The paddock was louder than ever, celebrations, engines, media buzzing like bees around everyone.

But you? You stood by the McLaren motorhome, heart pounding louder than the crowd, staring at your phone.

A clip. A dumb TikTok edit of Lando celebrating his podium. Champagne. Confetti. His smile.

And her. The girl from the Monaco yacht party. The one he swore was “just a friend.” They looked too comfortable. Too familiar.

You didn’t cry—not yet. But your throat burned.

That’s when he spotted you.

“Hey,” Lando said, slipping through the fence quietly. “Didn’t know you were still here.”

You nodded, keeping your arms wrapped tight around yourself.

He glanced at the phone in your hand. “You saw it.”

You didn’t answer. Just kept your eyes down.

“She kissed me, not the other way around,” he muttered. “I didn’t even— It didn’t mean anything.”

“It meant something to me.” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You lied.”

“I didn’t lie, I just— I didn’t want to ruin this.”

“You didn’t ruin this. She didn’t ruin this.” You finally looked up. “You ruined me.”

The words hit him like a crash. No helmet. No airbag.

He reached out—instinct, muscle memory, panic. But you stepped back.

“I hope you win today,” you whispered. “I really do. But after that… don’t call me.”

You left before he could reply.

And that night, he stood on the podium.

Trophy in hand. Gold in his mouth. And absolutely no one to celebrate with.

Except the noise.

The noise he used to love, before it drowned out your voice.