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System Failure - Chapter 94: Monaco - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well. Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes: GEORGE RUSSELL BASHING. I am warning in ALL CAPS because if you are a fan of him, DO NOT come into my inbox and complain to me about me being mean to this fictional version of him. REAL LIFE GEORGE RUSSELL WOULD OBVIOUSLY NEVER ACT LIKE THAT. Also, this chapter contains mentions of Death Threats and some vague mentions of sexual assault and threats of the same. For Housekeeping Reasons, this is fiction. I don't know any of these people in real life. The world portrayed in this story is obviously not real life, and I am sure that none of the people mentioned are anything like I portray them in this piece of fiction. (Apparently, this needs to be said for some of the people in my inbox.)

Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it! As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble.

Wolff Residence, Monaco - 13 October 2025

Susie waited until Jack was asleep before she let herself stop being useful.

All evening, she had been the person who translated terror into routine.

Water for Ana.

A soft voice for Jack.

A sharp voice for Toto when he started looking like he might make their daughter feel responsible for the size of his guilt.

A hand on Max’s shoulder when his rage had gone too silent.

A calm explanation to Jack that no, Ana was not physically hurt, and yes, Nikolai was there, and yes, Coco had been very helpful.

But now Jack was asleep in his room with Coco tucked beneath one arm and the bedside lamp left on because he had asked, very quietly, whether “security bad days” could come through dreams.

Susie had promised him no.

It was not a promise she had any right to make.

She had made it anyway.

Now she stood in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, staring at the kettle.

The kettle was empty. She had forgotten to fill it.

Behind her, Toto sat at the dining table with a legal pad, his phone, and a fury so controlled it made the room feel colder.

The list sat in front of him.

Stephanie.

Rosa.

Benedict.

Freya.

Joanna.

Freya had been crossed out with a note that read: accepted one local asset. Shoe conditions.

Benedict: exterior only. route assessment. something more going on.

Rosa: schedule received. angry. asked if Ana okay.

Stephanie had been boxed, underlined, crossed out, and then written again in the margin with one note beside it:

muted. security arrangements only.

Joanna’s name sat at the bottom.

Untouched.

Susie turned around.

“You still haven’t called your mother.”

Toto did not look up. “No.”

“She is the last one?”

“Yes.”

“She needs to know.”

“I know.”

He still did not move.

Susie crossed the room and sat opposite him.

Toto’s hand rested near the phone but not on it, as if the device had become something dangerous. In a way, it had. It was a door. Pressing one name would reopen a room he had only just walked out of in September.

His mother’s apartment in Vienna.

The staged tribunal.

Stephanie on the sofa. Rosa beside her. Joanna already disappointed. The dining table cleared like they expected to conduct proceedings. Toto putting the legal folder down and saying he was done negotiating Ana’s dignity.

Susie had not been there, but she knew the room by now.

She knew it because Toto had described it in pieces, and because the worst part of family were often built the same way: comfortable furniture, polished wood, and the expectation that cruelty would be called concern if it was spoken in the right tone.

“Toto.”

He looked up.

The expression on his face made her chest ache. “I do not want to protect her,” he said.

Susie went still.

Toto’s jaw tightened almost immediately, as if he expected her to correct him.

She did not.

He looked down again.

“I will,” he said. “I know I will. I have already told Nikolai to prepare the local asset. I will call her. I will make sure she is covered.”

His hand closed into a fist.

“But I do not want to.”

Susie inhaled slowly.

She thought of Ana, pale and too still, forcing herself through threat statements, security logic, legal procedure, family coverage. Ana had thought of Joanna. Ana had thought of Stephanie. Ana had thought of people who had turned her childhood into a list of things she needed to correct about herself.

And still, she had said they should be protected.

Because George’s logic was not rational.

Because family was a map of pressure points.

“I know,” Susie said quietly.

Toto laughed once.

No humour.

Only bitterness.

“I sent security to Stephanie,” he said. “After she called this another Anastasia overreaction. After she implied Ana enjoys making people run around because she is frightened.”

Susie’s mouth tightened. She wanted to break something.

“She is vile,” Susie said.

“Yes.”

“And you still protected her.”

“For Benedict and Rosa.”

“And because Ana asked.”

Toto’s face shifted.

There it was. The part that had lodged under both their ribs.

Ana had asked.

Ana, threatened and shaking, had asked them to protect the family perimeter.

Not the deserving perimeter.

Not the kind perimeter.

The family perimeter.

Susie leaned back, arms crossing tightly over her chest.

“She should not have had to think of them. She should have been allowed to be frightened for herself for one hour.”

Toto looked at her.

His voice roughened. “She never is. She was barely holding together, Susie. She had just read those messages, and she was already thinking about Jack’s school route. Benedict’s apartment. Rosa’s schedule. Freya. My mother.”

“I know.”

“She thought of Joanna before I did.”

Susie’s anger shifted.

Sharper.

Joanna.

Grandmother, technically.

The woman who had called Ana in Nice while Max was in surgery and told her she had created a disaster.

The woman who had told a twenty-seven-year-old women sitting alone beside an empty hospital bed that she was difficult, cold, undisciplined, morbid, strange.

The woman who had called autism a fashionable diagnosis.

The woman who had said Ana was an accident Toto made in Russia.

Susie had not heard the call.

Jos had.

That fact still made Susie feel strange.

Jos Verstappen had stood in a hospital room, heard enough, and taken the phone from Ana’s hand. Jos Verstappen had defended her.

Bluntly. Furiously. Imperfectly.

