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: This chapter contains major character injury, graphic portrayal of injuries and graphic portrayal of a crash in Formula 1. Discussion of death. Also discussion of putting a pet to sleep. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Maison Étoiles, Monaco - 27 September 2025
The drive from the apartment to the house was short.
Still, Ana felt strangely aware of every minute of it.
Jimmy and Sassy sat in their carriers in the back seat, occasionally voicing their strong opinions about travel arrangements. Jack had been narrating their complaints the entire ride like a wildlife documentary.
“Jimmy seems calm,” he announced.
“He usually is,” Ana said.
“Sassy sounds angry.”
“That is also her natural state.”
Susie laughed quietly from the driver seat.
The car turned through the gates and into the drive.
Ana had seen the house before, of course. During their viewing. During visits. On plans, renderings, and photos sent by contractors.
But this was the first time it was finished.
The first time she saw it the way it was meant to exist.
Sunlight washed across pale stone walls and tall windows that reflected the Mediterranean sky. The garden stretched around the house in neat terraces, the lemon trees already catching the afternoon light.
For a moment Ana didn’t move.
Jack leaned forward from the back seat.
“Whoa.”
Susie smiled.
“Not bad, huh?”
Ana exhaled softly.
It wasn’t just the architecture.
It was the feeling.
Something quiet and steady settled in her chest.
Like a place that had been waiting.
Like… home.
Susie parked the car.
Jack immediately opened his door and ran toward the house before Susie could even remind him not to sprint.
“Jack!” Susie called.
“Sorry!”
Ana lifted the cat carriers out of the back seat.
Jimmy tolerated this with dignity.
Sassy screamed like she was being kidnapped.
Ana adjusted her grip slightly.
“Yes,” she said drily. “Your objections have been noted.”
Inside, the front door was already open.
Voices drifted out.
Freya.
And Toto.
Ana stepped into the entry hall.
“Hello?”
Freya appeared from the living room almost immediately, moving with the purposeful energy of someone who had already taken control of the entire situation.
“Oh good,” she said. “You’re back.”
Jack ran past her toward the kitchen.
“There are lemons outside!”
Ana set the cat carriers down gently. “We’ll put them in one of the guest rooms,” she said.
“Good idea,” Susie agreed.
They carried the carriers upstairs to one of the quiet guest bedrooms. Ana opened the doors of the cat carriers.
Jimmy stepped out immediately and began inspecting the unfamiliar space.
Sassy followed.
She sniffed the air.
Then walked directly to the bed and jumped onto it.
Claimed.
Ana nodded approvingly.
“Excellent.”
Behind her, Jack knelt down.
“They like it.”
“Yes.” Sassy stretched luxuriously across the duvet like she had personally financed the property.
Ana crouched briefly to scratch Jimmy behind the ears. “You’ll like it here,” she promised him softly. “I know I will.”
Jimmy purred.
Ana closed the door to keep them from wandering through the chaos of movers.
Downstairs the sounds of movement continued — contractors, tools, voices.
Ana walked slowly back into the living room. And stopped.
The high windows stretched across the wall, flooding the room with warm light.
The kitchen opened seamlessly beside it.
Beyond the glass doors the terraces stepped down through the garden, the trees bright against the stone.
All the pieces she had been coordinating remotely for weeks — phone calls, emails, construction timelines, furniture deliveries — suddenly existed in one place.
Finished.
Real.
The emotion that rose in her chest caught her slightly off guard.
Susie noticed immediately.
“You okay?”
Ana nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
She looked around again.
“It feels…”
The sentence didn’t finish.
It didn’t need to.
Susie understood anyway.
Freya reappeared with a large book in her hands.
The art catalogue.
It now looked significantly thicker than it had that morning.
Ana frowned slightly. “What happened to it?”
Freya grinned. “Creative decisions.”
Toto walked in behind her holding a stack of neon sticky notes. “Your aunt has opinions.”
Freya handed the book over.
Ana opened it.
Nearly every page contained a sticky note.
Blue.
Pink.
Yellow.
Some with comments.
Some with arrows.
Some with what appeared to be very strong disapproval.
Ana stared.“…You marked half the catalogue.”
Freya looked pleased. “Only the promising half.”
Susie leaned over Ana’s shoulder.“Oh wow.”
Ana flipped another page.
Another sticky note.
Another.
Another.
Toto crossed his arms. “We may have gotten carried away.”
Ana closed the book slowly. “I see.”
Freya pointed at one page. “That sculpture would look excellent in the entry hall.”
Toto pointed at another. “That painting would work in the living room.”
Freya shook her head. “No.”
They immediately began arguing quietly about color balance.
Ana watched them for a moment, slightly overwhelmed but amused.
Then Toto looked back at her. “Oh,” he added casually. “We still need to get you a piano.”
Ana blinked. “What.”
Toto shrugged. “You play.”
Freya nodded immediately. “A grand piano would look excellent in that corner.”
She pointed toward the window area of the living room.
Ana followed the gesture.
The space was large.
Open.
Sunlight poured in through the glass.
She could picture it immediately.
Toto noticed the look.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “That corner.”
Ana looked back at her aunt. “You’re enabling him.”
Freya smiled. “Of course I am.”
Susie laughed softly.
***
Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Lewis Hamilton
Sebastian: I need an outside opinion.
Lewis: You’re asking me?
That’s a dangerous start.
Sebastian:Carlos Sainz just suggested I run for FIA president.
Lewis:
What
Sebastian:Long story.
Lewis:I have time. I’m at the vet.
Sebastian:I texted Carlos Sr. about the penalty points situation and the FIA mess.I suggested he run against Ben Sulayem.
Sebastian:He said it would be a conflict of interest while Carlos Jr. is still racing.
Lewis:Fair point.
Sebastian:Then he said maybe I should do it.
Lewis:😂
Sebastian:This is not funny.
Lewis:It’s a little funny.
Sebastian:Lewis.
Lewis:Sorry
Honestly that might be the best idea I’ve heard all week.
I would absolutely vote for President Vettel.
Sebastian:You’re not helping.
Lewis:No I’m serious.
Lewis:You’re the only person stubborn enough to fight them and smart enough to understand the sport.
Sebastian:I’m a retired racing driver who likes bees.
Lewis:Exactly.
Sebastian:That is not a qualification.
Lewis:You care about the future of the sport more than most people in the paddock.
Lewis:Also you already spend half your time arguing with the FIA anyway.
Sebastian:That is also true.
Lewis:So why not do it officially.
Sebastian:It sounds like a nightmare.
Lewis:Most things worth doing are.
Sebastian:You would support it.
Lewis:Absolutely.Seb.The sport needs people who actually care about it.
Sebastian:I’m not saying yes.
Lewis:But you’re not saying no.
Sebastian:I’m saying I need to think about it.
Lewis:That sounds like a future president answer.
Sebastian:Don’t start.
Lewis:President Vettel.
Sebastian:Lewis.
Lewis:😂
Seb: How are you doing?
Lewis: Honestly?
Lewis: It helps talking about anything that isn’t Roscoe right now.
Seb: I understand.
Lewis: Ana helped a lot earlier. She’s good at that.
Lewis:Seriously. Run.
Seb: God help the FIA.
Lewis: Exactly.
***
Group Chat: The Old Wolves
(Members: Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, Nico Rosberg, David Coulthard, Mark Webber, Fernando Alonso)
Sebastian Vettel:So… hypothetically speaking.
Mark Webber:oh no
Jenson Button:Whenever you start a message like that it means chaos is coming.
Sebastian Vettel:Carlos Sainz Sr suggested I run for FIA president.
Mark Webber:…you’re kidding
David Coulthard:Well that escalated quickly.
Fernando Alonso:Interesting.
Jenson Button:Wait
You’re serious?
Sebastian Vettel:He said it would not be appropriate for him because Carlos is still racing.
Mark Webber:that actually makes sense
Sebastian Vettel:Then he suggested me.
Jenson Button:Oh my god.
Fernando Alonso:Yes.
Mark Webber:hang on
Mark Webber:are we actually discussing this like it’s real
Fernando Alonso:We absolutely are.
David Coulthard:If we’re doing this properly, we need to consider the election structure.
Nico Rosberg:Correct.
Nico Rosberg:Okay, quick overview.
Mark Webber:here we go
Nico Rosberg:To run for FIA President you need seven endorsing Vice-Presidents.
Jenson Button:Seven?
Nico Rosberg:Yes.
Two from Europe, and one from each of the remaining FIA sporting regions.
Sebastian Vettel:That sounds complicated.
Nico Rosberg:It is.
David Coulthard:Which regions exactly?
Nico Rosberg:Europe
North America
South America
Middle East & North Africa
Africa
Asia-Pacific
Mark Webber:Jesus.
Fernando Alonso:So we build a coalition.
Mark Webber:Of course Fernando says that like we’re launching a revolution.
Fernando Alonso:We are.
Jenson Button:This is already the best group chat I’ve been in all week.
Sebastian Vettel:I only said I was considering it.
Mark Webber:mate you can’t drop that bomb and expect us to stay calm
Nico Rosberg:The bigger issue is endorsements.
Sebastian Vettel:Why.
Nico Rosberg:Because you might actually get the others.
Nico Rosberg:Europe will not be difficult.
Drivers trust you.
You have credibility with safety initiatives.
David Coulthard:Also the environmental projects.
Fernando Alonso:And the fact that you are not currently insane.
Jenson Button:A surprisingly rare qualification.
Nico Rosberg:North America is achievable.
Mark Webber:Asia-Pacific might actually like you too.
Fernando Alonso:Africa could be negotiated.
Sebastian Vettel:You are all talking about this like it’s already happening.
Nico Rosberg:Because it might.
Nico Rosberg:However.
Mark Webber:there it is
Nico Rosberg:You will have one major problem.
Sebastian Vettel:Which is?
Nico Rosberg:Fabiana Ecclestone.
Jenson Button:Oh.
David Coulthard:Yes.
Fernando Alonso:That is a problem.
Sebastian Vettel:Why.
Nico Rosberg:Because she is the only vice-president for South America.
Mark Webber:And she’s very close to the current leadership.
Nico Rosberg:More than close.
Jenson Button:Translation: she loves Ben Sulayem.
Nico Rosberg:Exactly.
Sebastian Vettel:Fantastic.
Mark Webber:so step one of the campaign is convincing the Ecclestone household not to destroy us?
Fernando Alonso:We simply outmaneuver them.
Jenson Button:Fernando, this is not chess.
Fernando Alonso:Everything is chess.
David Coulthard:Let’s stay focused.
Mark Webber:this escalated from “Seb texted Carlos” to “we’re planning a coup”
Sebastian Vettel:I regret telling you people.
Jenson Button:Too late now.
Nico Rosberg:Actually.
Sebastian Vettel:What now.
Nico Rosberg:You might genuinely win.
Fernando Alonso:Yes.
Mark Webber:oh god
Jenson Button:We’re actually doing this aren’t we.
Sebastian Vettel:I said I was considering it.
David Coulthard:Seb.
Sebastian Vettel:Yes?
David Coulthard:If you run, we’re all in.
Fernando Alonso:Obviously.
Mark Webber:yeah mate you’ve accidentally started a revolution
Sebastian Vettel:…this escalated very quickly.
***
Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France - 27 September 2025
Ana arrived at the hospital later that afternoon with the quiet efficiency she carried into everything.
By now the corridors had become too familiar.
The pale, slightly unforgiving hospital lighting. The low mechanical hum that never really disappeared. The smell of antiseptic threaded with stale coffee from somewhere further down the hall. A trolley rolled past at the far end of the corridor; a nurse murmured something to a colleague; otherwise everything was subdued, as though the building had learned to lower its voice around pain.
She balanced the art catalogue under one arm and pushed open the door to Max’s room with her free hand.
He was propped up in bed, pillows stacked behind him, his left leg still elevated in its elaborate arrangement of pillows and blankets. His hair was predictably a mess — sleep, medication, frustration, all of it visible in the disorder of it — but he looked more awake than he had the night before. Less grey around the edges. More present.
Across from him sat GP, leaning back in the chair with the posture of someone who had clearly been there a while.
GP looked up first. “Well,” he said dryly, “reinforcements have arrived.”
Max turned his head immediately when he heard her. “There you are,” he said.
The words were simple, but something in Ana’s chest softened anyway.
She stepped inside, let the door fall shut behind her, and set her bag down by the chair.
“Hello,” she said.
GP stood, stretching slightly. “Right,” he said, clapping his hands together once. “I’m going to leave you two alone before Max starts complaining that I’m interfering with romance.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
GP ignored that.
He leaned over briefly, squeezing Max’s shoulder once — firm, reassuring — then grabbed the empty junk-food basket Eloisa and Francesca had sent earlier.
Ana offered him a small smile. “Thank you for visiting him.”
GP waved that away immediately. “Someone has to make sure he doesn’t terrorize the nurses,” he said easily.
Max scoffed. “I’m perfectly behaved.”
GP snorted. “Sure.”
He stepped toward the door, pausing briefly beside Ana. “Take care of him,” he said quietly.
Ana nodded. “Always.”
GP gave Max one last look. “Don’t text me nonsense at three in the morning again.”
“No promises,” Max replied.
GP shook his head and left. The door clicked shut behind him. Ana set the catalogue on the bed.
Max watched her as she moved around the room, slipping her shoes off and setting her bag down.
“You look tired,” he said.
“So do you.”
“Fair.”
She glanced at the narrow hospital chair. Then at the bed. Without saying anything she climbed carefully onto the mattress beside him, moving slowly so she wouldn’t jostle his leg.
Max immediately shifted closer.
He simply leaned sideways until his head rested against her shoulder, as though that was where it had been supposed to be all day and he was only now correcting the error.
Ana adjusted slightly so he could fit more comfortably, one arm automatically coming up behind him.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Just quiet.
Just breathing.
Then she opened the catalogue.
“My father gave us homework,” she said.
Max groaned softly.
“Oh no.”
“Yes,” she said calmly, turning the first page. “Apparently we have to choose art for the house.”
He didn’t move his head from her shoulder. “Dangerous idea.”
“Why?”
“You have taste.”
“And you do not?”
“I only have opinions,” Max said drily.
Ana just rolled her eyes. “Papa and Aunt Freya put post its on the ones that they think could work.”
Max frowned slightly. “…Freya.”
“Yes.”
He turned around slightly to look at her.
“Who’s Freya?”
Ana blinked. “Oh.”
Max stared. “You forgot to mention that part.”
“She arrived last night.”
Max waited.
“My aunt.”
Max blinked again.
“You have an aunt?”
“Yes. Papa’s younger sister.”
“She’s in Monaco?”
“Currently yes. She does a lot of travelling for her job.”
Max looked faintly betrayed. “And nobody told me?!”
“I didn’t even know she was coming. She met Papa in Vienna yesterday evening,” Ana said drily. “ Believe me, I am just as surprised as you are.”
Max narrowed his eyes slightly. “Still rude.”
Ana’s lips twitched slightly. “She is currently supervising the contractors.”
Max leaned back in the bed. “…God help the contractors,” he said drily.
Ana nodded. “That was roughly Papa’s reaction.”
Max looked up at her. “And you just left them all alone in our house?”
“Yes.”
Max thought about it for a moment. “…Actually that sounds incredibly entertaining.”
Ana smiled faintly. Max glanced up again.
“So.”
“Yes?”
“Did you pick anything?”
Ana picked up the catalogue and placed it on his lap.
“We are choosing together.”
Max flipped it open. The catalogue was thick — contemporary art, abstract pieces, photography, sculptures. Max’s eyes moved lazily across the pages.
They sat like that for several minutes, occasionally pointing at something.
“This one,” Ana said at one point.
Max squinted at the page.
“That looks like someone dropped paint on a wall.”
“That is modern art.”
“It looks expensive.”
“It is.”
“Then absolutely not,” Max said firmly.
Ana snorted softly.
They turned another page.
And another.
Max stayed tucked against her shoulder, his hand resting loosely on the edge of the catalogue while they looked through it together.
At one point Max pointed lazily at a sculpture.
“That one looks like a crashed exhaust pipe.”
“It’s a contemporary steel installation.”
“It’s looks like a crashed exhaust pipe.”
Ana made a small note in the margin anyway.
After a few pages he shifted slightly.
“Did you go to the apartment today?”
“Yes.”
“How mad were the cats?”
“Extremely.”
“Sounds right.”
She turned another page.
Then, after a pause, she said, “We have a logistical problem.”
Max hummed in question.
“We have a six-car garage,” she continued, “and you own eight cars.”
He groaned again. “Oh god.”
“Yes,” she said calmly. She flipped another page in the catalogue. “You own too many cars.”
“I know.”
“Some of them are not… practical.”
Max huffed. “That’s a polite way of saying I cannot currently get into half of them with a broken leg.”
“Correct.” Ana looked down at him. “Do you want to keep them all? Should I start looking into storage? Do you want to sell some of them?”
Max thought about it. “I am keeping the Audi,” he said immediately. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“The Porsche.”
“Mm.”
“And maybe one Ferrari.”
“One.”
“Okay maybe two.”
Ana sighed theatrically. “Max.”
He shrugged slightly. “But the rest?” He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want the Red Bull ones.”
She looked down at him. “The sponsorship cars.”
He nodded. “The Aston Martins. The promo stuff.” He shrugged again. “They’re not really mine.”
Ana understood immediately.
They were reminders.
Years of partnership. Years of loyalty.
Years that had ended in a hospital bed, legal paperwork, and press releases that had chosen self-protection over decency.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “We can sell them.”
Max nodded once. “That’s fine.”
They continued flipping through the catalogue.
A photograph this time — black and white.
Max pointed lazily.
“That one’s nice.”
Ana studied it.
“It’s a photograph of the moon.”
“Space.”
“You like space?”
Max gave her a look. “You name your projects after stars.”
Ana looked down at him. “That is true.”
That pulled something small and warm through her chest.
Silence again.
Comfortable.
Then she turned another page.
“So,” she said casually.
Max hummed.
“Your birthday is Tuesday.”
Max sighed dramatically.
Ana tilted her head slightly. “I have not bought you anything yet.”
Max blinked. “You don’t have to.”
“That is not how birthdays work.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No. What do you want for your birthday?”
Max didn’t even look up. “Nothing.”
“Max.”
“I mean it.”
Ana flipped another page. “You almost died,” she said calmly. “I am getting you something.”
That made him go quiet.
For a second she thought he might say something sincere.
Or difficult.
Or deflect with something outrageous.
Then he said: “…a kebab.”
Ana blinked. “A what.”
“A kebab.”
She stared at him. “You want a kebab for your birthday.”
“Yes.”
“You nearly died and all you want for your birthday is a kebab.”
Max looked at her like this was obvious. “Yes.”
Ana stared at him for a moment. Then she shook her head softly.
“You can have a kebab.”
Max smiled faintly. “Good.”
Ana turned another page in the catalogue.
“You can have anything,” she added quietly.
Max didn’t answer.
