blue-green eyes like sea-glass, dark brown curls that never lay flat, a small dimple on the right side when he smiled.
He learned by age twelve that if he smiled, teachers wouldn't yell at him for being late, the neighbor lady would give him an extra slice of cake, the cashier at the supermarket would sneak expired candy into his bag.
Being hot was a key. It took him a while to learn how to use it.
Then he figured out it could open not just doors, but safes.
He practiced his smile three times in the mirror. Not a fake smile—a specific, calibrated one. Eyes slightly squinted, mouth curved up just enough to show the dimple, chin tucked slightly like he was shy. He called this one "innocent baby."
Then "innocent baby #2": eyes wider, lips slightly parted, like he was saying "who, me? i'm just a normal person."
He cycled through both, satisfied.
"I'm not tricking anyone," he told his reflection. "I'm providing a service—'making people feel liked' is a service. That's labor. It deserves compensation."
The blue-green eyes in the mirror blinked back at him like: *you believe that?*
He turned around and packed his bag.
---
**4.**
Saturday night. Soho.
Loewe had booked out an entire rooftop bar. London's lights spread out below, the Thames like a black ribbon, the London Eye spinning its circle of lights in the distance. The air smelled like champagne, expensive perfume, and weed. People dressed like peacocks drifted around in warm yellow lighting.
Lando showed up twenty minutes late—intentional. Being late made you look busy, plus more people would see him walk in.
Celine leather jacket (borrowed, Rachel got it for him, brand agreed in exchange for one Instagram post), white t-shirt (collarbones on display), Acne Studios jeans (bought on sale last year, £300 down from £600), Balenciaga sneakers (also borrowed).
He waited at the elevator downstairs for thirty seconds, let a group go ahead, then went up alone.
The rooftop lighting was strategic—warm fairy lights overhead, candles on tables, blue LED from the bar. Crowded. Music at the perfect volume—loud enough to feel, quiet enough that you had to lean in to talk.
Lando took a champagne flute from a passing waiter (not his order, but free is free) and stood by the bar, scanning the room like a searchlight.
He spotted a few Premier League players, a retired tennis guy, two reality TV stars. He assessed: tennis guy too old, reality stars too loud, Premier League—one of them looked decent but already had a model hanging off him. Hard pass.
Then he saw the guy in the corner.
Tall. Pale. Dark brown hair—darker than Lando's, almost black. Navy blue blazer that didn't fit quite right—shoulders a bit wide, sleeves a bit long, like he'd grabbed the first thing in his closet. Holding sparkling water, not champagne.
Lando's radar went off.
He watched for five minutes. That guy turned down three people who approached him: one influencer-type girl, one middle-aged "investor," one woman in a gold dress. Rejected them politely but firmly—"thanks, no thanks," then turned back to his phone.
"Socially awkward," Lando tagged him mentally. "Or too cool for everyone."
Then he saw the credential on the guy's chest. McLaren F1 Team.
Oscar Piastri.
Rachel's "nice to the point of boring" Australian.
Lando squinted and reassessed.
Tall—at least 5'11", maybe taller. Pale skin that looked almost too white in the lighting. Sharp jawline, high nose bridge, thin lips. Dark brown hair gelled into a simple style with a few strands falling over his forehead. Eyes—too far to see the color, but nice shape, slightly downturned outer corners that gave him an innocent look.
9 out of 10, Lando scored him. Minus one because "looks too nice. hard to crack."
But the harder the target, the bigger the prize.
He finished his champagne, put the glass on a passing tray, and started moving.
The route was calculated. From the bar, around the group of chattering influencers, through two couples making out, and then—"accidentally" brush past Oscar Piastri.
The script was perfect.
Approach. Create a harmless accident (spill champagne, bump shoulders, or pretend to mistake him for someone else). Apologize (cutely). Offer to make it up to him (replace the shirt, buy him a drink, exchange numbers). Then let the conversation flow naturally. If he's straight, he'll hint at it within three lines. If he's gay or bi, he'll assess your attractiveness within five. If he does nothing—then he's either an idiot or genuinely pure-hearted.