But he had defended her.

It had taken Toto’s mother less than ten minutes to become so cruel that Jos Verstappen became the safer adult in the room.

Susie would never forget that. Neither would Toto.

“She thought of Joanna,” Toto said again, quieter.

His mouth twisted around the name.

“After Nice. After everything.”

Susie reached across the table and covered his hand with hers.

“Sending security is not forgiveness,” she said.

He looked at her.

“It is not reconciliation,” she continued. “It is not you reopening boundaries. It is not you apologizing. It is not you telling Joanna than what she said was alright.”

Toto’s eyes stayed on hers.

“You are putting a guard outside the door,” Susie said. “You are not inviting her through it.”

For a second, his expression flickered.

“That sounds like Anastasia.”

“She would say it better.”

“She would say perimeter.”

Susie’s mouth almost moved.

Almost.

Then the anger came back.

“Our child was threatened tonight,” she said.

Toto’s face changed immediately.

There. The centre of it.

Ana.

Their child.

Their daughter, probably not sleeping. Probably trying to convince Max she was tired rather than frightened. Probably being held because if Max Verstappen was good for one thing tonight, it was using every injured, furious, stubborn part of himself to keep her from splintering alone.

Susie’s throat tightened.

“Our child was threatened,” she repeated. “Probably by a man who already hurt her. Who already hurt Max. Who thinks she is somehow responsible for his consequences. And we are here protecting people who helped teach her to think she has to account for everyone else’s comfort before her own pain.”

Toto’s hand turned under hers and gripped back. Hard.

“I know.”

“I am furious,” Susie said. Her voice sharpened. “I am so furious. I do not want to be reasonable about this. I do not want to be gracious. I do not want to give Joanna the benefit of age or distance or generation or whatever other excuse people use when older people are cruel,”

His mouth tightened.

“Susie.”

“No.” She leaned forward. “She called Ana an accident.”

Toto went still.

“She called her an accident while Max was in surgery,” Susie said. “She told her nobody would tolerate her without you. And now Ana has asked you to protect her. She does not deserve Ana’s concern. But Ana also does not deserve to carry what would happen if we refused.”

His eyes closed. “Yes.”

That was the miserable truth.

Joanna did not deserve Ana’s care.

Ana deserved not to suffer the consequences of being the kind of person who offered it anyway.

Toto opened his eyes. “She will say I am overreacting.”

“Then tell her no.”

His eyes sharpened slightly.

Susie squeezed his hand.

“You did it in September,” she said. “Do it again.”

He looked down at the phone.

“September was different.”

“No.” Susie’s voice was firm. “It was the same thing. They put Ana on trial then. Stephanie did it tonight. Joanna will try to do it now. The only difference is that this time, you are not there in person. You are here, on the phone, with me.”

Toto looked at her.

“And I am not going to let you forget what you already decided,” Susie said. “Basic decency or no access. Security does not change that.”

He breathed in.

Slowly. Out.

Then nodded once.

“Stay. Please.”

“Of course.”

He pressed the call button before he could think better of it. It rang four times.

Then Joanna answered.

“Torger?”

Her voice was polished, cool, mildly irritated already. The voice of a woman who expected every interruption to justify itself.

Toto’s hand tightened around Susie’s.

“Mama,” he said. “There has been a security incident.”

A pause.

“What sort of security incident?”

“A credible threat connected to the family. You will have additional protection assigned tonight.”

Another pause.

“Connected to the family,” Joanna repeated.

“Yes.”

“Is this about Anastasia?”

Toto’s eyes went cold. “Yes. Anastasia received serious threats tonight.”

Joanna sighed.

Not softly.

Not with concern.

With irritation.

Susie’s entire spine locked.

“Toto,” Joanna said, “how many times must one girl be the centre of a storm before you ask why storms follow her?”

Susie’s lips parted.

Toto did not move.

When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. “No.”

Joanna paused.

“No?”

“No,” Toto repeated. “A man threatened her. She did not summon him. She did not attract him. She did not create the storm.”

“You have always been very defensive about her.”

“And you have always mistaken cruelty for insight.”

Silence.

Susie’s eyes snapped to his face.

Good.

Joanna’s voice cooled. “Be careful how you speak to me.”

“I am being careful,” Toto said. “That is why I am still speaking calmly.”

A small pause.

Then Joanna said, “I assume this is somehow connected to that incident with that driver earlier this year.”

Toto’s jaw tightened.

“That is not information you need.”

“Of course. Secrets again. Always secrets with Anastasia. Always something dramatic that cannot be properly explained.”

“It has been explained enough. A credible threat was made. Security will contact you.”

“I am an old woman in Vienna,” Joanna said sharply. “I do not need men standing outside my building because Anastasia cannot manage her own personal entanglements.”

Susie’s hand went rigid around Toto’s.

Toto’s face did not change.

But something in the room did.

“My daughter’s safety is not a personal entanglement.”

Joanna made a sound of disbelief. “Your daughter?”

Toto went completely still.

Susie felt the shift through his hand.

A deep, cold fury.

The kind that had no room for shouting.

“Do not do that,” he said.

“I am simply saying what everyone is forced to live around. Anastasia has made a life of needing special handling, and you have trained the entire family to provide it.”

“She was threatened.”

“And I am sorry if that is true.”

If.

Susie nearly stood.

Toto’s thumb pressed once against her hand.

Not stopping her.

Holding himself.

“It is true,” he said.