He just leaned a little more heavily against her shoulder as they kept looking through the pages together.
Outside the hospital window the afternoon sun shifted slowly across the city.
Inside the room there was only quiet.
And the soft rustle of turning pages.
***
Text Messages: Sophie Kumpen & Max Verstappen
Sophie: Max?
Sophie: Are you awake?
Sophie: I’m so sorry I fell asleep for 8 hours and slept through my alarm.
Max: Ma.
Sophie: Are you okay?
Sophie: I didn’t mean to sleep that long.
Sophie: I was going to come back tonight.
Max: Stay at the hotel.
Sophie: Max—
Max: Ana is here.
Max: Don’t worry.
Sophie: Are you sure?
Max: Yes.
Max: She’s supervising my art education.
Sophie: That sounds dangerous.
Max: You have no idea.
Sophie: Okay. I’ll stay tonight. But I’m coming early tomorrow.
Max: Deal.
Sophie: I love you.
Max: Love you too.
***
Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France - 27 September 2025
Max had fallen quiet for a while after Sophie texted him.
Not the heavy silence that had filled the room earlier in the week — the kind that came from pain, anger, and too many thoughts circling the same dark place.
This was different.
The quiet that came when the worst of it had finally passed. When the mind stopped fighting and simply… rested.
Ana could probably feel it in the way his breathing had slowed where his head rested against her shoulder, but Max felt it himself more clearly: the steady rhythm of her breathing beneath him, the warmth of her arm behind his back, the soft rustle of glossy pages as the catalogue shifted between them.
The hospital room was full of eveningn sunlight now. The light spilled across the bed, reflecting off the glossy art pages in warm, golden flashes.
Max f pointed at a twisted metal sculpture lazily. “That one looks like a broken front wing.”
“It’s a minimalist kinetic installation,” Ana said with a roll of her eyes.
Max had absolutely no clue what that meant. It did actually look like a broken front wing to him.
But actually…he couldn’t really find it in himself to care about it either. Especially if Ana kept running her fingernails over his scalp.
For just a moment, he felt weirdly similar to Jimmy, whenever Max scratched his chin in just the right spot.
After a moment Ana said casually, “Susie made a comment about your car keys today.”
Max hummed, not bothering to open his eyes.. “What comment?”
Ana turned the page. “That none of them are Mercedes.”
Max groaned softly. “That sounds like judgment.”
“It is judgment.”
Max just shrugged. “You literally drive a ten-year-old Volkswagen Golf.”
Ana blinked. “My Golf is perfectly functional.”
“Your Golf is prehistoric.”
“It works.”
“You’re the daughter of a billionaire.”
“And I drive a sensible car.”
Max snorted. “You drive a relic.”
Ana narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s sentimental.”
Then she added, almost as if the thought had just occurred to her, “We should probably replace the Audi with a Mercedes eventually.”
Max shifted slightly and looked up at her. “Why.”
“Optics.”
He sighed dramatically. “I can already hear Toto.”
Ana smiled faintly, and surprisingly accurately mimicked Toto’s Austrian accent: “‘Max, we have excellent road cars’.”
Max snorted with laughter. “Exactly.”
She shrugged slightly. “You will be a Mercedes driver next season.”
Max considered that.“…fair.”
He leaned back against her again. “Okay,” he agreed easily. “We can replace the Audi.”
It wasn’t like he was emotionally attached to it anyway. It was just another thing of the long list of things that would change through Baku.
Max sighed.
“What?”
He frowned slightly. “Baku ruined everything.”
She waited. “The GT3 debut,” Max clarified.
Ana nodded slowly.
That part still stung.
Verstappen.com Racing had been his project. His thing. Something separate from Formula One politics and contracts and sponsorship obligations.
The Nürburgring. The Nordschleife. He had been looking forward to that weekend for months.
“The Nordschleife race,” he continued. “That was supposed to be our first proper weekend for the team.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“And now it’s gone.”
Ana turned another page in the catalogue without speaking.
Max continued. “And losing the Red Bull sponsorship mid-season doesn’t exactly help.”
That part annoyed him even more.
Not just the money. The timing.
Ten years of partnership. Gone.
Ana turned another page in the catalogue. Then she said calmly: “I can cover it.”
Max looked up immediately. “What.”
“The sponsorship gap.”
“No.”
“It’s not that much money.”
“Absolutely not.”
Ana just looked at him. “It’s a business investment. I invest in businesses.”
“It’s my team,” Max said. “I’m not taking your money.”
“I have money,” she said. “Considerable money.”
“That’s not the point,” Max said, more firmly. “I am not taking your money.”
“You’re not,” she replied. “You’re taking a temporary bridge loan from your future wife.”
Max stopped. “…you can’t just say that and expect me not to react.”
She ignored that entirely. “You built something important,” she continued. “Independent driver development matters to you. Therefore it matters to me.”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t want Verstappen.com Racing to become—”
“Dependent on me?” she finished. “It won’t.” She leaned forward slightly. “Because you won’t need me for long.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”
Ana folded her hands together, very businesslike now. “I am quite certain,” she said, “that between me, Toto, and Susie, we can find you investors within forty-eight hours.”
Max stared. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“…you’ve already thought about this.”
“Yes.”
He exhaled slowly, half exasperated, half impressed. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’ve been told.” She shrugged. “Also,” she added calmly, “you might want to reconsider the car situation.”
“What car situation?”
“Your GT3 car.”
Max frowned. “The Ferrari?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
Ana closed the catalogue slowly and looked down at him. “You are going to drive for Mercedes in Formula One next season.”
Max nodded slowly. “Yes.”
She raised one eyebrow. “And your GT3 team currently races…?”
“…a Ferrari.”
“Yes.”
Max stared at her.
Then realization slowly dawned. “Oh.”
Ana nodded.
“I am reasonably certain,” she said calmly, “that there is a car manufacturer in Stuttgart that might be very interested in supplying your GT3 team.”
Max blinked. “…Mercedes.”
“Correct.”
“You think they would do that?”
Ana stared at him. “Max.”
“What?”
“You are their Formula One driver next year.”
“…true.”
“They would absolutely want their brand associated with your racing team.”
Max stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then he started laughing quietly. “Wow.”
“What?”
“I did not even think about that.”
Ana smiled faintly. “That’s because you are a racing driver.”
“And you’re what?”
“Systems engineer.”
Max looked back at her. “And a terrifying strategist.”
“Thank you.”
He leaned his head back onto her shoulder again. “…so you’re telling me Mercedes might give Verstappen.com Racing GT3 cars.”
“Yes.”
“…that’s actually brilliant.”
“I know.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he muttered: “Still mad about the Nordschleife though.”
Ana’s hand moved automatically, her fingers sliding into his hair. Her nails brushed lightly across his scalp in slow, absent movements.
The tension in his shoulders eased immediately.
“You’ll get back there.”
Max looked at her.
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
Then she reopened the catalogue.
“And when you do,” she added calmly, “you’ll be driving a Mercedes.”
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: This chapter contains major character injury, graphic portrayal of injuries and graphic portrayal of a crash in Formula 1. However, I do not write anything other than Happy Endings, so I am not going to kill off any of my major characters. So the cliffhanger isn’t a cliffhanger, because he’ll survive. I swear. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Joanna Wolff’s Apartment, Vienna, Austria - 26 September 2025
Toto already knew what he would find before the door opened.
The hallway outside his mother’s apartment smelled faintly of polish and old varnish, exactly as it had when he was a teenager. Some things never changed. The difference was that he no longer felt like a son coming home.
He felt like a man walking into a negotiation he had postponed for twenty years.
He rang once.
The door opened almost immediately.
Joanna stood there, posture straight, expression already disappointed — not surprised, not relieved, simply prepared.
“You came,” she said.
“I told you I would.”
He stepped inside.
And he wasn’t surprised.
Rosa was on the sofa, arms folded. Stephanie beside her, posture immaculate, like this was a parent-teacher conference she expected to win. The dining table had been cleared — chairs positioned — a tribunal arranged in a living room.
They had staged it.
For a moment Toto didn’t speak. He simply looked at them — really looked — and a realization settled in with cold clarity:
They really didn’t think they had done anything wrong.
He set his briefcase down slowly.
“Good,” he said quietly. “You’re all here. That saves time. I don’t need to repeat myself three times.”
Rosa stepped forward immediately. “You cut me off.”
“No,” Toto replied. “I stopped tolerating what you said.”
“You punished me because of her.”
Toto didn’t react outwardly, but the word her landed exactly where Rosa intended.
“This conversation is about how you speak about my daughter,” he said.
Stephanie leaned forward. “No, this is about how she has manipulated you for years.”
He turned his head slowly toward her.
“Be careful.”
Toto’s expression changed — not loud anger, not raised voice.
Worse.
Precision.
“You will say my daughter’s name,” he said. “Or you will not speak about Anastasia at all.”
Stephanie gave a thin smile. “You see? Exactly this. You’re proving the point. You react like this whenever she’s mentioned.”
“Yes,” Toto said evenly. “Because you speak about Anastasia like she is an inconvenience instead of a human being.”
Joanna sighed. “She has always complicated everything. Since childhood.”
That did it.
Toto’s restraint snapped — not explosively, but decisively.
“Since childhood?” he repeated quietly.
He took a step forward.
“She was eight years old.”
No one spoke.
“Anastasia was eight,” he said again, voice sharper now, every word controlled. “When her mother left her with a father she didn’t knew. A different country. A different language. A different school. She did not know where her room was in my house. She did not know if she was staying a week or forever.”
Rosa shifted uncomfortably.
Joanna frowned. “Children adapt.”
“Anastasia did,” Toto said. “Alone.”
He pointed lightly toward the table.
“And instead of helping her adapt, you hated her.”
Stephanie interjected. “I tried to correct her behavior.”
Toto turned toward her.
“Anastasia was not a behavior problem.”
“She refused eye contact, ignored people—”
“Anastasia was overwhelmed,” Toto cut in sharply.
He rarely raised his voice.
Now he did.
“You called her cold when she was terrified. You called her rude when she didn’t understand social rules she had never been taught. You called her strange when she spent nights learning math and physic because that was predictable and people were not.”
The room went silent.
“Anastasia didn’t break things,” he said. “She didn’t scream. She didn’t rebel. She tried to become smaller so nobody would send her away again.”
Rosa’s snapped. “You’re exaggerating.”
Toto looked at her, disbelief visible now.
“You were a toddler, Rosa,” he snapped. “You did not notice what I did.”
His jaw tightened.
“I watched a child sit at a dinner table and rehearse sentences in her head before speaking because she was afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
No one interrupted.
“And for years,” he continued, voice low but cutting, “you told Anastasia that she was difficult instead of asking why she was afraid.”
Stephanie leaned back. “You indulged her. You let her hide behind computers instead of making her normal.”
Toto laughed once — humorless.
“Normal,” he repeated.
“Yes,” Stephanie said. “Structure. Discipline. Not this… distance she has. She never learned relationships.”
Toto’s eyes hardened.
“Anastasia learned relationships,” he said quietly. “She learned that affection depended on performance. She learned approval could disappear. She learned adults could leave.”
Stephanie shrugged. “And now she isolates you from your family.”
“No,” Toto said, voice suddenly colder. “Your behavior did that.”
Joanna crossed her arms. “You choose her over everyone.”
“I choose decency,” he replied.
Rosa’s voice rose. “You abandoned me!”
Toto turned toward her fully.
“I did not abandon you. I refused to let you blame an sexual assault victim.”
Silence fell instantly.
Stephanie stiffened. “We are not discussing that.”
“We are,” Toto said.
“You overreacted,” she said sharply. “It was a misunderstanding.”
That was the moment.
The last restraint went.
Toto’s composure broke.
“You will never call it that again,” he said, voice low and dangerous.
Stephanie scoffed. “You destroyed your relationship with your daughter over a story.”
Toto stepped closer.
“No,” he said. “I protected my daughter from someone who hurt her and from people who defended him.”
Joanna frowned. “You always favor her.”
“I protected her,” he corrected.
Stephanie shook her head. “And now she hides behind Susie as well.”
Toto froze.
“Careful,” he said quietly.
Stephanie didn’t stop.
“Perhaps,” she said lightly, “ Susie encourages this. She always did like playing the perfect understanding stepmother.”
That was it.
Toto lost his temper.
Completely.
“You do not get to speak about my wife,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut.
Stephanie raised an eyebrow. “Why? Because she replaces what you lost?”
“Susie,” he said, furious now, “was the first adult in this entire situation who treated Anastasia like she mattered instead of a problem to solve.”
No one spoke.
“She listened to her,” he continued. “She did not analyze her. She did not judge her. She did not try to reshape her personality. She gave her something none of us ever gave her.”
Joanna narrowed her eyes. “And what is that?”
“Safety.”
The word landed heavily.
Toto’s voice dropped, thick with anger now.
“She broke down in Susie’s arms because for the first time she believed she was allowed to.”
Rosa looked startled.
Stephanie scoffed. “She manipulates sympathy.”
Toto slammed his hand onto the table.
Hard.
The sound echoed in the apartment.
“No,” he said, shaking with restrained fury. “She survived years of being told she was wrong for existing the way she is.”
The room went completely still.
“You do not have to understand her mind,” he said, breathing tight, “but you will respect her humanity.”
Rosa’s hands clenched. “You chose her over me.”
“I chose conduct,” Toto said.
“You punished me,” she shot back
“I adjusted your financial arrangement to the same structure your siblings have,” he answered. “I did not punish you. You still receive support. You no longer have unrestricted access to my bank accounts.”
“That is punishment!”
“No,” he said calmly. “It is a boundary.”
Stephanie leaned forward. “You’re letting a difficult child control you.”
Toto held her gaze.
“Anastasia is not a child,” he said.
“She behaves like one,” Stephanie replied sharply. “Cold, rude, distant. And you excuse it with diagnoses and indulgence.”
He inhaled slowly.
“I am not here to debate her personality with you.”
Joanna’s voice hardened. “You allow her to disrespect family.”
“No,” Toto said. “I no longer allow family to disrespect her.”
Rosa scoffed. “You’re rewriting reality. She has always manipulated you.”
Toto did not raise his voice.
Instead, he reached into his briefcase and set a thin folder on the table.
That got their attention.
“What is that?” Joanna asked.
“Clarity,” he said.
He opened the folder calmly.
“You are all financially connected to me in different ways,” Toto continued. “Trust structures. Shared holdings. Discretionary distributions. Informal arrangements that I have maintained because we are family.”
He looked at each of them in turn.
“I have been generous.”
No one interrupted.
“And I have also been patient.”
Stephanie’s expression tightened slightly. “Is this a threat?”
Toto shook his head once.
“It is information.”
He slid a document across the table.
“I have already spoken with my legal team.”
The temperature in the room dropped.
“I can restructure every financial connection here within forty-eight hours,” he said evenly. “Trusts remain intact — I will not punish legally protected beneficiaries. But discretionary payments, property usage, and informal access to my accounts end immediately.”
Rosa stared. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” Toto said quietly. “And I will, if this continues.”
Joanna’s voice sharpened. “You would bring lawyers into family matters?”
“You brought hostility into them,” he replied.
Stephanie crossed her arms. “You’re being controlled.”
Toto looked at her — not angry now, just finished.
“No,” he said. “I am done negotiating my child’s dignity.”
Silence spread.
For the first time, Rosa looked uncertain.
“You’re serious,” she said.
“Yes.”
Joanna bristled. “Money should not determine loyalty.”
“It does not,” Toto said. “Behavior does. The legal boundaries exist because words have not worked.”
Rosa’s voice softened, but not in apology. “You’re choosing her.”
“I am choosing respect,” Toto replied.
He closed the folder.
“You may dislike Anastasia,” he continued. “You may disagree with her. But you will not insult, blame, or undermine her and still expect access to my resources or my time.”
Stephanie stood. “This is absurd.”
“No,” Toto said calmly. “This is long overdue.”
Joanna’s voice cooled. “And if we refuse?”
“Then my lawyers will contact you this week,” Toto answered simply.
The certainty in his tone removed any doubt.
Stephanie stared at the papers. “You would really do this?”
“I maintained support because we are family,” he said calmly. “But family does not mean access without respect.”
Rosa looked shaken now. “You cut us off financially over her?”
“No,” he said. “Over behavior.”
Joanna’s voice trembled with anger. “You would choose an accident from Russia over your real family?”
The sentence hung in the air.
Toto did not react immediately.
Then he spoke — very quietly.
“Anastasia did not ask to be born. She is the result of decisions I made when I was a young man living in Russia. She’s my daughter.” The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
“Anastasia is my daughter,” he continued. “And she was a child abandoned into uncertainty who learned to survive in a house that did not know how to meet her halfway. And despite that — despite all of you — she still defends you. Still refuses to burden me with what you say to her.”
He closed the folder.
“You hurt her,” he said. “Repeatedly. For years. And you expect access without consequence.”
Then the front door opened.
Everyone turned.
Freya stepped inside, travel bag over her shoulder, hair wind-tangled from the evening air, expression already sharp — she had clearly heard the last sentence.
She looked around the room once.
“Toto?” she said slowly. “Why does it feel like I walked into a courtroom.”
No one answered.
Her eyes moved from Rosa to Stephanie to their mother — and then to the folder on the table.
“…Oh,” she said quietly.
Toto exhaled once. “You picked a bad evening to come home, Freya.”
Freya set her bag down.
“Actually I think I picked the perfect one. What did you do?” she asked, not to him — to them.
Joanna straightened. “We are discussing family matters.”
Freya’s gaze sharpened. “Which family member are we blaming this time? Let me guess. Anastasia.”
No one spoke.
Then Rosa said, defensively, “Papa cut me off because of her.”
Freya laughed — one short, disbelieving sound.
Joanna’s voice cooled. “She manipulates Toto.”
Freya snorted.. “You’re serious.”
Stephanie said, “She has always created—”
Freya cut her off. “No. Absolutely not. You always blame her,” she said flatly. “Always.”
Joanna intervened. “We are trying to correct misunderstandings.”
Freya stared at her mother in disbelief.
“She was a child,” Freya said. “You never liked her because she wasn’t easy.”
“She was disrespectful—”
“She was overwhelmed,” Freya snapped. “And none of you bothered to notice.”
Stephanie frowned. “You barely lived here.”
Freya stepped closer now, furious in a way Toto had rarely seen.
“I visited enough to see she watched every conversation before speaking because she was afraid of being corrected,” Freya said. “I saw a ten-year-old apologize for asking questions.”
Silence fell.
Freya looked at Rosa. “And you’re doing this?”
Rosa’s voice weakened. “I just wanted him to—”
“You wanted him to agree with you,” Freya said. “Even if it meant hurting her.”
Joanna said coldly, “She is too sensitive.”
Freya’s eyes flashed. “No. You are just too harsh.”
Then she looked at Toto again — and understood immediately from his expression.
“You threatened them.”
“I set boundaries,” he said.
Freya nodded once.
“Good.”
Joanna stiffened. “You take his side?”
Freya picked up her bag again.
