Chapter Text
Oscar Piastri was not having a good morning.
He sat slouched in a cafe booth, halfway through a coffee he didn’t even want, with his phone screen lighting up like a disaster beacon beside his untouched red velvet cake. He’d woken up to 481 unread messages, half from his parents and the other half from a horrifying mix of classmates, family friends, and (because the universe had a sense of humor) an article from the Elite Times sent to him by Zhou.
Subject: “Oscar Piastri’s anonymous lover? An essay that stunned campus.”
He blinked at the headline and the hundred and thousands of views it had, just to be sure he hadn’t hallucinated it.
He hadn’t.
Oscar has been successful in ignoring the stares around campus—at this point he’s used to it (even if they became more awkward today, Jesus Chirst)—and the messages and phone calls he’s been getting until lunch that day.
Across from him, George was sipping a flat white with the casual smugness of someone whose morning had been peaceful. Couldn’t be Oscar.
“So,” George said as he watched Oscar finally go through his messages. “Who is he?”
Oscar lifted his eyes, distress visible from it. “He, doesn’t exist.”
George paused. “Come again?”
“There is no he.” Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. “It was an assignment. A fiction piece. For my creative writing class. I made him up in like ten minutes. His name isn’t even mentioned. He’s not real, George.”
The thing is, Oscar may have gone overboard in his creative writing essay assignment.
The assignment was to write an essay about something so important about their personal life that helped them shaped who they were today, a classic assignment. But since their professor was the school blog advisor, it had the gist of the best essay being published into the university journal website. And if he’s going to be real here, Oscar’s not gonna exploit his “loving” relationship with his family for the public to read about. His parents own P. ALLURE, one of the biggest multinational holding companies that specializes in luxury goods, and anyone would die to get some insider gossip about their family even if it was through their son’s university.
As if there’s any loving relationship to see there in the first place. Okay, his parents do love him very much, but if there was a reality show that showed their life, it would be pretty boring. Everyone’s just minding their own thing, and his life has pretty much revolved around business ever since and that’s what Oscar always knew.
So he’s not gonna write about that.
Instead, the brilliant idea of writing about a non-existent fictional boyfriend that allegedly changed his life was the greatest idea he had at that moment, which turned out to be a whirlwind of a disaster. Because if the elite insiders can’t know about what’s going on inside the Piastri estate, they’re gonna want to stick their noses on who P. ALLURE’s heir is dating.
“But you wrote about missing him,” George said, scrolling dramatically on his phone. “You said, quote: ‘He makes the world feel slower. Quieter. Like I can breathe.’” He glanced up. “Oscar. You don’t even like breathing.”
Ah, he forgot about that.
He may have also written about how this “boyfriend’s” eyes speak a thousand words that his own mind couldn’t, how he misses him even when he’s close, how sparks fly around them with the slightest touch, and how he’s so beautiful he can’t even think straight around him. And Oscar always thinks. Like, always. He’s strategic and calculated. Except maybe this time where he didn’t think thoroughly on submitting an almost love letter kind of essay to be put out in the public. He barely remembered what he wrote, but he was sure it was a cringefest.
“It’s called creative writing.” Oscar snapped, trying very hard not to die of embarrassment. “And I needed to hit the word count.”
“Well, congratulations. You also hit the front page of the university’s online journal.” George showed him his phone. “Add every news outlet to that too.”
Oscar groaned and slumped further into the booth. “This is the worst thing that could ever trend about me.”
George didn’t respond. Oscar peeled his face away from the table.
“Why is this even trending?” he hissed. “I wrote a fictional essay for a minor class. It was fake. I put the smallest amount of effort! Surely there were even better essays than mine.”
“You compared him to the ocean, Oscar,” George deadpanned. “That’s not fake. That’s like, poetry.”
Oscar grimaced, “Please do not remind me of any of that fictional romantic bullshit again.”
“Hey, you wrote it. Plus you’re gonna get reminded of it eventually.” George sat back with a matter-of-fact expression. “You’re probably the most relevant person in that class and the school journal is dying for interactions.”
Oscar didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, dropped his forehead onto the table in front of him, barely missing the edge of his lukewarm espresso. The wood felt cool against his skin, and for a fleeting second, he wondered what it would take to vanish into it.
The problem wasn’t the attention. He was a Piastri, after all. He was used to people watching him like he was something polished and rare and permanently under glass. The problem was that this kind of attention felt messy. Emotional. Vulnerable.
Worst of all—it felt dangerously close to personal.
He’d spent years perfecting the art of being distant. Now the internet was threatening to undo it with a single essay.
He raised his head as his phone vibrated for the nth time.
From: Nicole Piastri (Mom)
When are you free? Your father and I would love to meet this man you wrote about.
Maurice will send you our schedule but we probably won’t be home until next month. We still want to meet him when we get back. :)
“Jesus Christ.” Oscar muttered.