Joanna continued as if he had not spoken. “But you cannot expect the rest of us to be rearranged every time she spirals. Rosa is upset. Stephanie is upset. Benedict barely speaks. You have fractured this family over one girl’s sensitivities.”

“One girl’s sensitivities,” Toto repeated.

“Yes,” Joanna said, emboldened now. “And nobody is allowed to say it. She was difficult as a child, Torger. She is difficult as a woman. This is not hatred. This is reality. She takes and takes — attention, patience, excuses — and then acts wounded when people finally tire.”

Toto’s face had gone pale with rage.

Susie held onto him.

Not because she thought he would do something.

Because she could feel the force of what he was keeping inside.

“We had this conversation in September,” he said.

“Yes,” Joanna snapped. “You came into my home and threatened your family with lawyers because that girl cannot tolerate criticism.”

“You called her an accident.”

“She was an accident,” Joanna said.

The words cut through the kitchen.

Clean. Unapologetic. Susie stopped breathing.

Toto did not.

He looked straight ahead, hand locked around Susie’s.

Joanna continued, voice hard now, stripped of polish.

“You may not like the word, but it is the truth. She was the consequence of your mistake in Russia. A child we did not know existed. A child who arrived already damaged and then demanded the entire household bend around the damage.”

Toto’s eyes went flat.

Susie had seen him angry often.

She had rarely seen him like this.

Joanna was not finished.

“And now she is a grown woman still demanding it. You call it autism. You call it trauma. You call it brilliance. I call it what it is: an inability to adapt and a lifetime of being indulged by a guilty father.”

Toto inhaled.

Very slowly. When he spoke, his voice was low and deadly calm.

“If you say one more sentence like that, I will end this call and your security arrangements will go through security only.”

Joanna laughed once.

A brittle sound.

“So now I am managed by hired muscle because I speak plainly?”

“Because you speak cruelly.”

“No, Torger. Cruelty is what you did to Rosa. Cruelty is cutting off a daughter because Anastasia whispers in your ear.”

“Anastasia had absolutely nothing to do with Rosa’s trust structure.”

“She always has something to do with it.” Joanna’s voice sharpened. “That is the point. She stands there with those dead eyes and that flat voice and lets everyone else become the villain. Stephanie tried to discipline her. She became the villain. Rosa asks why she is treated differently. Rosa becomes the villain. I speak truth. I become the villain.”

Susie could feel her pulse in her throat.

Dead eyes. Flat voice.

Toto’s hand shook once.

Once. Then stilled.

“You know nothing about her eyes,” he said.

Joanna ignored it.

“She has never wanted to be part of this family,” she said. “She wanted your guilt. Your money. Your protection. Your name.”

Toto’s chair scraped back so sharply Susie flinched.

He stood.

Not because Joanna could see him.

Because his body could not remain seated under the weight of that sentence.

Susie stood with him, still holding his hand.

“You called her,” Toto said.

Joanna went quiet for half a beat.

He continued.

“After what happened in Baku. She had not slept. She had spent three days holding herself together by a thread. We were all holding by a thread. And you called her to tell her she was an accident. To complain to her about decisions that I made that she had nothing to do with.”

“She needed to understand what she was doing to this family!”

“No,” Toto said, voice sharpening for the first time. “She needed an adult to ask if she was safe. If she had eaten. If she had slept. If she was frightened.”

“She is not a child.”

“You never let her be one.”

The silence after that was immediate.

Susie closed her eyes.

God.

Joanna recovered quickly.

“She made herself impossible to mother.”

Toto went still.

Susie’s eyes opened.

The words seemed to hang in the kitchen.

Impossible to mother.

Toto’s voice, when it came, had changed.

It was quieter. Much colder.

“She was eight years old.”

“She was already strange before she came to you. That much was clear.”

“She was eight.”

“And at eight, a child can still be corrected.”

Susie made a sound then.

She could not stop it.

Toto’s eyes flicked to her.

Joanna heard.

“Is Susie there?” she asked.

“Yes,” Toto said.

“Of course she is.” Joanna’s voice dripped with contempt now. “Another woman who found purpose in making Anastasia into a cause.”

Susie reached for the phone.

Toto did not give it to her.

Not because he thought she was wrong.

Because if Susie spoke now, the call would become something else, and Toto was not finished.

“You will not speak like that about my wife,” he said.

“I will speak about what I see. Susie encourages this. She has always enjoyed being the understanding one. The rescuer. The woman who could do what Stephanie could not.”

Susie’s face went hot.

Toto’s voice dropped.

“Susie treated Anastasia like a person.”

“A person who divides every household she enters.”

“No,” Toto said. “A person you never bothered to understand because calling her difficult protected you from asking what she had survived.”

Joanna scoffed. “Survived. Such dramatic language.”

“She was abandoned by her mother.”

“She was delivered to her father.”

“She was abandoned.”

“She was given a better life than she would ever have had otherwise.”

Toto’s face twisted. Not with doubt. With disgust.

“A better life does not excuse harm inside it.”

“That is modern nonsense.”

“No,” Toto said. “That is accountability.”

Joanna inhaled sharply. “You have become very grand in your guilt.”

“Yes,” Toto said.

The simplicity of it stopped her.

“Yes,” he repeated. “I am guilty. I should have protected her sooner. I should have protected her from Stephanie. I should have protected her from you. I should have protected her from every person who looked at a frightened child and decided she was inconvenient.”

Joanna’s voice turned icy.

“And I suppose you believe I abused her.”

Toto did not hesitate.

“I believe you harmed her.”

Silence.