“I take the side of the person who was eight years old and treated like an inconvenience.”
Stephanie said sharply, “You are overreacting.”
Freya turned at the door.
“No,” she said. “Actually, I think I have been underreacting for twenty years.”
She looked at Toto. “I’m not staying here tonight.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Neither am I.”
Joanna’s voice rose. “Are you seriously leaving?”
Toto paused at the threshold.
“You hurt my child,” he said quietly. “Repeatedly. For years. And you expect access without consequence. When you are prepared to speak about Anastasia with basic decency,” he said, “you may call me.”
He paused at the door.
“Until then,” he added quietly, “consider this a boundary, not a negotiation.”
They left together.
The hallway outside was silent.
For a moment neither spoke.
Freya leaned back against the wall, exhaling. The fury was still in her shoulders, but now it was mixed with something else — guilt, sharp and quiet.
“…That went well,” she said dryly.
Toto huffed once, humorless. “Better than I expected.”
“That’s concerning,” she replied.
Then Freya exhaled sharply. “I should have been here more.”
Toto shook his head. “It wouldn’t have changed them.”
Freya glanced at him. “Maybe not. But Ana wouldn’t have felt alone.”
They walked toward the lift. The building was old, the floors creaking slightly under their steps, the familiar Viennese stairwell carrying echoes of arguments from decades past. Toto had grown up running through these halls. Tonight he felt like a guest.
Freya pressed the elevator button and crossed her arms.
“I knew they were unfair to her,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t realize it was still happening to this day.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“I should have stopped it earlier,” he said quietly.
Freya shook her head. “You were trying to hold the family together.”
“I was trying to avoid choosing.”
The elevator doors opened. They stepped inside.
“And now?” she asked.
“There is no choice to make.”
Freya studied him a second. Not surprised — but measuring.
“…Good,” she said.
They rode down in silence until she spoke again.
“How is she actually?” Freya asked. “ How is Anastasia?”
Toto looked at the closing numbers above the door.
“She is… holding,” he said carefully. “But she is very tired.”
Freya frowned. “From this?”
“From everything.”
That caught her attention. She stopped walking.
“…What do you mean everything?”
He hesitated. He hadn’t planned to tell her here, on a Vienna sidewalk under a streetlamp. But there was no point deflecting — not after tonight.
“She’s in Nice,” he said.
Freya blinked. “What?”
“She’s in Nice.”
“France?” she asked, confused. “Why?”
Toto looked at her.
“She’s at the hospital.”
Freya’s posture changed instantly. “What happened? Is she hurt?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Not physically.”
A beat.
Then realization tried to form but didn’t quite reach her yet.
“The driver,” she said slowly. “The crash. Your… future driver. Verstappen. I saw the news but—”
He nodded once.
“She’s been there since the accident.”
Freya frowned. “Why would Ana be—”
And then she stopped.
Actually stopped moving.
“…Toto.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why would Ana be staying at a hospital for your future employee?”
“…Because she refuses to leave him.”
Freya frowned. “Leave who?”
Toto paused a beat.
“Max.”
Silence.
The elevator doors opened to the underground garage but Freya didn’t move.
“…Max Verstappen?” she said carefully.
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
“The racing driver Max Verstappen.”
“Yes.”
“The future Mercedes driver Max Verstappen.”
Toto nodded once.
Freya didn’t step out of the elevator.
“…Why,” she asked slowly, “is my niece refusing to leave the bedside of a Formula One driver.”
Toto exhaled.
Because there was no gradual way to say it.
“Because they’re together.”
Freya stared at him.
No reaction for about three full seconds.
Then—
“They’re what.”
“Together.”
“No,” she said immediately.
“Yes.”
“No,” she repeated, firmer. “No. You mean she knows him.”
“They’re in a relationship.”
Freya walked out of the elevator automatically, then stopped between two parked cars and turned back toward him.
“Toto.”
“Yes.”
“Your daughter,” she said carefully, “who forgot she could date at university because she was debugging code.”
“Yes.”
“Your daughter who I have never seen voluntarily hold someone’s hand other than Jack’s.”
“Yes.”
“…is dating Max Verstappen.”
“Yes.”
Freya stared at him for another long second.
Then she laughed — a short, stunned laugh.
“I leave for six months sourcing sapphires and the universe reorganizes itself.”
He almost smiled.
“When did this happen?”
“Longer than you think,” he said.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know.”
Freya rubbed her forehead. “Does Mother know?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good. She’d have a heart attack and then blame Ana for it.”
Freya paced once beside the car.
“And she’s staying at the hospital? With him?”
“Yes.”
Freya’s brows drew together now — not shock anymore.
Understanding.
“She must be terrified.”
Toto nodded once.
“She won’t say it,” he said. “But she hasn’t really slept since the crash.”
Freya was quiet.
“…She stayed,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
“That means she loves him.”
Toto didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.
They stood there a few seconds more.
Then Toto spoke.
“Come to Monaco,” he said.
She looked at him.
“For a few days,” he continued. “You can meet her there when she comes back. Somewhere calm. Not this.”
Freya didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Very good idea.”
A beat.
Freya smirked faintly. “Also, if I stay here I will end up telling Mother things I can’t legally retract.”
He actually laughed — quietly, but genuinely.
“Susie will be happy to see you,” he said.
Freya shrugged. “Susie always liked me.”
“Yes,” Toto said. “Because you never tried to fix Anastasia.”
Freya opened the car door.
“I never thought she needed fixing,” she replied simply. “I thought she needed someone to sit beside her and let her be strange in peace.”
Toto opened the car.
“You don’t have to.”
“I do,” she said. “Because right now she probably thinks she caused tonight. And she didn’t. And someone should tell her that who isn’t you or Susie.”
He paused.
“…You’d do that?”
Freya gave him a look.
“She’s my niece,” she said simply. “I just haven’t been a very good aunt.”
Then she added, more lightly:
“And I also need to meet the man who managed to convince Anastasia Wolff that emotional attachment was a logical decision.”
***
The Lion, Brackley, England - 26 September 2025
Gianpiero Lambiase did not trust Peter Bonnington when he said “just one drink.”
Experience had taught him that “one drink” in Formula One translated roughly to a multi-hour emotional debrief disguised as socializing, usually involving telemetry analogies, arguments about tyres, and someone invoking Michael Schumacher whether relevant or not.
Still, Bono had insisted.
You need to get out of the hospital-garage-hotel loop, he’d said over the phone. Also the Brackley lot want to meet you. Properly.
GP had not asked why.
He should have.
The pub was already loud when they walked in — not rowdy, but full. Warm lighting, the hum of after-work conversations, darts hitting boards somewhere in the back, glasses clinking, Premier League murmuring from a television nobody was actually watching.
Several heads turned when they entered.
GP felt it instantly.
He was used to being recognized in a paddock.
Being recognized in a British village pub was… different.
Then the room went quiet.
Not dramatically. Not movie-style.
Just… a ripple of recognition.
Several engineers turned. A couple mechanics straightened. Someone whispered, “That’s him.”
GP blinked.
“…why are they looking at me.”
Bono clapped his shoulder. “Because you are, whether you like it or not, Max Verstappen’s race engineer.”
GP grimaced. “I would prefer anonymity.”
“Too late.” Bono clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax. They don’t bite.”
“Your definition of reassuring is very questionable,” GP muttered.
A voice cut across the room.
“Bonoooo!”
The man standing up from the bench to greet them was enormous.
The man had shoulders like a wardrobe and hands the size of GP’s head. Broad-necked, shaved hair, thick beard. The sort of person you instinctively assumed could lift a gearbox assembly without assistance.
The man smiled.
It was possibly the gentlest smile GP had ever seen.
“Bono,” he said warmly. “You made it.”
Then his eyes moved to GP.
“And you must be Gianpiero.”
He held out a hand.
GP looked at it.
Bono grinned.
“GP — Solomon Becker. Systems department. Ana’s second-in-command.”
GP had expected… he wasn’t sure what he expected. Systems engineers in Formula 1 tended to be quiet, wiry, nocturnal creatures who communicated mostly in code.
Solomon looked like he should be captaining England at Twickenham.
Solomon stuck out a hand the size of a dinner plate. GP shook it carefully, bracing for bone loss.
Instead, Solomon’s grip was gentle. Almost careful.
GP recalibrated immediately.
“Good to finally meet you properly,” Solomon continued.
“You’re an engineer?” GP asked before he could stop himself.
Bono choked on his drink.
Solomon laughed softly. “Former rugby. Then a knee went. Turns out software doesn’t tackle back.”
“…professionally?” GP asked.
“Unfortunately for my joints, yes.”
“You are not what I expected.”
“I hear that daily.”
Bono leaned against the bar, thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Solomon is the man who makes Ana’s systems actually run in real life.”
Solomon shook his head. “No, no. Ana makes them run. We just… try not to break them.”
At the mention of her name, his expression softened—completely at odds with his size.
GP noticed immediately.
“You admire her,” GP said.
Solomon looked almost offended by the understatement.
“She’s the best engineer I’ve ever seen,” he said simply.
No bravado. No exaggeration. Just fact.
GP studied him more carefully.
“Explain,” he said.
Solomon leaned his hip against the table, thinking.
“You know how some brilliant people are impossible to work with?” he said. “Because they need to be the smartest person in the room?”
GP nodded slowly.
“She isn’t like that,” Solomon continued. “She doesn’t want to be the smartest person in the room. She wants to build a room where everyone else gets smarter.”
Bono hummed approvingly into his pint.
Solomon went on, warming now.
“She notices everything. Who’s tired. Who’s stuck. Who’s afraid to ask a question. She assigns work based on how people think, not their job title. Half the department is doing things they never knew they could do because she just… assumed they could.”
“You’re coming next year,” Solomon said, pleased. “Good. She needs more people who understand drivers.”
GP frowned slightly. “She manages fine.”
Solomon shook his head. “No — she manages systems. Drivers are… different systems.”
The table laughed.
A woman slid him a pint across the table. “We’ve heard stories.”
“That is concerning,” GP said.
“Oh yes,” Solomon said cheerfully. “The radio messages.”
GP sighed. “They are perfectly reasonable.”
The table dissolved into laughter.
Solomon gestured them toward the table. “Come sit. We were arguing about whether engineers should be allowed near marketing.”
“They shouldn’t,” GP said immediately.
At the table GP was introduced to faces he’d seen only in email signatures: Lucy from comms, Jules from electronics, a strategist whose name GP forgot immediately but whose opinions were apparently very strong. Someone slid him a pint without asking.
He clocked the atmosphere within minutes.
This wasn’t performative bonding. This was people who argued for a living and trusted each other enough to do it loudly.
Then Solomon said her name.
Solomon leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Ana didn’t sleep after the crash.”
GP’s expression changed instantly.
“No,” he said quietly. “I suspected.”
“She send us Systems Architecture for 2026 instead,” Solomon said drily. “She never stops when someone she cares about needs her.”
There was no drama in his tone. Just fact.
“She designed half the redundancy checks we use,” Solomon continued. “You know why?”
GP shook his head.
“She doesn’t trust the universe to behave. So she builds systems that catch failure before it hurts people.Not because she wants control. Because she wants people safe.”
GP looked down at his glass.
Yes.
That tracked too.
Around them, the conversation shifted — strategy discussions, testing anecdotes, sim driver jokes, telemetry arguments that slowly devolved into exaggerated storytelling. Engineers in their natural habitat: arguing happily about details nobody else in the world would notice.
At one point a strategist and a calibration engineer nearly recreated a whiteboard simulation using beer mats and peanuts.
GP watched.
The conversation drifted—sim anecdotes, testing stories, Bono defending a radio call like it was a constitutional right. Someone started recreating a strategy simulation using beer mats and peanuts.
GP found himself watching.
Listening.
Relaxing—slightly.
Then a chair scraped back beside him.
“Mind if I sit?”
The voice was calm. Roughened by years of engines and late nights.
GP turned.
The man who’d sat down was compact, muscular in a different way—dense rather than massive. Grease permanently ingrained under the nails. Mercedes logo stitched into his jacket sleeve.
“Leo,” the man said. “Mechanic.”
GP nodded. “GP.”
Leo studied him for a moment. Not assessing—recognizing.
“…Baku,” Leo said.
GP’s spine straightened almost imperceptibly.
“Yes.”
Leo took a sip of his water before continuing.
“I was one of the ones who cut him out.”
The pub noise seemed to recede.
GP swallowed. “You were there.”
“Yeah,” Leo said simply. “Hands shook for hours after.”
GP nodded once. He knew that kind of aftermath.
Leo met GP’s eyes.
“I’ve been doing this for a few years,” he said. “I’ve seen bad crashes. This one—”
He exhaled.
“This one was different.”
GP said nothing.
“I’ve pulled drivers from cars before. You never forget it. And you don’t get casual about safety again after you smell hot carbon and hydraulic fluid and realize how close it was.”
He glanced at Solomon, then back to GP.
“We build systems differently here,” Leo said. “Redundancies. Procedures. Double-checks nobody sees. It slows you down sometimes.”
GP nodded once. “Safety always costs performance.”
“Yeah,” Leo said. “But we’ll always take that trade.”
A beat.
“We’re not letting something like that happen here,” he said simply.
No accusation.
No criticism.
Just certainty.
GP believed him.
GP frowned. “What do you mean.”
“I mean,” Leo continued, voice steady, “no shortcuts. No money trails. No ‘just this once.’”
He leaned forward slightly.
“We are not going to let someone weaponize a car at Mercedes.”
The words landed heavy.
GP felt something inside him tighten—and then settle.
“I’m glad,” he said quietly. “Because trust is… not easily rebuilt.”
Leo nodded. “We know.”
Around them, conversation slowly resumed. The moment passed—but it stayed.
GP looked around the table again.
Solomon laughing softly at something Lucy said. Bono in his element, gesturing wildly. Engineers arguing like family.
He thought of Red Bull—brilliant, relentless, always at war with the margins.
At Red Bull, everything was intensity. Pressure. Championship margins. Edges sharpened to performance. It was brilliant — but it was always war footing.
Here… the competence was just as serious. But it was quieter. Certain.
But the people looked like they intended to stay.
Solomon passed him a bowl of chips. “We take care of our own here.”
GP glanced around the table — Bono arguing with a data engineer, Lucy explaining to someone why drivers should never be allowed to tweet, laughter cutting through technical jargon.
He thought of Ana sitting beside Max’s hospital bed.
He thought of Toto’s steady calm in crisis.
He thought of the systems department that had apparently reverse-engineered half a car architecture in two days because Ana sent them an idea.
For the first time since Baku, something inside him eased.
Mercedes, he realized, wasn’t just a team.
It was a structure.
A system.
Red Bull had been a family forged in competition.
This… felt like a place people stayed.
He took another sip of his drink.
“…Bono,” he said after a while.
“Yes?”
GP looked around the table once more.
“I think,” he admitted quietly, “this might actually work.”
Bono grinned.
“Welcome to Mercedes, mate.”
***
Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Carlos Sainz Sr.
Sebastian Vettel:Carlos
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Sebastian!
I assume this is not a social message.
Sebastian Vettel:You saw the FIA statement.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Of course I saw it.
Sebastian Vettel:It fixes a mistake.
It does not fix the system.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Agreed.
Sebastian Vettel:I am going to ask you a serious question.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Now I am worried.
Sebastian Vettel:You should run for FIA president.
(typing… typing… typing…)
Carlos Sainz Sr.:I am very flattered.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:But absolutely not.
Sebastian Vettel:Why not?
Carlos Sainz Sr.:My son is an active Formula 1 driver, Sebastian.
That would be a permanent conflict of interest. Every sporting decision would be questioned. Every stewarding call would become political.
Sebastian Vettel:You could step back from race involvement.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:It would not matter. The perception alone would damage the position.
Sebastian Vettel:We need someone who understands drivers and safety.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Yes.
We do.
(pause)
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Which is why you should do it.
Sebastian Vettel:…what
Carlos Sainz Sr.:You are respected.
You are retired.
You have credibility with drivers, teams, and fans.
You have already shown you will challenge the governing body publicly.
Sebastian Vettel:Carlos
Carlos Sainz Sr.:I am serious.
Sebastian Vettel:ME?!?
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Why not you?
Sebastian Vettel:Because I plant trees and argue with recycling bins now, Carlos.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Exactly. You care about long-term systems.
Sebastian Vettel:Running the FIA is not a school sustainability project!
Carlos Sainz Sr.:No. It is far more political and far more exhausting.
Sebastian Vettel:You are not helping.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Sebastian — you have already started acting like a president. You are lobbying, you are organizing drivers, you are challenging decisions.
The only difference is you do not have the authority yet.
Sebastian Vettel:I wanted reform.
I did not want an election campaign.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Sometimes those are the same thing.
Sebastian Vettel:I would have to talk to teams, national clubs, mobility commissions, manufacturers, governments—
Carlos Sainz Sr.:Yes.
Sebastian Vettel:I have children.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:You also have influence.
(long pause)
Sebastian Vettel:This was supposed to be you saying yes.
Carlos Sainz Sr.:No, Sebastian.
This is me saying you are the right person.
Sebastian Vettel:I cannot believe you just did that.
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: This chapter contains major character injury, graphic portrayal of injuries and graphic portrayal of a crash in Formula 1. However, I do not write anything other than Happy Endings, so I am not going to kill off any of my major characters. So the cliffhanger isn’t a cliffhanger, because he’ll survive. I swear. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
JadeQueen: You awake?
Andromeda: Yes.
JadeQueen:The police found the evidence I left for them.
Andromeda: Good.
JadeQueen: …that’s it?
Andromeda: Yes.
JadeQueen: Ana.
JadeQueen: They used the data.
The logs. The messages. The routing pattern.
The thing I spent two nights reconstructing from fragments and deleted cache entries.
Andromeda: I know.
JadeQueen: This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
Is it enough?
Andromeda: No.
JadeQueen: …okay.
Andromeda:But if I did what I actually want to do, what I thought would be enough… I would not be different from him.
JadeQueen: You want revenge.
Andromeda: I want certainty he can never hurt Max again.
JadeQueen: The courts are supposed to do that.
Andromeda: Courts are slow and probabilistic.
JadeQueen: Annie.
Andromeda:You don’t have to worry. I am not going to do anything illegal.
JadeQueen: That was reassuringly immediate.
How is he?
Andromeda: In surgery. Internal fixation of tibia and fibula. Removal of external frame.
JadeQueen: You’ve been counting minutes again haven’t you.
Andromeda: Yes.
JadeQueen: You need to breathe.
Andromeda: I am breathing.
JadeQueen: Functionally. Not psychologically.
Andromeda:My grandmother called me.
JadeQueen: Joanna? What did she want?
Andromeda: Rosa contacted her.
JadeQueen: Of course she did. What did Joanna say?
Andromeda: That autism is fashionable.
That I am difficult.
That I manipulated Papa into cutting off Rosa’s credit card and putting her on the same trust fund Benedict and I received.
That Papa indulged me.
