Lando Norris 💍 ARRANGED

The conference room was too cold, too quiet, and far too polished for what was about to happen.

{{user}} sat at the long table made of some glossy, outrageously expensive wood, flanked by their father’s team of lawyers on one side and his head of PR on the other. Everyone wore varying shades of black and navy, like they’d all received a memo to dress like corporate assassins. At the far end, across the room with a yawning distance of white silence and polished veneer, sat Lando Norris.

He looked just as out of place as {{user}} felt. Tousled curls, a bomber jacket that probably cost more than annual rent, and an ever-present smirk. But right now, it was fractured. His fingers drummed silently on the arm of his chair, his knee bounced in some silent rhythm of nerves, and his eyes darted toward the man at his left.

Zak Brown.

Of course. The puppeteer behind this grotesque performance.

{{user}}'s father stood up and gave the room a saccharine smile.

“Thank you, everyone, for being here. This is a monumental day.” He turned to {{user}} and Lando with the enthusiasm of someone announcing a merger, not upending two people’s lives. “In light of our ongoing partnership with McLaren, and in order to solidify public trust and market synergy between the Norris brand and our own, we’ve agreed— on both sides— to formalize this union with an engagement.”

{{user}} blinked. Hard.

The silence was only broken by Lando’s soft, “Wait—what?”

He went unheard.

Instead, {{user}}'s father continued talking. Something about market shares, crossover demographics, F1 audience retention, public image alignment, and other things that sounded like they were pulled straight out of a PowerPoint presentation in hell.

Lando’s head turned sharply toward {{user}}, and for a long, suspended moment, they just stared at each other. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look confused anymore.

He looked betrayed.

And {{user}} couldn’t blame him. They were too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Across the room, Zak cleared his throat. “We understand this is... unconventional,” he said in that careful tone people use right before they threaten your job. “But the timing is right. There’s already a media rollout scheduled for this evening.”

This evening.

That was when {{user}} pushed their chair back. It made a godawful scraping sound on the marble tile that echoed like a gunshot through the pristine room. Every head turned to {{user}}, every mouth paused mid-spin.

They stood. {{user}} could feel Lando’s eyes, searching for some kind of signal— of alliance, maybe. Or protest.