summary: your husband suddenly telling you he wants a divorce because he’s been having an affair leaves you heartbroken and betrayed. what follows is a journey of healing, knowing your worth, and finding love in the most unexpected place.
parings: carlos sainz x wife!reader, eventual max verstappen x reader
warnings: angst, time skips, eventual fluff
fc: danielle campbell
status: ongoing
taglist: closed! 💗
vicious speaks: hellooo and welcome or welcome back to my max series!! this was supposed to be two or three chapters but i can never do anything half way and now it’s a series lmao. i won’t have a posting schedule the way i did with iwmfly because life is a bit chaotic for me right now but i promise to try to be as consistent as possible!! i hope this series lives up to your expectations 💓
main masterlist
✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩
❀ chapter one
❀ chapter two
❀ chapter three
✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩
the scrap that started this whole thing:
❀ what a valiant roar, what a bland goodbye (version 1)
summary: your husband suddenly telling you he wants a divorce because he’s been having an affair leaves you heartbroken and betrayed. what follows is a journey of healing, knowing your worth, and finding love in the most unexpected place.
parings: carlos sainz x wife!reader, eventual max verstappen x reader
warnings: angst, time skips, eventual fluff
fc: danielle campbell
status: ongoing
vicious speaks: hellooo and welcome or welcome back to my max series!! this was supposed to be two or three chapters but i can never do anything half way and now it’s a series lmao. i won’t have a posting schedule the way i did with iwmfly because life is a bit chaotic for me right now but i promise to try to be as consistent as possible!! i hope this series lives up to your expectations 💓
main masterlist
✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩
❀ chapter one
✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩
the scrap that started this whole thing:
❀ what a valiant roar, what a bland goodbye (version 1)
Summary: Long before the podiums, the titles, and the fame, he was just a boy in a treehouse. She was the girl who promised to stay. She didn’t break that promise. Someone else did it for her.
Content: Childhood heartbreak, missing letters, mistaken goodbyes, unresolved feelings, and one very symbolic bracelet.
Author’s Note 🏎️:
This story is purely fictional and not based on real events. Some timelines, career paths, and personal details have been adjusted or reimagined to fit the narrative. It’s all for the sake of the story, so please don’t take anything here as factual. Just vibes, emotions, and a lot of imagination. Thank you for reading. I hope it makes you feel something 🫶🏻
₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚
The day Y/N moved in, Max Verstappen was already sitting in the treehouse, legs dangling off the edge, half-listening to the wind and trying to ignore the distant sound of car doors slamming. It was unusually noisy for their sleepy neighborhood, which usually had more dogs than people outside at any given hour.
He was up there because Jos had yelled again that morning, something about focus, about wasting time. So Max went where he always went when things got too loud, up in the treehouse, tucked between thick branches and scratched wood that smelled like old pine and dried glue.
Down below, a moving truck pulled up, rattling and coughing, followed by a car that barely rolled to a stop before someone burst out of the backseat. A girl.
She was dragging a suitcase with one hand and waving frantically at someone inside the house with the other. Max was just about to look away when she turned suddenly and looked straight up. Straight at him.
Then she pointed.
A few minutes later, she was standing at the base of the treehouse ladder, squinting up at him through the leaves.
“Hi!” she called, like they’d met before.
Max didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know her. He didn’t talk to new people if he could help it.
“You live here, right?” she asked again.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Y/N,” she said. “We just moved in.”
He just stared.
“Can I come up?”
That caught him off guard. No one ever asked to come up. Not even the neighbor kids who sometimes wandered too close.
He shrugged. “If you want.”
And that was how it started.
She climbed up with the confidence of someone who had never fallen out of a tree in her life, then plopped down next to him and looked around like she belonged there. Like it was already hers too.
They played cards using a half-broken deck he kept in a tin box. She asked him questions, what grade he was in, how fast his kart was, what he wanted to be when he grew up. She answered all of her own questions without waiting for him to respond.
When she finally left, she said, “I’ll come back tomorrow. You better not lose.”
He didn’t say anything, but when she was gone, he smiled to himself.
And she did come back. Every day after that.
The treehouse became theirs. It wasn’t official, but it didn’t need to be. They carved their initials into the floorboard. They stored candy in a metal lunchbox. They taped leaves and wrappers and even a movie ticket stub to the wall. They shared stories. Secrets. Fears.
Sometimes Max would sit in silence and she would do all the talking, but somehow, she always knew when to stop and just let him exist beside her.
He liked that.
One rainy afternoon, sprawled out on their backs staring at the wooden ceiling, she turned to him and said, “I’m going to be your engineer one day.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Your engineer. I’ll be the one building your car. Telling you what to fix. Then we’ll win everything. You and me.”
Max laughed. Not because it was silly, but because it made something flutter in his chest. “You’re serious?”
“Obviously.”
“What if you work for someone else?”
“No way. I’m loyal,” she said, proudly. “You’re stuck with me.”
“Promise?”
She held up her pinky. “Promise.”
He curled his pinky around hers. It felt important, like something more than just a joke. Something real.
That night, she gave him a bracelet. It had a single charm on it, her initial. He wore it every day after that. The next day, he added one for himself too.
He didn’t have a name for how he felt about her. He just knew he always wanted to see her first after a win. He wanted her to see how fast he was. He wanted her to stay.
He didn’t know that wanting someone to stay didn’t mean they would.
A few years later, everything fell apart.
Y/N’s parents told her the news over dinner. Her dad was calm, practical. Her mom looked sorry before the words even left her mouth.
“We’re moving to Japan.”
Y/N stared at her plate. “What?”
Her dad sighed. “They need me there. The company’s expanding. It’s a big opportunity.”
Her mom tried to soften the blow. “We leave this weekend. It’s fast, I know, but we didn’t want to worry you unless it was certain.”
Y/N didn’t cry. She just asked, “Can I say goodbye to Max?”
Her parents exchanged a look, then nodded.
They gave her a small box the next morning.
It was a phone.
“So you two can keep in touch,” her mom said gently. “You’ve been friends a long time.”
Y/N packed a smaller box later that night. It had a new charm for Max’s bracelet, a tiny silver steering wheel, and a long letter. She told him everything. She told him she was sorry. She wrote her number, her new address, everything. She told him she’d be back one day, and that he better not forget her.
The morning of their flight, she begged her dad to stop at Max’s house. She was bouncing on her toes, hands fidgeting and heart pounding, as she approached the door. The house looked the same as always, warm and familiar in the sun, but something about it felt heavier today. Her footsteps slowed. After a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked.
A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open, not to reveal Max, but his father.
Jos Verstappen’s expression immediately soured.
“You again?” he said flatly. “You’re always looking for Max. No wonder he’s been distracted in his races.”
Y/N lowered her head, gripping the small wrapped box tighter. Her voice came out small, but steady.
“I’m sorry. I just really need to talk to Max… just for a while…” Her voice trailed off, then she mumbled under her breath, “For the last time.”
Jos squinted. “What did you say?”
She looked up at him, eyes earnest. “We’re moving. Today, actually. I just wanted to say goodbye, give him this, and… I left my contact info inside, so we can still keep in touch.”
Jos paused. For a brief second, his eyes lit up, but he quickly masked it with a sigh and a feigned frown.
“I’m sorry for being harsh on your friendship, kid,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I only ever wanted the best for Max.”
Y/N nodded, hesitating. “Is he here? Can I see him?”
“He’s out,” Jos said quickly. “Training.”
Her face fell.
“But maybe I can give it to him for you?” he added, extending his hand with a soft smile.
Y/N stared at him, uncertain. “You’d really do that for me?”
“Of course, kid.”
Something about it felt off, but she pushed it down. With a quiet “thank you,” she hugged him gently, placing the gift in his hand.
“Please make sure he gets it. It’s really important.”
Jos nodded. “Safe travels, Y/N. I’ll give it to him right away.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Verstappen.”
She turned and walked away, holding in tears the entire time. Jos watched her until she turned the corner, then let out a quiet chuckle.
“Finally. No more distractions,” he muttered, stepping back inside. He headed straight to his office, opened a drawer, and carelessly tossed in the gift and envelope, unopened, unread. The letter inside, carefully written, held her contact information, a hand-drawn sketch of their favorite memory, and a heartfelt message she stayed up all night to finish. All of it, hidden.
—
Meanwhile, Y/N returned to the car, where her parents were already waiting inside. Her mother glanced up as she approached.
“Did you get to say goodbye to Max, dear?”
She looked down and shook her head. “No. He wasn’t around. But I gave Mr. Verstappen my gift and letter that had everything inside.”
Her parents exchanged a look.
“You’re sure, honey?” her father asked gently. “Why not give it to someone else? Maybe his mom, or a neighbor?”
“It’s okay, Mommy. I had a backup plan.” Y/N smiled proudly. “I left the same letter and gift in our treehouse. Max always goes there after naps.”
Her father gave a relieved laugh and ruffled her hair. “That’s our girl. Smart as ever.”
She beamed.
None of them knew that as soon as Y/N left, Jos made his way to the treehouse. Right after hiding the box she had asked him to give Max, he took everything else, every drawing, every note, every small thing that might remind Max of her, and hid alongside the box.
—
Max stirred awake after his nap, blinking at the time. The sun was already dipping lower in the sky. He sat up, stretching, then smiled. It was that time again. Y/N always came over after lunch, and they’d spend the afternoon at their treehouse, playing games, eating ice cream, making plans that reached far into the future.
He jumped out of bed, got dressed, and rushed over to the L/N residence. But as soon as he arrived, something felt… wrong.
There were no cars in the driveway.
No sound from inside.
No curtains drawn.
He knocked once. Then twice. He called out.
“Y/N?”
Nothing.
His knocking turned louder. “Mrs. L/N? Mr. L/N? Hello?”
Still nothing.
A tightness started forming in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Maybe something happened. Maybe they were just asleep. He began pounding on the door now, calling out Y/N’s name over and over.
Then a voice cut through the silence.
“Hey, kid. Could you calm down a bit?”
Max turned. A neighbor stood on the other side of the fence, frowning.
“Sorry, sir,” Max said quickly. “Do you know where the L/N family is? Are they at the mall or something?”
The man blinked. “The L/Ns? Oh… they left.”
Max’s stomach dropped. “Left?”
“Yeah. Left the country, I heard. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
Max stared at him, stunned. “No… no. That’s not possible.”
“Pretty sure they don’t plan on coming back,” the man added casually before going back inside.
Max stood frozen. For several seconds, everything around him went quiet. Then he took off running.
“No, no, no,” he whispered between breaths, feet pounding against the pavement. “This isn’t real, this isn’t happening.”
He didn’t even notice the tears until he reached the treehouse. He climbed up, desperate. His hands shook as he pulled open the wooden hatch.
Erased. Everything about her had been erased.
The drawings they made together. The little gifts. Their shared journals. Even the photo they kept of the day they built the treehouse, all gone. It looked just like it did before she came into his life, like how it was when Max was the only one using it.
Like she had never been there at all.
Like she wanted him to forget her.
His legs gave out and he collapsed onto the floor, tears pouring freely now. His heart felt like it was splitting open. He curled up and sobbed, flashes of memory overwhelming him.
The first time they met in this treehouse.
How she always stood between him and a group of bullies, tiny but fierce, shouting that they were cowards for picking on someone just because he didn’t have a “nice dad.”
The way she cheered for him after every race, even the bad ones.
The way she always knew what to say to make things better.
The time he was sick and afraid to sleep, scared he would wake up and she’d be gone. She stayed beside him all night, pinky-promising she would never leave him.
“Forever,” she had said.
He pulled his bracelet from his pocket. It was silver and a little scratched, with only two charms so far, one with her initials, and one with his.
They were supposed to fill it together.
Max stared at it, eyes red and swollen. He clenched it tightly in his fist and whispered into the empty air.
“She lied to me.”
Then louder.
“You lied to me.”
His voice cracked.
What he didn’t know was that Jos had lied. Didn’t know the letters existed. Didn’t know Y/N had tried.
All he knew was the pain.
And all he had left was the bracelet.
₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚
Y/N sat by the window, fiddling with the little charm on her bracelet. Her fingers kept tracing the edge of the tiny silver star until her mom gently nudged her arm.
“Are you nervous?” her mother asked.
Y/N glanced outside, where clouds floated past the plane wing. “Yeah. I didn’t grow up in Japan. I don’t really know anyone.”
Her mom gave her a soft smile. “Honey, even if you didn’t grow up there, you were born there. And besides,” she added, brushing a strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, “Yuki will be there.”
Y/N turned her head. “Yuki?”
“Yes. He was your playmate until you two were around five. I was told he’s very excited to see you again.”
Y/N blinked. Her mind scrambled to find a face to match the name. She couldn’t remember much. Just blurry memories of swings, warm afternoons, and someone always running ahead of her.
The thought settled her a little. Not completely, but enough.
Maybe she was nervous because of Max.
What if he was mad at her?
But then again, even if he was, it probably wouldn’t last long. They had phones now. They could talk.
Things would be okay. They had to be.
—
By the time they landed and arrived at their new home in Japan, it was already late afternoon. The street was lined with people, neighbors, family friends, and curious kids with wide eyes. Everyone seemed excited. The warmth in their greetings made Y/N pause. It felt different here. In Belgium, people kept to themselves. Here, it was like the whole street had come to welcome her home.
She stepped out of the car just as someone threw their arms around her.
“Yatta! Omae ga modotte kita! Ore no saisho no tomodachi da!!” (Yay! You're back! My first friend!) the voice shouted with joy.
Y/N blinked in surprise, momentarily frozen. Then she gently returned the hug and pulled back with a polite but confused smile.
“Konnichiwa… tomodachi yo.?” she said cautiously. “Gomen ne, chotto oboete nai no…” (Hello… friend? Sorry, I’m having a hard time remembering…)
The boy laughed, clearly not offended at all. “Is me, Yuki! You… you no remember? We race shopping cart! Down driveway! You crash into mailbox. I laugh so hard, my mama scold me.”
Her eyes widened. “No way. That was you? Oh my god, I thought you were just a dream!”
He nodded eagerly. “Yes yes! You cry, but only little. Then we eat snack. You bring chocolate.”
She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Oh my god. I thought I dreamed that.”
Yuki pointed at himself proudly. “Not dream. Real! I real! You come back. We bestest friend again, okay?”
They laughed, slipping into conversation like no time had passed. When Yuki stumbled over his next sentence, Y/N gently switched to Japanese. She didn’t want him to struggle. His eyes lit up with relief, and from then on, they spoke easily in their shared language.
“I have a feeling we’re going to be the beeeestest of friends,” he said confidently, bumping her shoulder.
Y/N laughed. “We already are.”
That day, one friendship was rekindled.
And somewhere else, without her even knowing, another was quietly breaking.
—
Time passed quickly after Y/N moved back to Japan.
She and Yuki became inseparable, just like when they were little. Every morning, he would wait outside her house with two juice boxes and a huge smile, waving at her like it had been years since they last saw each other. They did everything together. They walked to school, snuck snacks into class, and raced paper boats in the gutters after a storm. If there was a school activity, a family trip, or even just a lazy afternoon, you could count on them being side by side.
It was like they grew up as twins, bonded not by blood but by something even stronger: timing, trust, and the track. They both loved racing. Yuki would talk endlessly about engines and tires, while Y/N would try to predict strategies like a seasoned engineer. Eventually, she stopped just listening and started helping. They made a perfect team. If Yuki had a karting competition, Y/N would be there by the side, clipboard in hand, shouting feedback louder than anyone else. And if Y/N had something on her mind, Yuki would sense it before she even said a word.
Just like during that first week Y/N was back in Japan, before everything had settled, she couldn’t help but feel like something was off.
(Flashback)
She sat on her bed, bracelet clutched tightly in her palm. It had been days, but her phone stayed silent. Max hadn’t contacted her. Not even once.
Yuki noticed her quiet mood during lunch one afternoon and nudged her with a cookie.
“You look sad. Is school too hard?” he asked, mouth full.
Y/N shook her head.
“Then what?” he pressed. “Tell me. I fix it.”
She looked down at her tray. “I just thought someone would’ve messaged me by now.”
“Who?”
“…My best friend. From Belgium. Max.”
Yuki frowned. “No message? Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“A bad friend,” Yuki declared with a pout. “Very bad. He made you cry. You forget him. I be your best friend now. Bestest in the whole wide world.”
Y/N smiled a little at that, leaning her shoulder on his. “Okay. But just so you know… Max is really important to me.”
“I am important now,” Yuki said with a proud nod.
(End)
And he really did try. Over time, Y/N stopped checking her phone so much. She still thought of Max often, especially during races or when the wind reminded her of Belgium, but she let herself grow close to Yuki without guilt. Together, they grew up cheering each other on, yelling advice across karting tracks and making silly bets with ice cream as the prize.
But in Belgium, Max Verstappen’s world had become silent again.
Without Y/N, everything felt dull. He’d always known the sport was hard, but now it felt cold. No one was there to throw their arms around him after a bad race. No one sat next to him on the swing set when the other kids said he was weird. No one brought him mango juice or cheered even when he came in last. He stopped hearing kind words altogether.
Even the treehouse had changed.
The place that once held laughter and secrets now sat in silence. The candy wrappers were gone. The tin lunchbox was empty. The walls, once decorated with stickers and scribbled messages, had faded in the sun. The tree itself started to look different. The leaves grew thinner. The branches drooped. It hadn’t been watered or cared for in years, and it showed. What was once their shared paradise had become Max’s hiding spot when Jos was mad again. It didn’t comfort him the way it used to.
Years passed.
Max’s career began to take off. He was preparing to leave Belgium to chase the big leagues. Teams. Tracks. Pressure. Fame. It was everything he had worked for, but something about it didn’t feel right.
He loaded the last box into the back of the car. Jos slammed the trunk and said, “Ready?”
Max paused. “Wait. I forgot something.”
He jogged back through the overgrown yard and climbed up the creaky steps of the treehouse one last time. Dust danced in the light. The wood groaned under his weight.