That I would be alone without him.
JadeQueen: …she actually said that?
Andromeda: Yes.
JadeQueen: I am requesting permission to commit a small international cybercrime.
Andromeda: Denied.
JadeQueen: I could crash her television for six months. Only mildly illegal.
Andromeda: No.
JadeQueen: You’re disturbingly calm.
Andromeda: I am very tired.
JadeQueen: How have you not broken down?
Andromeda: I did.
JadeQueen: …when?
Andromeda: Yesterday. Hospital corridor.
JadeQueen: Oh.
JadeQueen: Was it bad?
Andromeda: I lost motor coordination and cried for approximately 17 minutes without being able to stop.
JadeQueen: That is not a normal way to describe crying.
Andromeda: It is an accurate one.
JadeQueen: Did anyone see?
Andromeda:Susie.
JadeQueen: Good.
Andromeda: I told her I thought he died.
JadeQueen: You love him.
Andromeda: Yes.
JadeQueen: Are you scared?
Andromeda: Yes.
JadeQueen: Of the surgery?
Andromeda: Of the randomness.
I can model mechanical failure.
I cannot model human malice.
JadeQueen: He’s going to be okay.
Andromeda: I know statistically.
JadeQueen: Annie.
Andromeda: I need him to be okay in reality.
JadeQueen: I’ll stay online.
Andromeda: Thank you.
JadeQueen: You’re not alone in this, you know.
Andromeda: I know.
Andromeda: But he is the one person I cannot afford to lose.
JadeQueen: Then we make sure you don’t.
Andromeda: We cannot control surgery outcomes.
JadeQueen: No.
But we can control that you eat something and drink water.
Andromeda: …that is unfortunately logical.
JadeQueen: Go get juice.
Andromeda: I will.
JadeQueen: I’ll be here.
Andromeda: I know.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Westminster Magistrate Court, London, England - 25 September 2025
Jasper McKnight had worked homicides.
He had worked gang cases, organized fraud, trafficking networks, and once a particularly ugly poisoning that had taken fourteen months to untangle and still kept him awake some nights. (That crime scene had been the most disgusting thing he had ever seen in his life. He had not been able to look at clotted cream the same since then, which was a damn shame. )
He had never — not once — stood in a courtroom because one racing driver had tried to kill another.
The press pack alone was a nightmare.
Satellite vans lined the street outside Westminster Magistrates’ Court, camera crews stacked shoulder-to-shoulder behind barriers, journalists shouting questions at anyone in a suit as if proximity to the building equaled knowledge.
Inside was quieter.
Courtrooms always were.
Not peaceful — controlled. The kind of silence that forced reality to sit down and behave.
Jasper stood with the Crown Prosecution Service solicitor near the front benches, files under his arm. The case file was already absurdly thick for something barely a week old: telemetry analysis, financial records, forensic reports on a tampered component, witness statements from mechanics who had folded one by one once the money trail appeared.
He had seen many defendants.
He had never seen one quite like George Russell that morning.
George didn’t look frightened.
He didn’t look shocked.
He looked… agitated.
Not fidgety — wound tight. Eyes bright, movements sharp, the restless energy of someone who had slept very little and convinced himself that meant clarity instead of collapse.
When officers brought him into the dock, he immediately scanned the room, searching — not for a lawyer, not for an exit.
For the press.
Jasper noticed that instantly.
The judge noticed too.
District Judge Hargreaves was a woman in her late sixties who had presided over enough serious cases to have developed a permanent expression of exhausted patience. She adjusted her glasses and studied George for a long second before the clerk even began.
“Mr Russell,” she said, calm but already tired, “you are before the court charged with conspiracy to commit grievous bodily harm and attempted murder.”
The words landed heavily in the small courtroom.
George smiled.
Not happily.
Sharply.
“This is ridiculous,” he said immediately.
His solicitor leaned in. “George, please—”
“He put himself there,” George continued, louder. “You’ve all decided this narrative already. Nobody is actually looking at what happened on track.”
Jasper felt the CPS lawyer beside him go still.
The judge did not raise her voice.
“Mr Russell,” she said evenly, “this is not a media interview. You will not address the court unless invited.”
George didn’t stop.
“He always drives like that. Always. Everyone knows it. He finally ran out of luck and now— now suddenly I’m responsible because the sport needs a villain?”
A murmur moved through the public gallery.
The judge removed her glasses slowly.
“Mr Russell,” she said, voice sharper now, “you will remain silent while the charge is read. If you continue to interrupt proceedings I will have you removed and the hearing will continue in your absence. Do you understand me?”
For the first time, George paused.
“…Yes,” he said, but the energy in him didn’t settle.
The prosecutor outlined the case. Calm. Clinical.
Payments traced to accounts.
Encrypted communication.
Meetings with mechanics before the Azerbaijan Grand Prix.
A deliberately compromised component.
Jasper watched George as each point was listed.
No fear.
Only anger.
When the clerk asked for confirmation of identity, George leaned forward.
“He should be here,” he said suddenly. “If you’re accusing me because he crashed, he should at least show up.”
The judge stared at him.
“The alleged victim,” she said coolly, “is currently recovering from surgery after sustaining serious injuries. Your lack of perspective is noted.”
George’s jaw tightened.
“He made a career off reckless driving,” he said. “And now—”
“Enough,” the judge said.
Silence fell instantly.
Then came the bail discussion.
The prosecution requested remand in custody. Standard for attempted murder: seriousness, international connections, potential interference with witnesses — especially given the four co-accused mechanics and the possibility of contact.
Jasper expected it — attempted murder normally guaranteed it. The argument was straightforward: seriousness of offence, international connections, risk of interference with witnesses.
But George’s barrister stood.
He was good. Very good.
No prior convictions.
Surrendered passport.
Permanent UK residence.
Electronic monitoring.
Media scrutiny making flight nearly impossible.
The judge listened for a long time.
Then she folded her hands.
“This court is satisfied the evidential threshold for charge has been met,” she said. “However, bail may be granted under the strictest conditions available to this court.”
Jasper felt the room lean forward.
“Mr Russell, you will be released on conditional bail. You will reside at your registered address under house arrest. You will wear an electronic monitoring device. You will surrender all travel documents. You will not contact, directly or indirectly, any witness, any team personnel connected to the investigation, any co-accused, or the injured party.””
George opened his mouth.
The judge’s voice hardened.
“If you breach these conditions even once, you will be remanded in custody immediately. Am I clear?”
“…Yes.”
She held his gaze a moment longer.
“I will add one more observation,” she said. “You would be wise to use the time before trial to reflect on the seriousness of the situation you now face. This court deals in evidence, not rivalry.”
She struck the desk lightly.
“Bail granted.”
The hearing ended.
Officers moved toward the dock to escort George out.
As he passed Jasper, George looked directly at him.
“He knows,” George said quietly, almost conversational. “He knows he caused it.”
Jasper held his gaze.
For the first time in the entire case, Jasper felt something colder than professional detachment.
Not anger.
Certainty.
Because he had seen many guilty men.
And what unsettled him most was not that George believed the story.
It was that he needed to.
Jasper closed the case file.
This wasn’t a motorsport scandal anymore.
This was a criminal trial.
***
The Sun, UK: F1 MELTDOWN: George Russell Charged With Attempted Murder — Then Loses It Outside Court, Blames Max Verstappen for “Everything”
25 September 2025 | By Darren Pike, Senior Sports Correspondent
Formula One descended into absolute chaos yesterday as disgraced driver George Russell was formally charged with attempted murder — and then proceeded to unravel in front of cameras, angrily blaming Max Verstappen for the crash that nearly killed the four-time world champion.
Russell, 27, appeared before Westminster Magistrates’ Court on Wednesday morning following a Metropolitan Police investigation into the Azerbaijan Grand Prix horror smash. Prosecutors allege Russell arranged and financed the deliberate sabotage of Verstappen’s car through intermediaries, leading to the high-speed impact in Baku.
In a further shock, four mechanics linked to pre-race access to Verstappen’s vehicle have also been charged in connection with the alleged plot. Police confirmed the men face separate criminal proceedings, including conspiracy to cause grievous bodily harm, after investigators traced financial transfers and communications believed to connect them to the tampering of a key car component.
The charge marks one of the most shocking moments in modern sporting history.
COURTROOM DRAMA
Wearing a dark suit and looking visibly agitated, Russell reportedly interrupted proceedings multiple times, shaking his head and muttering to himself as details of the alleged plot were read aloud.
According to court sources, the presiding judge was “clearly unimpressed” by Russell’s demeanor, warning him to “remain silent and composed” after he attempted to speak out of turn.
Bail was granted under strict conditions. Russell was released under house arrest, fitted with an electronic monitoring tag, and ordered to surrender his passport. He is prohibited from contacting any individuals connected to Formula One teams, mechanics, or ongoing investigations.
The judge emphasized the seriousness of the charge, noting that the alleged actions “demonstrate a complete disregard for human life.”
“THIS IS MAX’S FAULT” — RUSSELL SNAPS
If the courtroom was tense, the scenes outside were explosive.
As Russell exited the courthouse flanked by lawyers and security, he suddenly broke formation, turning toward the assembled press with wild eyes and clenched fists.
“This never would have happened if it wasn’t for him,” Russell shouted. “He took everything. My seat. My career. He acts like he’s untouchable and everyone lets him get away with it.”
When reporters pressed him on the charge, Russell doubled down.
“Everyone thinks I lost control,” Russell told assembled media, speaking rapidly and gesturing sharply.
“I didn’t lose control. He forced it. He always forces it. He pushes people until something breaks. He thinks he’s untouchable,” Russell said, voice rising.
“People finally see what happens when you race him. I didn’t start this — he did.”
When asked directly whether he had intended to cause harm, Russell became visibly agitated.
“You don’t understand racing! You don’t understand him! He put me in that position — he always does. This was inevitable. He made this sport toxic,” he ranted. “He drives like he owns the track. Everyone protects him. And now suddenly I’m the villain?”
Security quickly intervened as Russell attempted to continue speaking, yelling back over his shoulder:
“Ask him why this happened. Ask him.”
One journalist described the scene as “unhinged” and “deeply unsettling.”
A CAREER IN FREEFALL
Russell’s arrest and charge come after months of turmoil.
Earlier this year, he lost his Mercedes seat following allegations of sexual assault involving senior team personnel. CCTV footage later leaked to the press, leading to Russell’s immediate contract termination and replacement mid-season.
The collapse of his career coincided with Verstappen’s confirmed move to Mercedes for 2026 — a decision now believed by investigators to be a key motivator behind the alleged sabotage plot.
Legal experts say Russell’s outburst could seriously damage his defense.
“Publicly blaming the victim while facing a charge of this magnitude is extraordinarily ill-advised,” one barrister told The Sun. “It suggests a lack of remorse and poor impulse control.”
THE CHARGE
Prosecutors allege Russell deliberately arranged interference with Verstappen’s car prior to the race, leading to a high-speed crash that nearly proved fatal. Investigators claim electronic communications and financial transfers link Russell to individuals who accessed the vehicle before the session.
In court, Russell spoke only to confirm his name and date of birth. His legal team entered a plea of not guilty.
Magistrates granted conditional bail. Russell will remain under strict house arrest, fitted with an electronic monitoring tag, and forbidden from contacting any individuals connected to the case or attending any motorsport events.
He must also surrender his passport and observe a nightly curfew.
JUDGE “DEEPLY CONCERNED”
According to court sources, the presiding judge expressed concern about Russell’s conduct and warned him directly regarding public statements.
“This is a serious criminal matter, not a sporting dispute,” the judge reportedly said. “You would be well advised to refrain from commentary outside legal proceedings.”
PADDOCK REACTION
The Formula 1 community has been left reeling. Verstappen remains in recovery following multiple surgeries, while teams have declined detailed comment pending legal proceedings.
Privately, several drivers are said to be “shocked” by the allegations.
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT
The case now moves to Crown Court, where a preliminary hearing will determine whether sufficient evidence exists for a full trial. Legal experts say a conviction could carry a lengthy prison sentence.
For now, one of Britain’s most recognisable sporting figures waits at home under electronic monitoring — and the sport he once helped represent is left grappling with a scandal unlike anything in its modern history.
***
Group Chat: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Yuki Tsunoda, Liam Lawson, Isack Hadjar, Oliver Bearman, Esteban Ocon, Gabriel Bortoleto, Nico Hulkenberg, Kimi Antonelli, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly, Franco Colapinto, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Alex Albon, Carlos Sainz, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso)
Lando Norris: ok i just read the article
Lando Norris: he stood outside a COURT and blamed max
Alex Albon: they CHARGED him
Alex Albon: charged. like an actual crime. not FIA. not sporting penalty. CRIME.
Pierre Gasly: attempted murder…
Esteban Ocon: I never thought I would read those words in F1 news
Lewis Hamilton: None of us did.
Charles Leclerc: house arrest with an electronic tag
this sounds like a film not our paddock
Carlos Sainz: I’ve been in this sport my entire life
I genuinely don’t know how to process this
Yuki Tsunoda: I WORK AT RED BULL
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS INFORMATION
Yuki Tsunoda: I sat in that garage this year
Yuki Tsunoda: I ate lunch with those mechanics
Liam Lawson: yeah
that part is messing with me too
Yuki Tsunoda: I AM STILL AT RED BULL
HELLO???????
Lando Norris: yuki mate maybe not phrase it like that right now
Yuki Tsunoda: NO I MEAN
PEOPLE FROM MY TEAM WERE ARRESTED
AND A DRIVER PAID THEM
I AM DRIVING A CAR BUILT BY HUMANS
I WOULD LIKE NOT TO DIE
Esteban Ocon: Valid concern honestly.
Carlos Sainz: The paddock is not okay right now.
Lewis Hamilton: Nobody is.
Alex Albon: He was one of my closest friends here.
I keep rereading the article hoping it changes.
Pierre Gasly: I’m sorry, mate.
Alex Albon: I just… I never thought he was capable of something like that.
Fernando Alonso: Sometimes pressure breaks people in ways you don’t see.
Oscar Piastri: This wasn’t a snap decision though.
Kimi Antonelli: There was planning.
Oliver Bearman: That’s the scariest part.
Franco Colapinto: Yeah
Fernando Alonso: Racing drivers are competitive.
This is not competition.
Nico Hülkenberg: this is beyond rivalry
Gabriel Bortoleto: the ankle monitor part is what got me
like that’s prison-adjacent
Oscar Piastri: Attempted murder charges are not issued lightly in the UK.
Oliver Bearman: the judge literally warned him to stop talking
Franco Colapinto: and then he immediately went outside and talked
Lando Norris: not talked
RANTED
Lando Norris: he said max forced it
Pierre Gasly: that part made my stomach drop
Alex Albon: I don’t recognise the person in that article.
Fernando Alonso: Pressure reveals character.
Nico Hülkenberg: this isn’t pressure
Nico Hülkenberg: this is something else entirely
Lando Norris: i keep replaying the onboard he could have died
Lewis Hamilton: Yes.
Lewis Hamilton: We all understood that immediately.
Pierre Gasly: the worst part is
Max trusted everyone around him
Alex Albon: I keep thinking about how normal everything felt that weekend
Alex Albon: drivers briefing
coffee
jokes
Alex Albon: and apparently someone was planning THAT
Carlos Sainz: that’s the part that is disturbing
not the crash
the intent
Esteban Ocon: I’ve been angry at people on track
everyone has
Esteban Ocon: but this isn’t anger
Fernando Alonso: No.
This is calculation.
Yuki Tsunoda: I don’t want to race next weekend
Liam Lawson: same
Charles Leclerc: I think none of us do, if we are honest
Lewis Hamilton: We will.
But not the same way.
Oscar Piastri: The paddock won’t feel normal again for a long time.
Lando Norris: someone tried to kill a driver
Lando Norris: a DRIVER
Pierre Gasly: and we were all out there with him
Nico Hülkenberg: that’s what keeps hitting me
it could have been any of us
Fernando Alonso: Exactly.
Fernando Alonso: Today it was Max. Tomorrow it could be anyone.
Alex Albon: I just want Max back in the paddock
Yuki Tsunoda: same
Lando Norris: yeah
Lando Norris: i don’t care about championships anymore right now
***
Twitter Thread: Is George Russel like… completely insane?
@/Sector3Purple: The judge literally had to tell a Formula 1 driver to stop talking like this was a drivers’ briefing 😭
@/MonzaMemes: we went from “track limits debate” to “electronic ankle monitor” in ONE WEEK
@/RaceEngineerMemes: FIA penalties: +5 seconds
UK legal system: house arrest and surrender passport
@/dutchorangearmy: He blamed Max outside court????
Max is literally in hospital after surgery.
@/FerrariPain1999: the wildest part is he STILL thinks this is racing politics and not… criminal law???
@/TelemetryNerd: Everyone keeps focusing on the rant but the article says:
financial transfers + intermediaries + access to the car
That is planning. That is not anger. That is premeditation.
@/TrackLimitsDeleted: He said “Ask him why this happened.”
Max is literally recovering from surgery and still somehow getting blamed???
@/DriveToCourtroom: Netflix could not have written this and they’ve written some ridiculous things.
@/SilverArrowsIntel: Legal experts are right. Publicly blaming the victim while on bail is catastrophic for a defense case.
@/ScuderiaSoul:
Imagine being a driver strapping into a car next weekend.
@/Max33FansNL: I don’t care about championships anymore.
I just want Max healthy.
@/AlpineHopium: You can argue about aggressive racing.
You cannot argue about sabotage.
@/gridgirlthrowaway: I used to worry about safety barriers and halo strength.
I never thought the danger would be another driver.
@/SundayLightsOut: We all watched that crash live.
Now imagine knowing it wasn’t an accident.
@/gridwatcher::Attempted murder.
Not a sporting penalty.
Not a controversy.
A crime.
I am sick to my stomach.
@/tyredegnerd:The fact that he stood outside court and blamed Max again is… alarming.
That’s not PR spin. That’s a man unraveling.
@/overcutqueen:“He forced it”
No.
You don’t sabotage a car because someone “forced” you.
That’s premeditation.
@/monacostints:I don’t care what team you support.
If you’re defending George right now, log off.
@/williamsfan99:I’ve supported George since F2.
This article broke something in me.
@/slipstreamed:Standing outside court blaming the victim is about the worst thing he could’ve done for his defence.
@/chassisfail:Unhinged is the correct word.
Wild eyes.
Ranting.
Security dragging him away.
That’s not stress — that’s obsession.
@/pitwallpsych:This reads less like denial and more like fixation.
That’s what’s terrifying.
@/silverarrowsinsider:People keep asking “how could this happen in F1?”
Because we glorify pressure until someone breaks.
@/downforcejunkie:Imagine being Max’s family and reading this.
I would be incandescent with rage.
@/kerbstrike:“He took everything. My seat. My career.”
That entitlement is loud.
@/laptimeslut:He didn’t “lose control.”
He lost perspective a long time ago.