George raised an eyebrow. “Parents found it?”
“They have since this morning. Thank God they’re out on some business trip so I wasn’t confronted early on.”
“So? What’s with the face.”
“They praised it. They want to meet him. I’m screwed.”
Oscar is screwed. This dinner is less of a “get to know” whoever this mystery guy is and more of an “assessment” if he’s fit in to their family—their standards— and their world. And if he’s any advantageous at all to Oscar’s reputation. Really insane, to be honest.
“Well, they’ve wanted you to date for years, man. Maybe it’s time.”
Oscar blinked. “Excuse me?”
George shrugged. “Why not? Commit to the bit. Get a boyfriend. A real one. You wouldn’t have to lie if someone was actually in the picture.”
Oscar stared at him like he’d suggested sacrificing a goat to solve his problem.
“Do I look like I have a time for a boyfriend, George?
“You clearly have time to write longing essays about fake ones.”
Oscar grabbed his coffee and drained what was left, bitterness burning his throat. “It was a one-time assignment. I wasn’t planning to accidentally soft-launch a ghost boyfriend to the entire socio-economic elite.”
“You could still salvage this,” George said. “Just—actually date someone. You’re not incapable of connection. I’ve seen you form full sentences around cute guys and girls before.”
“Cute guys and girls aren’t the issue.” Oscar stood, gathering his things. “It’s the mess. I don’t need that kind of distraction.”
Not only that, it’s the expectation. The control. The fact that it’s highly likely that they would only date him because they want leverage. But he isn’t gonna say that.
“What distraction? You’re practically Top 5 in the entirety of the industrial engineering batch and you’re minoring in business.” George rolled his eyes and then sighed dramatically. “Whatever, enjoy being publicly exposed as a liar. Your mum’s going to be heartbroken that she’ll have to fix your mess.”
Oscar didn’t dignify that with a response. He looked outside the cafe’s window, jaw tight. The café felt suddenly too warm, too loud. Outside, the sunlight was offensively cheerful. The city buzzed with people pretending their lives were their own. Everything felt too emotional.
“You know,” George called after him, just as Oscar reached the door, “I do have a friend. Lando Norris. Model. Pretty famous. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
Oscar paused, deadpan. “Wow. I’m interested.”
George smirked. “I’m serious.”
“That makes one of us.”
“You are insufferable, mate. Just look.” George turned his phone toward Oscar.
The bright screen shows an instagram grid full of club photos, high-end campaign shots, and chaotic behind-the-scenes stories.
Oscar squinted at the phone and looked back at George. “Who?”
George sighed like he couldn’t believe what Oscar was saying. “I already told you! Lando Norris. Full time model and part time DJ? Business student at our university. Famous, hot, the girls and the guys love him.”
Oscar stares. “If he’s so famous, why have I never heard of him?”
“You’re a Piastri, man. No one’s famous enough to exist on your radar.”
Oscar handed the phone back, unimpressed. “Great. So he’s attractive and loud. That’s the dream, huh?”
“Could be yours.” George shrugged.
Oscar made a face like he’d just stepped in something—his dignity probably. “Ridiculous. Dating is stupid. Especially when we’re complete opposites.”
“You haven’t even met him.”
“I don’t need to,” Oscar replied, sharp. “Look at his page. Says everything to me.”
“His page looks like a good time to me.”
Oscar slung his coat over his shoulder. “Exactly my point.”
George leaned back, grinning like he’d already won. “You’re scared of fun.”
“I’m not scared of fun,” Oscar snapped. “I don’t like things getting out of control. He looks like he’s out of control.”
“So dramatic.”
Oscar rolled his eyes and stood up, getting ready to leave. “That’s my cue. I have to fill in for a meeting for dad.”
George called out as Oscar headed for the door. “You’ll change your mind when you see him in motion. He’s even hotter in videos.”
“If he’s so hot why don’t you date him?” Oscar called back with a dismissive hand as the door swung shut behind him.
Outside, the city was cooler now, the late afternoon sunlight slipping into gold. Oscar walked briskly down the pavement, mind racing. Not with panic—he didn’t panic. But he was calculating. Reframing. Moving pieces.
He scoffed under his breath. Lando Norris. Honestly. Just what he needed—another person under public scrutiny.
But still…
The name stuck.
Even as he got in the car and turned the engine over, even as he told himself this would all blow over, that he’d find another, quieter fix—the name stayed. Heavy and persistent.
Lando Norris.
Honestly.
Like a guy like that could ever be part of his life.
__________________________________________
Oscar’s room was on the third floor of the Piastri estate. Not just a house, an estate. The kind with a wrought-iron gate that opened silently with plate recognition, imported Italian marble in the foyer, and a manicured lawn trimmed daily by people paid not to be seen. Inside, the ceilings were high, and everything from the front door to the hallway lighting was optimized for prestige.