He sat down in the same corner he used to sit in as a kid and looked around. His eyes landed on one of the old drawings he had carved into the wall with a pocket knife.
A stickman version of himself stood on a podium, arms raised. Above it, the word champion was scrawled in crooked letters.
Right below it was another tiny stick figure. This one had long hair and was clapping with little stars around her head.
Max reached out and traced the line he had written beneath it.
Max wins the world championship. Y/N is his engineer.
He closed his eyes.
“I really thought we’d do this together,” he whispered.
Then he climbed back down the ladder, looked up at the treehouse, and said softly, “This is it.”
₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚
Yuki was the first to leave.
It felt strange, the morning he rolled his suitcase to the airport check-in. His usual loud energy was quieter, replaced by a shaky smile and nervous fingers tapping against his hoodie sleeve. Y/N stood beside him, blinking away the weight pressing behind her eyes.
“Don’t cry,” he said quickly, voice cracking despite the smile. “You cry, I cry.”
“I’m not crying,” she sniffed, poking his arm. “It’s just the weather.”
“Inside the airport?” he teased.
They stood in silence for a second longer before she hugged him tightly. Neither wanted to let go.
“When we see each other again,” Yuki said, stepping back, “we’ll be big names. You, engineer girl genius. Me, fastest driver.”
She grinned. “Deal.”
“But no goodbye,” he added, wagging a finger. “Only see you soon.”
“See you soon, Yuki.”
With one last wave, he disappeared through the crowd.
—
And then… life moved forward.
Y/N buried herself in her studies. She got into one of the best engineering universities in Tokyo. Her days blurred together: late-night lectures, stacks of notes, greasy cafeteria food, and way too much caffeine. There were moments when it felt like too much, but every time she looked at her worn-out bracelet or passed a go-kart track, she remembered why she started.
She graduated near the top of her class, surrounded by cheering classmates and flashing cameras. Not long after, she aced the licensing exams, officially earning the title she had worked so hard for.
Dream one: complete.
She’s finally an engineer. It still feels a little unreal, but it’s hers.
—
Yuki’s first year abroad wasn’t as easy.
At first, he struggled. English was hard, the food was weird, and no one seemed to get his jokes. He missed Japan. Missed the rhythm of his life back home. Missed Y/N’s easy laughter during long karting weekends.
But he worked. Hard.
Every bad qualifying session, every miscommunication with his team, every lonely hotel night, he turned it into fuel. Slowly, the results came. So did the friends. He learned how to express himself even when the words weren’t perfect. He smiled more. Fought harder.
Years later, sitting on a balcony with his helmet on the table beside him, Yuki stared at the headline on his phone:
Tsunoda Confirmed as F1’s Newest Driver.
His hands trembled. He laughed. Then he called Y/N and shouted, “WE DID IT!”
Dream two: complete.
He was in Formula 1.
—
Max, meanwhile, was clawing his way up on his own.
His F3 days were brutal. He was fast, but raw. Emotional. Other drivers whispered. Some avoided him altogether. He was “the kid with too much fire and no brakes.”
But Max didn’t care. Or at least, he told himself he didn’t.
He carried the weight of everything: the expectations, the lonely nights, the dream that once belonged to two people. There were nights when he’d sit by himself after races, staring at the sky, wondering if she’d be proud. Wondering if she remembered.
Eventually, his talent was undeniable.
F1 came calling.
And even then, it wasn’t easy. He was young. Aggressive. Often misunderstood. The media called him reckless. Teammates didn’t always trust him. Older drivers were cold. But Max kept showing up. Kept proving them wrong. Over time, respect followed.
Now, as he stood on the podium once again, the anthem playing, a crowd roaring below, Max looked down at the bracelet tucked beneath his suit cuff.
two charms still dangled from it.
Dream three: ongoing.
He had made it.
But a piece of him still felt unfinished.
Because the one person who promised to be by his side wasn’t there.
Not yet.
—
Y/N couldn’t figure out why she felt so nervous.
She’d been to races before. But this one felt… heavier.
Yuki had pleaded with her to be there for his debut. “Just this once,” he had said. “It would mean everything.” And of course, she said yes. She always did, especially when it came to him.
But the weight in her chest didn’t feel like nerves for Yuki. Not really. It felt like something else. Like someone else. Someone from back then.
Yuki never asked who Max really was. And she never offered more than a first name.
So naturally, he never really talked about Max in F1 either, because in his mind, Max was just someone from her childhood. A classmate. A neighbor. A boy from another lifetime. It never even crossed his mind that they could be the same person.
He never made the connection.
The moment they landed, Yuki was waiting at the gate, practically bouncing in place. He held a piece of paper that said “FOR MY FAVORITE ENGINEER” in giant block letters, with two messy hearts in the corners.
Y/N laughed and ran into him, nearly knocking the sign out of his hands.
“You’re actually here,” he said, hugging her like he hadn’t seen her in years.
“I told you I would be.”
He toured her around the hotel, pointing out which floors the team was on, where she could sneak snacks, and who to avoid. Then he dropped the bomb.
“I applied for you,” he said. “To F1’s development program. You got in.”
She blinked. “You did what?”
“You’re gonna be trained and mentored by real engineers, and then you can apply to any team you want. This is the start.”
“Yuki—”
“We promised, remember? I’m racing, and you’re beside me. Always.”
The next day was chaos.
It was race day.
Fans screamed from the grandstands. Teams rushed through the paddock like bees in a hive. Yuki looked impossibly small in his suit, helmet under one arm, but his grin stretched ear to ear.
Y/N stayed just outside the restricted zone, watching him get into the car. He pointed at her once before the lights changed, and then he was off.
She barely noticed the rest.
Until something, someone, brushed past her.
A driver, walking quickly. Suit zipped, helmet gripped tight. She only saw him from behind, the dark racing colors streaked with sponsor patches. She didn’t know why, but her chest suddenly felt tight. Like she should have known him. Like there was something right on the edge of her memory.
But she didn’t see his face.
She didn’t stop him.
He disappeared into the pit lane crowd, swallowed up by noise and motion.
—
Max had already finished the final checks. Helmet under his arm, mind focused, jaw clenched.
But as he made his way through the paddock, something pulled at him. He turned his head slightly, just for a second, eyes scanning the crowd beyond the barricade.
There, a girl.
He couldn’t see her face, only the back of her head, the way her hair caught in the breeze, the way she stood like she belonged but didn’t want to be seen. Her posture. Her stillness.
It wasn’t unusual.
And yet.
Something inside him paused. A flicker of memory he couldn’t name. A dream from long ago.
He stared just long enough for his engineer to call his name again. He blinked it away, shook his head, and kept walking.
Summary: Six years ago Toto Wolff’s daughter disappeared from the paddock and from Max’s life. You were once inseparable, the paddock’s favourite duo. Then you vanished without warning. Now with your sudden return all eyes are on you and everyone wants to know: what really happened between you two… and why now? (Part 1/?)
6.3k words / Masterlist
You don’t mean to make an entrance, but you can’t say you’re surprised when you do.
It’s your first time back in the paddock in six years, flanked by a Mercedes comms manager on one side and a very smug-looking Toto Wolff on the other. You knew there would be cameras. You didn’t expect the noise.
Cameras snap like gunfire. Phones lift in unison, a sea of lenses tracking your every step. Someone on TikTok is already livestreaming, their shaky voice breathless: “Wait, is that? Oh my God it’s her. It’s actually her.”
You catch Lewis grinning from across the garage. Alex, mid-interview cuts off his answer and stares like he’s seen a ghost. Mechanics pause. Journalists whisper. Your name ripples through the chaos like an echo breaking water “Is that her?”
Your father just laughs beside you.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he murmurs in your ear. “You’re still remembered around here.”
You scoff, but the flutter in your chest is impossible to ignore. “They only remember me because I set off the fire alarm in the Red Bull motorhome when I was fifteen.”
“Twice,” Toto corrects smoothly, clearly enjoying this far too much.
You roll your eyes, but the grin threatens anyway.
You’ve been gone a long time. University in Vienna. The start-up you built from scratch. Years spent fiercely carving out something that was yours, something that didn’t begin and end with the name Wolff. You stayed away on purpose. Detached yourself from the sport, from the politics, from the way every glance carried expectation.
But now, standing in the middle of the paddock with the sky blindingly blue above you and the scent of hot tarmac in the air, you realise how much you missed this. The adrenaline. The anticipation. The chaos and glamour of Formula 1. It hums in your blood like something ancient and familiar.
And then you see him.
Across the paddock, past the media swarm and team garages and Red Bull hospitality, Max Verstappen is staring at you.
Not discreetly. Not with the professional civility you might expect from a World Champion. No polite nod, no casual sip of water. Just... stillness. Frozen mid-step, Red Bull clutched in his hand, staring like someone had knocked the breath out of him.
You haven’t seen him in six years.
Not since everything fell apart. Not since you walked away without saying goodbye. Still, across the noise and cameras and years your eyes lock like magnets snapping into place.
Your heart stumbles, one hard, clumsy beat against your ribs. You’d half-expected him to turn away. Look past you. Pretend not to notice.
But of course not. This is Max Verstappen. Ever-confident, maddeningly unbothered Max. The boy who turned into a man when you weren’t looking.
You watch disbelief flicker across his face, brief and raw, before it hardens into something more dangerous, a crooked, knowing half-smile. He mutters something to his trainer, who also glances your way, brows raised. Then, with the same intensity he brings to every race, Max begins walking toward you.
You forget how to breathe.
“Uh oh,” Toto says under his breath, gaze still forward. “Here comes trouble.”
You don’t respond. Can’t. Not when Max Verstappen is walking straight toward you like you never left, like no time has passed, like the silence between you wasn’t its own kind of heartbreak. Not when your palms are sweating and every part of you is screaming to run or stay.
You stay.
Because God help you, you want to know what he’ll say.
“Y/N,” Max says when he’s close enough, voice breathless like he might’ve run the last few steps. It’s deeper than you remember, rougher, older, but his eyes… his eyes haven’t changed at all, sharp, stormy blue. Still impossible to look away from.
“Max.” You say his name like it doesn’t still echo in your chest. Like it hasn’t been living in the corners of your mind for years. You fight the warmth crawling up your neck, the way your voice threatens to crack under the weight of history.
For a moment neither of you says anything. You just stare, two people caught between memory and reality, the past pressing in from all sides.
Then—
“You’re back?” he asks, as if he still doesn’t quite believe it.
You raise a brow. “What gave it away?”
He huffs out a laugh, low, surprised, too genuine. It curls in your chest like heat. “Guess you haven’t changed.”
“Would you want me to?”
The smile on his face falters just for a second and something flickers across his expression, brief, unreadable. Pain, maybe. Or regret. Or something else you’re not ready to name.
His voice is softer when he speaks again. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Me neither.”
“You’re working?” He glances at the staff badge around your neck.
You nod. “Yes.”
Another pause. Tighter, heavier. The kind that says the next words will change the air around you.
And then, quieter, the last thing you expected him to admit right now so soon. “I missed you.”
It lands like a punch to the ribs. Your breath catches. Your heart stumbles.
You don’t say I missed you too. You don’t say I thought about calling you all the time, or I hated you a little for letting me walk away. Because there are cameras everywhere. Phones pointed in your direction. Hundreds of ears. Thousands of eyes. This moment is too real to be shared.
So instead you swallow it down and smirk, light, teasing, familiar. The version of you he used to know.
“Well,” you say with a playful tilt of your head, “try not to lose me Verstappen.”
He blinks. Then his brow arches and he smirks back. “So you’re back to distract me?”
You lean in, just slightly. “No. But I am the one writing the new Mercedes strategy protocol, so…”
His expression twists into something between disbelief and awe. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Not even a little.”
His mouth opens like he has something more to say, something real, but you’re already turning away leaving him standing there with nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.
The video gets clipped from three different angles.
In one Max sees you across the paddock and actually stops walking. Mid-stride. Like someone pressed pause on him. His gaze locks on you with such intensity that even the camera jolts a little, as if the person filming felt it too.
In another, he's closer, much closer. Biting back a grin as he reaches you, fingers nervously fidgeting with the cap of his drink. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, like his whole body is trying to contain something bigger than it can hold.
In the last you're smiling, bright, carefree, almost like you’ve forgotten you’re being watched. Max leans in, drawn to you instinctively, grinning in a way that makes him look younger. Lighter. Like someone who hasn’t smiled like that in a very long time.
The video goes viral in under ten minutes.
It’s barley a minute-long interaction.
It breaks the internet for seventy-two hours.
SHE’S BACK: Y/N WOLFF’S SURPRISE RETURN TO F1 SENDS SHOCKWAVES THROUGH THE PADDOCK
Verstappen stops in his tracks — insiders say “he didn’t see it coming.”
@FormulaAddict:
MAX VERSTAPPEN HAS NOT SMILED LIKE THAT ALL SEASON.
@MissedGridMoments:
Y/N Wolff just walked back into the paddock and unlocked core memories for everyone born before 2005.
@RedFlag:
Max’s whole posture changed when he saw her. Guys. GUYS.
@MercedesStan44:
Let’s not forget that time in 2018 when Toto joked, “Max is practically a son with the amount of time he spends with my daughter.”
Oh to be a fly on that wall now...
@F1GossipGirl:
Why is no one talking about the way Max’s face lit up when he saw her? That wasn’t a hello. That was a memory.
@VettelBaby94:
They were inseparable back in the day. This is my Roman Empire.
@GR63lover:
The grid kids are grown up and together again. We are so back.
@Veryapping33:
I need a docuseries on what happened between them. Why did she vanish? Why did they stop talking?? I’m not sleeping until I know.
Then the stories start flooding back like wildfire.
Clips from 2015 resurface: the two of you stealing a golf cart in Monaco, Max laughing so hard he nearly crashes it, you in the passenger seat screaming “LEFT MAX NOT RIGHT!”
An old Sky Sports interview gets dug up where Max, nineteen and bashful, is asked about you. He looks down, shrugs with a crooked smile, and says, “She knows me better than anyone. She always has.”
There’s a video from Brazil, 2019. You and Max sprinting through the rain, hand in hand, drenched and breathless and shrieking with laughter. The camera catches a moment where he pulls you into his jacket, arms wrapped tight, grinning into your soaked hair.
The old fans remember it all, the golden era of Max-and-you moments. The new fans eat it up.
You’re dubbed the grid’s lost love story. A flame that never got to burn properly. The kind of maybe-almost that turns into myth when no one explains why it ended.
Because no one knows.
No one knows what happened in 2019.
No one knows what tore the silence between you wide open and why it never closed.
No one knows why you left. Not even Max himself.
Sky Sports Paddock Walk:
Natalie Pinkham pauses mid-stride, turning toward the camera with a knowing smile as the cameraman instinctively zooms in.
Natalie: “Well, would you look at that. The paddock’s long-lost princess Y/N Wolff has officially returned. Back on Mercedes turf and, we’re hearing, heading up a new performance strategy division. That’s not just a comeback, that’s a statement.”
Cut to footage of you warmly greeting Mercedes mechanics. A few break into grins. One wraps you in a hug. Another says something that makes you laugh, full, unfiltered, radiant.
DAZN Interview – Max Verstappen
Reporter: “What do you think about Mercedes new hire Y/N Wolff?”
Max smiles, faint and guarded, squinting into the sun.
Max: “She surprised everyone didn’t she? It’s been a long time.”
Reporter: “You two were close, weren’t you?”
Max: “We grew up in the same chaos, it’s hard not to be.”
Reporter: “Fans seem to think you two were more than that.”
Max: “Fans think a lot of things.”
Twitter is in flames:
@GridTea:
Max didn’t deny it. I REPEAT. MAX DID NOT DENY IT.
@YNLoreMaster:
For anyone confused:
They met as kids at karting events
Would hang out constantly in the paddock from 2015–2019
Multiple hand-holding sightings 2017-2019
Last seen together in Abu Dhabi 2019 arguing near the Red Bull garage
Stopped being seen together after Abu Dhabi 2019
No known fallout
No known romance
Everyone speculated they were together
NOTHING was ever confirmed
@McLaren81:
Please someone dig up that old interview where Y/N says, “Max and I? No, he’d die before admitting he likes me.” PLEASE.
Lando Norris on Twitch:
“I remember thinking they were married at one point. I swear she’s the only person who could shut Max up without saying a word.”
Daniel Riccardo on a podcast:
“We’d all be stuck in meetings and Max would vanish. Then you’d see him down the hall leaning on a wall talking to Y/N. Like clockwork.”
Lewis Hamilton in an interview:
“Told you she’d come back eventually. The paddock’s not half as fun without her.”
The buzz continues through the weekend. Every time you so much as pass Max in the paddock it’s another 50k likes on Instagram.
People zoom in on photos. Highlight lingering stares. The mystery only grows.
Why did you stop showing up after 2019?
Why did he never talk about it?
Why did neither of you?
Sky Sports:
Interviewer: “Max, fans want to know… are we witnessing a rekindling of something?”
Without missing a beat:
Max: “Ask her.”
Thursday - 9:35PM:
By now it’s no longer a question of if something happened between Max and you it’s when and why it ended.
So the fans go digging…
@YNLoreMaster (thread):
THE Y/N x MAX TIMELINE – WHAT WE KNOW
2008-2015:
Max and Y/N spotted together constantly at karting events. Their friendship is formed.
Fun fact: Their dads were often interviewed together while they snuck off.
Someone on Tumblr claimed they once raced against each other at a private test and Y/N beat him. Unconfirmed, but delicious.
2016:
Max joins F1. Y/N is at fourteen of the races despite being in school at the time. (their crushing hug after his first win still makes me cry)
Once they were caught on Sky F1 stealing snacks from the hospitality fridge. Ted Kravitz called them “F1’s resident gremlins.”
2017:
Photos emerge of them leaving the paddock his arm wrapped around her shoulders at Spa. Fans start shipping them hard.