@/racedaywitch:Everyone talking about rivalry — this stopped being rivalry the second sabotage entered the chat.
@/baku_replay:I keep thinking about how many people could’ve been hurt.
Not just Max.
@/pitlaneecho:The saddest part?
He still thinks he’s the victim.
@/LapsAndLaughs:The wildest part is not even the charge.
It’s him going outside and BLAMING MAX TO CAMERAS.
@/MonzaTifosi:You can hate a driver. You can be rivals.
You do not sabotage a car at 300km/h. Ever.
@/lightsoutandpanic:I feel physically sick reading this.
Max hit the wall at Baku hard enough that the halo sparks looked like fireworks.
He could have died.
@/GridGossip:The judge literally told him to stop talking and he went straight to the press and ranted.
His lawyers must be having heart palpitations.
@/Max33DefenseLeague:“He took my seat” is not a motive that will play well in a courtroom.
@/SilverArrowsFan:I keep thinking about the other drivers on track.
Lando was right there.
That accident could have collected multiple cars.
@/DriveToCourt:The moment a driver starts blaming the victim publicly while on bail…
yeah his legal team is not sleeping tonight.
@/TireDegradationStan:The onboard footage already haunted me.
Reading that someone arranged it makes it ten times worse.
@/SlipstreamSam:I’m sorry but the quotes outside the court???
That wasn’t anger.
That was a man who genuinely thinks he did nothing wrong.
@/apexapocalypse:He literally said “I didn’t start this — he did” about a 300km/h crash he allegedly arranged.
That is… deeply concerning behavior.
@/PitwallPsychology:I’m not diagnosing anyone but the public statements read less like denial and more like delusion.
Russel’s reframing attempted murder as racing etiquette.
@/DownforceDaily:The judge: please refrain from public commentary
George: immediately holds a press rant
@/CurbStrike:That’s not a meltdown.
That’s someone who has lost touch with reality.
@/LateApexBrain:Rivalry is: divebombs, radio messages, passive aggressive interviews.
Not: criminal court and blaming the victim.
@/RaceEngineerAnon:The scary part?
George still talks about it like it was a normal racing dispute.
@/Sector2Chaos:He’s not even denying the situation properly.
He’s just… justifying it.
@/BoxBoxBoxpls:The “he took my career” argument is terrifying.
Like that explains attempting to harm someone.
@/SundayFormationLap:This reads like a psychological break, not a PR disaster.
@/BrakeTemp900:The man is on bail for attempted murder and chose to argue strategy politics with reporters.
@/SlickTyresAndTea:I genuinely think George Russell believes he’s the victim.
@/MotorsportLawyerUK:Publicly blaming the injured party while awaiting trial is catastrophically bad legal judgment.
His legal team will not be happy.
@/GaragePassGirl:I used to think this was a rivalry that got ugly.
Now it looks like obsession.
@/TrackLimitsDeleted:You know it’s bad when the entire internet stops arguing about who’s the better driver.
@/brakebiaspls:The way he was shouting like Max personally orchestrated his downfall??
Sir. You are in front of a COURT.
@/Slipstreamed:Blaming the guy you allegedly tried to kill while on bail is certainly… a strategy.
@/PaddockArchive:Reminder: this is the same guy who lost his Mercedes seat earlier this year after the incident with Ana Wolff.
This didn’t start in Baku.
@/Sector3Witness:George forced a kiss on a team employee, got fired, then months later allegedly sabotages a car.
There’s a pattern here and it’s not subtle.
@/TelemetryTruth:He already crossed a line with Ana Wolff.
The paddock moved on too fast.
@/GridMemory:I remember people saying Ana overreacted at the time.
I hope those people are quiet right now.
@/FanInTheGrandstand:I genuinely hope Ana Wolff has security.
If he’s blaming everyone else publicly, that’s scary behavior.
@/ChicaneTalk:People kept saying “separate personal from racing.”
You can’t. Character doesn’t compartmentalize.
@/FinalSectorFocus:The Baku crash didn’t come out of nowhere.
It was the endpoint of a spiral everyone ignored.
@/BrakeCheckMate:The fact that security had to physically intervene says everything.
@/GridWideSilence:I can’t imagine being a driver watching that footage knowing you shared a grid with him this year.
@/F1ColdSweat:People keep saying “he snapped.”
No — snapping is sudden.
This feels like something that’s been building for a long time.
@/PitlaneEthics:Trying to turn a criminal charge into a rivalry narrative is genuinely disturbing:.
@/LastLapLogic:If Max hadn’t survived, we wouldn’t be reading tweets — we’d be reading obituaries.
And he’s yelling about his seat.
***
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
lucy.comms:Has everyone seen the Sun article?
tom.sim: unfortunately yes
kayleigh.powerunit:Charged
Like an actual criminal charge
sam.transmission:ATTEMPTED MURDER
I still can’t process those words in the context of formula one
leo.mechanic:He literally went to court and then blamed Max outside???
benjy.data:The shouting at reporters part is what got me
that wasn’t “bad PR”
that was unstable
jess.hr: the judge warned him to stop talking and he still kept going
that is… not normal behaviour
ellie.electronics: i worked garage weekends with him in 2023
he sat in our engineering office drinking tea
flo.eng: same
he borrowed my charger once
flo.eng: HOW do you go from that to this
rachel.aero:First Ana… now Max
megan.sim: yeah that’s what’s messing with me
we already saw a line crossed earlier this year
fatima.pr: and half the internet treated that like gossip
jess.hr: it was not gossip
HR doesn’t terminate a driver mid-season for fun
liam.engine:Has anyone heard from Ana?
ellie.electronics:No
and that’s what scares me
nicola.sim:She never takes time off
I have literally known her to answer emails from her hotel bed when she had flu
zahra.aero:She worked through a concussion once
benjy.data:She once joined a meeting from an airport floor
elliott.systems:Toto said Max had another surgery today
she’s waiting at the hospital
lucy.comms: …oh
maddie.sim: …OH
sam.transmission: okay that basically confirms it right
kayleigh.powerunit: yeah that is not “coworker concern”She has not left that hospital since baku has she
maddie.sim:Nope.
sara.branding:You’re telling me Dr. Ana Wolff vanished from work for the first time in her life and it’s because she’s sitting through surgeries???
liv.strategy:That is not colleague behavior
that is partner behavior
megan.sim:I mean
we’ve all suspected
liam.eng-lead: i am actually so furious right now
leo.mechanic: same
we stood next to George in garages for YEARS
sam.transmission: he hurt one of our people
and now he nearly killed another
jess.hr: Ana came back to work after that incident and acted like nothing happened
and we all just… moved on
kayleigh.powerunit:Max trusted the paddock
that’s the part killing me
liv.strategy:Drivers trust the teams with their lives
that’s literally the whole sport
maddie.sim: and someone weaponized that
benjy.data:I don’t think the paddock recovers from this quickly
yas.enginecontrol:I don’t think we do
elliott.systems:I just keep thinking
she’s sitting there waiting for surgeons
after all of this and she still sent Solomon a 2026 architecture file two days ago
megan.sim: of course she did
leo.mechanic:I hope Max pulls through surgery
liv.strategy: same
jess.hr: And i hope she comes back to work eventually
but honestly
jess.hr:Right now she shouldn’t have to be strong for anyone
sima.calibration: if he hurt her once and now did this
i never want him anywhere near this sport again
***
Group Chat: The Old Wolves
(Members: Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, Nico Rosberg, David Coulthard, Mark Webber, Fernando Alonso)
Jenson Button: Just read it.
Attempted murder. House arrest.
I don’t even know what to say anymore.
David Coulthard: I’ve covered this sport for decades and I’ve never seen anything like this.
This isn’t controversy. This is criminal.
Nico Rosberg: What’s making my skin crawl is still the mechanics part.
That trust is the whole sport.
Mark Webber: Yeah.
Drivers accept risk.
We never signed up for that.
Fernando Alonso: Someone crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed.
Sebastian Vettel: And yet Red Bull is still taking absolutely no responsibility.
And the FIA has still not taken back the penalty points.
Sebastian Vettel: We went out there.
We spoke clearly.
We said this wasn’t a racing incident.
We said something was wrong.
Sebastian Vettel: And nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Jenson Button: Seb, mate—
Sebastian Vettel: No. I’m serious.
They penalised Max.
They blamed the victim.
And now multiple people are charged over crimes and they are doing NOTHING?!
Nico Rosberg: The FIA looks ridiculous right now.
Sebastian Vettel: Ridiculous?
They look negligent.
Sebastian Vettel: We told them.
Drivers told them.
Former champions told them.
And they have done ABSOLUTELY NOTHING Someone tried to kill a driver.
And the system’s first instinct was to hand out penalty points!
Fernando Alonso: That is the part that should terrify everyone.
Jenson Button: The optics are horrific.
Especially now that this is in criminal court.
Nico Rosberg: The FIA can’t pretend this is “outside their remit” anymore.
Sebastian Vettel: They will try.
Sebastian Vettel: They’ll say it’s a police matter now.
Wash their hands of it.
No accountability for the initial handling.
Sebastian Vettel: Max trusted that car.
Trusted the people around him.
Trusted the system.
Sebastian Vettel: And the system failed him at every level.
David Coulthard: I don’t disagree.
Jenson Button: What worries me is the precedent.
If this doesn’t force reform, nothing will.
Nico Rosberg: It has to.
Sebastian Vettel: And I hate that even now, they’re still not really listening.
Sebastian Vettel: Because until those penalty points are gone—
Until Red Bull’s handling is actually scrutinised—
The message is clear.
Sebastian Vettel: Drivers are expendable.
***
Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France - 25 September 2025
Ana did not mean to open the article.
She had only intended to clear the notification off her screen.
Her phone had been vibrating almost constantly since morning — messages, missed calls, press alerts she refused to read, automated news feeds she normally filtered with clinical efficiency. She processed information for a living. She understood data. But this was not data anymore. This was noise, and she had spent the last hour deliberately avoiding it.
Her grandmother’s voice still echoed faintly in her head.
You will end up alone. Without your father, who would tolerate you?
The words sat in her chest like a stone she could not dislodge. She had compartmentalized them — she was good at compartmentalization — but they had not disappeared. They lingered at the edge of her thoughts, contaminating everything else.
So when the notification banner slid down across the screen, she tapped it before she thought.
The page loaded.
She read.
She did not scroll at first. Her eyes moved line by line, precise and focused, the way she read telemetry logs.
Charged with attempted murder.
Her brain stalled for a fraction of a second.
Not investigated.
Not suspected.
Charged.
She kept reading.
Westminster Magistrates’ Court.
Electronic tag.
House arrest.
And then—
Her gaze locked on the next paragraph.
“This never would have happened if it wasn’t for him… He took everything. My seat. My career.”
Her stomach dropped.
The description of him shouting at the press, blaming Max, speaking rapidly, insisting it was inevitable.
Her hands went cold.
Because this was no longer a theoretical cause-and-effect chain she had built in her head. No longer a possibility she had quietly prepared herself for.
This was confirmation.
George had not simply made a catastrophic decision in a moment of panic.
George still believed he was justified.
The room around her felt suddenly very far away.
For three days she had been operating on logic:
Max alive → stabilize → transfer → surgery → rehabilitation.
Now a new variable inserted itself into the equation.
Intent.
Not accident.
Not miscalculation.
Not mechanical failure.
Intent.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. She read the line again.
complete disregard for human life
Her breathing shallowed slightly.
Because that meant something her brain could not easily categorize: unpredictability. Systems failed. Humans malfunctioned. But deliberate harm removed the safety assumptions she relied on. If someone was willing to do this once, her mind immediately began calculating probabilities of recurrence.
She stopped the thought.
Max was in surgery.
She forced her phone screen dark and stood up.
The room felt wrong without him. Too still. Too quiet.
Jos stood at the window again, the same position he defaulted to when he needed to be ready for action he could not take. Sophie sat in the chair beside the bed, fingers laced tightly together. Victoria perched at the edge of the sofa, watching the door like she expected it to open any second.
Ana knew she had to tell them.
Her brain catalogued the problem:
Information withholding would only make the eventual discovery worse.
They would see it online within minutes.
It was better to control the input.
Her voice worked on the first attempt, which she noted with mild surprise.
“They have been charged.”
Three heads turned immediately.
Victoria blinked. “Who?”
Ana kept her tone even. Flat enough to remain functional.
“George Russell and four mechanics”
The silence that followed was total.
Sophie frowned first. “Charged with what?”
Ana held her phone slightly tighter than she intended.
“Attempted murder. Conspiracy to cause griveous bodily harm.”
Victoria made a small sound she didn’t seem to recognize as her own.
Jos didn’t move.
Not at first.
Then slowly, very slowly, he turned away from the window.
“What,” he said, low.
Ana forced herself to continue. The words needed to be factual. Clean. She could not allow interpretation into her delivery.
“Westminster Magistrates’ Court this morning. Bail granted under house arrest. Electronic monitoring. Passport confiscated.”
Victoria stared at her. “No — no, that— Ana, that’s criminal court. That’s… prison.”
“Yes,” Ana said quietly.
Sophie’s hand went to her mouth. “They think he meant to kill him.”
Ana did not answer.
She didn’t need to.
Jos’s jaw tightened so hard she could see the muscles shift along his cheek.
“Did he deny it?” Sophie asked faintly.
Ana hesitated.
She did not want to say the next part. But omission would not hold.
“He spoke to the press outside.”
Victoria shook her head. “And?”
Ana looked at the floor for a fraction of a second.
“He blamed Max.”
The reaction was immediate.
Victoria swore under her breath.
Sophie’s eyes filled instantly, anger overtaking fear. “After what he did?”
Jos moved.
Not explosively. Worse.
He went very still.
The kind of stillness that came before something broke.
“He said Max forced it,” Ana continued quietly, because they needed the full picture. “He stated it was inevitable.”
Jos let out a short, disbelieving breath. Not laughter. Not quite rage. Something harsher.
“He still thinks this is racing,” he said.
No one corrected him.
Victoria wiped at her eyes roughly. “He nearly killed him,” she whispered, looking at the empty bed.
Ana’s gaze drifted to the pillow where Max’s head had rested that morning.
Her chest tightened.
The article’s words replayed in her mind — he took everything, my seat, my career.
She recognized the cognitive pattern immediately. Externalized blame. Causal displacement. Inability to integrate personal responsibility. Her brain categorized it automatically, clinically.
It did not make it less frightening.
Sophie stood and crossed the room to the bed, resting her hand on the mattress.
“He can’t reach him, can he?” she asked, suddenly urgent.
“No,” Ana said. “He is under court restriction. He cannot contact anyone connected to the investigation or Formula One.”
Jos exhaled slowly.
For the first time since she’d met him, she saw relief on his face.
Small. Temporary. But real.
Victoria sat down hard on the sofa. “I thought the worst part was the crash,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t.”
No, Ana thought.
It was the intent.
She sat back in the chair beside the bed and forced her hands to unclench in her lap.
Max was still in surgery.
That was the variable that mattered.
Everything else — courts, articles, George’s words, her grandmother’s voice — became background noise she deliberately pushed away.
She focused on the single stable fact she could hold.
He was alive.
Ana lasted exactly eleven minutes after telling them.
Eleven minutes of sitting back down in the chair beside Max’s empty bed.
Eleven minutes of staring at nothing while Sophie quietly cried into a paper napkin and Victoria paced in small loops near the door and Jos stood at the window like a guard dog with nowhere to direct the guarding.
Because there was a new variable her mind would not release.
George was not remorseful.
He was angry.
And anger did not behave predictably.
Her thoughts kept looping into increasingly irrational projections — court restrictions failing, someone slipping past hospital security, a press crowd turning chaotic, a person desperate enough not caring about consequences.
She knew it was statistically unlikely.
Her brain still modeled it.
Her hands were cold again.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Toto Wolff
Ana: I need a number.
Toto: What happened?
Ana: Nikolai Maroz.
The bodyguard you use sometimes. The one you threatened three people over. Including your own legal department.
Toto: Anastasia.
Why?
Ana: I know it is unreasonable.
But George Russell is not thinking rationally and Max is immobilized and publicly located and hospitals are accessible structures.
Toto: You don’t need to contact Nikolai.
Ana: I want a redundancy layer.
Toto: I will take care of it.
Ana: You are busy.
Toto: Anastasia. This is not a “busy” situation.
Ana: I know it is not logical. George Russell is under house arrest and monitored.
Toto: You are scared.
Toto: I already spoke with hospital administration this morning. Security will be increased.
I am also arranging private security. You won’t see them, but they will be there.
Ana: Thank you.
Toto: Something else happened.
Ana: No. Surgery is still ongoing.
Toto: Not Max.
You.
Toto: Your grandmother called you.
Ana: Yes.
Toto: Why didn’t you tell me?
Ana: You have a lot on your plate.
Toto: You are on my plate. Anastasia, she had no right to call you about this. None.
Ana: Rosa spoke to her.
Toto: I know.
Toto: What did she say?
Ana: She disagrees with your decisions.
Toto: Anastasia.
Ana: She said I caused the family rupture.
She said my diagnosis is fashionable.
She said you indulged me and that I was an accident you made in Russia.
Toto: I am so sorry. You should have told me.
Ana: You were coordinating legal, press and logistics across three countries.
Toto: I am still your father.
Ana: I did not want to add load.
Toto: You are not load. She will not contact you again. I will handle it.
Focus on Max.
I will focus on everything else.
Ana: Okay.
Toto: And Anastasia?
Ana: Yes?
Toto: You did nothing wrong.
***
Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France - 25 September 2025
The surgeon used the phrase “as well as we could have hoped.”
Sophie would remember those exact words for the rest of her life.
The man in green scrubs was explaining screws and plates and alignment and blood supply and rehabilitation timelines. She heard the words, understood most of them, but what actually reached her was simpler:
Max was alive.
Max was stable.
Max was still theirs.
Her knees nearly gave out anyway.
She didn’t cry immediately. Not there. Not in front of the surgeon, not in front of the nurses, not in front of the staff who were trying very hard to look professional while clearly knowing who her son was. Instead she nodded, asked sensible questions, listened carefully — the way mothers do when they are holding themselves together by structure alone.
It was only when they were allowed into recovery that the reality hit.
Max looked small.
He had never looked small in his entire life. Not as a child, not as a teenager, not even when he was a scrawny karting boy sleeping in vans and eating sandwiches at circuits. Even hurt, even exhausted, he had always radiated motion. Intent. Energy.
Now he was still.
The sedation had him completely under, his face slack in a way that felt wrong on someone who was normally so intensely present. There were tubes, lines, monitoring wires, a brace around the leg that had been rebuilt by surgeons instead of held together by external metal.
Sophie moved to the side of the bed and touched his hand very carefully.
Warm.
She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she exhaled.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she whispered, even though he couldn’t hear her.
Behind her, Victoria hovered again — not sitting, not moving, just standing close enough that she could see him breathe. Her daughter had been trying so hard to be composed since arriving, but Sophie recognized the signs. Victoria had always been the one who felt things quietly.