The place didn’t feel lived in. It felt designed.
His room fit the theme, being the size of a small apartment. It was both clinical and elegant, a testament to his upbringing and personality alike. The floors were polished wood, and the furniture was sleek and minimal.The walls were splashed with a monochrome palette of ash, slate, ivory, and nothing unnecessary. Books were stacked on floating shelves with unsettling symmetry, and not a single pen was out of place on the sleek desk by the window. Even the curtains hung like they had something to prove.
Everything had its place and everything had a purpose. Just like him.
Oscar sat at his desk, laptop open, the glow from the screen casting soft light across the room. A single reading lamp buzzed faintly behind him, throwing shadows onto framed certificates and a piece of abstract art his mother picked out. She said it made the room feel warm. It didn’t.
Oscar didn’t need warmth. He needed order.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard before typing the name “Lando Norris” in the search bar.
And there he was.
Messy curls. Sharp jaw. That reckless sort of grin that made people forgive him before he even misbehaved. His instagram looked messy in an appealing sort of way. It had magazine covers, behind-the-scene shoots, blurry club photos, sun-drenched selfies, high-fasion campaigns, and occasional DJ sets. It should’ve looked try-hard, but it didn’t.
He scrolled. A recent headline about Lando read “From runways to advocacies: Lando Norris is the Generation's Golden Boy.”
Oscar tilted his head. “Classy.”
He wasn’t impressed. Not exactly. But Lando’s name stuck in his head longer than he expected. There was something about the ease of him that felt like the exact opposite of everything Oscar was.
Too famous. Too messy. Too… public.
Oscar scoffed. Less in mockery and more impressed. The guy probably couldn’t walk through a lobby without flashing cameras. It was ridiculous to even consider dating someone like that.
And then he saw it.
A tabloid headline from two weeks ago that read: “Spotted: Lando Norris and Clio De Mevuis Leaving The Campbell in New York.”
Lando Norris had dating rumors. Of course there were.
Oscar knew the name De Mevuis. Their family were New York socialites. Clio De Mevuis was the daughter of a media dynasty and a former chief designer at one of the luxury brands under P. ALLURE. The media loved her family. But Clio herself? Less so. She had a track record: cheating scandals, tone-deaf social media posts, and that one party where she’d said something offensive about minimum wage workers and blamed it in “being too drunk”.
Based on the article, she was also signed as a model for the same agency that Lando was signed to. Oscar scrolled down into the article, skimming past the fluff. It had alleged proof, from grainy photos and meaningless quotes. No confirmation of a relationship, but the implications were there (if they weren’t heavily misquoted). If Lando wasn’t dating her, he sure as hell is playing the part well.
His lips parted slightly as it clicked into place.
Lando had rumors. High-profile ones. That meant attention, but also familiarity. The media already liked to talk about him. He wasn’t a clean slate; he was an ongoing narrative. And that? That gave Oscar something incredibly useful:
Plausibility.
If Oscar entered that storyline, it wouldn’t come off as forced. Just new.
Besides, Clio was the kind of girl Oscar’s parents would adore on paper—legacy, wealth, poise. But her actual reputation? She’s kind of person who could derail a brand. And she definitely was affecting Lando’s reputation. Oscar’s mother would sip her wine and smile, then privately say she was “a walking PR liability.”
Which made Lando, by extension, just unstable enough to be useful.
Oscar leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His jaw tensed, mind racing through the possibilities. He didn’t want a boyfriend. God, no. He didn’t even want the idea of one.
But if he offered the right illusion? If the world believed it?
The public already had a framework. All Oscar had to do was offer them a new headline. Something sweet, surprising, calculated just enough to look real.
If he could sell the right story, make it convincing enough, it might just work. The public would stop speculating. His parents would be pacified. And, most importantly, he’d avoid another dinner where he’d be proposed to an arranged marriage for the good of their family name.
He still remembered the last time—sitting across from a girl named Alliana over imported French wine while their parents exchanged pleasantries like brokers finalizing a trade. It wasn’t a date. It was a merger negotiation. His mother had called it an opportunity.
He had called it absolutely not.
But this? This was on his terms. This, he could control.
His parents might scrutinize him, but not as hard if the boy in question already graced the cover of Vogue.
And as far as Lando was concerned… well, Oscar will convince him. Because if Lando Norris was half as desperate to avoid bad press as Oscar was, then maybe they could help each other out.
To: George Russell
So this Lando guy… set me up with him?
From: George Russell
I knew you’d cave mate
I’ll let you know asap ;)
He minimized the article and opened a new document.
He was gonna make a proposal. An arrangement.
Not a boyfriend, just a deal.
And Oscar Piastri never entered a deal without reading the fine print.