Y/N posts a blurry Instagram story of Max driving her in a golf cart with the caption:
no brakes, no rules, no common sense
(Deleted but archived forever along with many Instagram stories.)
2018:
Max does an interview in which he says:
“Y/N’s might be the only person who knows how to calm me down. I don’t know what it is, but it works.”
That same weekend, Toto Wolff says in a press conference:
“If Verstappen crashes again I’ll send my daughter to talk some sense into him.”
2019:
Final year they’re seen consistently together.
They’re caught arguing near the Red Bull garage in Abu Dhabi. Y/N leaves the paddock before the race.
Max is unusually quiet in post-race interviews.
She never returns.
2020–2024:
Radio silence.
No interaction. No mentions. Not a single word.
2025:
She walks back into the paddock.
He beelines for her.
Instagram re-shares of old deleted stories explode:
@gofasterprincess:
Can’t believe we forgot this one.
[Story repost] Y/N’s phone camera panning across the sky, giggling in the background. Max’s voice: “Stop filming me. This is blackmail.
@Y/NMax4ever:
June 2018. Max has a wrist wrap on. Y/N posts this.
Caption: Don’t worry, I’ll drive the getaway car.
@FastestLapMemories:
Throwback to Silverstone ‘17.
[Story repost] Max holding a melting ice cream. Y/N behind the camera:
“You said you didn’t want one.”
Max (mouth full): “This isn’t yours anymore.”
@PaddockChronicles:
Lowkey forgot how obsessed he was.
[Story repost] Max in sunglasses, sitting on a pit wall, clearly watching someone.
The caption from Y/N: He says he’s not staring... suuuuure.
(This one was deleted in under an hour)
@BehindTheVisor:
The chaos was unmatched.
[Story repost] A blurry night-time clip from a driver’s party. Y/N shouting, “Don’t let him near the karaoke mic!” just as Max grabs it
@Vercedes:
We’re never getting over this one.
[Story repost] Max and Y/N playing table football in the Red Bull hospitality lounge. It’s neck and neck.
Her caption: Loser buys dinner. He lost.
Friday - 11:17AM - Sky Sports Show:
Ted Kravitz
“I’ve been in this paddock for a very long time and Y/N Wolff caused more chaos here at seventeen than most team principals do in a decade.”
David Croft :
“Max always seemed more relaxed around her... that’s not speculation, that’s just an observation.”
Naomi Schiff:
“They were just kids though.”
Crofty (chuckling):
“And now she’s back and not just as Toto’s daughter, but as a strategic lead. If she and Max start hanging out again someone tell Red Bull to double-check their passwords.
Reddit Thread – /r/formula1gossip: “What if they WERE a thing?”
u/oldschoolracingfan:
You’re telling me we had a secret paddock romance under our noses for years and no one figured it out? That’s either master-level privacy or Toto had people scrubbing content.
u/bringthelionout:
They have “unfinished business” energy. You don’t look at someone like that unless you’ve dreamt about it every night for 6 years.
u/hotlaphero:
Max hasn’t looked this relaxed and stressed at the same time in years. This is going to end in tears or a wedding.
u/wolffpackbaby:
I NEED. TO. KNOW. WHAT. HAPPENED
Friday - 5:00PM - Drivers’ Briefing Lounge
It’s a little too quiet when you walk in. Max isn’t here yet which is probably for the best.
The briefing lounge is usually a blur of quiet chatter, but as you step through the door in full Mercedes team gear headset slung around your neck, badge clipped to your belt the air shifts.
You’re not a guest. Not a paddock kid. You’re staff.
George is the first to acknowledge you, grinning as he rises from his seat. “Ladies and gentlemen the prodigal strategist.”
Lewis looks up from his seat near the back and lifts his chin in greeting. “Took you long enough.”
You smile. “Blame your ex-boss.”
“Always,” he replies, voice warm and cheeky.
Then, from across the room, you hear it:
“Finally.”
You turn to see Fernando, arms crossed, watching you with the sort of smile that’s rare for him, soft, restrained, genuine.
“We’ve been waiting.”
You blink, warmth flooding your chest. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“You?” He raises an eyebrow. “I remember when you used to hide under the briefing table and eat all the snack bars.”
You flush. “I was a kid.”
“You were a menace,” he says fondly.
He rests a hand on your shoulder. “It’s good to have you back around here. Really.”
You nod, suddenly and unexpectedly choked up. “It’s good to be back.”
By now more eyes are turning.
Charles notices you next as he arrives, expression lifting in disbelief. “Wait. No way.”
He crosses the room in a few quick strides and wraps you in a hug without hesitation. “You’re actually here?”
You laugh as he pulls you into a tight hug. “I’ve been back for less than 48 hours.”
“And it’s already all anyone’s talking about.”
Carlos follows a step behind, slower but just as warm. “Thought the rumours were exaggerated.”
“Turns out I’m real,” you say lightly. “And on payroll.”
“I thought you disappeared forever.”
“I tried,” you admit. “Didn’t stick.”
Esteban hovers, half-in disbelief. “You’re working for Mercedes now?”
“Full-time. Performance strategy division.”
Charles whistles. “Toto finally gave in huh?”
You grin. “Guess he realised nepotism isn’t so bad when I’m useful.”
The old dynamic falls back into place so quickly it stings, not because it hurts, but because you didn’t realise how much you missed it until now. The conversation melts into the kind of teasing, comfortable rhythm that only comes with years of shared history, Monaco karting weekends, sneaking into hospitality lounges after curfew, late-night races on electric scooters through the paddock. You were never just Toto’s daughter to them.
You were one of them.
You meet Lewis’s eyes once more. He nods subtle, approving, excited.
Welcome home.
Charles Leclerc Interview Snippet:
Interviewer: “Do you think Max and Y/N were a couple back in the day?”
Charles (stone-faced): “No. And I don’t think we should talk about other people’s private lives. That’s not what we’re here for.”
(beat of silence)
Charles: “...but they fought like one. That might be worse.”
Saturday - 12:32PM - Trackside Strategy Room:
You hadn’t expected to see him here.
Technically, this meeting is for staff not drivers, a dry, numbers-heavy debrief to finalise tyre projections for qualifying and prep wet-weather contingencies. Drivers don’t usually attend. They get summaries. Bullet points. Audio files to skim on the bike.
So when Max Verstappen walks into the glass-walled strategy room fireproofs half-unzipped, helmet hair still damp from FP3, water bottle dangling from two fingers, the temperature in the room shifts.
You freeze mid-sentence.
He doesn’t.
His eyes scan the table once, twice, and then they find you tucked in at the far end, Mercedes jacket crisp, data sheets laid out in front of you. His gaze lingers a second too long. You know that look.
He slides into the seat across from you like it was meant for him.
“Didn’t know you’d be here.” he says casually, lips curling into a smirk.
You don’t look up. “It’s my job now, why would I not be?”
A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth but he doesn’t respond. The Red Bull engineer beside him snorts quietly sensing something charged and unspoken.
The meeting starts. But no one’s really watching the slides.
You and Max go back and forth not openly combative, not flirtatious, but something in the middle. A tug-of-war beneath the surface, each technical exchange laced with familiarity neither of you acknowledges.
He questions your wet-temp delta assumptions.
You counter with updated degradation curves and sector drop-off data.
He raises a brow. “You always did have a thing for worst-case scenarios.”
You shrug. “You always did ignore them.”
That earns a grin. Full, sharp. Real.
Someone shifts awkwardly in their seat. A McLaren engineer clears their throat.
Then Max leans forward, elbows on the table. “You still love being right huh?”
You glance up, finally, just enough to meet his gaze. “Only when I am.”
By the end of the debrief, the rain forecast is barely mentioned. But the static between you and Max? Undeniable.
@F1Updates:
Y/N Wolff & Max Verstappen in the same strategy briefing this morning. Witnesses described it as “low-key a duel.”
@FastGirlsFasterRumors:
Sources say Max was grinning when Y/N Wolff shut him down with cold, hard data. This is exes-to-lovers coded and I’m not okay.
@LiveFromThePaddock:
Overheard in the room:
“Do they realise we’re all here?”
No. No, they don’t.
Saturday - 2:28PM - Pre-Quali:
The grid is chaos. Engines rumble. Rain spits from a grey sky in half-hearted warning. Mechanics yell over each other. Camera crews duck and weave. And Martin Brundle is in his element, weaving through the storm like a man on a mission.
Then he stops.
“Oh. There’s someone I haven’t seen in a while. Let’s have a word, Y/N Wolff! You’re back on the grid. Causing trouble already?”
You turn just in time to catch the microphone in your face. The camera crew follows Martin like a shadow.
You smile. Polite. Poised.
“I’m just observing today,” you say smoothly. “No trouble. Yet.”
Martin chuckles. “Yet. Well that’s reassuring. Word around the paddock is you made quite the impression in the strategy meeting this morning. Bit of a face-off with the reigning World Champion eh?”
You glance down the grid not toward Max but you feel his presence like heat on the back of your neck.
Your smirk is subtle. Measured. “Let’s just say some people hate being proven wrong.”
Martin howls with laughter, but you’re already stepping away, slipping through the grid like a ghost with teeth.
2:37pm - Red Bull Garage - Pre-Quali:
Max zips up the top half of his race suit, sweat clings to his hairline, he runs a hand through it, pacing slow, like something’s chewing through his ribs.
GP glances up from his notes. “You good?”
Max doesn’t answer at first. Just leans against the wall, eyes fixed toward the open-air paddock where rain starts to dot the concrete.
“She’s different,” he says finally, quiet and certain. “Sharper.”
GP lifts a brow. “She was always sharp.”
“Not in the same way.”
Max’s voice drops, low and certain.
“She was confident before, sure, but there was always a kind of… shyness to it, a hesitation. Now?”
He exhales slowly.
“Now she’s certain of herself… of where she stands. Of what she’s always been capable of.”
“And that’s a problem?” GP asks carefully.
Max swallows. Shakes his head once.
“No,” he says. “That’s exactly the problem.”
Saturday - 8:32PM - Hotel Rooftop:
The rooftop is glowing.
Soft fairy lights string above, casting golden halos across champagne flutes and white linen napkins. Music hums low jazzy, unobtrusive, expensive. The kind of event sponsors expect you to attend. Somewhere in the distance, the harbour glitters like a spilled bottle of diamonds, and the air is thick with late-summer heat. It clings to your dress, crawls down your spine, settles against the hollow of your throat.
You hadn’t planned to stay long.
Just a polite appearance smile, nod, small talk with engineers, a clink of crystal with Toto. Maybe ten minutes, twenty max. You’ve spent the last hour dodging nostalgia like landmines. Smiling too tightly. Laughing too late. Trying to pretend Max’s stare from that meeting earlier hadn’t followed you all the way up here.
And now he’s here.
You feel him before you see him. The familiar gravity of him, laced with fire and friction and whatever lived between you years ago, pulling your attention like muscle memory.
He’s not in team gear. Not exactly dressed up, either. All black, casual, like he only came because someone higher-up insisted he make an appearance. There’s no champagne in his hand just a bottle of sparkling water, still sealed, fingers tapping the side like he wishes it were something stronger.
He leans against the railing like it’s instinct, like he’s done this a hundred times. Like it’s not the first time you’ve been alone in half a decade.
You tilt your head. “Max? What are you doing here? You know there’s a race tomorrow right?”
Max smirks, easy and unbothered. “I’m not staying long.”
Your eyes flick up to his. “That’s what they all say.”
Silence stretches. Comfortable and taut all at once. The kind of silence that’s familiar and dangerous, because it knows exactly what used to live in the spaces between you.
“You looked good out there today,” Max says, voice quieter now.
You glance at him. “On the pit wall?”
He shakes his head slightly. “On the offensive.”
You huff a laugh. “Still hate being challenged?”
“I don’t hate it when it’s you.”
Your stomach flips. You take a slow sip to hide it.
Time slips away from you as you stand together on the edge of the rooftop.
“People are talking,” you murmur, keeping your eyes on the glittering horizon.
Max shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours. “Let them.”
“You don’t care?”
His gaze drifts to your profile. “Why would I?”
You pause, throat tight.
A gust of wind cuts between you. You feel it in your bones, that old version of yourself, young and burning and unfinished, standing right beside you. Bitter champagne on your tongue. Questions that never found answers. The echo of a goodbye that was never truly said.
“I never asked,” Max says suddenly, barely above a whisper. “Why you left.”
Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass.
“I thought you didn’t care.”
He looks over, stunned and confused. “I did,” he says. His voice doesn’t waver. “Of course I did.”
You meet his eyes. It’s like looking at a memory that never faded, but you don’t tell him what you overheard that night the harsh words said in confidence not meant for your ears. You don’t tell him how that moment broke something in you, how it made you pack up everything and walk away before he could see the crack.
You clear your throat. “The paddock got small.”
“That’s not the real reason.”
You tilt your head. “Is it the one you told yourself?”
He studies you for a long, weighted moment.
“No,” he says finally. “The one I told myself was that maybe I fucked something up and didn’t even realise it.”
You go still.
“Max—”
But he lifts his glass before you can continue like he’s scared to know the truth. There’s something bittersweet curling in the corners of his mouth.
“To what used to be.”
You raise yours slowly. The clink is soft, final. But the way he looks at you afterward?
That’s anything but.
Sunday - 8:43AM:
By morning a photo of you both is everywhere. Instagram. Twitter. TikTok. WhatsApp group chats titled "Grid Gossip” and “Wolff Watch 2025.”
The image is blurry, grainy, backlit, framed hastily from behind a potted plant or maybe a champagne bucket. But it doesn’t matter.
It’s you.
It’s him.
Perched far too close on the rooftop, your bodies tilted inward like gravity couldn’t stand to keep you apart. Your hand mid-gesture. His smile caught half-formed. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be captured but says everything.
The tension in the photo could slice through carbon fiber.
@LightsOutLore:
We are witnessing the slowest of burns.
Friends ➝ Maybe Lovers ➝ Ex-somethings ➝ Radio silence ➝ Rivals➝ Whatever the hell last night was.
@WolffWatchers:
Y’all remember when Jos Verstappen called her “unnecessary drama” live on Dutch TV in 2018??
And now she’s BACK and Max is looking at her like she’s the last lap and he’s down 0.5 seconds. Ohhhh this is F1 Shakespeare.
@MaxieTaxi1:
They look like exes who never got closure and are about to risk it all.
@F1PhantomEditz:
Not me currently breaking down after one blurry photo of Max and Y/N together again.
@GridTea:
Look me in the eye and tell me Max hasn’t been in love with her since 2015.
10:12AM - Mercedes Garage:
Toto is uncharacteristically quiet.
He stands at the back of the garage, phone in one hand, untouched coffee in the other, scrolling slowly through his screen as George reviews sector data with his race engineer. His expression is unreadable, but you can see the tension in the set of his jaw.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“Was he bothering you?”
You glance up from your tablet, blinking. “What?”
“Max,” he says. “Last night.”
You pause. The edges of your screen blur a little. “No,” you reply, evenly. “It wasn’t like that.”
He nods once. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask for more.
But he doesn’t need to.
His knuckles are white against the ceramic of his mug and you recognise the look in his eyes, the one he gives to board members he doesn't trust, to reporters who step too close, to anyone who dares make life harder for the people he loves.
You never told him the full story. Six years ago, when you packed your bags and walked out of the paddock without warning your father never asked why. Never cornered you. Never demanded an explanation.
And yet… as he stares across the garage now, eyes narrowed at something far away, you wonder if he already knew.
5:15PM - Chequered Flag:
It’s loud. Overcast. The air charged with end-of-race adrenaline and the crackle of post-rain humidity. Fireworks scream in the background as mechanics crowd the fences and champagne sprays across the pit lane.
Lando finished first. Max finishes second. George clinches third.
You stand on the pit wall, hands folded, applauding politely as your driver waves to the crowd, but your eyes keep flicking against your better judgment to the figure in the Red Bull suit throwing his gloves into the crowd.
He should be focused on the win he nearly had... but instead?
He’s watching you.
Over and over, his eyes scan the pit wall, flicking toward you like he’s searching for something a sign, an opening, a lifeline. You’re already walking away before he even steps into the cool-down room.
6:47PM - Mercedes Hospitality:
You’re out of your headset, shoes kicked off beneath the debrief table, hair frizzy from the humidity. A half-empty bottle of water sits in front of you and your notes are open, but your mind is miles away.
That rooftop moment hasn’t left you and you hate how easily it found its way back in.
A tap on your shoulder pulls you back. One of the younger Mercedes media liaisons stands beside you, expression sheepish. “Hey, um… Verstappen’s outside. He says he just wants a second.”
Your breath stutters, a quick, involuntary catch. You don’t look at the door. You don’t need to.
You know which one he’s standing behind.
The back entrance. The quiet one.
The one he always used to sneak through during summer nights to visit you, smug grin in place, whispering, “You didn’t see me.”
This time, you don’t move.
You force your voice steady. “Tell him I’m busy.”
Max waits.
Rucksack slung over his shoulder. He bounces one knee not out of restlessness, but frustration. Confusion. He's not used to being ignored. And he's certainly not used to being denied.
He checks his watch.
Then the door opens.
But it’s not you.
It’s Toto.
Immaculate as ever. Calm. Controlled. That unnerving kind of calm that always means trouble.
Max straightens reflexively. “Toto.”
Toto doesn't return the greeting. Just closes the door quietly behind him and walks forward, stopping a measured distance away.
“She’s not coming out,” he says.
Max frowns. “I just want to talk to her.”
“I know,” Toto replies. “But I also know you had six years to do that.”
That lands harder than Max expects.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. The words don’t come easily tonight.
Toto steps closer, voice lower now. “I don’t know what happened between you two,” he says. “But I know what her face looked like when she left. And I know what it looked like this morning. I’m not letting you knock her off balance again.”
“I’m not trying to hurt her.”
“I believe you.” Toto’s voice is calm. But his eyes? Steel. “But the thing is… that doesn’t matter because I think you already did.”