Her eyes hadn’t left him since they entered the room.
“He looks…” Victoria started, then stopped.
“He looks like someone who had major surgery,” Sophie said gently. “And someone who is healing.”
Victoria nodded, but she still reached forward and very carefully touched his arm, as if checking reality with her own hand.
Sophie watched her daughter and felt something twist in her chest.She suddenly saw it so clearly. The late nights when Max would fall asleep on the couch after karting and Victoria would curl beside him without asking. The unspoken pact between siblings that only existed when they had grown up around adult storms.
She turned slightly.
Ana stood on the other side of the bed.
Not hovering. Not crying. Just present — hands lightly resting on the rail, eyes on Max in a way that was neither medical nor observational but something far more personal. Sophie noticed immediately that she wasn’t watching the machines anymore.
She was watching him.
That was new.
For three days Ana had monitored everything — vitals, medication, staff movements, procedures — like she was part of the hospital system itself. Now she simply stood there, very still, shoulders lowered.
Relief.
That was what it looked like.
Not dramatic, not visible to anyone who didn’t know to look for it. But Sophie saw it in the loosened tension around her mouth, in the way her breathing had finally slowed.
Sophie understood something then that she hadn’t fully articulated before.
Ana had not been strong because she wasn’t afraid.
She had been strong because she was terrified and refused to let it matter until he was safe.
Sophie stepped back slightly to give her space.
Ana didn’t notice. She reached forward and gently brushed her fingers through Max’s hair, a small, automatic gesture, and Sophie felt her throat tighten.
That was not caretaker behavior.
That was love.
She glanced toward Jos.
He stood near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, silent. To anyone else he would have looked impassive. Sophie knew better. His shoulders were lowered in a way they had not been since the crash. The rigid tension he carried like armor had eased just a fraction.
Relief looked different on Jos.
It looked like stillness instead of pacing. Like breathing instead of clenched jaw. Like him not looking away from Max.
For three days he had been angry because anger was easier than fear. She had lived with him long enough to understand that. Jos processed the world physically — problems were solved with action. And this had been unsolvable.
Now, watching their son sleep peacefully, she saw what lay under the temper.
He was simply a father who had almost lost his child.
His eyes moved once — not to Max.
To Ana.
It wasn’t approval exactly. Jos didn’t do approval in a conventional way. But it was recognition. A silent acknowledgement that he now understood why Max looked for her first in every room.
Sophie followed his gaze.
Ana hadn’t moved. Her hand still rested in Max’s hair, not stroking, just there. Grounding him even while he slept.
Victoria finally sat in the chair, exhaustion catching her now that the crisis had passed. She leaned her head against the mattress near Max’s shoulder, eyes closing briefly.
Sophie watched both of them — her daughter and the woman her son loved — positioned instinctively at either side of him, and something settled deep in her chest.
Max had always carried the world on his shoulders. Racing had demanded it, life had demanded it, expectations had demanded it. For years she had worried what would happen when he finally stopped moving, when there was nothing left to fight.
Now she saw the answer.
He wouldn’t be alone.
She brushed her thumb lightly across his knuckles again and allowed herself, finally, to feel the relief she had been holding back since the crash.
“He’s safe,” she murmured softly.
And this time, she believed it.
***
Text Messages: Peter “Bono” Bonnington & Gianpiero Lambiase
Bono:You alive?
GP:Define alive.
Bono:Functioning enough to drink whisky?
GP:That depends entirely on how much whisky.
Bono:Good.
Because I’m invoking emergency paddock protocol.
GP:I don’t like the sound of that.
Bono:Friday night.
Brackley lot are going to the pub after work.
You are coming.
GP:Absolutely not.
Bono:GP.
GP:Peter, I have spent the last 72 hours alternating between reading legal statements and wanting to commit crimes.
Bono:Exactly why you’re coming.
GP:I am not socialising with anyone right now.
Bono:It’s not socialising.
It’s containment.
GP:Containment?
Bono:Half the factory wants to scream.
The other half wants to cry.
The rest want to punch something.
GP:Reasonable reactions.
Bono:You, specifically, need a drink before you attempt to personally strangle a journalist.
GP:I have considered worse.
Bono:Yes. That is why I am texting you.
GP:I do not work for Mercedes.
Bono:You’ll work for us next year.
Also everyone here considers you honorary staff at this point.
Bono:Look — nobody is okay after today.
The charge made it real.
GP:It was already real when I watched telemetry.
Bono:I know.
GP:I would like five minutes alone with Russell.
No witnesses.
Bono:Which is why you are going to a pub instead.
GP:I am not promising good behavior.
Bono:We’re engineers.
Bad behavior is limited to angry technical debates and overpouring whisky.
GP:Fine.
Bono:I’ll take that as a yes.
GP:One drink.
Bono:You will have at least three.
GP:One.
Bono:See you Friday, Gianpiero.
GP:If anyone mentions telemetry, I am leaving.
Bono:Noted.
We will instead discuss how awful Ferrari strategy used to be in 2012.
GP:Now that I will attend for.
***
Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France - 25 September 2025
Max woke up in pieces.
Not physically — the surgeons had, according to several very serious-looking people, put him back together extremely well — but mentally. Consciousness came back the way a badly tuned radio found a signal: static, sound, silence, then a voice, then nothing again.
The first thing he registered was weightlessness.
The second was pain.
The third was her hand.
His fingers tightened automatically before he was even fully aware of it. Warm, small, familiar — anchored to reality far better than the beeping monitors or the sterile smell ever could.
“Ana,” he mumbled, eyes still closed.
“I am here,” came the immediate reply, quiet and steady, much closer than the rest of the world.
Good.
Good, that was correct.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was different. White, but not the Baku white. Softer. French, his brain supplied unhelpfully. He blinked slowly, trying to force his thoughts into order and failing spectacularly.
He turned his head a few centimeters and found her.
Ana sat beside the bed, posture forward, hand wrapped around his, watching him with the same focused attention she usually reserved for telemetry screens. The relief in her eyes was small but unmistakable.
“Hey,” she said softly.
Max stared at her with a kind of intense concentration that usually meant he was calculating lap delta.
Instead he whispered, hoarse, “You’re real.”
Victoria made a small choking noise from the other side of the room.
“I am,” Ana said gently. “You are awake. Surgery is finished.”
Max blinked slowly. His eyes were glassy from the medication, unfocused for a second — then abruptly, very sharply, they filled with tears.
Ana froze.
That… was not expected.
Max squeezed her hand weakly, lower lip wobbling in a way Ana had never seen in her entire life.
“I saw her,” he said.
Sophie leaned forward. “Saw who, sweetheart?”
Max’s gaze stayed locked on Ana like nobody else existed.
“Our daughter.”
Silence.
Ana did not react outwardly. Not because she was unaffected — but because her brain had abruptly lost the ability to choose the correct response category.
“…what?” she said carefully.
Max’s eyes overflowed immediately.
He shook his head, tears already spilling sideways into his hair. “We had a baby.”
Victoria clapped both hands over her mouth.
Ana did not move for a full two seconds.
“…I beg your pardon,” she said carefully.
“I saw her,” he said urgently, like it was the most important information in the world. “I saw her. She was real. She had my eyes.”
Victoria made a strangled noise that she disguised as a cough.
Ana blinked.
“Max,” she said gently, clinical calm kicking in, “you are still under significant opioid influence.”
“No,” he insisted immediately, emotional and completely certain. “You don’t understand. She walked.”
Victoria bent forward, shoulders shaking silently.
“She was in the garage,” Max continued, voice cracking. “Mercedes garage. Abu Dhabi. You were there. GP was there. Kimi was there—” He sniffed, wiping his face badly with the back of his hand. “She took three steps and then fell and I picked her up and she grabbed my race suit.”
Ana gently pressed his hand. “Max. You are under heavy anesthesia.”
“No,” he insisted, grabbing her wrist with surprising determination. “It was real. I know the difference between dreams and… not dreams. I’ve had them before.”
His voice cracked completely.
“I want her,” he whispered, tears now fully falling. “I want a baby with you.”
Victoria lost the battle and emitted a small choking squeak she turned into a very unconvincing throat-clear.
Ana did not look at her.
Ana did not even blink.
Max’s grip tightened, terrified now in a way she hadn’t heard before — not fear of injury, not fear of racing.
Fear of losing a future.
“I almost didn’t come back,” he said softly, crying openly now. “And she was there and you were there and everything was… calm. I want that. I want… us. I don’t care about anything else. I just—”
His voice broke completely.
“I want a family with you, Nastya.”
The room went completely still.
A tear escaped. “She had curls. I think she likes cars.”
Victoria made a strangled sound that was definitely a suppressed laugh and not a sob.
Max kept going, emotional and unstoppable.
“She took her first steps in the garage and everyone pretended they weren’t watching but they were watching and Toto was pretending not to cry and you were smiling at me and I—” his voice cracked again — “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”
Ana stared at him.
Not flustered.
Not embarrassed.
Completely, utterly unprepared.
“You are on morphine,” she said.
“I don’t care,” Max sniffed, still crying. “I would be a great dad.”
“You would,” she replied automatically, because that part was simply true.
That only made him cry harder.
“I almost didn’t get to,” he said quietly, and suddenly the room understood. The dream wasn’t random. His brain had taken the place his mind kept trying not to go — the future he almost lost.
Ana’s expression softened instantly.
She leaned closer, brushing her fingers gently through his hair the same way she had while he slept.
“You are not required to decide reproduction immediately after orthopedic surgery,” she told him softly.
Max looked at her with damp, unfocused devotion. “I want that,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want a baby with you.”
Victoria had to physically turn away toward the wall.
Ana did not laugh. Did not deflect. She just looked at him — really looked — and for a moment all her practiced composure disappeared.
“Max,” she said softly.
He kept going, unstoppable. “She was wearing these tiny headphones and—” His voice broke again. “It felt real. It felt like… like I got to see it already and I don’t want to lose it.”
The tears weren’t hysteria. They were relief. Long-delayed fear draining out sideways into something gentler.
“I nearly didn’t get there,” he whispered.
“I don’t want to wait,” Max continued, voice thick but determined. “I don’t want to be old. I don’t want to miss things.”
Ana blinked. “You are twenty-seven.”
“That’s not young,” he argued, deeply offended. “That’s basically thirty.”
Victoria slapped a hand over her mouth and bent forward, shoulders shaking.
Max didn’t notice.
“We should start immediately.”
Sophie choked on air.
Jos blinked once.
Ana didn’t even flinch. “You just had orthopedic surgery.”
“Yes,” Max said patiently, as if explaining to someone who simply wasn’t keeping up. “But not all of me is broken.”
Victoria made a sound that absolutely required a coughing cover.
Max shifted slightly — winced — then ignored it completely, eyes still fixed on Ana with enormous seriousness.
“I almost died,” he said quietly.
The room sobered instantly.
He swallowed, voice softer now, raw in a way he would hate remembering later.
“I don’t want to wait for life to happen after racing,” he murmured. “I want it while I’m here. We already have the house,” he continued. “You already run half of Europe from a laptop. I can race and also be a father. People do that. Fernando is like ninety and still racing, I can definitely manage bedtime.”
“We are financially stable,” Max added, clearly listing what he believed were decisive points. “I have championships. You have… computers.”
Victoria lost composure entirely and bent over, silently shaking.
Max frowned again. “This is a logical plan.”
“Max,” she added carefully, “biology is not instantaneous.”
Max looked personally offended by that information.
“It should be.”
“It is not.”
He processed that for a long five seconds, face tightening in concentration.
“…we could start trying,” he said.
Victoria made a strangled sound and fled into the hallway.
Sophie was no longer even pretending composure.
Ana remained perfectly still, because if she moved she might laugh and she knew that would not help.
“Max,” she said gently, “your leg has screws in it.”
He considered that.
“Okay,” he conceded, “maybe not today.”
A pause.
“…tomorrow?”
Jos made a noise somewhere between a cough and a bark.
Ana squeezed his hand lightly. “We will not be doing that tomorrow either.”
He looked devastated.
“But we have a house now,” he said weakly. “There’s a pool. Pools are good for children.”
“That is true,” she agreed.
“I almost died,” he said quietly. Not dramatic. Not self-pitying. Just factual. “I don’t want my whole life to be later. I don’t want to wake up at forty and realize I traded everything for lap time.”
The room went quiet.
His eyes were glassy but intensely clear on her.
“I don’t just want championships,” he whispered. “I want a family with you. I want a kid running around the garage stealing radios and drawing on my race suits.”
“I want mornings with you. I want a kitchen table. I want toys on the floor and you complaining about them being in the way and then secretly organizing them by color.”
Ana opened her mouth.
Closed it again.
“I want to teach a kid how to kart,” he continued, emotional but utterly certain. “I want to show her the simulator. I want to hear you explain physics to a six-year-old and they understand you better than I do.”
“I want a little girl who sits in the garage and everyone pretends she isn’t running the team,” he continued. “And she will absolutely run the team.”
He swallowed.
“I want to come home and you’re there and she’s there and I don’t care what happened in the race because that’s what matters.”
“I want normal things,” Max said, almost pleading now. “Not just races and flights and recovery schedules. I want a family with you.”
Max swallowed, tears threatening again.
“I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I waited too long because I thought there would be time,” he said quietly. “There’s not always time.”
Ana felt her chest tighten.
She squeezed his hand. “Max…”
“I want a baby who runs around the house,” he said, words tumbling out now. “And a dog. Or two dogs. And a third cat.”
Victoria wheezed softly.
“I want to come home and hear noise,” he continued. “Not just silence and sim rigs.”
Ana brushed her thumb over his knuckles.
“I want a life with you,” he murmured. “All of it. House, dogs, cats, kid, everything. I don’t care about anything else right now.”
Ana brushed her thumb under his eye, wiping a tear away.
“I want a house full of kids,” he said softly. “Small ones. With your brain and hopefully not my temper.”
Jos made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough.
Ana brushed her thumb over his knuckles. “You need to recover from surgery first.”
He ignored that entirely.
“They’ll like stars,” he said. “You can name them. You’re good at naming things.”
“I name software architectures,” she corrected quietly.
“Same skillset,” Max said firmly.
He looked up at her again, eyes shining, completely sincere.
“I want a daughter,” he said. “And a boy too so she has someone to boss around.”
Victoria was now laughing silently into a pillow.
Max’s voice softened.
“I want you,” he said. “All of it. Not later. Not after championships. Now.”
“You are on morphine,” she said gently.
“I’m serious,” he insisted with heartbreaking sincerity. “We’ll be good parents. I know how to teach karting lines.”
Ana almost smiled.
“That is not the primary parenting skill,” she replied softly.
“I can learn others,” he said immediately. “I want normal things,” he whispered. “Not just races.”
Ana’s thumb brushed his knuckles again.
“You will have them,” she said gently.
He frowned weakly. “But I want them with you.”
“You will,” she repeated.
He studied her face, searching, as if he needed confirmation beyond words.
“…you’re not saying no?” he asked cautiously.
“I am saying,” she replied carefully, “We will discuss this when you are not hallucinating future paddock toddlers.”
He considered that carefully.
“…fine.”
A beat.
Then:
“But I’m still proposing again.”
“You already proposed.”
“I need a sober one,” he said firmly. “That one didn’t count.”
Max tugged weakly at Ana’s hand.
“Promise me,” he whispered.
Ana leaned down so their foreheads almost touched.
“Max,” she said gently, “your current responsibilities are breathing, healing, and not ripping your stitches.”
He blinked slowly. “Okay.”
Then, still teary, “But also baby later.”
She exhaled — a tiny, helpless sound — and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
“Later,” she agreed.
He relaxed immediately, like that had solved something essential in his brain. Within seconds the medication dragged him back toward sleep, his hand still loosely wrapped around hers.
Victoria immediately collapsed into silent hysterics.
Sophie pressed her hand over her mouth, smiling helplessly through tears.
Jos shook his head, looking at his sleeping son — then at Ana, who still hadn’t moved her hand from Max’s chest.
“…Well,” he said quietly, almost gruff to hide the emotion, “at least he’s thinking long term.”
***
Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France - 25 September 2025
Max was asleep again.
Actually asleep this time — breathing deep and even, the tension finally gone from his shoulders, his hand still loosely wrapped around Ana’s fingers like his body refused to fully let go even unconscious.
Ana didn’t move.
She stayed exactly where she was beside the bed, one hand still in his, the other resting lightly against the blanket near his arm, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of his chest in quiet, repetitive confirmation.
Alive.
Victoria watched her for a full minute.
Two.
Three.
And then, very carefully, she scooted her chair closer.
“…so,” she whispered.
Ana did not look away from Max. “So?”
Victoria leaned her elbows onto her knees, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“You realize,” she said, “that my brother just proposed, discussed interior decorating, future daughters, and parenting philosophies within a ten-minute window while medically sedated.”
Ana blinked once. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t even panic.”
“I assessed the situation,” Ana said calmly.
Victoria snorted softly. “You assessed him planning your entire domestic life.”
Ana finally looked at her. “He was experiencing a post-traumatic clarity response amplified by opioids.”
Victoria stared at her.
“…Ana.”
“Yes.”
“You do know most women would be hyperventilating right now.”
Ana considered that.
“I hyperventilated yesterday,” she said matter-of-factly.
Victoria’s expression softened immediately.
“…yeah,” she said quietly. “I heard.”
Ana’s gaze returned to Max. She gently adjusted the blanket near his shoulder, a movement so automatic Victoria realized she probably hadn’t even noticed she’d done it.
Victoria watched the tenderness of it — the carefulness, the precision, the way Ana moved around him like she understood instinctively where pain might be.
Then she smiled faintly.
“You didn’t say no,” she said.
Ana was quiet for a second.
“No,” she admitted.
Victoria tilted her head. “You thought about it.”
Ana didn’t answer immediately.
Her thumb traced lightly over the back of Max’s hand — unconscious, repetitive, grounding.
“Yes,” she said finally.
Victoria leaned back in her chair, studying her properly now — not the intimidating engineer, not Toto’s daughter, not the calm presence everyone in the hospital had been orbiting.
Just a woman sitting beside the person she loved.
“You know,” Victoria said softly, “he’s never looked at any of his other girlfriends the way he looks at you.”
Ana frowned faintly. “That is a statistically small sample size.”
Victoria laughed quietly. “No. I mean it. I’ve known him his entire life. Max doesn’t… soften. Not really.”
She glanced at her sleeping brother.
“But with you? He does. It’s like he finally relaxes.”
Ana’s eyes lingered on his face.
“He does not relax,” she said automatically.
Victoria raised an eyebrow. “Ana.”
A pause.
“…he sleeps,” Ana corrected softly.
Victoria’s smile widened a little.
Then her voice gentled.
“He’d be an amazing dad.”
Ana’s shoulders stilled.
She didn’t deflect this time.
Victoria continued quietly, watching Max.
“He’s stubborn and impossible and competitive about everything,” she said. “But he’s also the one who taught me to ride a bike for six hours straight because I cried when I fell. He pretended he wasn’t tired so I wouldn’t quit.”