Susie’s eyes burned.

Joanna’s voice, when it came, was lower.

“You are my son.”

“She is my daughter.”

“You would throw away your mother for an accident?”

The kitchen went utterly still.

Toto’s face emptied.

For a second, Susie thought he might hang up then.

He did not.

When he spoke, each word was precise.

“I am going to say this once.”

Joanna said nothing.

“Anastasia is my daughter. Not an accident. Not a complication. Not a Russian mistake. Not a difficult girl. Not a diagnosis. My daughter.”

His voice shook once.

Only once.

“You will not speak about her like that again. Not to me. Not to Susie. Not to Jack. Not to Benedict. Not to Rosa.”

Joanna was silent.

Toto continued, colder now.

“Security will contact you in fifteen minutes. You will answer because a threat exists and because Anastasia, despite everything you have said to her and about her, thought you should be protected.”

That landed.

Susie could feel it.

For the first time, Joanna did not reply immediately.

Then, quieter but still sharp, “She asked?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps she enjoys appearing magnanimous.”

Toto’s expression snapped shut.

There was no other way to describe it.

One second, there had been rage and pain and some terrible hope that the truth might pierce through.

The next, there was a door closing.

“No,” he said.

Joanna began, “Torger—”

“No.”

“You cannot—”

“No.”

Silence.

Toto’s voice was controlled again, but the fury beneath it was unmistakable.

“This conversation is over. Your security contact will call. If you refuse cooperation, it will be documented. Do not contact Anastasia. Do not contact Susie. Do not call me again unless it concerns security logistics.”

Joanna’s voice rose. “You cannot forbid me from speaking to my granddaughter. You are being manipulated.”

“No,” Toto said. “I am finally listening.”

“You will regret this.”

“I already regret far more than you understand.”

He ended the call.

For one second, nothing happened.

Then Toto lowered the phone slowly.

His hand was shaking.

Not much.

Enough.

Susie stood opposite him, breathing hard, her own body lit with a fury so intense it felt almost clean.

Toto stared at the phone as if it might ring again.

It did not.

“Toto,” Susie said.

He did not answer.

“Toto.”

His jaw flexed.

Then he turned and, with frightening precision, placed the phone face down on the table.

Not thrown.

Placed.

That was somehow worse.

“She said impossible to mother,” he said.

Susie’s throat closed.

“She said Ana was impossible to mother.”

“Yes.”

“I want—”

He stopped.

Susie stepped closer.

“What?”

He shook his head.

“I do not want to say it.”

“Say it.”

His eyes lifted to hers.

There was fury in them still.

White-hot.

Unspent.

“I want to make her understand what it feels like,” he said. “To have the person who should protect you turn every wound into a defect.”

Susie’s eyes burned.

“I know.”

“I want to hurt her with it.”

“I know.”

“I am still protecting her. Because Ana asked.”

“Yes.”

He let out a sound that was almost a laugh, almost something broken.

“She said Ana only asked to appear magnanimous.”

Susie’s face hardened.

“She would.”

Toto looked toward the dark hallway where Jack slept.

Then back at the phone.

“I am not calm,” he said. “I am not done being angry. I hate them.”

Susie did not correct him.

Not tonight. She only stepped closer and put her hands on his arms.

“I know.”

“I hate that Ana thought of them.”

“I know.”

“I hate that she is better than they deserve.”

“So do I.”

Toto closed his eyes.

His breathing was too tight.

Susie moved one hand to the back of his neck.

“Look at me.”

He did.

His eyes were wet now, but the fury had not gone anywhere.

It sat behind them like fire behind glass.

“She is protected,” Susie said.

His mouth twisted.

“Joanna?”

“No,” Susie said sharply. “Ana.”

He went still.

“Ana is protected,” she repeated. “That is why you made the call. That is why you protected the perimeter. Not because Joanna deserved it. Not because Stephanie deserved it. Because Ana deserves not to have another thing to blame herself for.”

Toto stared at her.

Then nodded once.

The phone buzzed.

They both looked at it.

Nikolai.

Nikolai:Your mother confirmed. Local asset assigned. Cooperation minimal but sufficient.

Toto read it.

Something like relief tried to move across his face and failed because anger blocked the way.

“She cooperated,” Susie said.

“Minimal,” Toto replied.

“That is enough.”

“No,” he said.

Susie understood.

Enough operationally.

Not enough morally. Never enough morally.

“No,” she agreed. “It is not enough.”

For a while, they stood in the kitchen in silence.

The kettle remained empty.

The legal pad sat on the table with Joanna’s name finally crossed out, but not cleanly. Toto picked up the pen and drew one hard line through it.

Then another.

Then he put the pen down before the paper tore.

Susie watched him. He was still furious.

“Toto,” she said quietly.

He looked at her.

“She should never speak to Ana again.”

Susie’s voice went quiet. “Then make that the boundary.”

He turned back.

“Not tonight,” Susie said. “Not in rage. But soon. Clear. Written. No direct contact with Ana unless Ana initiates. No messages. No calls. No commentary through Rosa or anyone else.”

Toto breathed in slowly.

That helped. Structure.

A place to put the anger without handing it to Ana.

“Yes,” he said.

“And COTA,” Susie added.

His expression tightened immediately. “She is going. I cannot protect her from that.”

“But you can make sure she knows she does not have to be the person Joanna thinks she is,” Susie said.

Toto frowned.

“The impossible child,” Susie said. “The difficult girl. The one who has to keep proving she is not too much by never stopping.”

His face changed.