Max’s throat tightens. He forces the words out. “She left without saying a word. I still don’t even know why.”
Toto studies him. And then calmly:
“Maybe you don’t deserve to.”
That one cracks something open. Max exhales slowly, jaw clenched. They stand there for a long moment. Two men with too much history and one woman neither of them can stop protecting. Then Toto steps back, nods once toward the door.
“Not tonight Max.”
With that he turns and disappears inside.
@GridWatch24:
Verstappen was spotted hanging around Mercedes hospitality post-race.
She didn’t come out.
Toto did.
The drama writes itself.
@TheWolffDen:
Reminder: Y/N didn’t just leave the paddock she vanished. And everyone knows it had something to do with Max. Now she’s back, stone-faced. Yeah. Something went down and none of us know the full story.
@WolffStappen1:
I don’t think this is friends-to-lovers.
I think this is we-could-have-been-everything-but-you-ruined-it-and-I-haven’t-forgiven-you.
Sunday - 11:42PM - Hotel Balcony:
The race is over. The paddock is packed. The last media trucks have rolled away, and even the harbour feels sedated, its reflections calm and silver beneath a full moon.
You’re curled into the balcony chair of your suite barefoot, legs tucked beneath you, robe cinched loosely at the waist, damp hair dripping down your spine. The adrenaline has long since worn off, but something raw still lingers beneath your skin. A hollow ache that no glass of champagne or data debrief could quite erase.
Your phone buzzes soft against the stone table beside you.
Max Verstappen has sent you a photo.
His contact hasn’t changed, but it’s the first message you’ve received from him in years.
No caption. No message. Just… the image.
Your breath stutters.
You tap the screen and it opens instantly.
It’s a photo of a photo.
A Polaroid, creased, slightly sun-faded, edges curled with age.
Spain, 2016.
You remember it before your brain even catches up.
The two of you in the back of a dim garage after curfew, cheeks flushed from smiling too hard. You’re blurry mid-laugh, hand lifted to shield your face. Max is beside you, trophy in hand, his eyes are lit up, hair a mess, grin so wide it takes up half the frame.
At the bottom, scrawled in your tiny unmistakable handwriting:
Nobody makes me laugh like this idiot. He did it!! Couldn’t be prouder!
You blink. Once. Twice.
Your throat closes.
He… kept it.
All this time.
Max is lying on his back in the dark.
Hotel room quiet, ceiling fan humming low. One arm folded behind his head. The other resting on his chest like he’s trying to hold something inside.
He didn’t send it expecting a reply.
Didn’t send it for anything, really.
He just needed you to know that he hasn’t forgotten.
That all the good memories still live in him too.
Japan - 2017:
Torrential sheets of water are turning the paddock into a slipstream of puddles. You and Max are soaked to the bone, shoes squelching with every step, rainwater dripping from your hair and clothes and pooling beneath the upturned crate you’re sitting on.
You’re both out of breath from running, laughing like idiots. The kind of laughter that comes from too much adrenaline and not enough sense. You’ve just narrowly escaped getting caught doing something probably against FIA regulations, definitely against common sense.
You clutch your side, still breathless. “If we get in trouble for this,” you gasp between giggles, “I’m telling everyone it was your idea.”
Max leans back against the wall, drenched and completely unbothered. His grin is lazy and smug. “Worth it.”
And then, softer, so quiet you almost miss it over the echo of distant thunder:
“You make everything more fun.”
Your heart skips. You glance over.
But neither of you says anything else.
The moment stretches and dissolves.
Monza - 2018:
You sneak out of the paddock just past midnight.
The rooftop of the media center is deserted. Max has two stolen Red Bulls in his backpack and a ratty blanket draped over one arm. You lie side by side on the metal roof, the stars blurry above you, your boots hanging over the edge.
“Do you ever think about not racing?” you ask quietly.
Max is silent for a while.
“I don’t know who I am without it.”
You turn your head to look at him. His eyes stay on the sky.
“I do,” you say.
That gets his attention.
He looks over, brows raised. “Yeah?”
“You’re just Max,” you say, like it’s obvious. “You’re funny and kind and generous... and annoying and stubborn, and you’re better when you’re not trying to impress anyone.”
He’s quiet. Swallows.
Then, in a whisper you almost don’t catch:
“You know me better than anyone.”
You did.
You always did.
Present Day - 12:03AM - Hotel Balcony:
You set your phone down gently, like it might crack in your hands.
The Polaroid still glows on the screen. A captured second from a different lifetime. And for the first time since returning to the paddock you let yourself miss him.
Not the champion.
Not the headline.
Just Max.
The boy with bruised knuckles and soft sarcasm. The boy who made you laugh until your face hurt. The boy who was the first person to make you feel more than just a last name, who turned racing into something that felt like freedom.
You stare at the screen a little longer.
Then lock your phone.
You don’t reply.
You don’t delete the photo either.
That silence, heavy, loaded, unfinished, might say more than any message could.
Summary: the old adage says “don’t mix business with pleasure,” but Formula 1 requires pushing boundaries … both on the track and off of it
Warnings: mentions of a career-ending crash
The Bahrain sun is merciless, already scorching the tarmac at ten in the morning. Camera crews buzz like flies, microphones aimed at anyone in team gear, but the paddock doesn’t truly snap to attention until the Cadillac garage doors roll up and you step out — aviators low, Americano in hand, ponytail like a loaded weapon.
You don’t flinch when the press crush starts.
You barely blink.
Toto watches from the Mercedes garage with the faint smirk of a man who’s seen every variety of hype crash and burn. But this … this is different.
“Christ,” mutters a race engineer, watching the growing commotion. “She’s not even driving.”
Toto hums. “That’s the point.”
You stride past Sky Sports, nod at a reporter who tries to corral you into an impromptu hit. You say, “Sorry, I’m not caffeinated enough to be charming yet,” without breaking pace. They laugh. You don’t.
Your white Cadillac team shirt is immaculately crisp, tucked into tailored black trousers that mean business. Your name is embroidered over your heart like a signature. There's something terrifying about how calm you look. You pass McLaren, Ferrari, Red Bull. Eyes track you like hawks. You’re not even trying to cause a scene, you're just unapologetically here.
By the time you reach the team principals’ press conference, the seats are mostly filled. Toto’s already on stage, seated with Christian, Fred, and Andrea. You take the last chair, perfectly on time, and thank the moderator like you're doing him a favor.
“Welcome, Y/N,” the moderator says, clearly over-eager. “Exciting moment for Cadillac today. First day of testing. First American-led team since Haas. How does it feel?”
You lean into the mic, flick your gaze across the room — sizing it up.
“It feels like everyone wants to see if we crash or combust. I plan on disappointing them.”
A ripple of laughter. Christian chuckles like he’s amused, but Toto watches your fingers tap idly on the desk, left ring to index, again and again. A tic? A tell?
Fred leans forward. “A lot of buzz around your car. You think it’s ready?”
You arch a brow. “I think our car’s been ready since before you all started noticing it.”
Toto finally speaks. “Strong words for a car that hasn’t run a lap.”
You look at him. Really look. The moment hangs.
“I’ve seen plenty of cars run laps and still not show up when it counts.”
Christian makes a low, “Oof.”
Toto tilts his head, amused. “Hopefully your strategy is better than your temper.”
“My strategy,” you say sweetly, “is to keep everyone guessing. Starting with you.”
Laughter, again. Louder this time. Cameras flash.
Your phone buzzes in your lap. A text from your PR Officer.
Calm down. You’re going to give the FIA a stroke.
You ignore it.
The questions move on. Andrea is saying something about wind tunnel data. Christian’s lobbing vague insults at the cost cap. But you’re still aware of Toto. He doesn’t look at you anymore, but you can feel his attention like static.
The press conference ends. Everyone stands. There's the shuffle of paper, the awkward murmurs of media trying to corner principals before they vanish. You take your time. You’re about to walk off when-
“I take it you’re not planning to make many friends in here,” Toto says, low enough that only you hear.
You don’t smile. “I’ve got a team. That’s enough.”
He nods once. “Mm. Must be nice.”
You blink. The look in his eyes is fleeting, but something sharp lives behind it. You know it when you see it — resignation, maybe. Or regret.
“I don’t do politics,” you say. “Not anymore.”
“Then you’re in the wrong sport.”
You smirk. “I’m not here to fit in, Toto.”
He doesn’t flinch at the name. Most people don’t say it like that — like a challenge.
“Clearly,” he says, dry as sand. Then, with a glance at your lanyard, “You ever think about going back?”
The flashback hits like a punch.
A wall of flame. A split-second decision to pit. Your engineer shouting too late. The impact sharp enough to rattle your soul. The sound of carbon shattering. The way silence follows trauma like an old friend.
And after: the meetings where they called you difficult, aggressive, uncooperative. When you pushed back, you were “a liability.” Not marketable enough. Not compliant enough.
You left IndyCar with trophies and screws in your shoulder. You left knowing you’d never crawl back.
“Not even if it paid double,” you say.
He nods. “Fair.”
You pause. “You actually care?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been watching motorsport long enough to know when someone gets chewed up.”
You look at him differently, then. Not soft, not grateful. Just ... seeing him, maybe for the first time.
“You think I’ll get chewed up here?” You ask.
“No,” he says, turning. “I think you’ll bite back.”
You watch him walk off, all precise posture and tailored black. An engineer falls into step beside him, murmuring something. He answers without looking back.
“She’s going to be trouble,” Toto says. His voice is just loud enough for the words to carry.
The engineer frowns. “What, like — media trouble?”
Toto’s mouth curves. “No.” Then, quieter, with a smile that’s almost fond, “The interesting kind.”
***
The FIA meeting room smells like stale coffee, over-conditioned air, and the permanent tension of eleven egos shoved into one overlit box. There’s a bowl of untouched almonds in the center of the table. You wonder if they were here yesterday. Or last season.
You’re seated between Andrea and Christian, who are both smiling like diplomats but vibrating with the low-level condescension of men who are used to being the most interesting person in the room.
“Let’s talk about your diffuser,” Christian starts, as if the word diffuser is a veiled insult. “Interesting interpretation of the regulations.”
You don’t look at him. “Everything we’ve done is legal.”
“Legal’s not the same as sporting,” Andrea chimes in. “There’s a spirit to these things.”
“Oh, please.” You finally turn. “The spirit of the sport died the day you all decided performance was negotiable and politics were a KPI.”
That earns a few raised brows. You glance at Fred, who just shrugs like he’s too old to pretend any of this isn’t performative.
“The FIA cleared our design. If you have an issue with it, file a protest,” you add, sipping from the coffee you brought in yourself because the FIA’s is undrinkable. “Or better yet, copy it like you usually do.”
Christian lets out a short laugh, more amused than offended. “You’re not interested in playing nice, are you?”
“I’m interested in winning. I don’t know what you all are doing here.”
Andrea leans back. “You’re new. That’s fine. But you’ll learn — this isn’t just about the car. It’s about relationships.”
You glance around the room. “Funny. I thought it was about racing.”
Toto hasn’t said a word. He’s across from you, fingers interlaced, watching with the infuriating patience of someone who’s not here to win the argument, he’s here to win the war. You meet his gaze once. It’s unreadable. Then he looks away.
The meeting drones on. Brake ducts. Tire allocations. Something-something sustainability. Everyone has opinions, none of them productive. You say less as the hour drags. You’re learning the rhythm of this room — the pauses, the fake outrages, the knowing glances exchanged over your head.
At the end, as everyone rises and starts gathering notes they won’t read again, Toto approaches.
“Coffee?” He says, tone almost offhand. “Neutral ground.”
You raise a brow. “Why? You bored of watching me set fires in here?”
He doesn’t smile. “Just curious what you’re actually trying to burn down.”
You should say no. You don’t.
***
The paddock lounge is quiet when you arrive twenty minutes later. Cool-toned, clean lines, suspiciously good espresso. There’s an understated confidence in the way everything is exactly where it should be. Nothing flashy. Just efficient.
Toto’s already seated at a small table in the back, a steaming cup in front of him. No assistants. No PR. Just him, white shirt rolled at the forearms, reading something on his phone with that same unsettling stillness.
You slide into the seat across from him.
“Still neutral?” You ask.
He sets the phone down. “That depends on how you define neutral.”
“I define it as: no offers, no threats, no press leaks.”
He nods. “Then yes.”
A pause.
You take in the lounge. The screens showing pit lane footage, the muted international voices from a side room, the slow drip of espresso behind the bar. Controlled. Precise. Familiar, if you squint.
“You remind me of Penske,” you say, almost to yourself.
Toto lifts a brow. “In what way?”
“Quiet until it matters. Never without a plan. Likes to watch before you strike.”
He folds his hands. “You’ve studied me?”
You shrug. “I study everyone. Occupational hazard.”
“I’ve studied you, too.”
You lean back. “That sounds ominous.”
“I don’t mean it to be.” He pauses. “You were fast. In Indy. Efficient. Cut through the noise.”
You laugh once. “They said I was difficult. That I didn’t smile enough.”
“They say that about anyone who doesn’t need approval.”
You don’t say anything to that. Not yet.
The coffee arrives, and you both thank the lounge staff at the same time — reflexive, polite. You clock it. He does, too.
“So,” he says, resting one arm on the table. “What’s the endgame, really? Visibility? Disruption? A Netflix arc?”
You blink once, slowly. “You think I came here to be an influencer?”
“I think you came here knowing exactly how much attention your appointment would cause.”
“Of course I did,” you say. “But that’s not the end game. That’s just the noise.”
“Then what’s the signal?”
You study him. His eyes are sharp, sure. Not cruel, but relentless. There’s no wasted motion in the way he speaks, listens. You don’t hate it. You recognize it.
“The signal is innovation,” you say finally. “The car, the structure, the tech we’re developing — Cadillac didn’t join to sell more SUVs. We came because the sport needs a hard reset.”
He doesn’t flinch. “And you think you’re the one to do it.”
“No,” you say. “I know I’m the one who’s not afraid to try.”
Silence, but not heavy. Just considered.
Then he leans forward a little. “You don’t recognize tradition.”
You tilt your head. “And you don’t recognize innovation unless it’s wearing silver.”
He smiles, just barely. “That’s not true.”
“Oh? You didn’t try to bury the DAS system in regs the second someone else used it?”
“It wasn’t safe.”
“It wasn’t only yours anymore,” you say, sipping your coffee. “There’s a difference.”
He chuckles softly. “You’re not wrong.”
“Of course I’m not.”
Another pause. You watch people come and go behind the glass — engineers, interns, drivers. Nobody interrupts you. They all know better. This is what you came for. The real meetings never happen in FIA rooms. They happen like this — two people sitting across a table, pretending not to size each other up.
Toto finally speaks. “You could’ve joined any team. Taken an advisory role. Sat back. Why Cadillac? Why a full team principal position with a rookie team and a target the size of a billboard?”
You stir your coffee. “Because I’m tired of fixing other people’s broken systems. I want to build something from scratch. Something that doesn’t need politics to survive.”
“You think that’s possible here?”
You meet his gaze. “Not yet. But it will be. Eventually. Maybe not this season. Maybe not for a few. But it’s coming.”
“You’re going to get hit hard.”
You nod. “I’ve been hit harder.”
A flicker of something moves across his face — approval? Curiosity? You’re not sure.
“You were right about one thing,” you add. “I don’t care about fitting in. But I do care about impact.”
He nods slowly. “Then I suggest you learn how to play the long game.”
“Oh, I’m playing it. But not with the same pieces as you.”
He stands. Not abruptly. Not coldly. Just … finished.
You rise, too.
“Thanks for the coffee,” you say.
He inclines his head. “Thanks for not flipping the table.”
“Yet.”
That earns a real laugh, short and clean.
You pause at the door, glance back. “By the way — your wind tunnel data’s off by 0.2 percent. Rear aero.”
He raises a brow. “How do you know that?”
You wink. “I read.”
Then you’re gone.
***
Back in the Cadillac garage, your lead engineer looks up from the pit wall.
“How was your playdate?”
You throw your headset down gently. “Exactly what I expected.”
He grins. “And?”
You shake your head. “He’s testing me.”
“Did you pass?”
“No idea,” you say. “But I think he did.”
The sun is lower now, but still sharp. You can feel the paddock humming again, whispers curling around your name, your car, your meetings. You let them talk.
Toto watches from across the way as you rejoin your team.
“She’s good,” says Shov, standing beside him now.
Toto doesn’t answer immediately. He watches as you lean in to talk with a mechanic, one hand on the front wing, completely in control of the chaos you’ve created.
“She’s dangerous,” Toto says.
He doesn’t sound worried. Not even a little.
He sounds … intrigued.
***
The Melbourne circuit is a festival of chaos and sunscreen. Fans draped in American flags chant CA-DIL-LAC like they’re tailgating a college football game, not watching a brand-new F1 team fumble its way through its first real Sunday.
You knew this race would be hard. You planned for it, trained for it, told everyone — including yourself — that the only goal was to finish clean.
But watching both your drivers sink like stones after Lap 15 is a different kind of pain.
The car looks fast on Fridays. Hell, it is fast in qualifying. Top ten for both drivers. You’d been calm on the pit wall then, headset snug against your ears, fingers steady on the tablet. You even let yourself believe it might hold.
But now, with ten laps to go, you’re crouched low beside the wall, headset slung around your neck like dead weight, watching the times drop sector by sector. The Caddy’s chewing through tires like they’re made of tissue paper. The balance is off. There’s understeer in the mid-speed corners. One driver is already radioing in frustration, the other’s silent. You hate the silence more.
“Y/N?” Your lead strategist calls, voice tinny in your earpiece. “We could try offsetting the stint, pit now and pray for a safety car-”
“No,” you say.
“It could-”
“No.”
He goes quiet. Everyone always goes quiet when you use that voice. The one you used in IndyCar when you were flying at 220 mph and someone told you to back off. The one that means: I’ll take the blame, but I’m not gambling just to gamble.