Ana listened.
“He used to stay awake when I couldn’t sleep,” Victoria went on. “He’d sit on the floor beside my bed and just talk about random racing facts until I knocked out.”
Her voice softened further.
“He’s protective. Always has been. Sometimes too much. But he loves… completely. There’s no halfway with him.”
Ana looked down at Max’s hand in hers.
“I know,” she said quietly.
Victoria hesitated, then added gently:
“And with you? He’s calm. I’ve never seen him calm before.”
Ana’s throat tightened slightly — a reaction so small most people wouldn’t have noticed.
Victoria did.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“And for the record,” she added with a small grin, “if you two have a daughter, she is going to run that household.”
Ana exhaled softly. “Highly probable.”
Victoria nudged her lightly with her shoulder.
“You’re not scared?”
Ana thought about it longer this time.
Then she looked at Max — really looked — at the bruising, the exhaustion, the vulnerability he would hate anyone else seeing.
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Alessandra "Lessa" Lambiase (Original Character)
Summary:
Alessandra Lambiase has worked in war zones, triage tents, and disaster relief missions.
Nothing prepares her for Formula One.
Nothing prepares Gianpiero Lambiase for his driver very obviously developing a crush on his sister either.
And nothing prepares the world for Max Verstappen deciding the correct way to ask a woman out is to win Monza.
Warnings and Notes: This has been in the works since September, but I finally finished it! It's a one shot, and it's cute, and don't take it too seriously. Warning of discussions of warzones and trauma surgery and doctors without borders and violence, but it's only in the past and only mentioned in conversations!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Monza Qualifying – Q3 Final Runs – Red Bull Radio Transcript
GP: Alright Max, last run. Out-lap target delta plus three. Tyres are in a good window, just build them gently through Lesmo.
Max: Yeah yeah, I know how to drive out-laps.
GP: You asked me yesterday what “gently” meant.
Max: Because you said gently and then complained they were cold.
GP: Because you drove like you were late for a flight.
GP: Okay Max, mode push now. You have a small tailwind into Turn 1.
GP: Good entry. Watch rear on exit.
Max: Rear is fine.
GP: You’re two tenths up already.
Max: Yeah.
GP: Still pushing, please.
Max: I am pushing.
GP: I’m just encouraging you.
Max: You sound nervous.
GP: I am monitoring.
Max: You’re nervous.
(Crosses finish line)
GP: …Max.
Max: Yeah?
GP: That is P1.
And… that is the fastest lap ever recorded here.
Max: Nice.
GP: You really wanted that one.
Max: Yes.
GP: This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain… arrangement?
Max: No comment.
GP: You realise I am involved in this whether I like it or not.
Max: You already were.
GP: I regret asking questions.
Max: You asked.
GP: Well… good lap.
Max: Thank you.
(brief pause)
GP: You still have to win tomorrow.
Max: I know.
GP: And the McLarens have long-run pace.
Max: I know.
GP: And this is Monza.
Max: GP.
GP: Yes.
Max: I’m winning that bet.
GP: …Understood.
***
FIA Post-Qualifying Press Conference – Monza
Moderator: Max, congratulations. Pole position and the fastest lap ever recorded at Monza. Did you expect that today?
Max: No. The car felt good but… not that good. The lap was just very clean. No mistakes, good slipstream, tyres in the right window. Everything worked.
Moderator: We heard some interesting radio communication about a “bet.” Can you tell us what that was?
(Lando immediately turns his head. Oscar also looks over at the same time.)
Max: …No.
Moderator: No?
Max: It’s just an inside joke.
Oscar: That was not an inside joke voice.
Max: It was.
Lando: Mate, you sounded like you were qualifying for your life.
Max: I was qualifying for pole.
Lando: No, no. Different energy. I’ve raced you long enough to know the difference.
Moderator: So there really is a bet?
Max: No.
Lando: There is absolutely a bet.
Oscar: There’s definitely a bet.
Max: There is not a bet.
Lando: You literally told GP, “I’m winning that bet.”
Max: He asked a question.
Oscar: You didn’t deny it.
Max: I’m denying it now.
Lando: That’s not convincing.
(Journalists laughing)
Journalist: Max, is it racing-related?
Max: …No comment.
Lando: OH it’s not racing related.
Oscar: Yeah, that confirms it.
Max: I didn’t confirm anything.
Lando: You absolutely did.
Journalist: Is there a reward involved?
Max: It’s an inside joke.
Lando: There is a reward.
Oscar: There’s a very specific reward.
Max: You two are making things up.
Lando: You set the fastest lap in Monza history and suddenly you’re mysterious. Suspicious.
Oscar: You’re calm after poles. Today you look… invested.
Max: I am always invested.
Lando: No, today you look like a man with motivation.
(pause)
Journalist: Max, you’re smiling.
Max: I always smile.
Lando: You never smile in press conferences.
Oscar: He doesn’t.
Max: I smile.
Lando: You smile when you win championships, not when you get pole in a difficult season.
(more laughter)
Moderator: We’ll leave the mystery for now. Final question — tomorrow’s race. Can you hold off the McLarens?
Max: It won’t be easy. Their race pace is strong. But I’ll try.
Lando: He’s not “trying.” He’s on a mission.
Oscar: Yeah… I’m a bit concerned actually.
Max: You should be concerned anyway.
Lando: Not this concerned.
(press room laughing again)
Moderator: Thank you gentlemen.
(Microphones click off. As they stand up —)
Lando (quietly): It’s a date, isn’t it?
Max: No.
Oscar: It’s a date.
Max: I hate both of you.
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/papayapodium: Max: “it’s an inside joke”
Lando + Oscar: immediate federal investigation
@/sectorpurple: HE SET THE FASTEST LAP IN MONZA HISTORY FOR A JOKE?????
sir you don’t deploy that kind of pace for banter
@/clercsbassoon: that was not a “haha” bet
that was a “I will alter the laws of physics” bet
@/f1girlmath: He was HALF A SECOND UP in sector 2
whatever that bet is, it’s important
@/gridgossip: The way Lando immediately clocked it…
drivers know drivers
@/boxboxboxpls: Oscar: “People don’t do that for jokes.”
Correct.
People do that for romantic motivation
@/tyredegradation: Max Verstappen smiling in a press conference is more suspicious than any stewards investigation
@/papayatheory: He said “not racing related”
OH BOY
@/chicanesandchaos: I WAS THERE THURSDAY
I AM TELLING YOU
THIS IS ABOUT GP’S SISTER
@/downforcequeen: GP right now: “I did not sign up to engineer a romance subplot”
@/monzamadness: He literally drove like a man trying to impress someone
@/laptimeanalysis: You do not extract a perfect Ascari + Parabolica combo on pure competitiveness alone
this is emotional horsepower
@/pitlanepsychology: We are witnessing the first ever telemetry-verified crush
@/papayapowerunit: Lando: “it’s a date isn’t it”
Oscar: “it’s a date”
Max: “no”
that was the least convincing denial I have ever heard
@/fiaunofficial: if he wins tomorrow and immediately disappears from parc fermé I will scream
@/chicanesandchaos: If Red Bull team doctor lady appears in parc fermé tomorrow I am retiring from journalism because I’ve peaked
@/racecontrolmemes: F1 2025 storyline:
Max Verstappen vs McLaren vs Feelings
@/gridradio: GP on the radio: calm, composed, strategic
GP in reality: babysitting a world champion in love
@/softlaunchrb: This sport is ridiculous and I love it
@/papayapanic: MAX VERSTAPPEN DOES NOT DO “INSIDE JOKES”
WHAT IS THE BET
@/lando4ever: Lando immediately clocking it = my emotional support driver
@/oscarplswin: Oscar Piastri has never looked more concerned in his LIFE
that man smelled motivation and got scared
@/boxboxtherapy: Max: “it’s an inside joke”
Everyone with ears: that is the most outside joke I’ve ever heard
@/tyresandtea: Fastest lap in MONZA HISTORY over a “joke”
yeah okay mate sure
@/grid_gremlin: You don’t casually break track records unless there’s
• spite
• love
• or a deeply unserious man with a serious goal
@/softlaunchrb: MAX VERSTAPPEN HAS MOTIVATION AGAIN
this is not a drill
something has reawakened him
@/pitlanesherlock: Not racing related + specific reward + Max smiling =
congratulations to whoever won the Verstappen Motivation Lottery
@/chicanesandchaos: I would like to formally state that this BET has nothing to do with tyres, cars, or championships
this is personal
@/redbullintern: everyone in the garage knows
and no one is saying anything
which means it’s GOOD
@/verstappening: Max Verstappen with nothing to lose is dangerous
Max Verstappen with something to gain is TERRIFYING
@/fia_hater69: Max said “no comment” and smiled
case closed
pack it up
@/gridpsychologist: Observed behaviours:
✔ hyperfocus
✔ competitive escalation
✔ denial
Diagnosis: Crush-fueled lap time
***
Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Max Verstappen
Victoria: I just watched the press conference.
Max: Okay.
Victoria: Explain the bet.
Max: No.
Victoria: You set the fastest lap in Monza history.
Max: Yes.
Victoria: For an “inside joke.”
Max: Correct.
Victoria: Max.
Max: Victoria.
Victoria: Lando literally asked if it was a date.
Max: He says many things.
Victoria: And you didn’t deny it properly.
Max: I said no.
Victoria: You said no while smiling.
Max: I smile.
Victoria: You smile twice a year.
Championship win and when you see a cat.
Max: That’s not true.
Victoria: WHAT
IS
THE
BET
Max: If I win tomorrow she goes to dinner with me.
(typing… stops… typing again)
Victoria: OH MY GOD
Max: Stop.
Victoria: YOU ASKED HER ON A DATE WITH A RACE RESULT
Max: It was efficient.
Victoria: You are unbelievable.
Max: It’s a clear condition.
Victoria: You are literally courting a woman via motorsport achievement.
Max: I am winning a race.
Victoria: YOU ARE TRYING TO ROMANCE A WOMAN WITH A GRAND PRIX WIN
Max: It’s Monza.
Victoria: That does not help your argument.
Max: She agreed.
Victoria: She said yes because she didn’t think you could do it, didn’t she?
Max: …
Victoria: MAX.
Max: I’m going to win.
Victoria: You are insane.
Max: Maybe.
Victoria: I support this.
Max: You would.
Victoria: Also — if you win, I expect to meet her immediately.
Max: No.
Victoria: I will introduce myself anyway.
Max: Please don’t.
Victoria: Too late. I already like her.
Max: You’ve never spoken to her.
Victoria:
She’s good for you.
Max: Goodnight.
Victoria: Good luck tomorrow, lover boy.
***
Alessandra had ordered room service because she did not want to be perceived.
The hotel room was dim and cool, shutters half-drawn against the lingering Italian heat. Pasta in white porcelain bowls sat between her and Gianni on the small table by the window, untouched for a moment while they both stared out at the circuit lights glowing faintly through the trees.
It felt surreal — Monza humming outside, engines still echoing in her bones, while she sat here eating carbonara with her brother like this was a perfectly normal Saturday evening.
Gianni was smiling.
Not a polite smile. Not a professional one.
A knowing smile.
“I heard about the bet,” he said casually, twirling pasta onto his fork.
Alessandra closed her eyes for exactly two seconds. “Of course you did.”
“You didn’t even try to deny it.”
“There was nothing to deny,” she said flatly. “It was hypothetical.”
Gianni laughed. Out loud. Properly.
“Lessa,” he said, delighted, “he’s going to win that thing tomorrow.”
She opened her eyes again. “That is statistically unlikely.”
Gianni leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. “You let him sniff blood.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” he replied. “You gave him a condition.”
“I gave him an impossible condition.”
“This is Max Verstappen,” Gianni said, as if that explained everything. “If you give him a target, he doesn’t negotiate with reality. He just… does it.”
She frowned slightly, fork paused mid-air. “You sound very confident.”
“I have worked with him for years,” Gianni said. “When he smells opportunity, he goes for it. Championships. Overtakes. Bets he’s not supposed to win.” He smiled again. “You should be terrified.”
She huffed a quiet laugh despite herself. “He’s ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“And this is all very flattering,” she continued, “but it’s also absurd. I’m too old for him.”
Gianni snorted into his water.
“Oh come on.”
“It matters,” she insisted. “I am not twenty-seven. I am tired. I have lived in places where tomorrow was never guaranteed. I don’t date racing drivers.”
“You don’t date anyone,” he countered gently.
That landed harder than she expected.
Gianni softened immediately. “Lessa,” he said, quieter now, “I would much rather you go on one date with Max Verstappen than have Mama try to marry you off to the neighbour’s son.”
She grimaced. “Gianni—”
“I’m serious,” he continued. “I love Max like a little brother. I trust him. He’s kind in ways people don’t see. And he would never treat you like a project or a consolation prize.”
She picked at her food, appetite suddenly dulled.
“You deserve something soft,” Gianni said. “Something happy. Something that doesn’t involve helicopters or triage or deciding who lives and who doesn’t.”
She looked away, jaw tight.
“I don’t know how to be that person anymore.”
He watched her carefully. “You don’t have to know. You just have to show up.”
She shook her head. “You’re romanticising this.”
“No,” he said simply. “I’m watching my sister finally sit still long enough for someone to notice her.”
Silence stretched between them.
Outside, the distant sound of engines faded as the paddock shut down for the night.
Alessandra sighed, long and slow. “If he wins tomorrow, it doesn’t mean anything.”
Gianni’s grin returned in full force. “Of course it does.”
She shot him a look. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I am,” he agreed happily. “You should see his face when he thinks no one’s watching.”
She pressed her lips together, shaking her head.
“He’s going to be unbearable if he actually wins.”
Gianni laughed. “You’re just not used to someone chasing you with intent.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Alessandra sat alone for a moment, staring at the untouched pasta.
Tomorrow, she told herself, was just a race.
And yet…
***
Red Bull Racing Radio Transcript - Last Lap
GP:Okay Max, this is the final lap. Gap to P2 is nineteen point six seconds. No risks now. Mode safe, please.
Max:Yeah.
GP:Just bring it home. Watch Turn 1 braking, tyres are fine but no heroics.
Max:I’m not doing heroics.
GP:You are often doing heroics.
Max:Today I don’t need to.
GP:Exactly. Kerb usage minimal through Lesmo. No unnecessary kerbs at Ascari.
Max:Copy.
(engine screaming down the straights)
GP:Everything looks good. Temperatures all stable. You can take care of the car.
Max:Car feels amazing.
GP:Yes, we noticed.
(through Lesmo 2)
GP:That’s tidy. Very tidy. Just a clean Parabolica and you’re done.
Max:Yeah.
(brief pause — car exits Ascari)
GP:Okay Max, this is excellent. Just bring it to the line.
Max:I’m bringing it.
GP:No kerb on exit.
Max:I know where the kerb is, Gianni.
GP:I am reminding you.
(Through Parabolica, engine rises)
GP:Alright Max… checkered flag.
Max:…YES!
GP:P1, P1. You win the Italian Grand Prix. That’s victory number sixty-six. And the gap was nearly twenty seconds. Fantastic job.
Max:Yessss! The car was unbelievable!
GP:Very well managed race. Excellent pace.
(brief silence as he crosses cooldown)
Max:I won that bet.
(half-second pause)
GP:…Yes. Yes you did.
Max:You doubted me.
GP:I did not doubt you. I doubted the sanity of the situation.
Max:It worked.
GP:Unfortunately, yes.
Max:You have to admit that was a good strategy.
GP:I am not putting this in the strategy report.
Max:You should.
GP:No.
Max:I told you I would win.
GP:You did.
(pause, crowd noise audible)
Max:GP?
GP:Yes Max.
Max:Best motivation I’ve had all year.
GP:I noticed.
(slight sigh audible over radio)
GP:Alright, pick up rubber and bring it back. And Max…
Max:Yeah?
GP:We are going to have a conversation later.
Max:I know.
GP:Good job.
Max:Thank you.
***
Alessandra had not intended to watch the race.
Her plan had been simple: remain in the medical room, monitor the screens for incidents, and only step out if she was needed. That was her job. Detached. Observant. Professional.
Instead, by lap twenty she had drifted toward the back of the garage.
By lap thirty she was standing beside the strategy monitors.
By lap forty she had stopped pretending she was there for medical reasons.
The Red Bull garage during a race was unlike anything she’d experienced. Not chaos — not really — but a kind of tightly contained intensity. Engineers spoke in measured tones. Data streamed across screens in incomprehensible graphs. No one shouted, yet every person was alert in the way surgeons were mid-operation.
The car appeared on the monitors again and again, the onboard camera steady, precise.
Max.
She had watched races before, casually, the way most people did. Television noise in the background of a hospital common room. But standing here, surrounded by people whose entire world hinged on each corner entry, was different.
Every braking zone mattered. Every throttle input drew reactions from the pit wall.
And Max — she recognized the posture now — drove exactly the way he spoke: economical, deliberate, never rushed. There was no drama to it. Just certainty.
She found herself tracking the timing tower.
+6.4
+9.1
+12.8
The gap kept growing.
A mechanic beside her whispered, “He’s flying.”
No one corrected him.
Gianni stood at the pit wall, voice calm on the radio, but she knew him well enough to read the set of his shoulders. He was focused — intensely so — yet not tense.
They expected this.
Which was absurd, because from what she understood, this wasn’t a race they were supposed to dominate.
She folded her arms, telling herself she was simply observing a professional environment.
+16.2
Her stomach dropped slightly.
Not because of the speed. Because she suddenly remembered, with terrible clarity, a quiet medical room and a driver leaning against the counter saying:
If I win, you’ll go on a date with me.
She had said yes because it was impossible.
Monza didn’t allow miracles like that. McLaren was faster. Ferrari was home. The probabilities were clear.
+18.7
She stared at the screen.
“Oh no,” she murmured under her breath.
A mechanic glanced at her. “You alright, Doc?”
She didn’t answer.
The final lap began and the garage went quieter still — not nervous, but anticipatory. No one moved away from the monitors. Even the radio chatter softened.
The car swept through Ascari, smooth and stable.
Gianni’s voice over the speakers: calm instructions, careful reminders.
Then Parabolica.
The engine note climbed, rising toward the straight.
The checkered flag waved on the screen.
The garage erupted.
Cheers, applause, hands slapping shoulders — controlled professionals immediately turning into very loud humans. Someone actually laughed in relief. Mechanics hugged. Engineers exhaled.
And through it all she heard Max’s voice over the radio:
I won that bet.
Gianni’s resigned reply followed.
Her brain stopped for half a second.
She stared at the screen where his car slowed on the cooldown lap, confetti and tifosi blurring in the background.
He had done it.
Not close. Not lucky.
Dominant.
For a moment, she simply stood there while the realization settled fully.
This man had just won an Italian Grand Prix — pulled twenty seconds on the field — because she had offhandedly made an impossible promise.
Alessandra covered her mouth with her hand.
“Oh my God.”