Lando slowed down when he was about a meter from Oscar. He raised his right hand like he was checking his phone, tilted his wrist—champagne glass at the perfect angle.
Then he "accidentally" bumped into Oscar's arm.
Champagne spilled. Not a lot, but enough to leave a dark wet patch on Oscar's navy blue sleeve.
Lando went straight into performance mode. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted (innocent baby #2), voice pitched half a step higher: "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I wasn't looking—your shirt—"
And then his script ended.
Because Oscar Piastri didn't look at his own sleeve. Didn't frown. Didn't have any "what the fuck are you doing" expression.
Oscar looked at *him* and said something Lando had not anticipated.
"Are you okay? The glass didn't break, did it? Did any of it get on you?"
His tone was genuine. Not the "I'm politely asking because I have to" kind of genuine. The "I'm actually worried you got hurt" kind. Dark brown eyes—Lando could see now, dark brown like melted chocolate, or wet earth—looking straight at him, Lando's own face reflected in his pupils.
Lando froze.
0.5 seconds. He only allowed himself 0.5 seconds.
Then he switched to "flustered but flattered" mode. "I'm fine! Oh my god, your shirt—I have to replace it for you."
Oscar looked down at his sleeve like he'd just noticed the wet patch. "Don't worry about it," he said. "It didn't fit right anyway."
And then nothing.
Because after Oscar Piastri said that, he had no idea what to say next. He stood there, holding his sparkling water, mouth opening and closing slightly, gaze shifting from Lando's face to the floor to the ceiling.
Lando laughed internally.
Socially awkward. Not cold. Just genuinely bad at small talk.
Jackpot.
---
**5.**
"You're Oscar Piastri, right?" Lando broke the silence, using a question he already knew the answer to. "You're a racing driver?"
Oscar nodded. "Yeah."
"I'm Lando."
"I know," Oscar said.
Lando raised an eyebrow. "You do?"
"Last time—" Oscar paused, like he was choosing his words carefully. "You were in that energy drink ad."
Lando almost laughed. He'd done a three-second energy drink ad once. Standing in a group of influencers, holding a bottle, smiling. It ran for two weeks. He'd forgotten about it himself. Oscar *remembered*.
"You've got a good memory," Lando said, adding a touch of surprise to his voice.
Oscar's ears turned pink.
Lando noticed. From lobe to tip, like sun hitting skin in early spring—a slow bloom of color.
"What kind of racing do you do?" Lando kept up the act, pretending to know nothing about F1. "Ferrari?"
Oscar corrected him: "McLaren. F1."
"Wow," Lando said, switching to impressed mode. "That must be so exciting. Is it like *Fast and Furious* every day?"
Oscar considered this question—actually *considered* it, his brow furrowing slightly—then said: "No. Most of the time it's meetings. Engineers telling you to brake 0.1 seconds earlier for this corner, accelerate 0.05 seconds later for that one. Then you drive two hundred laps thinking 'did I hit that 0.05 or not?'"
Lando paused. Not because the answer was boring, but because of how genuinely Oscar said it. Like he was actually trying to explain F1 to an outsider. No showing off. No dumbing down. No playing cool.
"That sounds kind of boring, actually," Lando said. And this time, he wasn't acting.
Oscar suddenly smiled.
And Lando's heart did a thing. Not because he was into Oscar—he didn't think—but because the smile was so *sudden*. Like a window that had been closed the whole time suddenly blown open by the wind, sunlight flooding in, catching you off guard.
When Oscar smiled, you could see his front teeth. Little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His whole vibe shifted from "do not approach" to "golden retriever who just woke up from a nap."
"Yeah," Oscar said. "But when it's not boring, it's worth everything."
Lando stared at him for two seconds.
Then he said: "I'm Lando Norris. You might've seen my ads too."
Oscar laughed again. "Yeah. In that energy drink ad, you held the bottle like you were in love with it."