You don't speak for the rest of the race.
The checkered flag drops. P13 and P15. No points. You don’t move.
Eventually, the garage begins to wind down, packing gear, muttering half-hearted debriefs. You remove your headset. Stand. Leave the garage without a word.
You walk until you’re behind the pit wall again, away from the paddock, from the PR handlers and tech directors and sponsor-friendly excuses. You crouch low, same as during the race, elbows on knees, eyes on the empty straight like it might still hold some kind of answer.
It doesn’t.
Footsteps crunch softly behind you. You don’t look up.
Toto doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking out at the track beside you like he owns the whole place. Maybe he does.
Finally, his voice cuts through the still air.
“You don’t trust your engineers.”
You exhale through your nose. Not laughter, not quite. “That’s the problem, huh?”
He nods once. “One of them.”
You stand, slowly. Turn toward him. Your face is unreadable, but your eyes … your eyes are flint.
“I don’t trust anyone yet.”
He doesn’t flinch. He just studies you. Like a problem worth solving.
You cross your arms, lean your shoulder against the pit wall. “You think I don’t want to trust them? You think I enjoy second-guessing every call from the box, every predictive model that tells me what I should do while I watch my drivers skid through corners like amateurs?”
“No,” Toto says. “I think you were trained not to.”
That silences you. Just for a moment.
Then, voice low, “I was trained to win. In a world that didn’t expect me to survive, let alone lead.”
Toto nods. “And now?”
“Now I’m trying to lead a team that still thinks leadership means shouting louder than the telemetry.”
“You hired them.”
“I hired who was willing to jump off a cliff with me. Some of them are good. Some are bluffing. And I don’t have time to wait and see which is which when every second on track costs us ten in the media.”
Toto studies your face. You hate that he can see through you. Even more than that, you hate that you don’t want to hide.
“You miss being in the car,” he says.
The admission sits heavy in your chest, like a truth you didn’t mean to bring to the surface. You don’t answer.
“You think if you were driving, you’d have made up the time.”
Now you look at him. “I know I would’ve.”
“You would’ve overdriven it,” he says. “Tried to outmuscle the problem. It’s not the same up here.”
“I know it’s not the same.” The words come out sharp, bitter. “You think I haven’t figured that out every day since I handed my race suit to a kid half my age and told him to go make headlines?”
Toto doesn’t push. He just waits. You hate that, too.
You pace a few steps, then stop. The paddock is quieter now. The race over, the noise receding. Just the hum of logistics and engines cooling down. You’re too wired to sit, too angry to leave.
“You know what it is?” You say finally. “It’s not just the car. Or the engineers. It’s that I still see everything. Every line, every brake point, every corner entry. And I see where it’s going wrong in real time, and I can’t do anything about it.”
“You can do something about it,” Toto says. “But not everything.”
You glance at him. “That sounds suspiciously like advice.”
He smirks. “Just an observation.”
“You like doing that. Observing.”
“People reveal themselves when they’re losing.”
“And what have I revealed?”
He’s quiet for a beat too long.
“That you care more than you let on.”
You scoff. “That’s not a revelation.”
Toto shrugs. “Maybe not to you.”
A long silence stretches between you. Then you ask, almost idly, “Do you remember your first real loss as a team principal?”
He nods. “Nürburgring. 2013. We lost a front wing in Turn 2. Strategy failed. P9 and DNF.”
“And what did you do after?”
“I rebuilt the strategy department from the ground up. And hired someone who knew how to say no to me.”
You nod slowly. “Smart.”
“Painful,” he corrects. “But necessary.”
You glance down at your hands. They’re steady. They weren’t earlier, mid-race. You’d clenched the tablet so hard you left marks on the casing.
“Everyone told me to hire safe,” you say. “Experienced. People who’d been in the paddock for a decade.”
“Why didn’t you?”
You meet his eyes. “Because those people helped build the system I want to break.”
Toto’s expression shifts — something between surprise and admiration.
“And yet,” he says, “you still chose to play in the system.”
“I’m not here to burn it down. I’m here to prove it can be better.”
“And if it can’t?”
You hesitate.
“Then at least I’ll go out knowing I tried.”
There’s something raw in your voice now. Not broken. Just exposed. Toto sees it. That unrelenting belief in what this could be if you just had enough time, enough patience, enough people who gave a damn. But beneath it is the fear you don’t say aloud.
The fear that they won’t follow you.
Or worse, that they will and it still won’t be enough.
“You’re not going to get many more races like this,” Toto says, voice low. “Where no one expects anything. Where you can fail quietly.”
You nod. “I know.”
“So use them.”
You glance at him, a flicker of something like gratitude in your eyes, but it’s gone in an instant.
“Thanks for the unsolicited coaching.”
He smirks. “You’re welcome.”
You both linger in the quiet a moment longer.
Then he turns to go, footsteps slow and deliberate. Just before he disappears back toward the Mercedes motorhome, he calls over his shoulder —
“Get some sleep. You’ll need it before Jeddah.”
You don’t answer. Just stare out at the track a moment longer.
The silence feels like failure. But beneath it, if you listen closely, there’s something else.
Resolve.
Because the difference between a broken team and a building one is just time.
And you’re not done yet.
***
The invitation arrives sealed in creamy card stock, embossed with the gold FIA crest as if that somehow softens the blow. You stare at it for a full minute before tossing it onto your desk like it’s radioactive.
“Absolutely not,” you tell your assistant without looking up.
“They said attendance is strongly encouraged.”
“So is hydration. Doesn’t mean I go to Dasani’s Christmas party.”
But hours later, after three different calls, two sponsor nudges, and one not-so-subtle email from an FIA board member about “team visibility,” you find yourself pulling on a sleek navy dress and walking into a dimly lit ballroom in London filled with too much money and too little sincerity.
The lighting is designed to make executives look interesting. It fails.
Waiters drift by with expensive wine and tiny hors d’oeuvres no one knows how to eat. Conversations bloom and die in corners. You scan the room. Everyone is here. Christian, already holding court like he’s emceeing his own eulogy. Andrea, pretending not to look bored. Zak, laughing too loudly.
You steel yourself. You can do this. Smile. Shake hands. Laugh politely at someone’s joke about American engineering.
Then you see the place card at your assigned seat and feel your stomach drop.
Y/N Y/L/N … right next to Toto Wolff.
“Of course,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into the chair just as he arrives, tall and too composed, dressed in black like he’s attending a private funeral for the concept of relaxation.
He sits with the grace of someone who’s done this too many times. “Evening.”
You nod. “They ran out of neutral corners?”
“I requested the seat.”
You blink. “Did you.”
“I was curious if you’d still try to escape halfway through the salad course.”
“That depends. Is the salad course edible?”
The corners of his mouth twitch, and just like that, the chill between you begins to thaw.
The dinner begins with toasts from people you don’t care about, celebrating values they don’t uphold. “Innovation.” “Excellence.” “Legacy.” You sip wine through the speeches and feel your spine calcify.
Toto leans in, voice low. “Do you think they rehearse those?”
“Oh, for sure,” you whisper. “Some poor intern had to time that speech to match the fireworks on the highlight reel.”
He chuckles softly, and you hate that it warms something in you.
By the second course, the wine is flowing freely and the table’s conversations splinter off. You swirl your glass, lean back, and eye him.
“So what made you request the seat, really? Curiosity? Strategy? Morbid fascination?”
He shrugs. “You interest me.”
“That’s vague.”
“So are you.”
You look away. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like you think we’re similar.”
“We are.”
You snort. “You think you’re like me?”
“I think we both don’t sleep,” he says, without missing a beat. “I think we both control more than we show. And I think we’ve both lost something that changed the shape of everything after.”
You go still.
He doesn’t push. Just sips his wine and looks out over the room.
You let the silence linger before asking, carefully, “What did you lose?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, finally, “Control. In 2021. The final race.” A pause. “I thought we were prepared for every scenario. We weren’t.”
Your voice is quieter now. “How long did it take to come back from that?”
He thinks. “I’m not sure we have.”
You nod, slowly. “I remember watching it. I was halfway through rehab. Crutches, ice machine, full of pain meds. Screamed at the TV like it was a horror movie.”
His brow lifts. “Rehab?”
You glance down. This part you don’t talk about often.
“There was a crash. IndyCar. Mid-season. Rear suspension failure at speed. Hit the wall at 220. Didn’t wake up for three minutes.”
He says nothing. Doesn’t pity. Doesn’t interrupt.
You keep going.
“Broke my femur. Collapsed lung. Grade three concussion. They told me I’d walk with a limp. I told them I had a sponsor dinner in three weeks.” You smile faintly. “The sponsor was Cadillac.”
He’s watching you now with a different kind of intensity. Not evaluative. Something softer. Earnest.
“They brought me on after,” you say. “Not just as a driver, but as part of the R&D think tank. I couldn’t race, so I built. Helped design simulator feedback loops, performance modeling.” You pause. “Three months later, they offered me a job that didn’t involve a steering wheel.”
Toto is quiet for a long moment.
“And you said yes.”
“I said I’d think about it. Then my former team tried to pin the crash on me to cover the parts failure.” You laugh once, dry. “Suddenly, I didn’t feel so sentimental about staying a driver.”
He studies you. “So this wasn’t your dream.”
“No,” you say. “This was my decision.”
That lands between you like a stone in water. Heavy, slow, true.
You glance around. The dinner’s winding down. Someone’s giving a speech that no one is listening to. Laughter bubbles at another table. Glasses clink.
Toto leans in again. “Do you miss it?”
You nod. “Every day.”
“And would you go back?”
You take a breath. “If I thought it would change anything? No. I gave everything I had to a system that didn’t protect me. Now I want to build something that does.”
His gaze softens. “And you don’t trust anyone to help.”
You meet his eyes. “Would you?”
“No.”
You laugh. This time it’s real.
Something shifts in the space between you. The air feels quieter. The noise of the room fades. It’s not romantic — not yet — but it’s intimate. Honest.
You realize you’re still looking at him. And he’s still looking at you.
That’s your cue.
You stand, smooth your dress.
“Leaving already?” He asks.
“I hate long goodbyes.”
You don’t say goodbye.
You leave through the side entrance, past the press, into the cold London night. Your car’s parked by the curb, driver waiting.
You open the door, slide in, close it-
A knock on the window.
You blink. Lower it.
Toto.
“I’m walking,” he says. “But I figured I’d see you off.”
You look at him, uncertain.
“I meant what I said,” he adds.
“About what?”
“You don’t trust anyone-”
You open your mouth to argue.
“But I’d like to change that,” he finishes.
You stare at the hum for a second too long.
He doesn’t smile. Just waits.
And for once, you don’t know what to say.
The driver asks, “Shall we go, ma’am?”
You nod.
But you look back at Toto once more before the car pulls away.
And he’s still there. Still watching.
Like maybe, just maybe, you’re worth believing in.
***
The news breaks on a Tuesday. Always a Tuesday.
You’re mid-strategy call, marker pen in hand, sketching out a race-weekend plan across three whiteboards when someone clears their throat behind you.
“Y/N,” your assistant says, hesitant. “You might want to see this.”
You glance back, ready to wave it off. You hate interruptions. But then you see her expression — careful, cautious, like she’s delivering news about a death in the family.
“What is it?”
She hands you a tablet. You don’t recognize the site at first. Not motorsport. Not serious. But the headline is loud enough to punch through:
PADDOCK POWER COUPLE? F1 INSIDERS WHISPER ABOUT CADILLAC’S Y/L/N AND MERCEDES BOSS WOLFF
You scroll. The article is trash — pure speculation, stitched together with blurry photos from the FIA dinner in London and a conveniently timed sighting of you both walking near the paddock in Jeddah. But the tone drips with implication. Power imbalance. Bedroom politics. A sidebar wonders aloud if your rapid climb in F1 might have “benefitted” from “strategic alliances.”
You feel your stomach clench.
“Who leaked this?” You demand, voice cold.
“We’re still checking. But it’s … making rounds.”
The article’s already been picked up by a dozen smaller outlets. Social media’s chewing on it like raw meat. You know how fast this kind of thing spreads. Especially when you’re the only woman in the paddock running a team. Especially when the man in question happens to run Mercedes.
You head straight for the Mercedes hospitality.
Toto’s in a meeting when you arrive. You don’t wait. You walk straight in.
The room goes silent.
“Toto,” you say, curt. “Now.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Everyone out,” he says calmly.
The engineers file out quickly, eyes flicking between the two of you like they’re fleeing an earthquake.
Once the door shuts, you round on him.
“You leaked it.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Excuse me?”
“You think I wouldn’t notice the timing? The angle? It frames you like some kind of generous kingmaker and me like a fame-hungry idiot with good hair.”
“I don’t write gossip columns.”
“No, but you have people. And you like to control the story.”
He stands, slow and deliberate. He’s taller than you, but you don’t back down. Not even a millimeter.
“I don’t use people like that,” he says, voice low, tight. “Not even you.”
You blink. The sharpness of it cuts through your anger. But you don’t let it go yet.
“I’ve been here three races and already someone’s trying to rewrite my career into a tabloid plotline.”
“Yes,” he says. “Welcome to F1.”
That sets you off again. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not. I’m telling you that if I wanted to manipulate you, you wouldn’t know until you were already dancing to my music. And you’re not.”
You narrow your eyes. “Flattering. So you admit there’s a game being played.”
“There’s always a game being played.”
“And what’s yours?”
He meets your gaze, unwavering. “I don’t like what they’re saying about you. Not because of me. Because you’ve earned better.”
That stops you.
You step back, slightly. Your heartbeat’s too fast, your jaw tight. You hate how much the article got to you. How much it still matters what people think, even after everything you’ve survived.
He doesn’t press.
You leave without another word.
***
It’s nearly 9 p.m. when the truth comes out.
Your head of comms calls, voice tight.
“We traced the leak. It was your junior driver’s agent. The oldest one. He tipped off a reporter. Was trying to get him a reserve driver slot with Mercedes. Thought the buzz would make him more marketable.”
You stare at the floor of your office, fury blooming again — but now it’s cleaner, more directed. And shame colors the edges. You’d aimed at the wrong target.
“Did Mercedes bite?”
“No,” she says. “Toto shut it down personally.”
You hang up. Let the phone sit heavy in your lap.
Then you stand.
***
The paddock is quiet at night. Crews have mostly gone home. The media’s packed up. The motorhomes hum softly under security lights, like sleeping giants.
You find him in the Mercedes motorhome. Lights dim, one lamp glowing in the corner. He’s alone, reading something on his phone. A glass of wine at his elbow.
He looks up as you enter. Says nothing.
You cross the room and stop beside his table.
“You were right,” you say softly.
He tilts his head. “About which thing?”
You hesitate. “Not using people.”
He gestures to the empty seat. You sit.
“I’m sorry,” you say after a long pause. “I was angry. And humiliated. And I thought-”
“You thought I was like everyone else.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
He takes a slow sip of wine, then sets the glass down.
“You said it yourself,” he murmurs. “You don’t trust anyone yet.”
You glance at him. There’s no judgment in his voice. Just fact. Like he’s holding it up, not to shame you, but to understand you better.
“Why did you shut it down?” You ask.
“Because I wouldn’t want someone like that on my team. And because … I care what they say about you. Even if you don’t care what they say about me.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault.”
A long silence stretches between you. The kind that used to feel awkward, but now feels full — weighted, not empty.
You reach for the bottle between you and pour a second glass. He slides it toward you, fingertips brushing lightly against yours.
You don’t pull away.
Another beat passes.
You take a sip. Then ask, quietly, “Do you miss when it was simple?”
He chuckles. “It was never simple.”
“When you were still just … managing people and not empires.”
Toto leans back in his chair. “The first time I sat on the pit wall, I thought, this is it. This is the dream. Then I realized the dream was mostly budgeting spreadsheets and answering questions about tire strategy on live TV.”
You smile faintly. “Still. You’ve built something.”
“So have you.”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
You look down, quiet again. The warmth of the wine lingers in your chest. So does his voice.
After a long stretch, you whisper, “Sometimes I feel like if I stop moving for one second, it’ll all fall apart.”
His voice softens. “And what if it doesn’t?”
You shake your head. “I can’t afford that kind of hope.”
A silence falls, but it’s not empty.
It’s full of everything unsaid.
You glance at his hand — resting on the table, fingers splayed. His other cradles the wine glass, but he isn’t drinking anymore. Just watching you.
He reaches out — lightly, deliberately — and his fingers brush yours. Just a whisper of contact.
You don’t pull away.
Not tonight.
There’s no kiss. No dramatic gesture. Just quiet. Contact. A kind of peace neither of you are used to.
He doesn’t say anything more.
And for once, neither do you.
***
The skies over Imola threaten rain all weekend, but never follow through. It’s worse than an actual storm — this looming, suspended tension that makes everyone twitchy, including you. Your engineers bicker over tire strategies, your drivers don’t trust the brake upgrades, and the data simulator is doing its best impression of a brick wall.
By the time Sunday arrives, you’ve slept four hours total in three nights and consumed more espresso than should legally be allowed.
But something clicks.
Maybe it’s the revised pit strategy. Maybe it’s the aggressive tire call on Lap 32. Maybe it’s just sheer, stubborn Cadillac will. Whatever it is, the car flies.
You don’t dare breathe during the final ten laps.
P3 is right there. Right in front of you.
When your lead driver crosses the line in fourth — just half a second off the podium — you swear the collective scream from your garage could level the surrounding trees.
It isn’t a trophy. But it’s proof.
Cadillac belongs.
You belong.
The moment feels … huge. Humbling. Everyone’s hugging. Someone pops a bottle of something probably not FIA-legal. Your driver tackles you in a sweaty embrace and you laugh for the first time in what feels like a month.
You stay late, long after the broadcast ends, surrounded by the people who have been pulling miracles from underfunded wings and sleepless nights. Mechanics. Data analysts. Your aero guy who hasn’t taken a full weekend off since Bahrain.