“She gets to stop,” Susie said. “If COTA is too much, she gets to stop. If she goes and then breaks, she gets to come home. If she decides not to go in the morning, that is not George winning. That is Ana choosing. She needs to hear that.”

Toto nodded.

“And you need to hear it too.”

His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

The kettle sat empty behind her.

Susie looked at it and let out a breath.

“I forgot the water.”

Toto stared at her.

Then at the kettle.

For one absurd second, neither of them moved.

Then he made a sound.

Not quite a laugh.

Too angry to be a laugh.

But close enough to human that Susie took it.

“I’ll fill it,” he said.

“No. Sit.”

“I can fill a kettle.”

“You are still visibly homicidal.”

“I am not homicidal.”

“Toto.”

He paused.

Then, after a beat, “Fine.”

Susie filled the kettle.

Her hands were still shaking.

She let them.

Behind her, Toto sat back down, phone face down, one hand pressed flat against the table like he was anchoring himself to the wood.

When the kettle began to boil, she looked over her shoulder.

He was staring at the legal pad.

At Joanna’s crossed-out name.

Susie brought two mugs to the table and sat beside him rather than opposite.

After a moment, Toto’s hand found hers.

He did not say anything.

He did not have to.

***

Email Subject: Immediate Security Escalation — COTA

From: Toto Wolff <[email protected]> To: Bradley Lord <[email protected]>

Bradley,

I need you looped in before this begins moving through formal channels tomorrow morning.

Anastasia received a series of credible threatening messages this evening. The content included direct threats to her safety, references to Baku, and language that strongly indicates George Russell as the sender or originator.

Police, legal counsel, and private security are already involved. Nikolai Maroz is handling immediate close-protection coordination on Anastasia’s side.

This is not to be discussed outside a strict need-to-know group.

We are treating this as an active security matter ahead of COTA. Anastasia has made clear that she intends to travel and work the weekend. I tried to object; she was very clear. I will not remove her from her work because a dangerous man wants her frightened out of it. That said, her attendance is conditional on a full security sign-off.

Effective immediately, I want the following coordinated with Mercedes security, circuit security, local authorities where appropriate, and only the minimum required operational staff:

Hardened travel plan for Anastasia, including airport transfers, hotel arrival/departure, and all movements between hotel, circuit, and any Mercedes-controlled locations.

No solo movement under any circumstances. Anastasia is to have close protection at all times outside secured private spaces.

Revised paddock movement plan. Controlled routes only. No unnecessary exposure in public-facing areas. No informal media crossings. No unscheduled sponsor or hospitality appearances.

Hotel security review, including room location, access logs, lift routes, staff access, and emergency exits.

Credential review. Anyone with proximity to Anastasia, or the engineering areas should be checked again. I do not want assumptions based on existing accreditation.

Communications discipline. No public discussion of Anastasia’s travel, movements, accommodation, or schedule. Internally, this is to be shared only where operationally necessary.

Clear extraction plan. If Nikolai, Mercedes security, or Anastasia herself decides the situation is unsafe or untenable, she leaves immediately. No debate. No optics discussion.

I want this handled calmly and without theatre. Anastasia does not need to walk into a paddock that treats her like an incident. She needs to be able to do her job with protection around her, not attention on her.

Please coordinate with Nikolai Maroz first thing and then come back to me with a proposed COTA movement and access plan. Keep Russell’s name out of written circulation beyond those who legally or operationally require it.

Anastasia is not to be challenged about whether she “really” needs this. She has already spent the evening trying to protect everyone else from the consequences of what happened to her. I will not have her managing the emotional or logistical discomfort of people who should simply be doing their jobs.

Regards, Toto Wolff CEO & Team Principal Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team

***

Bradley Lord’s House, Brackley - 13 October 2025

Bradley Lord had been asleep for twenty-three minutes when Toto Wolff’s email arrived.

Not enough sleep to count as rest.

Just enough for the body to feel personally betrayed by waking up again.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table with the particular insistence of an email that came from someone who did not believe in the concept of business hours when the building was on fire. Bradley opened one eye, saw Toto Wolff, saw the subject line, and immediately knew the building was, at minimum, smoking.

Immediate Security Escalation — COTA

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bradley muttered.

His wife, without opening her eyes, said, “Work?”

“Yes.”

“Fire?”

“Likely.”

“Actual fire or Mercedes fire?”

Bradley opened the email.

Read the first line.

Then sat up.

“Mercedes fire.”

She made a sympathetic sound into her pillow and went back to sleep, which was the correct choice.

Bradley had made several incorrect choices in his life, including working in Formula One communications, but waking his wife fully for a crisis that could be summarized as George Russell continues to be the reason I cannot have peace was not going to be one of them.

He read the email once.

Then again.

Then a third time, because by the second reading his brain had begun rearranging the information into categories.

Threats to Ana.

References to Baku.

Language indicating George Russell.

Police involved.

Legal involved.

Nikolai involved.

Toto furious enough to write with terrifying clarity.

Ana still intending to travel to COTA.

Bradley lowered the phone and stared into the dark.

“I am going to murder George Russell,” he said quietly.

His wife, apparently not asleep after all, mumbled, “Don’t put that in an email.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

“I’ll put it in Teams.”

“Bradley.”

“I’m joking.”

“You’re not.”

“No.”

He swung his legs out of bed and reached for the lamp.

The room filled with soft yellow light. Too soft for the scale of disaster currently unfolding in his inbox.

Bradley opened the email on his laptop because some crises deserved a full keyboard.