Lando actually laughed this time—not his practiced laugh. He hadn't expected Oscar to say something like that. "So you're critiquing my acting?"
"Not critiquing. Observing." Oscar's ears were still pink, but his voice had gotten more natural.
They talked for a few more minutes. Mostly Lando talked, Oscar listened. Lando realized Oscar was a really good listener—he didn't interrupt, didn't try to one-up you, just listened with those dark brown eyes like whatever you were saying actually mattered.
Lando asked a few questions about F1. Oscar answered all of them seriously. When Lando asked "what's your favorite track," Oscar thought for a full ten seconds before saying: "Spa. Because Eau Rouge is fast."
Lando almost laughed again. Not because it was funny, but because it was so *Oscar*. Direct. No fluff. No packaging. Just "car go fast."
"Add me on Instagram," Lando said finally, making his voice light like he was doing Oscar a favor. "If you want to keep talking about... uh, how fast cars go."
Oscar pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and typed Lando's name into search. He spelled it wrong twice—first "Lando Noris," then "Lando Norriss." Lando stood there watching Oscar's fingers move clumsily across the screen and thought: *Too easy. This guy's too easy.*
Oscar finally found the right account and hit follow. Lando pulled out his phone, confirmed, and followed back.
When they said goodbye, Oscar said something Lando didn't expect.
"I hope I see you again."
Not "see you later." Not "keep in touch." "I *hope* I see you again." Like he was saying it carefully, testing the words, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to want that.
Lando smiled. "You will."
Walking out of the party, his steps were light. Not because he was excited. Because he'd just confirmed something.
Oscar Piastri. 21. McLaren F1 driver. Australian. Rich (he'd check later). Single. Dark brown eyes. Smiled like a golden retriever. Socially awkward. Bad at small talk. Pink ears. No dating experience.
Perfect target.
---
**6.**
Home at 2 AM. Lando didn't take off his makeup or shower. He sat down at his computer and opened a browser.
*Oscar Piastri.*
Wikipedia: 21 years old. Melbourne, Australia. Joined McLaren F1 in 2023 (rookie year). 2024 is his second season. Strong rookie season—multiple points finishes, two podiums, widely considered a contender for Rookie of the Year. Father is a businessman. Family owns farms and investment companies. Estimated net worth—Lando's eyebrows went up when he saw the number.
Not "rich." "*Rich* rich." The kind of rich where you don't need to race cars for money.
Instagram: 1.2 million followers—more than Lando. Following: 87 people. Mostly team accounts, other drivers, a few Australian athletes, and three food pages. Posts once a week on average. All racing, training, occasional landscape shots. No selfies. No flexing. No dating rumors.
Lando scrolled through Oscar's posts one by one. One from last year in Melbourne—sunset at the beach, caption just "home." 400k+ likes. Comments full of "welcome home oscar." One close-up of a car on track, caption "P5. Could be better." Lando looked it up—Oscar started that race from P10 and finished P5. Pretty good for a rookie. But he just said "could be better."
Lando watched a few interviews.
First one, reporter asked Oscar how his first F1 race felt. Oscar said: "Loud." Reporter laughed. Oscar laughed too, then added: "I was happy." Said it as flat as a weather report.
Second one, reporter asked what Oscar does in his free time. Oscar said: "Play FIFA. Badly." Reporter asked: "What team do you use?" Oscar said: "Australia." Reporter said: "Australia isn't very good in FIFA, right?" Oscar said: "Yeah, so I always lose." Said "I always lose" with zero regret, like he was stating a law of physics.
Third one, reporter asked about his ideal type. The question was "what kind of person do you like?" Lando noticed a tiny pause before Oscar answered. Then: "Someone honest. I don't like things too complicated."
Lando scoffed at that answer.
*Honest? Honey, you haven't met me yet.*
But he filed the information away.
He kept searching. Reddit threads about Oscar Piastri. Top comment: "Oscar is the most boring driver on the grid and I love him for it." Another: "He gives me 'my parents are rich but I still work hard' energy."