You’re still in the garage when the paddock starts emptying out. Your hair’s in a messy bun, race suit tied around your waist, black Cadillac t-shirt soaked with beer and effort.
You don’t notice Toto standing across the way, outside the Mercedes garage, arms folded, watching you.
He doesn’t interrupt. Just smiles to himself. Quiet. Almost proud.
You’re not his, he thinks. You belong to yourself.
And that’s so much better.
***
You stare at the hotel ceiling for thirty minutes before giving in.
You don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Not with this weird ache in your chest that’s part adrenaline, part exhaustion, part something you can’t name.
You don’t even think about it. You just throw on a hoodie over your sleep shirt and walk down the hotel corridor barefoot, still slightly buzzed on the ghost of the race.
His door is ajar.
He opens it before you knock.
You blink. “Were you expecting someone?”
He leans on the doorframe, not smiling. Not serious. “Not exactly.”
You exhale. “Can I come in?”
He steps back. “Always.”
His suite is quiet. Low lighting. A decanter on the table, half-full. A few race notes open on a tablet, abandoned. He closes it as you walk in.
“Sorry. I should’ve — this was probably stupid.”
“You want to be alone but not alone,” he says, like he’s read this chapter before.
You nod. “Is that allowed?”
He tilts his head. “With me? Yes.”
You sit on the edge of the couch. He offers you a drink. You decline. He pours you water instead.
Silence stretches.
“So,” he says eventually. “P4.”
You shake your head in disbelief. “I didn’t think we’d make it out of Q2 this weekend. Then the car just … worked.”
“It was aggressive,” he says. “Risky strategy.”
“I had to trust the numbers. And my gut.”
“Did it feel like being back in the car?”
You glance at him. “Exactly like that. Except worse. Because now I’m responsible for six hundred people and not just me.”
“Do you regret it?” He asks. “This life?”
You think about it.
“No,” you say. “But it’s lonelier than I thought it’d be.”
He doesn’t answer. Just sits next to you on the couch, not close enough to touch, but not far either.
You lean your head back.
“I used to think even the little wins would feel more final. Like they’d fix something. Or earn back everything I lost.”
“And now?”
“Now I think they’re just proof you survived long enough to try again.”
He nods. “That’s all this sport is. Trying again.”
You’re quiet.
And then, because it’s late and you’re exhausted and this version of the world feels gentler than the one outside, you ask, “What were you like before all this?”
He smiles faintly. “Angrier. Less patient. I thought I could control everything.”
“Bet that worked out well.”
“I crashed a GT3 car into a wall at Red Bull Ring once because I didn’t want to lose to a guy half my age. Broke three ribs. Didn’t tell anyone.”
You laugh. “Seriously?”
He nods. “Pain is a better teacher than pride.”
You watch him for a moment.
“There’s something I haven’t told anyone,” you say. “Not even my team.”
He looks at you, waiting.
“I still hear the crash sometimes. In my dreams. It’s never loud. Just … this sharp silence before everything shatters. I wake up before the impact.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just sits still.
“It’s not that I want to drive again,” you continue. “I just want to stop remembering.”
Toto’s voice is quiet. “That doesn’t go away. But it stops owning you.”
You look down at your hands.
“You know,” you say softly, “for someone so famously calculating, you’re weirdly good at this.”
“At what?”
“This. Being … human.”
He shrugs. “Takes practice.”
You don’t realize how close he’s sitting until your shoulders brush.
But he doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t touch you. Just sits with you.
You fall asleep like that. On the couch, legs tucked under you, head tilted back, listening to the sound of his quiet breathing beside you.
***
When you wake, it’s still dark.
You’re not on the couch anymore.
You’re in his bed. Still fully clothed. The covers pulled gently around you.
Toto’s on the couch now, asleep, arms folded, as if he’s been guarding something.
The ache in your chest is different this morning. Deeper.
You slide out of bed quietly. Pad over to him.
He stirs.
“You should’ve let me stay on the couch,” you whisper.
“I didn’t think you’d sleep like that.”
You hesitate.
“Thank you,” you say.
He nods. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t ask for anything.
And that’s somehow what unravels you most.
Because for the first time in a long time, someone wanted nothing from you except to let you rest.
And you have no idea what to do with that kind of kindness.
So you just stand there, caught in the early morning light and everything unsaid between you.
Not lovers. Not yet.
But something real.
And quietly — terrifyingly — you realize you don’t want to lose it.
***
Toto pulls away the next weekend.
No message. No follow-up. Nothing.
He nods at you in the paddock like you’re just another team principal. His smile is neutral, professional, precise. Mercedes posts their usual press photos — clean, sterile, branded to hell. Your name doesn’t pass his lips.
And you know what this is.
He’s building a wall.
You see it in the stiff set of his shoulders at the team principals' meeting in Spain. The clipped tone he uses when you pass him in the paddock in Montreal. You say “morning.” He says “yep.”
You want to punch something. Preferably him.
But instead, you bury yourself in upgrades. Your tech director calls it obsessive. Your engineers call it inspiring. You call it survival.
The new front wing design works in the wind tunnel. You burn through simulations like caffeine, throw out half the aero plan and rebuild it from scratch. Every sleepless night, every ignored text, every time you walk past Toto and feel nothing from him fuels you like gasoline.
You tell your team: Silverstone is ours. They believe you.
It starts raining during FP2.
You grin at the sky like it’s personal.
***
You don’t speak to Toto all weekend.
Not during track walks. Not during press conferences. Not even when your drivers both qualify in the top six and the entire paddock starts whispering that Cadillac might actually do it.
And then race day comes.
And you finally snap.
He’s in the pit lane before the race, talking to someone from Pirelli. You see him out of the corner of your eye as you’re checking tire pressures with your race engineer.
You don’t even think about it.
You march across the line.
“Hey.”
He turns. Sees you. Hesitates. “Y/N.”
You’re already furious. His voice — his face — ignites something in your chest that feels suspiciously like heartbreak but tastes like gasoline.
“I get it,” you say. “You pulled back. You’re scared. Fine. But at least have the spine to say it to my face.”
He glances around. The pit lane’s crowded, noisy, full of mechanics and techs and photographers. It doesn’t matter. You’re locked in.
“I’m not scared,” he says.
You step closer. “Then what is it? You changed overnight. One minute I wake up in your hotel room, and the next you’re acting like I’m a PR liability.”
“You’re not.”
“Then stop treating me like one.”
“I’m treating you like someone who terrifies me.”
That halts you.
You blink. “What?”
Toto runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You terrify me. Because you make me forget how much this job costs. How many knives are out. How easy it is to lose everything.”
“And?”
“And I like it. I like you. Too much.”
You stare at him.
“Then say it,” you demand.
“I just did.”
“No. Say the part where you let yourself want something. Say the part where you’re not a control freak running scared because someone finally sees you.”
“You don’t get it,” he says, voice low. “I can’t afford the distraction.”
“You think I can?” You snap. “You think I can afford to feel anything and still wake up every morning knowing the sport I bled for will never respect me the way it respects you?”
Toto’s jaw tightens.
“I see you,” you say, softer now. “Even when you hide. I still see you.”
He doesn’t answer.
Then the call comes over the loudspeaker. “Formation lap in thirty.”
You walk away first. No dramatic exit. Just one last glance.
His eyes are still on you.
***
The rain starts on Lap 23.
It’s light at first — enough to make the track glisten, not enough for inters. Half the grid hesitates. The other half spins.
Your radio explodes with chatter.
“Front’s going — too slick — should we box?”
Your lead driver’s voice is ragged with tension.
Your race engineer is mid-debate when you pull the headset off him and grab the mic yourself.
“Box now,” you say. “Full inters. Don’t argue.”
The pit crew isn’t ready. You scream at them through the rain.
“Get the tires! Now! Get the goddamn tires!”
It’s chaos. But somehow, your driver’s in and out faster than the Red Bull next to him. Two laps later, half the grid is pitting. The other half is aquaplaning off the track.
You take a deep breath.
“Tell him to defend like hell. We are not giving this away.”
***
Cadillac wins its first Grand Prix on Lap 52 of a rain-soaked Silverstone.
Your driver screams across the radio. Your garage erupts. Mechanics cry. Engineers kiss. Your comms chief sprints into your arms like a lunatic and you let her because right now you’ve done it.
You did it.
You lift the headset off, rain slicking down your arms.
The trophy is heavy and ridiculous. Champagne stings your eyes. The Star-Spangled Banner plays, and for a moment, the sound of thousands of people screaming drowns out everything else.
You scan the crowd from the podium.
Toto isn’t there.
You search for him anyway.
He’s already gone.
***
Back at the garage, they replay the race on the screens while your team takes selfies with the trophy. Someone made an edit out of your pit wall scream. You’re soaked and exhausted and still vibrating with adrenaline, but all you can think is he wasn’t even there.
Your assistant hands you a towel. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you lie.
“You sure?”
You look up at the sky. Rain’s easing now. The world smells like wet tarmac and victory.
“I’m not sure of anything,” you say. “But we won.”
She smiles. “That’s something.”
You nod.
But it’s not everything.
Not tonight.
***
It’s Friday. Spa. The garage smells like rubber and heat and stress, like it always does when qualifying’s creeping up and the sensors keep glitching. You’re elbow-deep in a conversation about tire deg curves when someone taps your shoulder.
You turn, expecting your race engineer or maybe a PR rep with bad news.
Instead, it’s Toto Wolff.
You blink.
He’s standing there in black Mercedes team kit, sunglasses hooked in his collar, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only person in the damn paddock.
You say, sharp as ever, “Lost, Wolff?”
“No.”
“You’re in enemy territory.”
“I’m aware.”
Your crew is watching from the corners of their eyes, pretending not to. Someone coughs awkwardly.
You nod toward the back. “Office.”
He follows you through the garage, past spare parts and laptops and the low hum of tension. Inside your office, you shut the door. The silence is sudden and thick.
You cross your arms. “What?”
Toto doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands in front of your desk like he’s about to confess to corporate espionage.
“I watched Silverstone,” he says.
You arch a brow. “Congratulations. You and seventy-five million others.”
“I watched you.”
Something in your stomach tenses.
He swallows. “I left because I was afraid. Of the distraction. Of what this could cost me. Of how easily you could undo me without even trying.”
You stay still.
He takes a step closer.
“But I’m tired of safety,” he says. “I’m tired of guarding everything I’ve built like it’s sacred when it’s already broken. You make me want to risk things I’ve spent over a decade protecting.”
You feel the breath leave your body.
“Toto,” you start.
“No,” he interrupts, voice low and serious and unmistakably yours. “Let me finish.”
You let him.
“I haven’t slept right since Imola. I think about you when I watch your pit wall react to strategy calls. I read your press conferences just to see if you mention me. I see you with your team, and I think this is what it’s supposed to look like. Not the polished machine I’ve kept running on habit and fear.”
You don’t move.
You can’t.
He steps even closer.
“And the worst part is, I don’t want to stop.”
You inhale, slow and sharp. “Then don’t.”
The kiss isn’t soft.
It’s not gentle or delicate or romantic in the storybook sense.
It’s need. Weeks of it. Months, maybe. Pinned under frustration and silence and professionalism.
His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting to memorize it. Your fingers dig into his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again. His mouth is warm, urgent, a little desperate. Yours is no better.
You pull back once. Just enough to say, “Close the door properly.”
He does.
***
His suite smells like coffee and paper. His race notes are scattered across the desk. You don’t even get halfway to the bed before he’s kissing you again — slower this time, but no less hungry.
He doesn’t rush.
And neither do you.
Because if this is a bad decision, you’re going to make it the best bad decision either of you has ever had.
You undress him carefully. He does the same, unhurried, reverent. He touches your shoulder like it’s something holy. You run your hands down his spine like you want to remember how his body fits against yours.
The bed is large and too white, but he warms it like he’s made of fire.
The intimacy isn't in the sex itself — it’s in the way he kisses your throat afterward, in the way you curl into his chest without asking, in the way his hand finds yours under the covers like a reflex.
You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder.
He breathes evenly for the first time in months.
***
You wake to the smell of coffee.
His room is flooded with pale Belgian morning light. Your clothes are still scattered, but you don’t care. You find his white Mercedes button-up hanging over the back of a chair and shrug it on. The sleeves drown your hands. The collar smells like him — clean, expensive, slightly burned espresso.
You walk barefoot into the suite’s kitchen area.
He’s standing over a French press, eyebrows furrowed, as if he’s trying to solve an engineering problem with the water temperature.
He glances up. His expression softens the second he sees you.
“You’re stealing my shirt,” he says.
“It’s not stealing if you weren’t wearing it.”
He hands you a mug. “That’s not how shirts work.”
“It is now.”
You both sit at the table, quiet for a few beats. It’s domestic. Too domestic. You in his shirt, him sipping coffee in boxers and half-mussed hair.
You glance at him over the rim of your mug. “So. What now?”
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’m not going to disappear again.”
You nod slowly.
“I’m still Cadillac,” you say.
“I know.”
“You’re still Mercedes.”
He nods. “Yes.”
“And this is … very stupid.”
“It’s the stupidest thing I’ve done in years.”
You grin. “Good. I hate being the only reckless one.”
He leans back, watching you. “I’m serious, Y/N. This won’t be simple.”
“I know.”
“There will be questions.”
“There always are.”
He watches you for a long moment. “You’re not scared?”
“I am,” you say honestly. “But I’ve been scared before. Didn’t stop me then either.”
He smiles.
You drink your coffee. The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s thick with possibility.
Eventually, you stand. “I should go. FP3 in a few.”
He stands too. “I’ll see you on track.”
You smirk. “Try not to stare too hard.”
“I’m not making any promises.”
You walk to the door. He follows.
Before you leave, he says, voice low, “I meant what I said. You make me want things I thought I buried.”
You kiss him one more time — just soft enough to make him curse under his breath.
“I’ll see you out there,” you say.
And then you walk back into the world, still wearing his shirt, heart beating faster than it ever did in a race car.
***
It starts with a headline.
Love in the Wolff Den: F1 Power Couple or Conflict of Interest?
Then come the blurry photos. Your hand on his chest. His fingers brushing your jaw. Grainy, flash-washed shots snapped from across a Stavelot hotel lobby that make everything look sleazier than it was.
It spreads like wildfire. Not just gossip sites, but major outlets — Sky, Motorsport, Bloomberg, for God’s sake. Everyone with a byline and an opinion suddenly thinks they understand what this is, what you are.
And then come the calls.
Not from your comms team. Not from PR.
From the board.
You’re standing in the middle of Cadillac’s race operations suite in Indiana when it comes in — your CFO, voice clipped, polite, fake. He phrases it delicately, like it’s your idea. Optics, you understand. Just a temporary step back, maybe for the rest of the season. Let things cool off. He uses the word “professionalism” three times in one sentence. You count.
“You’re asking me to sideline myself,” you say, tone dangerously calm. “Over a man.”
“It’s not that-”
“It is that.”
“There’s pressure. External. The headlines are framing it as a conflict. You’re both decision-makers. If this were a boardroom-”
“It’s not a boardroom. It’s a goddamn pit lane.”
He doesn’t argue. Which pisses you off more.
***
Toto’s phone doesn’t stop buzzing either.
He ignores it until it starts vibrating his desk.
Shaila barges in. “You need to respond.”
“I have,” he says, flipping through tire comp analysis. “I told them I wasn’t leaking strategy to my girlfriend over breakfast.”
She blinks. “You called her your girlfriend?”
He glances up. “That’s the word everyone else is using.”
“Okay,” she says carefully. “Well. The shareholders want a closed-door call. Today. They’re throwing around words like ‘governance’ and ‘interteam transparency.’”
He exhales through his nose. His jaw tightens.
“Tell them I’ll take the call after I finish reviewing the telemetry,” he says. “But if they suggest I pull back from managing the team over something that hasn’t affected a single race outcome, I’ll remind them that Ferrari and McLaren literally ran a married couple in engineering for five years.”
“Noted,” Shaila says, and walks out with the speed of someone who wants to live.
***
You don’t talk for three days.
Not because you’re angry at each other.
Because you’re both working.
Because the world is watching.
Because you’re trying — maybe futilely — to hold your ground.
You’re staring at a mockup of the new rear wing, not really seeing it, when Derek, your number two, comes into your office.
“You’re going to want to see this,” he says.
You look up. “Is it a fire?”
“Sort of.”
He turns the monitor toward you.
You squint.
It’s a live press conference. Mercedes-branded backdrop. Toto behind the mic.
Someone off-camera asks, “Toto, with recent rumors about your relationship with Cadillac’s team principal, how do you respond to those saying it presents a conflict of interest?”
He doesn’t even flinch.
“I think,” he says slowly, “that it’s interesting how quickly some people invoke ‘conflict of interest’ when a woman dares to take up space at the same table.”
Your breath catches.
“In this sport,” he continues, “we celebrate cutthroat negotiations. Aggressive contracts. Power plays. But the second a woman builds something formidable, people start calling it a threat.”
He’s calm. Surgical. But you can see the steel under his words.
“I have not compromised my team. She has not compromised hers. We are professionals. We are rivals. And if anyone believes the existence of mutual respect — or affection — between two team principals undermines the integrity of the championship, perhaps their issue isn’t with governance. It’s with equality.”
Someone tries to interrupt. He cuts them off with a single glance.
“And for the record,” he adds, “she’s done more in four months to shake this sport out of its stagnation than most of us have in ten years. I suggest we stop punishing her for succeeding.”
The clip ends.
Derek looks at you. “That was a choice.”
You stare at the screen for a long time.
Then you stand.
“Cancel my dinner with marketing,” you say. “And get me a driver to the hotel.”
***
It’s late. You don’t knock.
Toto opens the door like he’s been expecting you.
You step inside. Neither of you says anything for a beat.
He closes the door behind you. “I didn’t do it for a thank you.”
“Good,” you say. “Because you’re not getting one.”
A pause.
You look at him, all carefully unbuttoned collar and tired eyes, and say, quieter now, “But I saw it.”