He read it again.

The problem with Toto Wolff was that when he wrote like this, Bradley could feel the unspoken parts between the sentences.

She is physically safe.

Meaning: she is not okay.

She intends to travel and work the weekend.

Meaning: I have already lost this argument.

I will not remove her from her work because a dangerous man wants her frightened out of it.

Meaning: I am furious enough to become unreasonable and am choosing, with great violence, not to.

She does not need to walk into a paddock that treats her like an incident.

Meaning: Bradley, if one camera, one journalist, one staff member, one sponsor guest, one person with a phone makes my daughter feel like a spectacle, I will burn down the earth and ask finance to invoice the ashes.

Bradley rubbed both hands over his face.

Then he got up and went to the small desk near the window.

His laptop woke.

So did his migraine.

He opened a fresh document and typed:

COTA — ANA SECURITY / COMMS ESCALATION

Then stared at it.

Then added, under his breath, “Subtitle: George Russell, you absolute nightmare.”

He did not type that.

He wanted to.

(He had standards. Low standards, sometimes, but standards.)

Bradley had worked in Formula One long enough to know that “security issue” could mean many things. An overenthusiastic fan with a paddock pass. A sponsor guest who thought the word VIP meant access to oxygen others did not get. A photographer too close to a hospitality entrance. A leak. A threat. A stalker. A parent. Occasionally, somehow, all of the above.

But this?

This was not a normal security issue.

This was personal.

Personal was always worse.

Personal moved unpredictably. Personal crossed borders. Personal made rational people become irrational and irrational people become catastrophically inventive. Personal meant the threat was not necessarily looking for opportunity in the broad sense. It was looking for her.

And her was Ana Wolff.

Bradley sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for one second.

Mercedes would protect Ana.

That was not the question.

There were plenty of things Bradley Lord doubted in life. He doubted the good faith of certain tabloid journalists. He doubted the structural integrity of many temporary hospitality builds. He doubted any driver who said, “I don’t care what people think.” He doubted every crisis described to him as “small.”

But he did not doubt that Mercedes would protect Dr. Ana Wolff.

She was theirs.

The paddock still did not understand that.

Some of them thought Ana was Toto’s daughter in the way children of powerful men often floated at the edge of institutions. A name. A complication. A person allowed through doors because blood opened them.

They were wrong.

Ana had earned the doors.

(And then improved the locks.)

The engineers trusted her because she was frighteningly good. The strategy room trusted her because she could look at a system and see three failures before anyone else finished the first coffee. The younger staff trusted her because she never mocked questions. The older staff trusted her because she did not waste words. The mechanics liked her because she labeled cables correctly and once silently fixed a diagnostic display during a red-flag delay without acting like it was a favor.

Bradley liked her because she was the only person in the building who could say “that would be a reputationally inefficient lie” and make it sound both insulting and helpful.

Mercedes would protect her.

Of course they would.

That did not stop Bradley worrying.

Because protecting someone in private was one thing.

Protecting someone in the paddock was another.

A Formula One paddock was a small city built entirely out of access hierarchies and expensive lanyards.

People moved through it believing they had the right to be wherever their badge allowed them and several places it did not. Cameras existed in hands, on shoulders, on phones, behind tinted hospitality windows, inside accreditation systems, and occasionally in the souls of people who claimed they were “just capturing atmosphere.”

And COTA was COTA.

Loud. Wide. Exposed. Hot. Sponsor-heavy. Media-heavy. Fan-heavy. A place where walkways became funnels and hospitality became theatre and every movement could become content if the wrong person noticed.

Ana’s first paddock appearance after the threat would have been complicated enough.

Except it would not just be that.

Bradley leaned back slowly.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he said to the ceiling.

The ring.

Bradley had almost forgotten the ring.

No — not forgotten. Suppressed. Like the mind suppresses trauma, dental work, and the 2021 Abu Dhabi press conference calendar.

COTA would very likely be the first time the media saw Ana’s engagement ring properly.

A visible ring on Toto Wolff’s daughter.

On Mercedes’ systems lead. On the woman connected to Max Verstappen in a way the public did not yet fully understand, because somehow the most operationally paranoid family in Formula One had managed to keep one of the biggest personal stories in the sport below boiling point for this long.

Bradley stared at his laptop.

Security threat.

George Russell.

Baku.

Ana at COTA.

Max Verstappen injured, moving toward Mercedes, probably one crutch away from committing a crime if anyone looked at Ana wrong.

Toto Wolff furious.

Engagement ring.

Press speculation.

Drivers noticing.

Photographers zooming.

Social media detectives.

COTA cameras.

Sponsors.

Netflix, God forbid.

Bradley put his head in his hands.

“I am going to murder George Russell,” he said again.

This time, his wife said nothing.

A wise woman.

Bradley opened another document.

ANA RING / PUBLIC VISIBILITY — OPTIONS

He stared at the title.

Then immediately closed the document.

“No,” he told himself. “One fire at a time.”

But that was not how fires worked in Formula One.

They merged.

The ring mattered because the threat mattered. The threat mattered because the ring would increase attention. Increased attention made security harder. Security harder made media movement plans stricter. Stricter media movement plans made people ask questions. Questions led to speculation. Speculation led to photographers looking for the thing people were speculating about.

And there was also Ana herself.

Bradley had enough sense not to think of Ana as fragile. Fragile was the wrong word. Ana was one of the strongest people he had ever met, though he suspected she would call that inaccurate and then offer a structural correction.

But strength was not the same as invulnerability.