Lando found a more interesting comment—someone claiming to know a guy who went to high school with Oscar. Said Oscar never dated anyone in Melbourne. Everyone assumed he was the type who "wouldn't figure it out until after graduation."
Lando stared at that comment for five seconds. Then he smiled.
He picked up his phone and texted Rachel.
**Lando:** Oscar Piastri. Biggest catch of the year.
Rachel's reply came fast.
**Rachel:** Who are you into now?
**Lando:** The McLaren one. Australian. Tall, hot, young, rich, no experience, easy.
**Rachel:** You said Carlos was easy too.
Lando's face stiffened at the name.
**Lando:** Carlos's problem was he had *too much* experience. This is different.
**Rachel:** Different how?
Lando didn't reply.
He closed the chat and looked at Oscar's photo again. A track-side candid—Oscar had just taken off his helmet, hair wet with sweat, dark brown eyes focused on something off-camera. Bad lighting, lots of grain, but his features were still sharp like they'd been carved.
Lando said softly to his screen: "Oscar Piastri, you're gonna be my Golden Ticket."
---
**7.**
Golden Ticket.
Lando first read *Charlie and the Chocolate Factory* in his elementary school library. Back in Bristol. The library had three shelves and all the books had chewed-up corners. He remembered the story—a poor kid finds a golden ticket and his whole life changes.
He spent a long time thinking: if *I* were Charlie, I wouldn't go to the chocolate factory. I'd sell the ticket. Then take the money and leave Bristol.
Eventually he did leave. No golden ticket. Just a train ticket to London and one reporter's phone number saved in his phone.
His first "golden ticket" was a Championship player named Tom. Tom was four years older, played defender on the pitch, and off the pitch was just a normal guy—liked video games, liked takeout, liked having someone to talk to. When Lando slid into his DMs, he used the most basic pickup line ever: "I like your games."
Tom replied. A week later they met at Nando's. A month later, The Sun ran a story: "Championship Star Tom's Secret Boyfriend?"
That was the first time Lando saw his name in print.
Not his real name. Tom never found out who leaked the story. But Lando knew. He'd contacted the reporter himself—found the email address online, sent a carefully worded message with two photos of him and Tom (angles that showed their faces clearly but looked like candids), signed it "a friend who cares about Tom." The reporter paid him £2,000.
Two thousand pounds. To eighteen-year-old Lando, that was a fortune. Three months' rent. A train ticket home (not that he wanted to go home). A nice dinner for Rachel—back then Rachel wasn't his manager yet, just a girl he'd met during an internship at a PR firm.
Tom figured it out eventually. Not who leaked it, but Lando got nervous and broke up with him first. Tom called him a "parasite" on the phone. Lando listened, hung up, and told his reflection: "Parasites have to survive somehow."
Second golden ticket was a retired tennis player. Thirty-five, divorced, two kids, wanted someone to "travel with him to tournaments." Lando lasted three months—went to Paris for the French Open, watched Netflix in hotel rooms, smiled for the cameras at the right moments.
He learned how to make a situationship look like a relationship. The exact angle for hand-holding so paparazzi would catch it. The way to hug someone with your face buried in their shoulder. The kind of Instagram post that seemed spontaneous but was actually planned down to the lighting.
When they broke up, the tennis player's agent called Lando to yell at him. Called him a "social climber." Said he "used feelings for exposure." Lando listened to the whole rant and then said: "You done? Okay, bye."
Third—he wasn't sure if it counted as a golden ticket. Carlos Sainz.
Carlos was different.
Not because he was richer or more famous—though Ferrari driver did hit different. But because Lando actually caught *feelings* for Carlos. Even just a little.
They met at a brand event. Carlos came up to *him*, which was already different from Tom (who needed Lando to DM first) and the tennis guy (who needed Lando to play boyfriend). Carlos was funny. Could talk. Said things in Spanish that Lando didn't understand but made his heart beat faster anyway.
They dated for two months. Secret restaurants. Carlos's London apartment. A football game in Madrid.