“I meant it,” he says simply.
You sit down on the edge of the couch. Your hands are still curled into fists.
“You know I almost agreed to step back?” You admit. “Just for a second. I thought maybe it would make everything easier.”
“And then?”
You look up. “And then I realized I didn’t fight this hard to build something just to let them push me out the second I’m inconvenient.”
He watches you. “No. You didn’t.”
You swallow. “You didn’t have to speak up.”
“Yes,” he says, crossing to you, “I did.”
He kneels in front of you, hands resting on your knees.
“This sport chews people up,” he says. “It makes us choose between the parts of ourselves we care about most. But you … you make me remember why I cared in the first place.”
You study him. His face is open, unguarded in a way you don’t think he’s ever allowed himself to be on purpose.
You speak slowly. “We’re both trying to build empires.”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Let’s see if we can share one.”
His smile is small. Real. “God help Formula 1.”
You lean in.
This kiss is different.
It’s not born from tension or defiance. It’s something else. An alignment. A decision.
You don’t say you love him. Not yet.
But it’s there. In the way your hand rests on his cheek. In the way he kisses you like he’s found a home.
***
The next morning, a headline reads:
WOLFF AND Y/L/N: FORMULA 1’S NEW POWER COUPLE GOES PUBLIC
You sip your coffee and shrug.
Toto glances over. “You’re not going to throw your phone this time?”
y/n webber swore she was done with formula 1 and race drivers forever. max is determined to change her mind
Palimpsest — An object or image that reveals its history, just as a chalkboard sometimes allows us to see partially erased marks
Patch — A small piece of fabric used to mend a tear or puncture through application to the rear of the canvas.
Paradigm Shift — When one era shifts into another, the habits of the earlier one are disrupted by new ones which eventually settle into a familiar routine.
Patronage — the physical or emotional support of a patron
NO MORE TWITTER FOR TODAY, IVE SEEN ENOUGH, IM FIGHTING A FEVER RN I CANT BE SEEING THESE THINGS, I KNOW IT MEANS NOTHING BUT THE FERRARI LUCK WE’VE HAD THIS YEAR? i need to go watch a cartoon and drink a liquid iv
me sitting calmly on the couch after seeing this same tweet and throwing my phone across the room (the tequila in my kitchen is calling my name) (it’s 7 am)
Summary: It’s finally time for the fans to see a long awaited glimpse of what’s going on in the world of the ex Mrs Verstappen.
Note: Landslide vote for Lily MH as the ultimate bestie wag (I voted for her too 🤓) so we’ve got a new bestie alongside Kika :) I realised around Kika’s post that I’ve been using the 2024 F1 race calendar for reference rather than 2025 but Baby Blues is set in December 2024 onwards in the 2025 season so ignore inconsistencies 🩷
Faceclaim: Talia Mar
suggested listen: Vienna by Billy Joel
[February 15th]
liked by f1wagupdates, user1, ynfanpage and 16,269 others
f1gossip SNAPPED: @landonorris and @ynsurname spotted attending the same soccer game in London, England for Lando’s favourite team. Lando posted to his story and YN was pictured by a fan but didn’t post publicly about attending. It seems they attended together as they were seen talking and with Lando’s arm draped across her shoulders!! Poor Max lmao, they’re so cute together 👀
view all comments
user1 Lando has been soft-launching this woman since December and I know it. This man is in love and down BAD 🫠
↳ user2 honestly the way he looks at her is so sweet, i love seeing them together
↳ user3 chill guys they’re literally best friends idk why every male female relationship has to be romantic in this fandom. Y’all ruined Lewis and Raye as well? Like? Chillllll
user2 She went from crying over Max to being draped in Lando’s arms at a football match. Call it character development ✨
f1wagupdates Lando and YN at a game while Max and Kelly are doing their pap walks… the duality of man 😩
maxfanpage I feel so bad for poor max honestly she’s been hoeing about with half of the grid at this point, she’s met Yuki’s parents ffs it’s weird girl behaviour honestly and now she’s in Lando’s home country with his family watching football and it’s just ickyyyy
↳ f1wagupdates “Poor Max”??? Babes he cheated, moved on in public, and now can’t stop lurking her IG. Sit down 😒
user4 so many Netflix deals in F1, give one to this queen fr because she’s living a drama rn
↳ f1gossip omg keeping up with the karstappen’s would be such media gold honestly
ynmaxshipper Sorry but I still ship her with Max 😭 they had real love before he ruined it
↳ user5 Kelly’s seeing this so she’s gonna passive aggressively post a pregnancy shoot in 3…2…1 📸✨
ynfanpage where’s her other friends recently she’s been with Lando so much and I love him but she needs girl time after what that dickhead did to her
user6 If I see one more “poor Max” comment I’m gonna scream. He made his bed. Let him cry into Kelly’s bump 😮💨
user7 JUST FUCK ALREADY
user8 the day after Valentine’s Day too? I wonder if that means she was in England for it???
hellomonaco exclusive interview with Kelly Piquet coming soon!
↳ ynfanpage lmfao commenting this on gossip sites from your magazine account is crazy work
[2nd March - first race of the season]
liked by lilymunihe, charlesleclerc, danielricciardo and 823,842 others
ynsurname Thank you scuderiaferrari for having me as your guest for the first race of the season, even though it was my only condition for the recent shoot 👀🐎❤️
Also the best travel crew ever with my love and her wag
ynfanpage Ferrari garage in the background, Lily in the foreground, Max in the mud where he belongs 🫡
user1 “My only condition” is INSANE behavior 💅 mother is negotiating
pierregasly Lando somewhere triple-tapping this post from his burner account like 🧍♂️
↳ user2 lmfao the Lando/YN memes are getting so big that even the drivers are joining in with it, I can’t that’s too funny
user3 honestly the kind of glow only heartbreak can give you
↳ user4 lmfao or pregnancy
lilymhe the fact that you finished a whole book on this flight was diabolical (boooooo when is it my turn)
↳ ynsurname 😭 Stephen King is literally not as scary as my life rn lmfao it was so readable!! You can borrow it busy girl! ❤️
f1wagupdates my two ultimate wags together even though you’re not a wag anymore queen I don’t care! You’re the people’s wag 👑
↳ ynsurname thank you queen x
user5 it’s such a small thing and idk if I’m delusional but she doesn’t use blue hearts now that she isn’t with Max and I kind of love that
↳ f1gossip keep an eye out for papaya…
kendalljenner I hope Peanut’s living their best life at home while mama is out SERVING on the grid
susiewolff women winning on and off track recently
↳ ynsurname oh my god is this real someone pinch me 💀
↳ ynsurname thank you so much, that means everything Susie! I love what you’re doing and I’m a huge fan :)
lewishamilton I’m meant to be the best looking in the garage what??
↳ ynsurname I’m just raising standards hehehe ❤️
danielricciardo you should come with a warning label
maxfanpage has anyone else noticed she’s put a bit of weight on? Or has she had more filler in the face? Idk she looks chubbier max is lucky he left
↳ landonorris just to clarify Max actually CHEATED on her and she broke the relationship off :)
Instagram story responses:
↳ user1 wowww Lando playing the long ass game, guy has so much patience
↳ user2 peanut doesn’t realise who MOTHER is
↳ user3 didn’t even shade him - just told the truth. Brutal and powerful
↳ ynfanpage it’s so amazing to see you being so transparent about all of this and ofc real ones remember what happened with your little one, I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through all of this 🤍👼🏻
↳ user4 the fact that max is going around being so open with Kelly after all of this is crazy
↳ user5 peanut has no idea how iconic she is omg
↳ f1gossip you and Lando would be such a cute couple!! We’ve had so many anon tips about it
↳ landonorris people forget gossip, not the truth x
↳ lilymhe you need to heal beautiful girl, speak your truth if that’s what it’s come to, I’m here 🩷🩷
↳ user6 such a classy response
↳ user7 admittedly I’m a new fan and didn’t know what you and max had gone through but that adds so much to how upsetting this story is, you’re so strong and I’m so upset that you dealt with that, it’s going to show a lot of fans that he’s not who he says he is
↳ ynmum I love you, so brave and I’m so proud of you speaking out about all of this ❤️
Twitter responses:
↳ f1wagupdates I feel like the fact that this is being by ‘fans’ is so fucking wild like… just stop
↳ user1 the way she keeps tugging her shirt down is giving early bump anxiety 😭 I’d believe it tbh.
↳ user2 let’s not forget she already said she dissolved filler… y’all love jumping to pregnancy like women can’t just bloat 🙄
↳ user3 why is no one talking about the fact she literally vanished from socials for weeks around January 👀
↳ ynfanpage okay but if she IS pregnant, I hope it’s not Max’s… girl needs a fresh start 🥲
↳ HelloMonaco tell-all interview with Kelly Piquet due for release, sign up from link in the bio ✨
↳ynbestfriend please stop this harmful and baseless speculation of someone you don’t know!!
↳ maxfanpage am I the only one who thinks she’s dropping clues on purpose? This girl knows how to drive the gossip cycle 😭
↳ user4 I honestly don’t think she’d announce it publicly yet. Her last one was so traumatic, she’ll keep it private as long as she can.
↳ wagwatch or maybe she’s just living, healing, and enjoying food like the rest of us 🙃 leave her body alone omg
↳ user5 she used to be so sexy wtf happened
[12th March - the day before running into Kelly]
liked by danielricciardo, landonorris, f1wagupdates and 896,528 others
ynsurname enchanté rosé for when you’re working hard or hardly working 🫶🏼
tagged: danielricciardo, dr3wines
view all comments
user1 she’s playing poker with someone who’s been aged to perfection 🍷🔥
ynfanpage all cards on the table physically… is this code for all cards are on the table, she’s with Daniel?? Am I delusional?????
↳ ynfanpage also call me crazy but there’s a 0 on that bottle and she tagged dr3wines but they don’t have a bottle that shape? New 0% wine? Because she’s preg??
↳ user2 I swear YN fans are so weird bro leave her alone
↳ user3 but she’s also holding the board at a weird angle that lowkey obscures her belly with her waistband there so maybe? Are we reaching rn
↳ ynfanpage omg im convinced you’ve convinced me, is it Daniel’s tho?
↳ user3 have some respect for the poor girl that’s so mental yk
landonorris had to zoom in just to confirm you’re actually real 😮💨🔥
francisca.cgomes why do we never ride bikes anywhere that was honestly the cutest morning ever
user4 the prettiest spring basket
danielricciardo don’t quit your day job to become a poker player anytime soon squirt
↳ ynsurname ew literally fuck you I was brilliant
reiss thanks for your time, turned out so beaut!
↳ ynsurname thank you for having me 😎⌚️
↳ user5 I love that she’s doing shoots for Ferrari and now a team McLaren work closely with, shows that everyone on the grid and the teams still care about her and nobody supports Max in this messy af breakup
user6 does the queen respond 🙏🏼
↳ landonorris not to me 😭
f1wagupdates “forget about your ex” ICONIC
[May 20th - 5 months pregnant]
liked by landonorris, danielricciardo, maxverstappen1 and 3.1M others
ynsurname after the storm there comes a rainbow - and this time, it’s just me and you, little one. Only halfway and I love you so much🌈❤️ (Ps it’s true, the bump is absolutely bigger the second time)
view all comments
danielricciardo sending love for this big moment. Always in your corner 👏
↳ ynsurname so glad we have you 🫶🏼
user1 Not me screaming in joy and confusion 😭 congrats mama!!!
user2 wait I’m so confused, is it Max’s baby? Because Kelly is more pregnant than Y/N?
↳ f1gossip omg my money’s on Lando
↳ user3 but if she’s halfway and it’s the end of May rn that surely means baby was made from like mid December to mid January? Can’t be sure if she’s exactly halfway or 4 months or 5
↳ user4 bump looks closer to 5 months but she’s mentioned she’s carrying bigger this time idk?
↳ user3 omfg don’t forget she spent time with Yuki in December too 👀 or maybe someone just got too drunk after her breakup w Max the Axe, those club pics were crazyyyyy
↳ f1gossip omg omg we need source material rnnnn
ynfanpage As a fellow rainbow mom this made me emotional beyond words 💕 wishing you a safe and beautiful pregnancy
f1gossip someone get me a whiteboard and lemme Sherlock this shit
redbullracing congratulations!
lilymhe The strongest mama 💫 your rainbow after the storm 🌈
↳ ynsurname auntie Lily and uncle Albono!! So lucky to have you both x
maxfanpage crying over Max for literal minutes just to go sleep with the whole grid and come back pregnant? Girl bye 👋
landonorris Proud of you always. Can’t wait to meet this little one 🧡
maxverstappen1 congratulations 💙
landofanpage okay so when’s uncle Lando’s post bc I KNOW he’s gonna spoil that baby 🧸🥹
↳ f1gossip IT MIGHT BE HIS BABY
f1wagupdates ¡Felicidades! But really Netflix better have cameras rolling. If not, someone’s getting fired
user5 not another PR stunt pregnancy. Filler’s gone, attention’s gone, now the baby card gets played 💅
mclarenf1 can’t wait to have them in the garage as a VVVIP! 🧡
kikacgomes my love, my beautiful girl, my heart is so full. Baby has a guardian angel 🤍👼🏻
↳ ynsurname STOP my hormones cant regulate, crying again x
liked by ynsurname, pierregasly, landonorris and 724k others
kikacgomes You never know how strong someone is until you watch them survive the storm you didn’t even see coming. I’ve watched you break and mend these last few months, and now, my flower, you bloom 🌱🌈
This rainbow baby is the beginning of everything you deserve after such difficulty. So proud of you, my best friend, my sister - the strongest woman I know. I love you and there’s a village of others who love you almost as much as I do ❤️ Forever
(look at my ugly crying on FaceTime when I found out I’m going to be an aunt!!)
tagged: ynsurname
view all comments
lilymhe honestly tearing up. This post is everything 🥹🩷 love you both and our little bestie to come!
user1 This gave me full body chills. Women supporting women >>>>
f1wagupdates Not me SOBBING 😭💐 protect Kika and our rainbow mama at all costs
ynfanpage can’t wait to see Kelly try to post something after this LOL she’s shaking rn
↳ user2 this was for Y/N, but we all know who else read it hehehe👀🌪️
user3 “Storm no one saw coming”??? Oh we saw it. It was wearing Red Bull merch 😬
maxfanpage everyone keeps babying her and for what fucking reason bc she made messy choices too. Let’s not forget that??
danielricciardo you said what needed to be said. And you said it with grace. So glad our girl has a support system surrounding her during this 🌈
↳ ynsurname 🩷
f1gossip Kika’s pen was DIPPED in tea, I fear 😭✨
user4 Penelope and her siblings going to grow up and read all this one day and be like “WTF was going ON?” 😂
ynsurname my soulmate always, my heart is yours. Thank you for being the sister I’ve never had 🩷
↳ ynsurname I know it’s real love because you didn’t include the pic of me ugly crying with you hahaha, literally crying again rn… love you xx
↳ kikacgomes forever yours girl 💕
↳ pierregasly is this normal chat?
↳ user5 Pierre gtfo they’re having a MOMENT
↳ user6 it’s lowkey not normal Wdym you’re calling each other soulmates lmfao what
carlossainz55 beautifully said, Kika 👏❤️
alpinef1team princess of alpine strikes again, congratulations to ynsurname 👑
user7 kika do you know if it’s a boy or girl
liked by lilymhe, danielricciardo, visacashapprb and 1.1M others
ynsurname thank you for having me visacashapprb but I missed my favourite smiley face ): well done to my favourite little Landinho on your second win of the season 🧡
tagged: danielricciardo, carmenmundt + 2 others
view all comments
ynlandoshipper if I had a nickel for every time Lando won a GP that YN attended I’d have 2 nickels
↳ user1 which doesn’t seem like a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice right?
↳ ynlandoshipper he’s working overtime so she forgets her baby daddy
mclaren our good luck charm 🍀
lilymhe the sun was in my eyes ): you all look hot though
user2 my favourite avengers have assembled once more 😭 WHERES KIKA AND ALEX AND LILY Z
f1wagupdates someone tell Kelly that this is how you bump-reveal without tagging your married situationship 😭✋
visacashapprb we’re not saying this is a PR masterclass but… no, we are saying that
f1gossip a baby blue dress? At Monaco? After that announcement? She’s playing chess while the rest play media checkers
↳ user3 there’s sm blue in the whole post carousel
kikacgomes you’re literally glowing babe
ynmaxfan does anyone miss when she was pregnant in 2023? I know I’m not supposed to like him anymore but I’m nostalgic
nyckdevries this post was a classy middle finger in 4 photos and I support it entirely lmao
kymillman you’re featured in this weeks Women of the Paddock (again!), it was so lovely to catch up with you YN.
↳ ynsurname always lovely to see you Kym 🩷
nataliepinkham look at you go mama! Gorgeous girls and Lando hahaha
landonorris are you my lucky charm or is baby? Either way, require you at every race this season, I’ll sort a contract?
↳ ynsurname omg you muppet. Believe in yourself!!
↳ landonorris um no how about make me
↳ ynsurname actually don’t threaten me with a good time 🤔
carmenmundt my heart 🥹 glowing from the inside out. Te quiero mucho!
liked by scottjames, ynsurname, yukitsunoda and 1.1M others
danielricciardo
view all comments
user1 I’m screaming in 15 languages 😭🫶
f1wagupdates a new wag? Omg YN?!
scottyjames Australia’s hottest import finally back on home soil 🔥
↳ ynsurname and you wonder why people think you’re boyfriends? 😭🩷
yukitsunoda SPILL
f1 soft launch season seems to be upon us!
user2 WHO IS SHE. BLURRY BRACELET DETAIL ANALYSIS STARTS NOW 🕵️♀️
↳ user3 call me delusional but I really think that might be YN because surely there’d be a gap in the shadow if it was a not pregnant person?