People confused those all the time.

Especially in Formula One.

A strong person could still be hurt. A private person could still be exposed. A brilliant person could still be frightened. A calm voice could still be the sound of someone holding themselves together by force.

Bradley had seen Ana at work during ordinary stress. She became quieter, sharper, more exact. She moved less. She answered questions more literally. People who did not know her sometimes thought she was unbothered.

Bradley had learned to be wary of that.

Ana unbothered had a dry comment, a pointed eyebrow, and an ability to dismantle bad logic in five words.

Ana too still was something else.

He opened Teams.

Hovered over Mercedes Security.

Then decided he needed to think before he started waking people.

Not too long.

Just enough to avoid creating a panic under the banner of preventing one.

He created a list.

Immediate need-to-know:Toto. Bradley. Mercedes Head of Security. Legal. Travel coordinator. COTA liaison. Hotel security contact. Probably Shov? Other Senior Engineering staff. Definitely Solomon. Possibly communications deputy, but only if briefed under lock and key.

He paused.

NOT need-to-know:Anyone who might say “poor Ana” in a corridor. Anyone who might say “is it true?” within earshot of mechanics. Anyone who thinks discretion means “tell only my three closest colleagues.” Netflix. Absolutely not Netflix. Hospitality. Not yet. Sponsors. No.

Then he opened a response to Toto.

Did not type.

Not yet.

There was another problem.

Public posture.

If Ana arrived at COTA with visibly tightened security, and no explanation, people would notice.

If she arrived with a ring, people would notice.

If she arrived without the usual freedom of movement, people would notice.

Bradley hated attention economies with every tired bone in his body.

He opened the ring document again.

Stared at it.

The question formed despite his best efforts.

Did they want Ana to post beforehand?

A controlled reveal. A quiet Instagram post.

A hand photo. Maybe not even a hand photo. Something soft. Something architectural. A caption that said enough without inviting comment war.

Bradley immediately grimaced.

Because the last Instagram post Ana had made had not exactly lowered the emotional temperature of the internet.

Ana did not post like a media-trained person.

Ana posted like someone who had examined the concept of public communication, found most of it inefficient, and decided to say the exact thing in the exact way that would cause maximum psychological damage to anyone trying to interpret it through normal PR rules.

It was one of the things Bradley respected about her.

It was also why his high blood pressure existed.

A pre-COTA post might reduce the ring circus by turning speculation into known fact.

Or it might detonate everything early.

Dr. Anastasia Wolff confirms engagement to Max Verstappen ahead of COTA amid heightened Mercedes security.

No.

Absolutely not.

Maybe a post from Max?

Bradley snorted.

Max Verstappen’s idea of a subtle Instagram reveal would probably be a photo of Ana’s ring with the caption mine and comments turned off too late.

Maybe joint?

Worse.

Maybe nothing.

Let the ring appear naturally and manage the fallout.

But “naturally” in the paddock meant a Getty photographer capturing a six to seven figure sapphire under harsh Texas sunlight while some fan account circled it in red and wrote UM???

Bradley put his fingers to his temples.

Maybe the ring but no Max?

Let Ana post something beautifully cryptic and then let the internet start wild conspiracy theories if she was getting married to increasingly cursed options?

“George Russell,” he whispered, “I hope every charger you own only works at an angle.”

The laptop pinged.

A Teams message from Mercedes Security.

Apparently Toto had not waited for Bradley to begin the cascade.

Of course he had not.

SECURITY:We’ve received preliminary from TW. Do you have comms guidance yet?

Bradley stared at the message.

“Do I look like a man with guidance?” he asked the room.

The room did not answer.

He typed:

BRADLEY:Working on it. Treat as strict need-to-know. No written detail beyond credible personal threat / COTA escalation. I’ll join call in 10.

Then he opened Toto’s email again and began drafting his reply.

He deleted the first line.

Then the second.

Then the third, because Toto, what fresh hell was honest but not useful.

He settled on:

Toto,

No.

Too calm.

He tried again.

Toto,

Still the same.

Bradley sighed and continued.

He would deal with the absurdity later.

Now he needed to be useful.

He typed:

I’m on it. I’ll coordinate with Security and Nikolai immediately and keep this to the smallest possible group.

Then paused.

Because there were things Toto needed to know that were not security logistics.

And Bradley’s job, annoyingly, was to be the person who said them.

He typed more slowly.

We also need to think about public visibility. If Ana travels with tightened movement protocols, people may notice. If her ring is visible, they will definitely notice. We need a plan for whether we let that surface organically or consider a controlled acknowledgement before or during the weekend. I am not recommending a decision tonight, but we should not walk into COTA pretending this will not become part of the noise.

He stared at the paragraph.

Then added:

That said, her safety and comfort come first. I will not push a public-facing solution if it increases pressure on her.

Good.

That was the line.

Bradley did not want to make Ana post.

He did not want to make Ana hide either.

He wanted, ideally, for the entire internet to take a long walk into the sea.

But failing that, he wanted Ana to have choices.

He kept typing.

I’ll prepare options: no comment, controlled minimal statement, or pre-emptive personal post if she and Max want it. Nothing goes to her tonight unless you or Susie think she is ready for that conversation.

He almost wrote and unless Max Verstappen can resist growling at me.

He did not.

Again: standards.

The Teams pinged again.

This time from his comms deputy.

DEPUTY:Sorry to message late — saw security flag. Is this something I need to wake up for?

Bradley stared at it.