Lando thought maybe this time was different. Carlos actually seemed to like him—not for his face, not for his influencer status, but for *him*. Carlos would ask "what are you thinking about?" when Lando went quiet. Would text him at 2 AM saying "can't sleep, you're not here."
Then Carlos said: "You're fun, but I don't need a boyfriend."
Lando said: "That's fine. I don't need one either."
He went home and smashed an entire set of IKEA glasses. Six of them. White, cheap, less than £2 each. After he smashed them all, he sat on the floor surrounded by porcelain shards for ten minutes. Then he went to the supermarket and bought six identical ones.
He told himself: *Don't get too invested. Getting invested means losing.*
After that, he never caught feelings for anyone again.
---
**8.**
The next three days, Lando did one thing: *wait.*
His golden rule: whoever moves first, loses. Doesn't matter who they are, how hot they are, how much money they have. Whoever texts first, whoever shows interest first—hands over the power.
In this game, the first text is the first sign of need. Need is weakness. Weakness is a handle.
He didn't text Oscar. Didn't even like any of Oscar's posts. He set up notifications for Oscar's account so he'd know the second Oscar posted something—but that was it.
Day one: he posted a normal Instagram story. Gym selfie, caption "monday grind," location at a London gym. Didn't tag anyone. But he knew Oscar would see it because Oscar followed him. He checked the story view list three times. Oscar's face was in the list at 9:13 PM.
Day two: he posted a coffee photo. Latte, nice foam art, caption "☕️." Oscar viewed at 2:07 PM. Lando also noticed Oscar followed a new account that day—some Australian rugby player. Not Lando. Lando told himself that didn't matter.
Day three: Oscar posted. One photo—training shot, McLaren kit, holding his helmet, gym background. Caption one word: "Miami🌴." Lando looked at the photo for maybe ten seconds, then screenshotted it and saved it to a folder on his phone called source material. Same folder had photos of Carlos, a few other celebrities, and some "candid" shots Lando had taken of himself.
He didn't know why he saved Oscar's photo. Maybe the composition was nice. Maybe Oscar in the photo—hair sweaty, eyes focused, lips pressed together—just looked...
He didn't think about "maybe something else."
Day three, 11 PM. Oscar's message came.
**Oscar Piastri:** hey lando, it's oscar from the party last week... how are you?
Lando's phone buzzed. He was in the middle of a face mask. He looked at the screen and smiled under the sheet mask. He didn't reply immediately.
He waited two hours. In those two hours, he finished his face mask, made pasta, and posted an Instagram story (gym selfie, caption "miami countdown🌴" with the same palm tree emoji Oscar had used). He knew it was childish. He didn't care.
At 1 AM, he replied:
**Lando:** oscar!! of course i remember! sorry just saw this, been prepping for a shoot. i'm good, you? and seriously don't worry about the shirt 🥲
Oscar replied instantly. 1 AM and this guy replied instantly.
**Oscar:** don't worry about the shirt. are you coming to miami? saw your story.
A little voice in Lando's head said: *hooked.* He typed back: "maybe! got a brand thing there. you?"
**Oscar:** racing there. if you come... i can get you a paddock pass. better than regular.
Lando deliberately waited a minute before replying. "really? that's not too much trouble?"
**Oscar:** no trouble. i want you to come.
Lando stared at those four words for a long time. He noticed his mouth was curving into a smile that was too big to be calculated. He tried to pull it back. Didn't work.
**Lando:** okay then! thank you oscar, you're so sweet 🥹
Then he immediately called Rachel.
"Don't bother getting me a paddock pass for Miami."
"What?"
"Oscar Piastri. He's giving me one himself."
Rachel was quiet for two seconds. "You've started."
"I've started."
"Lando."
"Yeah."
"Are you sure this is what you want? You just got wrecked by Carlos."
Lando leaned back on the sofa. His sheet mask had dried, tight on his face. He looked at the ceiling. "Carlos is the past. Oscar is the future. I need the future."
"What you need is money."
"Yeah. And Oscar Piastri has money, fame, potential. He's McLaren's star, Australian rich kid, hot, single, no experience. He's the most perfect—"
"Target?"