↳ user4 confirmed. You’re delusional
landonorris you never age mate what’s going on
f1gossip rumour has it that it’s not actually YN because she’s been spotted in Monaco with a few of the other wags?
↳ user5 proof?
↳ f1gossip anonymous written tip ❌
yndanielshipper it’s the bump glow for me… y’all this is HER. I know it. I feel it in my soul.
↳ user4 it’s literally a shadow wtf are you all talking about
visacashapprb Aussie heat level = maximum 🔥 (and we’re not talking about the weather)
ynsurname “Not coming back alone” and yet somehow you’re still everyone’s boyfriend?
reminder that whilst yet another premiere of the F1 movie hits the world with its misogynistic representation, today June 23rd we celebrate the International Women in Engineering Day🤍
I'm just gonna add on Merc mechanics for George's car, Georgia and Emma, as well as Merc head of strategy Rosie Wait, though there are many more women in the merc garage who I cant currently name
Summary: Max confronts Y/N about the baby after Kelly breaks the news to him about the pregnancy.
Note: This one actually made me cry while I was writing it and I think it’s maybe the first time it’s happened in the series? I considered violence but this happened ✌🏼
wc 1.6k
suggested listen: Cry by Cigarettes After Sex
trigger warning: discussion about baby loss
“You’re pregnant?”
You don’t look at him, opting instead to look out the window and over the twinkling lights of Monaco below, so far above and out of the way, it’s quieter here, it’s everything you’ve needed. “But you already knew that. Kelly told you.”
There’s silence. Then the sound of his shoes crossing the floor until he’s standing behind you, not quite close enough to touch. You feel the tension pulsing off him like heat.
“She said she saw you at the clinic. But I didn’t believe it.” You finally turn around and his dark eyes lock on yours, searching for something - truth, maybe. You don’t give him it though, not wanting to make it easier for him than it’ll be.
“Well, now you know.” Max runs a hand over his face, exhaling deeply in a long breath. “Is it mine?” You let the question hang in the air because it deserves to hurt or make him squirm just for a moment.
“I don’t know.”
His mouth opens, then shuts again. His brow furrows like he can’t quite comprehend that answer, like they don’t belong in this universe where he’s supposed to be the victim, rather than the one where he faces the consequences of his actions.
His chest is heaving and he looks like he could easily become angry but you’re not scared, moving to scoop Peanut up for a small semblance of comfort while this happens. “It might be Daniel’s, I had sex with him just before Christmas.”
He flinches at the name like it physically hits him, recoiling in anger but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. “That’s what happens when you blow up a life, Max. People move on. People find comfort where they can, god knows that’s what you did when our daughter died.” You spit the words at him, fire in your eyes now as you consider what he’s done, really consider it, filled with rage by the fact that he’s the one who seems so angry now - as if he has any right.
“Daniel?!” He snaps, disgust laced through the word like venom as he gives you the filthiest look that he can muster without meaning to. “Unbelievable, tell me it’s a fucking joke.”
“Unbelievable? You fucked Kelly while we were still married. You got her pregnant. She posted about itbefore you even told me. You stood beside her at the FIA awards like we never existed - like I hadn’t already picked out a fucking dress for the night. Or did you pretend that it was her while you fucked me in that changing room of the sweet little boutique while I was finding something for the event? Clearly you thought I’d be with you long enough to attend, yeah?”
His face hardens but you’ve kept this locked inside for too long and it’s all pouring out of you now. “You let the world think I was just some bitter ex. You let them humiliate me. While she posted bump photos and you liked them. While she tagged you and you smiled in every photo op. You let them think I was the one who was disposable.”
He hangs his head but doesn’t close his eyes, taking in everything you give because anger and disgust is better than nothing, it’s better than being nobody to you. He shakes his head slowly and moves to sit on the edge of the sofa, he looks too long-legged for the space that’s usually only occupied by yourself or Peanut, he dwarfs the space and makes it feel suddenly claustrophobic.
You step forward, slightly breathless with frustration, your voice shaking with fury.
“And you didn’t just cheat, Max. You replaced me. You replaced us. Publicly. Quickly.” Your voice cracks and you fall to your knees in front of him, eyes pleading and desperate as you silently hope for something, anything, to wake the fuck up from the most twisted dream imaginable. You don’t have to tell Max that the ‘us’ you’re referring to isn’t you and him, but you and a beautiful little girl, born without a cry, born without warmth.
His eyes glass over and he shakes his head harder now, needing you to stop but you don’t care anymore. You don’t allow him the mercy of stopping for him.
His voice is rough when it finally comes, hoarse like he hasn’t spoken in hours. “Don’t… don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” You whisper, eyes blazing, half-snarling at him. “Like I’m still waiting for the man I married to show up? Like I’d take one fucking ounce of comfort from you rather than anyone else if that was a fucking option anymore? I love you Max and I want to die every time I remember that because you let her down. You let me down but you let her down and I’ll never, ever forgive you for that.”
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, like he can wipe the image of you away, like that would somehow make this easier.
But there’s nothing easy left in this room, there’s been nothing easy about any of this for a long time.
“I didn’t know how to survive it.” He finally says, broken sobs falling from him as he shields himself with his arms, looking at the ceiling because he knows that if he sees your hurt or anger or disappointment it’ll ruin him. “Losing her… watching you slip away with her… I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t fix you. I couldn’t save either of my girls.”
“I didn’t need you to fix me.” You snap, your own tears finally beginning to slip down your cheeks. “I needed you to stay.”
Max drops his hands and looks down at you now, and for once, there’s no anger - only something hollowed out and haunted, just for a moment you’re back there, in the moment where everything changed.
“Every time I looked at you, I saw her. I saw her in your face, in our bed, in everything. And I hated myself for it. Believe me schatje when I say that I fucking did, I do - for fucks sake! Because I loved her too. I did. But I was drowning and I didn’t know how to hold you without going under.”
“You chose to drown in Kelly.” You shoot back. “You chose comfort over loyalty. You chose you. Like you’ve always done.”
“You still managed to look at yourself in that tux at the FIA gala,” you murmur, ice in your veins now. “You still smiled for the cameras. You still kissed her stomach in front of the world.”
He closes his eyes. “I didn’t know how else to make it through the mess I made.”
“You didn’t try.”
Silence hangs, thick and choking. His hands flex uselessly in his lap, he still wears his wedding band and the gold bracelet you got him in Las Vegas after finding out he’d won his fourth championship, weeks before the news - his twitching fingers make it seem as if he wants to reach for you but knows it’s not his place anymore.
“I think about her all the time, you know. Maybe you think that I moved on to forget her, but I didn’t.” He says quietly, wringing his hands and standing up, pushing his sweaty palms down his jean-clad thighs. “Our baby. Our Allie. I wonder who she would’ve looked like.” He lets out a quiet laugh, closing his eyes as he tilts his head back, hearing the quiet giggles of a one year old, seeing what her smile could’ve been.
“If she’d have your laugh. Or my stubbornness. I didn’t know how to grieve her with you because every time I saw your pain, I felt like I’d killed her. And I’ll never not be sorry, liefje.”
Your knees almost buckle, his confession hitting you like a whip. There’s no defense, no arrogance, no Max Verstappen the World Champion.
He’s your Max, your husband.
“I never stopped loving you,” he whispers. “But I understand if you stopped loving me.” You don’t offer an answer or any kind of of acknowledgement, simply breaking the eye contact as you lean down to reach for the dog.
He leans forward slightly, voice strained. “If it’s mine… if the baby’s mine… I want to do better. I need to. Not for me. For them. For you.”
You nod once, but it’s not quite forgiveness. “Goodnight, Max.” This time, he knows to leave.
And when the door clicks shut again - you let yourself cry.
Summary: Max finds out about the pregnancy sooner than he’s meant to (and so does Kelly).
Note: Thank you for your patience, lowkey got a little burnt out while writing this initially and then everything just felt sort of wrong so it felt like so much trial and error. Next part coming soon and it’s smau!
wc 1.8k + text smau
suggested listen: Love in the Dark by Adele
You’d been floating around most of the morning in some sick sort of limbo after messaging Max first thing, knowing he had some time before heading to Australia for the next race. Just a simple ‘we need to talk’ sort of message, there had been an awkward attempt at back and forth from him but it hadn’t been mutual as you simply sent him a date and time, not giving him much of an option or caring about his availability.
You’d seen him briefly in Bahrain as he passed by the McLaren garage, eyes locking on yours before walking away - and there was a moment in a coffee shop pre-season but nothing too full on, nothing proper. A handful of Instagram comments and unopened DM’s was as close as you both had been to each other since the last night.
Daniel had taken the news of the baby surprisingly well and Lando had been supportive despite having no idea what was going on for the most part - everything just seemed so up in the air - despite not wanting to tell Max, not wanting to have to face him, it had to be done.
[click the image to read fully]
It’s like muscle memory, the way you strip the bedsheets to remake the bed, making toast for lunch and then going down to the supermarket. The drive to the clinic isn’t long, it’s one of two options for expectant families in Monaco, choices being to go public or to go private.
Public would be a PR nightmare.
The waiting room smelt sterile, the lights bright and white, a headache threatening to bloom because of it - the lavender-scented disinfectant was too strong and they were trying to mask the clinical coolness with a vanilla wall diffuser that buzzed faintly by the floor.
You sat with your coat half-slid off your shoulders, fingertips nervously twisting against the wood armrest of the uncomfortable chair.
The thought of telling Max about the pregnancy was consuming you, scheduled for Sunday morning so not for a couple of days. You’d been floating around the apartment in quiet since messaging him this morning apart from a few chores, pacing between the sofa and kitchen counter with a glass of ginger tea clasped tightly to your chest that was never sipped even once.
“Mrs Verstappen?”
You flinched at the sound of your old name, still not legally changed because divorces take time enough to be frustrating - not bothering to correct the receptionist as you rose to your feet with a mumbled “yeah, but uhh, not quite. Just Y/N is best.”
The ultrasound room was dim as the scrub-clad brunette led you in, offering a gentle hand to help you up onto the bed as if your belly was a lot bigger and incapacitating than it is. A quiet thank you comes out but you’re too nervous to consider that it had come from you.
You lay back on the narrow bed, the soft crinkle of the tissue paper beneath you sounding unnaturally loud in the sterile quiet of the room. The overhead lights buzzed gently, casting a pale wash over the walls, but you kept your eyes locked on the ceiling - not because there was anything particularly interesting there, but because it was easier than looking at the screen right away. Easier than letting the moment hit you all at once.
Your shirt was folded up to just beneath your ribs, and your leggings pulled low enough to give the sonographer access. The air on your bare skin was cool but not unwelcome as you let out a shaky sigh, the girl offering a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay to be nervous. I understand there’s been complications in the past…”
A flicker of anger possessed you, a foreign discomfort at the thought of Ally as you laid here, gelled and ready - a premature death being the last thing you’d want to consider in this situation for fear of it happening again.
The screen came to life in a wash of grey and white before you could say anything, like a sign that it would all be okay, that history doesn’t have a plan to repeat itself, little movements and shadows until one small flicker caught your eye. The technician stilled her hand, adjusting the angle until the image sharpened. A rhythmic pulse, fast and steady, like the beat of a hummingbird’s wings.
“There’s the heartbeat.” The nurse mused softly to herself, her tone shifting - more reverent now and less mechanical. She tilted the monitor so you could see better, giving a reassuring nod. “Nice and strong.”
You didn’t answer, your lips slightly parted, eyes locked on the flickering spot on the screen - a tiny flutter that made everything else around it fall away.
It didn’t feel real, not entirely. Like watching someone else’s life unfold on a screen.
But then the technician pressed a little deeper and the sound kicked in - like a watch ticking. Lub, lub lub, lub, lub lub. A tiny heartbeat, it’s no longer just mother and nurse in the room, but baby too. Max or Daniel not being here suddenly feels okay, a moment comes full circle as you consider Ally, consider the new baby, thoughts rushing through faster than any of the drivers could consider.
You felt your throat close around the emotion, a swell of it rising up so fast you couldn’t catch it in time.
“Everything looks normal,” the nurse offered, pulling you back to the room, back to now. “Would you like a picture?”
You didn’t trust your voice so just nodded, once, your jaw tightening as you blinked hard and looked up at from the screen, tears threatening to slip. It hadn’t registered the first time and you find yourself asking again if it’s healthy, if the baby is okay? She confirms that the baby seems healthy, that she’ll see you again soon, more regularly than other mothers to keep your mind at ease.
She printed the picture off, taking a moment to smile down at the smudgy looking blur of baby before carefully slipping it into a small envelope like it was the most sacred thing, handing it over to you.
You took it with both hands, careful, even though your fingers trembled slightly. For a second, you didn’t do anything with it - just stared at the envelope, heart still beating out of rhythm, vision slightly blurred from the sting behind your eyes that you hadn’t let fully form into tears. The photo tucked neatly away and your fingers gently run over the edge of the paper, protective. You and me little baby, we’ve got this.
The nurse offered a final nod and a gentle “take care” before she opened the door for you.
You stepped out into the narrow hallway, unsure whether to go left or right. The scent of the clinic was stronger out here, the bleach and fake vanilla now almost nauseating, it was early evening but the light streamed in through the large floor to ceiling windows, a dizzying combination that makes your head feel fuzzy and your chest squeeze with a discomfort.
An unwelcome voice filtered down the hall from the main reception, nasally and frustrated. “Seriously? I need to have an appointment before I go to Australia because I won’t be back until after I’ve been to Japan - this service isn’t acceptable. Don’t you understand?”
The lady behind the desk doesn’t look uncomfortable but it’s clear she’s intimidated by Kelly, who slams her palm down onto the counter and throws the other arm out wildly in annoyance, rolling her eyes and turning away with a scoff, turning right towards you.
There’s only one reason you’d be here, the same reason that she’s here. Her eyes widen in surprise, she blinks it away rapidly, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing, mouth quickly turning into a half-sneer, half-smile, clearly keeping up appearances for any staff that may be in the vicinity like the poor receptionist.
Her nose turns up and it’s all you can do not to launch yourself at her in a mix of fists and feet, she’s pregnant, you remind yourself, the baby doesn’t deserve that, it deserves far better than what she’ll ever have to offer it.
She almost looks smug once she’s recovered from the shock. “Does Max know?” Every hair on the back of your neck and arms stands, suddenly charged as if electrified, mouth feeling dry and uncooperative at her words.
Rather than a glance, with one hand rested beneath the bump she insisted on emphasizing lately, she pivoted towards you now, giving you her entire attention despite it being so unwanted. “Does he know?” She gritted out a second time, challenging you.
Her gaze dipped downward immediately, and then back up, unflinching. One word, simple and heavy. “No.”
“Maybe you should keep it that way.” Her voice is lowered and her eyes are dark as she takes a small step towards you.
A laugh bubbles up in your throat, bitter and angry. “Excuse me? And what in the fuck makes you think that you’ve got any say over that?” For a moment you don’t consider the fact that this might not even be Max’s baby, it doesn’t matter right now. “What the actual fuck have you taken that makes you so delusional as to think you’ve got any sort of input over this?”
The smile that followed on her lips didn’t reach her eyes. “You had your chance. He’s moved on. We’re a family now. Penelope, the baby, Max - me.”
There it was. The performance. Delivered with a straight spine and a perfectly practiced breath.
The anger pours from you in waves but you bite your tongue despite the way it kills everything inside of you. A chance? Is that what she thinks happened? That you had a chance with Max and blew it, rather than her stealing him away?
“Then you shouldn’t feel so threatened when I tell him the news.”
Her face flickered but she gave no response. Nothing verbal. The telltale was the way her jaw set tightly as she looked away, chin jutting out slightly as she tried to maintain the illusion that she was better than you somehow for the staff that were now watching intently from behind the counter and down the hall.
The hallway seemed smaller as the walk to the exit resumed. Fresh air outside hit hard - brisk, salty, almost enough to shake something loose in the chest. Monaco sparkled in the distance, but it might as well have been a grey blur. Every sense remained tuned to the echo of that hallway, the flicker on the monitor, the sound of a heartbeat that wasn’t just a heartbeat anymore. You were home before you could think of anything other than the echo of footsteps and the beep of pre-natal equipment.
Summary: It comes to light that Max has been cheating on his wife with Kelly Piquet when an Instagram pregnancy announcement goes viral, shocking Max who’d expected his affair to remain secret. Baby Blues follows the couple through finding out about Max’s infidelity to new romance blooming.
Timeline of Events (non-compulsory read, applicable to the story pre-rewrite, may not be correct as of new posts!)
❤️🔥 smut
💔 hurt/angst
📸 smau
𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝟙
ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1] - Max knows that his relationship is coming to an end and just wants one final night to be with the love of his life before coming clean.
ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʟᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴠᴀɪɴ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2] - Max doesn’t want to give you another reason to hate him and doesn’t think he’s to blame.
ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 3] - One final night of passion before Max’s world stops turning. ❤️🔥
ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 4] - The truth about Max’s infidelity finally comes to light, resulting in confrontation.
ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴜꜱ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 5] - Painful memories resurface when an envelope with Max’s handwriting appears. 💔
𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝟚
ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 6] - A week in Japan is enough to recharge, some kind words from a mother help to bring things into perspective.
ᴛᴜʀʙᴜʟᴇɴᴄᴇ [ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ] - A run in on the plane with some fans who have a lot to say about Max and Kelly.
ᴀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 7] - A fresh start and a friendsmas Christmas party offers new romance to the story.
ᴀ ɢʟɪᴍᴘꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴜꜱ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 8] - The beginning of recovery after Max’s betrayal, documented in photos and glimpses. 📸
ᴅʀᴀᴡɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀɴᴅ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 9] - An unexpected discussion comes about while holidaying with Lando and some other friends.
ꜱᴀʏ ɪᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 10] - The full story of what happened with Daniel at the Friendsmas party comes to light after the confession to Lando. ❤️🔥
ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ɢᴏᴇꜱ [ᴘᴀʀᴛ 11] - Telling Daniel the news turns into a heart to heart about what was lost.
