Chapter 2: The Filthy Knife Incident
The elevator to Max and Kelly’s apartment smelled of salt, money, and freshly cut lilies. Lando leaned against the mirrored wall, watching Aya check her reflection, smoothing a hand over her hair. She’d changed into a simple black linen jumpsuit, the straps loose on her shoulders. She looked effortlessly, infuriatingly beautiful.
“Nervous?” he teased.
“I am mentally preparing to spend three hours explaining to Max, for the hundredth time, why he cannot ‘just overtake’ if his car is fundamentally slower on the straights. It is like explaining gravity to a particularly enthusiastic balloon.”
The doors slid open directly into the apartment. The space was all clean lines and vast windows, the Mediterranean a black velvet sheet dotted with diamond lights. The low hum of the city, the clink of boats in the harbor, seeped in. Music, something jazzy and unobtrusive, played under the murmur of conversation.
“Lando! Aya! In here!” Kelly’s voice called from the open-plan kitchen.
They found Kelly stirring something fragrant in a pan, while Max stood at the island, incompetently tearing lettuce. George Russell was already there, perched on a stool with a beer, and Pierre Gasly leaned against the counter, deep in a debate about helmet design with Charles Leclerc, who had arrived straight from Maranello.
“You brought the orderly,” Max said, grinning at Aya. “Good. Tell Lando his downforce setup in Sector two was cowardly.”
“It was intelligent,” Aya corrected, dropping her bag on a chair. “You were aggressive and wasteful. Like a bull in a balance beam competition.” She nodded hello to the others, then, seeing the chaotic state of the vegetable prep, rolled up her sleeves. “Max, you are murdering that lettuce. Move. Give me the knife.”
Max surrendered the chef’s knife with a flourish. Aya took command of the island, her movements quick and precise. She pulled a bunch of herbs toward her and began chopping, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap a counterpoint to the music.
The conversation flowed easily—shop talk, gossip, the mundane debris of their extraordinary lives. Lando fetched drinks, his attention perpetually drawn back to Aya. She was arguing with Charles about the new FIA technical directive, her knife never slowing.
“It is not about safety, it is about control,” she said, her voice sharpening. “These absurd new length requirements for the floor stay? Het is zo'n domme regel. It’s screwing everyone’s performance. You cannot design around such a rigid, pointless limitation. It forces a compromise that helps no one.”
She said it in rapid, frustrated Dutch, her tone pure volcanic irritation.
Max, who had just taken a sip of wine, inhaled it. He choked, coughing violently, red liquid spraying onto the marble counter. He wheezed, pointing a trembling finger at Aya, who paused mid-chop to look at him with mild, scientific concern.
“Are you alright? Did you swallow wrong?”
Kelly whacked Max on the back, but she was already shaking with silent laughter, her eyes wide. George’s head swiveled between them. “What? What did she say?”
Max, tears in his eyes from choking, gasped. “She said… the new length rules… are screwing everyone’s performance.”
A beat of silence. Then Pierre snorted. Charles’s face split into a leering grin. “Ah, oui? Everyone’s performance, Aya? This is a big problem.”
Aya blinked, the knife held aloft. She replayed her words in her head. The furious blush started at her neck and flooded her cheeks in seconds. “No! That is not— I was talking about aerodynamics! The floor stay! The physical component!”
“Of course you were,” Kelly murmured, already pulling out her phone, her thumbs flying. The soft ping of a notification hit multiple phones in the room.
Lando pulled his out. The group chat, titled ‘Aya’s Filthy Mind’, had a new message from Kelly.
> Kelly: TRANSLATION UPDATE: Aya is very concerned about rigid length requirements screwing overall performance. Thinks the FIA is forcing a bad compromise. Girl, same.
A follow-up message, a photo Kelly must have taken seconds before: Aya, jaw set, eyes blazing, bringing the large knife down with focused vengeance on an unsuspecting tomato.
The chat exploded. Daniel Ricciardo, not present, responded with a series of crying-laughing emojis. George was typing something undoubtedly terrible.
Aya saw them looking at their screens, saw Kelly’s suppressed giggles. Her embarrassment morphed into magnificent, cool disdain. She pointed the knife at Kelly, then at Max. “You are all infants. You see innuendo in a weather report. This is why your race strategies are so literal.” She returned to decimating the tomato, its juices bleeding across the board. “I am discussing legitimate sporting regulation. You are discussing… that.”
“You brought it up!” Max laughed.
“I did not! You have polluted my words!” She shot a glare at Lando, who was leaning against the fridge, grinning so wide his face hurt. “And you. Do not just stand there looking pleased. Defend me.”
“From what?” Lando held up his hands. “I’m just a bystander. A fascinated bystander, listening to you talk about… length issues.”
A dangerous glint entered her eye. She slowly wiped the knife blade. “Careful, Lando. I know about your ‘hardware malfunction’ in the simulator last week. The one you made the engineers swear to never speak of. Should we pollute that story, too?”
The room erupted in “Oooohs”. Lando’s grin froze. That was a secret buried under a concrete slab. He made a frantic slicing motion across his throat. “Truce! Truce!”
Aya gave a single, neat nod and went back to her vegetables, the victor.
Dinner was served on the vast terrace. The conversation drifted, warmed by wine and shared history. They talked about everything except racing: Kelly’s new art acquisition, George’s disastrous attempt at baking sourdough, Pierre’s plans to adopt another rescue dog. Lando watched Aya navigate it all. She debated art with Kelly in fluent French, teased George in precise, gentlemanly English, and listened intently to Pierre’s dog stories, asking thoughtful questions in soft French.
She fit. She wasn’t an appendage to his world; she was a cornerstone of this little tribe they’d built. The realization was a warmth in his chest, followed immediately by a cold spike of fear. This was complete. Anything that tried to change it risked breaking it.
Later, as the group scattered to the sofas with digestifs, Lando found himself alone with her by the railing. The night breeze was cool, carrying the distant sound of music from a yacht below.
“You murdered those tomatoes,” he said softly.
“They deserved it.” She sipped her water, looking out at the dark sea. “And you are a traitor.”
“I’m your biggest fan.”
She glanced at him, a sidelong look. “You laughed the loudest.”
“Only on the inside.” He leaned his elbows on the cool metal. “They adore you, you know. All of them.”
She was quiet for a moment. “The feeling is… mostly mutual. Despite their infantile humor.” She swirled the water in her glass. “This is nice. These nights. It feels… real. More real than the podium, sometimes.”
He knew exactly what she meant. The roar of the crowd was a drug, but it was impersonal. This quiet hum of friendship, this was sustenance.
George spilled onto the terrace then, complaining that Charles was cheating at the racing game on the console, demanding arbitration. The moment shattered.
In the car home, she fell asleep again within minutes, her head tilting toward his shoulder. He let it rest there, the weight a precious and unbearable secret. His phone buzzed in his hand.
It was the group chat.
> Max: seriously though Aya. if you’re having problems with length and performance, i know a guy.
> Pierre: REPORTED.
> Kelly: My wife, everyone.
> George: She’s not wrong though. Stiff regulations ruin everything.
Lando smiled, but it felt thin. He looked at Aya, asleep on his shoulder, completely trusting, completely unaware of the war raging inside him. He was the reigning world champion, capable of controlling a machine at 230 miles an hour through sheer force of will. Yet here, in the quiet dark, he was paralyzed. He was terrified of crossing a line only he could see, a line drawn not in the sand of their friendship, but in the quick-set concrete of everything that truly mattered.
The car pulled up. He didn’t wake her immediately. He stayed perfectly still, stealing one more minute in the dark, where the only finish line that existed was the gentle sound of her breathing.