Lando had been about to say "opportunity." But Rachel said "target." He didn't correct her.
"Lando." Rachel's voice had something in it that Lando didn't hear often. Not concern. Something softer. "Do you actually know what you're doing?"
Lando peeled off the sheet mask and threw it in the trash. His face was damp and glowing under the lamp light. Good skin. Barely visible pores. He looked at his reflection—dark brown curls, blue-green eyes, high nose bridge, sharp jawline.
"Of course I know. I'm working."
"Every time you say you're working," Rachel said, "you're actually running."
Lando hung up.
He put the phone on his chest and leaned back on the sofa, eyes closed. Oscar's last four words played in his head.
*i want you to come.*
His heart was beating a little faster than usual.
He was just excited. Yeah. Excited. The kind of excitement a professional feels when they spot a prime target. Nothing else.
Nothing.
---
**9.**
The night before flying to Miami, Lando packed. Silver Rimowa suitcase—authentic, Christmas gift from Rachel last year. She'd said "you can't have a cheap suitcase as an influencer." Lando said "you're investing in me." Rachel said "yes, so use it well." Lando said "I will," and then he used it for a year until it was covered in scratches, but he liked the scratches better. Made him look like he traveled a lot.
He packed six swimsuits. Miami's weather forecast for the week: thunderstorms, thunderstorms, thunderstorms, thunderstorms, thunderstorms. He didn't care. He was going for work, and work included "being photographed by a pool," so he needed swimsuits. Also four pairs of sunglasses, three hats, two mesh tops—the kind that look like you just threw something on but every inch of fabric was carefully calculated.
He also packed a bottle of Tom Ford cologne. Bought it specifically for this trip because he'd seen in some interview that Oscar liked "woody, not too sweet" scents.
He paused for a few seconds while putting the cologne in the suitcase.
Jordan called. Jordan was one of the few "real friends" Lando had in the influencer world—quotation marks because "real friend" was a luxury in this industry.
They'd known each other for three years. Planned multiple "coincidental" meetups and fake dating rumors together. Jordan knew all of Lando's cards, including the full Carlos saga. They were war buddies. Even if the war was social media.
"You sure about Oscar Piastri?" Jordan's voice came through speakerphone with a tone that said "I'm only saying this because you keep making the same mistake." "I've heard he's the serious type. What if he gets *actually* attached? Can you shake him off?"
Lando folded a swimsuit into a cube and shoved it in a corner. "Who said anything about shaking him off? I need a long-term meal ticket."
"You said the same thing about Carlos."
"Carlos's problem was he wouldn't buy the ticket. Oscar doesn't even know where the ticket booth is."
Jordan laughed. "You're actually a terrible person."
"I know," Lando said. No pride in his voice. Just tiredness. He didn't notice it himself.
"Good. As long as you know." Jordan said. "Send me pics when you get there. And not the soft-core porn ones."
"Every photo I post is soft-core porn. That's my brand."
Jordan hung up. Lando shoved the last piece of clothing into the suitcase, zipped it, and leaned it against the wall.
He walked to the dining table and picked up the Aldi biscuit pack—new one, bought last week, still sealed—looked at it, and put it back down.
"I'm not gold-digging," he said to the empty kitchen. "I'm just allergic to being poor."
No one answered. Just the fridge humming.
He went to his bedroom, got in bed, turned off the light. In the dark, he pulled out his phone and opened his chat with Oscar. The last message was still Oscar's: "travel safe. let me know when you land."
He typed: "boarding! see you in miami ✈️🌴" then deleted it.
Typed: "can't wait to watch you race!" deleted it.
Finally he just sent: "✈️🌴"
Oscar replied instantly. "travel safe. let me know when you land."
Same as before. Like he was copy-pasting. But Lando knew he wasn't being perfunctory —because the message came through at 1 AM London time, which was 8 PM in Miami. Oscar was in Miami, probably at his hotel, probably training, but he was waiting for Lando's message.