Then typed:

BRADLEY:Not yet. Keep phone on. If anyone asks tomorrow morning, you know nothing beyond “routine COTA planning.” And please do not let anyone say “routine” in writing near me.

DEPUTY:That bad?

Bradley hesitated.

Then:

BRADLEY:Bad enough.

He closed Teams before more people could become awake.

The problem with Mercedes was that they were very good in a crisis.

This was usually helpful.

It also meant everyone competent developed a sixth sense for when a crisis existed, and then they began appearing like summoned spirits.

The security call started six minutes later.

Bradley joined in a hoodie, glasses, and the expression of a man who had aged since opening his laptop.

Security was already there.

Of course they were.

Two of them appeared on screen in a dark room, faces expressionless, looking like they had been born inside a threat assessment.

“Good evening,” One of them said.

“Bad evening.”

“Understatement.”

“Yes.”

Legal joined. Someone from travel joined and immediately looked like they regretted it.

Bradley took notes.

Hardened transfers.

Hotel access.

Private entrances.

Lift control.

Credential review.

No solo movement.

Restricted internal awareness.

Contingency extraction.

Toto updated, but not copied on every operational detail unless necessary because Toto would start optimizing from rage and nobody needed that at midnight.

Bradley wrote it down as: Limit TW tactical involvement unless required.

He did not write: Toto currently emotionally armed.

(Bradley definitely thought it though.)

Halfway through the call, Travel asked, “Will Dr. Wolff be willing to adjust her paddock schedule?”

Bradley said, “If the adjustment is justified by security logic, yes. If it sounds like avoidance, no.”

Mercedes Security asked, “What about media visibility?”

Everyone went quiet.

“Yes,” Bradley said. “That’s the other part. Security changes will attract attention if handled clumsily. We need to keep her movement protected without making her look like a guarded dignitary.”

“She is somewhat a guarded dignitary now,” Travel said weakly.

Bradley looked at him.

Travel went silent.

“No,” Bradley said. “She is Dr. Wolff coming to do her job.” Bradley continued, “If anyone internally starts treating her like a story, I will become unpleasant.”

Legal said, “Define unpleasant.”

“No.”

Nobody asked again.

Then he raised the ring issue because he hated himself and because ignoring problems did not make them vanish, it made them trend.

“There is also personal visibility,” Bradley said carefully. “This may be the first public weekend where her engagement ring is clearly visible.”

Travel blinked. Security sighed. Legal closed his eyes.

“The ring is significant?” Travel asked.

Bradley stared at him.

“Have you met Formula One media?”

“No.”

“Lucky.”

Security said, “Do we need a separate media protocol?”

“Yes,” Bradley said. “Photography hotspots, paddock entrance, hospitality balcony, garage approach. We cannot forbid people from photographing her in accredited areas, but we can limit unnecessary exposure and control our own staff behavior.”

Legal asked, “Statement?”

“Not tonight,” Bradley said. “Options tomorrow. No comment remains viable unless the ring becomes a direct question, in which case we need an answer that does not invite a feeding frenzy.”

“What answer?”

Bradley removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Something like: Dr. Wolff is here in her professional capacity. We are not commenting on personal matters.”

The call ended forty-two minutes later with enough action items to ruin several people’s mornings.

Bradley sat back in his chair and looked at the list.

He trusted the system.

That was the strange thing.

He trusted Mercedes.

He trusted Security. He trusted Toto’s fury to fund whatever needed funding. He trusted Susie to notice the emotional risks no one else saw. He trusted Ana too.

That was what worried him.

Because Ana would cooperate with security if the logic was sound.

Ana would follow a plan if the plan was efficient.

Ana would accept a shadow if the shadow did not crowd her.

And then Ana would walk into COTA with her head up, her ring possibly visible, her threat assessment memorized, her father furious, her fiancé injured, half the sport watching, and act like she was fine because being fine was often the price private people paid to keep moving.

Bradley hated that.

He hated that he admired it.

He hated that his job was to help make it possible.

His laptop pinged again.

This time from Toto.

TOTO:Understood. Prepare options. Do not involve Anastasia tonight.

Bradley exhaled.

At least that was settled.

Then, a second message:

TOTO:And Bradley?

Bradley waited.

TOTO:If anyone treats her as a spectacle, I expect it handled.

Bradley looked at the screen.

Then typed:

BRADLEY:It will be.

He paused.

Then added:

BRADLEY:She is one of ours.

The reply did not come immediately.

When it did, it was only one word.

TOTO:Yes.

Bradley sat back.

There it was.

The whole thing, really.

Not the threat. Not the ring. Not the media circus waiting in Austin with cameras and lanyards and the collective restraint of starving gulls.

Ana was one of theirs.

Mercedes protected their own.

Not always perfectly.

Formula One rarely did anything perfectly except create emergencies at inconvenient times.

But they would protect her.

Bradley closed the laptop halfway, then opened it again because he remembered three more action items.

He added them.

Then a fourth.

Then, in a private note no one else would see, he wrote:

George Russell has created a security crisis, a legal crisis, a media crisis, a driver management crisis, and possibly an engagement reveal crisis in one evening. Impressive only in the way a sinkhole is impressive.

He looked at it.

Deleted it.

Then wrote instead:

Prepare COTA holding lines.

Much more professional.

Much less satisfying.

He finally stood at 2:17 a.m., turned off the desk lamp, and looked once toward the dark bedroom where his wife was asleep.

His phone buzzed again.

Bradley froze.

Looked down.

A calendar reminder for 8:00 a.m.:

COTA comms sync.