He scrolled up and saw "i want you to come" again. Read it a few times. Put the phone down and went to brush his teeth.
Brushing his teeth, he looked at his reflection, mouth full of foam. He thought: *Oscar Piastri, you have no idea who you're playing with. You don't know what kind of person I am. You don't know I'm not coming to Miami to watch you race. I'm coming to make you my next ticket.*
He spat out the foam, washed his face, dried it with a towel.
*It's fine. You'll never find out anyway.*
Lando put his phone on the pillow next to him and closed his eyes.
"Oscar Piastri," he whispered in the dark. "You're gonna be my Golden Ticket."
What he didn't know—couldn't know—was that golden tickets aren't magic because of what they get you. They're magic because they take you places you never planned to go.
And he was already on that train.
---
**10.**
When the plane took off, London's lights shrank below into tiny gold specks.
Lando sat in a business-class window seat, airline blanket over his legs, holding a glass of champagne (free, might as well). He watched the clouds outside his window, headphones playing an old song with lyrics that asked "is this love or just a game?"
In his head, he answered: *It's a game. It's always been a game.*
London was raining. The clouds were thick and gray, like a giant old blanket. When the plane punched through them, sunlight suddenly flooded in, blindingly bright. Lando pulled down his shade, opened his phone on airplane mode, and scrolled through Oscar's Instagram.
Oscar had posted yesterday. One photo—Miami track, empty grandstands, early morning light turning the whole circuit gold. Caption: "Ready."
Lando looked at the photo and wondered what time Oscar took it. Early morning? Did he wake up that early? Was he walking the track alone? What was he thinking?
Lando turned his phone screen-down on his thigh and closed his eyes.
The plane engines were loud. A constant low roar, like some kind of lullaby. Half-asleep, fragments flashed through Lando's mind—Aldi biscuits, his mum hugging him and her shoulder bones digging into him, the smell of instant noodles in Carlos's kitchen, Jordan saying "you're actually a terrible person," himself saying "I know."
He remembered walking with Carlos in Monaco once. Carlos pointed at a yacht and said "that's my friend's." Lando said "it's huge." Carlos said "you want it?" Lando said "I don't know how to drive a boat." Carlos laughed and said "you don't need to drive it. you just need to sit on it." Lando thought then: *was he talking about the boat, or about me?* Later he decided Carlos probably meant both.
The plane hit turbulence. Lando opened his eyes. The window shade wasn't fully closed—a thin line of gold light slipped through, falling right on the back of his hand like a thin gold chain.
He finished his champagne, adjusted his seat, and closed his eyes.
Oscar Piastri's face filled his mind. Dark brown eyes. Slightly downturned outer corners. The front-teeth smile. The genuine way he'd said "i want you to come."
Lando turned onto his side and pulled the blanket up to his chin.
He was just excited. Yeah. Excited. Professional excitement at a prime target. Nothing else.
Nothing.
The plane hit another patch of turbulence. He opened his eyes and looked out the window. Nothing out there but endless dark and the occasional blinking wing light.
He closed his eyes and let the engine drone pull him into restless sleep. In his dream, a voice said: "Lando Norris, you're a professional. Don't get moved by a client's sincerity. This is a transaction."
But he still dreamed about Oscar.
In the dream, Oscar wore that ill-fitting navy blazer, standing in the corner of the party, holding sparkling water. He looked at Lando, dark brown eyes reflecting all of London's lights.
Then he said: "Are you okay? The glass didn't break, did it? Did any of it get on you?"
Lando smiled in the dream.
He said: "I'm fine. Never been better."
—He didn't know if that was true.
The plane crossed the Atlantic. Miami got closer. Lando didn't know—couldn't know—that he was flying toward someone who would change everything. Not because of what Lando would get from him. But because one day, that person would make Lando stop and ask himself: *why did I become this person? And if I didn't have to be this person... who would I want to be?*
That was a long time away.
Right now, he was just Lando Norris. A barely-there influencer in a business-class seat, flying to Miami to get an F1 driver.