The mechanic beside her misinterpreted immediately. “Yeah, incredible race, right?”
She nodded her head faintly, eyes still fixed on the monitor where the car rolled through cheering crowds.
“Yes,” she said softly, almost to herself. “This is a problem.”
***
Post-Race Interview – Italian Grand Prix (Top 3)
Interviewer: Max, congratulations — a dominant win, almost twenty seconds clear at Monza. You looked in complete control. How did you manage that today?
Max: Yeah, the car was really good. The balance was finally where I wanted it and once we got into clean air the tyres were behaving. I could just manage the pace and… yeah, everything worked.
Interviewer: We also heard on the radio after the finish you said, “I won that bet.” Can you tell us now what that bet was?
(Lando immediately looks at him. Oscar also turns his head at the exact same time.)
Max: …No.
Interviewer: No?
Max: No.
Interviewer: You set pole yesterday, won the race today, and we heard your engineer acknowledge it. Fans are very curious.
Max: It’s not important.
Lando: It is very important.
Oscar: Extremely important, actually.
Max: It’s just something between me and GP.
Lando: It is not between you and GP.
Max: It is.
Lando: He sounded emotionally invested.
Oscar: He sounded resigned.
Max: He always sounds resigned.
(press room laughing)
Journalist: Max, is the bet related to today’s result?
Max: Maybe.
Lando: Yes.
Oscar: Definitely yes.
Max: You two don’t know anything.
Lando: Mate, you drove like a man possessed.
Oscar: You pulled twenty seconds at Monza.
Lando: You were calmer defending a championship than you were today.
Max: I was calm.
Lando: You were not calm.
Oscar: You had purpose.
Max: I always have purpose.
Lando: No, today you had romantic comedy purpose.
(audible laughter from journalists)
Max: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Journalist: So the bet wasn’t racing related?
Max: …No comment.
Lando: OH.
Oscar: Okay, yeah, that confirms it.
Max: I didn’t confirm anything.
Lando: You absolutely did.
Journalist: Max, are you at least going to tell us if you’ve now won whatever the reward was?
Max: Yes.
Interviewer: You have?
Max: Yes.
Lando: Oh my God.
Oscar: Yep.
Interviewer: And what happens now?
(Max pauses. He almost smiles.)
Max: I guess… I have dinner plans.
(Lando drops his head into his hands. Oscar looks straight at the camera.)
Lando: Called it.
Oscar: We absolutely called it.
Max: You two are unbelievable.
Lando: You won a Grand Prix for a date!
Max: I won a Grand Prix because I was fastest.
Oscar: Motivation matters.
Interviewer: Well — congratulations on the win… and apparently also on your plans tonight.
Max: Thank you.
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/papayaproblems: “I guess I have dinner plans”
SIR YOU WON MONZA NOT PROM
@/softlaunchrb: MAX VERSTAPPEN WON A GRAND PRIX FOR A DATE
THIS SPORT IS CINEMA
@/boxboxpls: Lando collapsing into his hands is the most relatable reaction I’ve ever seen
@/oscarplswin: Oscar looking straight at the camera like he’s in The Office 😭
@/gridpsychologist: Observed sequence:
• mysterious bet
• fastest lap in history
• 20s victory margin
• immediate dinner plans
Conclusion: Motivated Verstappen is a public safety hazard
@/tyresandtea: Max: “it’s not important”
Also Max: reorganizes the laws of physics at Monza
@/clercsleftmirror: The engineer sounded resigned because he KNEW
@/pitlanepeach: the way he tried to deny it while smiling???
he never smiles in interviews
never
@/papayaorange22: Lando: “romantic comedy purpose”
that man has been waiting all weekend to say that
@/fia_hater69: GP absolutely knew what that bet was and let it happen
this is a family operation now
@/verstappening: Max Verstappen when fighting for championships: calm
Max Verstappen when fighting for dinner: unstoppable
@/slipstreamlover: “dinner plans” is the softest hard launch I’ve ever witnessed
@/monzamadness: he didn’t deny the DATE
he denied literally everything else but NOT the date
@/lando4ever: Lando and Oscar were about to interrogate him in the cooldown room
@/pitlanesherlock: timeline:
Thursday — mystery doctor
Saturday — record pole
Sunday — wins race
Sunday night — dinner
this writes itself
@/chicanesandchaos: if I see her in the paddock after the race I will report back
for investigative journalism purposes only 🫡
@/papayapanic: “I have dinner plans”
MAX VERSTAPPEN YOU ARE NOT SUBTLE
@/grid_gremlin: HE DID NOT DENY IT
HE DID NOT DENY IT
HE DID NOT DENY IT
@/softlaunchrb: fastest lap in Monza history → race win → dinner plans
this is a romcom plot
@/pitlanesherlock: Let’s recap:
• mysterious doctor appears
• Max forgets how walking works
• sets pole record
• wins by 20 seconds
• confirms dinner
CASE CLOSED
@/fia_hater69: You cannot convince me a man pulls a 20 second gap at MONZA without emotional motivation
@/verstappening: Max Verstappen powered by love is a safety hazard for the rest of the grid
@/boxboxtherapy: Lando: “it was the doctor wasn’t it?”
Oscar: immediate agreement Max: “I hate both of you”
perfect television
@/gridpsychologist: We have officially entered the “driver wins race to impress woman” era of Formula 1
@/monzamadness: Ferrari home race
historic lap record
crowd going insane
and the main storyline is MAX VERSTAPPEN ASKING SOMEONE TO DINNER
I love this sport
@/slipstreamlover: Some drivers win trophies
Max wins dates
@/papayaproblems I need Sky Sports to locate this woman immediately
@/pitlanesherlock: WAIT
on the cooldown lap GP said “we need to have a conversation later”
THAT WAS NOT ABOUT TYRE MANAGEMENT
@/softlaunchrb: that was the tone of a man who just realized his driver is about to date his SISTER
@/grid_gremlin: GP did not sound like a race engineer
he sounded like an older brother scheduling a family meeting
@/papayapanic: the pause before “yes you did” on the radio
that was processing
@/verstappening: MAX WON MONZA TO ASK OUT HIS RACE ENGINEER’S SISTER
THIS SPORT IS UNREAL
@/fia_hater69: GP has coached Max through championship pressure, crashes, safety cars
nothing prepared him for this
@/papayaorange22: “we need to have a conversation later” =
NOT strategy
NOT setup
FAMILY
@/monzamadness: you just KNOW that was a post-race “what are your intentions with my sister” talk
@/tyresandtea: that sigh from GP on the radio???
that was a man mentally preparing for a family dinner
@/pitlaneoracle: Max Verstappen risking family politics for a date
braver than Turn 1 Monza
@/slipstreamlover: next episode: GP threatening to put a speed limiter on Max’s love life
***
Gianpiero Lambiase had supervised many post-race debriefs.
Championship wins. Disasters. Controversial penalties. Mechanical failures.
All of them were easier than this.
Max climbed out of the car still buzzing, helmet off before the mechanics had even fully rolled him into position. He was grinning — openly, unrestrainedly grinning — which in itself was rare enough to draw half the garage’s attention.
He hugged a mechanic. Then another. He was talking too fast, hands moving, eyes bright in a way GP hadn’t seen since early championship years.
Not relief.
Not pride.
Excitement.
Oh, this was worse than he thought.
GP waited until the chaos thinned, until Max had been weighed, until the FIA officials were satisfied and the engineers were distracted with data. Then he caught Max lightly by the shoulder near the back of the garage.
“Two minutes,” GP said.
Max stopped immediately.
For a man who could ignore team orders at 300 km/h, he had always listened when Gianni used that tone.
They stepped just outside the garage, away from the mechanics pretending not to watch.
Max was still smiling. Not the composed public one — the real one. He looked, GP thought with mild disbelief, giddy.
“You’re happy,” GP said flatly.
“I won,” Max replied.
“You’ve won before.”
Max didn’t deny that.
There was a short silence, the hum of Monza’s crowd bleeding through the trees.
GP folded his arms. “I know you’re a good guy.”
Max’s expression shifted slightly — not defensive, but attentive. He knew what this conversation was.
“But,” GP continued calmly, “do not be an idiot to her.”
Max blinked once.
“We won’t be having a problem,” GP added. “As long as you remember that part.”
Max nodded immediately. No jokes, no deflection. “I won’t.”
GP held his gaze a moment longer, assessing. He’d spent years reading telemetry traces and driver behaviour — people were easier. There was no arrogance in Max’s expression, no triumph. Just certainty.
Good.
He sighed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
“You do realise,” GP said, “you just won an Italian Grand Prix primarily to ask someone to dinner.”
Max shrugged faintly. “It helped motivation.”
“I noticed.”
A beat passed.
Then GP jerked his head toward the paddock. “She’s by medical, I think.”
Max straightened instantly.
“You have ten minutes before the team photo,” GP added.
Max didn’t even pretend to be casual anymore. “Okay.”
He turned and started walking — then walking faster — then very obviously trying not to run.
GP watched him go, shaking his head.
Rupert appeared beside him, arms folded. “You just gave your driver permission to go on a date with your sister.”
“I did not,” GP said.
Rupert raised an eyebrow.
GP exhaled. “…I gave him a time window.”
Rupert grinned. “Good race strategy.”
GP looked toward the medical area where Max had already disappeared around the corner.
“…God help me,” he muttered, though there was a reluctant smile on his face.
***
Alessandra was restocking the medical bag when she heard him before she saw him.
Not his footsteps — those were familiar by now — but the shift in the air. The subtle way people moved aside without quite realizing they were doing it. The way a moment opened.
She turned.
Max stood in the doorway, still in his race suit, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way she hadn’t seen all weekend. Not sharp-focus bright. Not predatory bright.
Happy.
Genuinely, irrepressibly happy.
“Well,” he said, breathless, like he hadn’t entirely slowed down yet. “I won.”
She leaned back against the counter, folding her arms, the corner of her mouth lifting despite herself. “You did.”
“By a lot.”
“I noticed.”
For a second he just looked at her, like he was confirming she was real. Like this wasn’t another thing his brain had invented to motivate itself through eighty-odd laps at Monza.
“I’m here to cash in,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“You said if I won,” he replied calmly, utterly certain, “you’d go on a date with me.”
She exhaled softly through her nose, something dangerously close to a laugh. “You realise most people would have taken that as a joke.”
“I didn’t.”
“No,” she agreed. “You really didn’t.”
He stepped closer, stopping a respectful distance away. Not crowding her. Never crowding her. She clocked it immediately — the restraint, the care, the way he waited for her to close the space if she wanted to.
“I don’t usually make bets like that,” she said.
“I don’t usually win races for dates,” he countered.
That did it.
She laughed — quiet, surprised, a sound that felt like it came from somewhere she hadn’t accessed in years.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
He grinned, wide and unapologetic. “You’re my lucky charm.”
She scoffed. “I did absolutely nothing.”
“You existed,” he said simply. “That was enough.”
Something in her chest shifted — subtle but unmistakable. Like a fault line giving way.
She looked at him properly then. Not the driver. Not the headline. Just the man standing in front of her, eyes soft now that the fight was over, waiting without expectation but with hope so naked it almost hurt to witness.
“You’re aware,” she said carefully, “that this is just dinner.”
He nodded immediately. “Yes.”
“And that I’m not impressed by trophies.”
“I know.”
She closed her eyes for half a second.
When she opened them again, she nodded.
“One date,” she said. “Dinner.”
His grin returned instantly, brighter than the Monza sun. Victorious, but gentle. Like he’d won something precious, not conquered it.
“One date,” he echoed.
She felt it then — unmistakable, terrifying, warm.
Oh.
This was happening.
He took a step back, suddenly self-aware again, hands shoving into his pockets like he didn’t quite know what to do with them now that the race was over.
“I should—” he gestured vaguely toward the garage, the team photo, the obligations waiting for him. “They’ll be looking for me.”
“Yes,” she said. “They will.”
He hesitated. “Dinner tonight?”
She smiled, soft this time. Real. “Go shower first, Verstappen. You smell like a champagne.”
He laughed, delighted, and for a moment he looked younger than his years — unguarded, light, utterly human.
As he turned to leave, he glanced back once more.
“I’ll see you later,” he said.
“I’ll be here,” she replied.
He left, footsteps quick, joy practically radiating off him.
Alessandra stood there long after the doorway was empty, one hand pressed flat to the counter, heart doing something unfamiliar and dangerous and alive.
She had stitched people back together in impossible conditions.
She had survived things most never would.
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: This chapter contains major character injury, graphic portrayal of injuries and graphic portrayal of a crash in Formula 1. However, I do not write anything other than Happy Endings, so I am not going to kill off any of my major characters. So the cliffhanger isn’t a cliffhanger, because he’ll survive. I swear. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Twitter Thread: That’s how you make a statement
@/f1updates_live:
Mercedes releases official statement on George Russell arrest.
Key line: “No sporting context, rivalry, or contractual situation is more important than a driver’s life.”Very different tone to Red Bull’s earlier releases.
@/sector3analysis:
That is how you write a crisis statement.
• No blame shifting
• Clear support for the injured driver
• Cooperation with authorities
PR masterclass.
@/gridwatch:
The contrast between the Mercedes and Red Bull statements is… staggering.
@/maxvfanpage:
You can literally feel the lawyers AND the humanity in that statement.
@/paddockrumours::
This reads like:
we are not involved
we will cooperate
we care about Max
don’t even try to drag us into this
@/tracklimitspls:
This is also Mercedes very quietly telling sponsors: “We are the stable place.”
@/racecontrolpls:
Red Bull: “driver error”
Mercedes: “driver safety”
That’s the whole story right there.
@/dutchlion:
Imagine waking up from surgery and your future team defends you more than your current one.
@/motorsportlawyer:
Important detail: they clearly state Russell is NOT their driver.
That’s legal distancing language — extremely deliberate.
@/pitwallgirl:
Also they wished Max strength in recovery by name.
Red Bull never even sounded personal.
@/f1memearchive:
Mercedes PR team currently: 🔥🔥🔥
@/lando4wdc:
The paddock politics this season could be studied at university.
@/aerodynamicsnerd:
This isn’t just PR. This is reputation positioning for 2026.
@/softtyresonly:
The way the entire sport has rallied around Max is actually kind of emotional.
@/SafetyCarStan:
I don’t even support Mercedes but… respect.
@/RaceControlUpdates:
Mercedes statement is basically: we will cooperate, we condemn it, and we care about Max first.The contrast to Red Bull PR is… noticeable.
@/silverarrowsdata:
“Driver’s life more important than rivalry.”
That line alone just won them half the paddock.
@/DutchLion_33:
They literally wished Max well before even talking about themselves.
How hard was that, Red Bull???
@/orangearmyNL:
I never thought I’d see Mercedes publicly defending Max Verstappen.
2025 really said plot twist.
@/f1lawwatch:
This is a liability-shield statement.
They are separating the organisation from the individual while supporting the injured party. Very clean.
@/lando4wdc:
Honestly? Respect.
That reads like humans wrote it, not lawyers.
@/pitlanechaos:
Red Bull: “car damage”
Mercedes: “driver safety and dignity”
That’s all you need to know.
@/grandprixhistory:
For decades the rivalry was Mercedes vs Verstappen.
Now it’s Mercedes protecting Verstappen.
Motorsport is wild.
@/gridgossip:
This is also Mercedes signaling to sponsors and the FIA:
“We are on the safety side of history.”
@/ferrari_tifosi88:
I’m a Ferrari fan but credit where it’s due.
That’s a proper statement.
@/PRStrategyBlog:
Notice they did not defend George, did not attack Red Bull, and did not speculate.
They positioned themselves as the responsible adult in the room.
@/tracklimitmemes:
okay THAT is how you write a statement
night and day compared to red bull
@/SafetyFirstF1:
Mercedes: driver safety first, no speculation, support the victim
Red Bull: car damage analysis
the contrast is… loud
@/f1brainrot:
Mercedes basically just said:
we are horrified, we’re cooperating, and we are not touching that man with a ten-meter pole
@/leclercsmile:
F1 Twitter experiencing something new: a competent corporate response
@/britishpresswatch:
PR disaster for Red Bull just got worse.
@/gridreaction:
First time in this entire saga a statement lowered tensions instead of raising them.
@/everyone_else:
…this sport is never going to be the same after this, is it?
***
Text Messages: Susie Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Ana:Susie, are you in Monaco?
Susie:I am. What do you need?
Ana:Victoria is on a flight to Nice right now. She didn’t want to wait for anyone and just booked it.
Her landing time is 16:35.
I don’t want her taking a taxi or dealing with press alone under the circumstances.
Susie:You did the right thing telling me.
Send me the flight number.
Ana:KL1483 from Amsterdam. Terminal 2.
Susie:I’ll be there before she lands. I’ll bring her straight to the hospital.
Ana:Thank you.
Susie:Ana — you don’t need to manage everything by yourself.
Ana:I’m not. I’m delegating.
Susie:…that is the most you answer I have ever received.
Ana:Max is sleeping. They are transferring him later. I just want one thing to go smoothly for his family.
Susie:It will. I promise.
I’ll text you when I have her.
Ana:Thank you.
***
Text Messages: Raymond Vermeulen & Toto Wolff
Raymond Vermeulen: I am on a plane.
Toto Wolff: That is usually how flights work, yes.
Raymond: To Switzerland.
Toto: …Raymond.
Raymond: I am going to the FIA headquarters.
Toto: I assumed.
Raymond: I am going to speak to them about the penalty points.
Toto: Speak.
Raymond: Fine.
Scream.
Toto: Please do not get arrested in addition to my former driver.
Raymond: They penalised a man whose car was sabotaged.
Toto: I am aware.
Raymond: He nearly died, Toto. And they gave him points on his license.
Toto: I know.
Raymond: I have prepared a document.
Toto: How long.
Raymond: Forty-three pages.
Toto: That is not a document. That is a declaration of war.
Raymond: Correct.
Toto: What is your objective.
Raymond: Immediate removal of all penalty points. Public acknowledgement. And an internal review.
Toto: You are optimistic.
Raymond: I am Dutch and very angry.
Toto: Dangerous combination.
Raymond: They questioned his driving standards while he was driving a compromised car.
Toto: You will not be wrong.
Raymond: I will also bring telemetry analysis.
Toto: Of course you will.
Raymond: And an independent engineer report.
Toto: You have already commissioned one.
Raymond: Two.
Toto: Naturally.
Raymond: How is he.
Toto: Sleeping.
Raymond: Good.
(typing…)
Raymond: Tell him I am fixing it.
Toto: I will.
Raymond: Also tell him not to read the news.
Toto: We confiscated his phone.
Raymond: Excellent decision.
Toto: Raymond.
Raymond: Yes.
Toto: Try not to shout at them immediately. Begin with diplomacy.
Raymond: I will begin with diplomacy.
Toto: And then?
Raymond: Then I will shout.
Toto: I expected nothing else.
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 24 September 2025
The medical jet was quieter than any aircraft Max had ever been on.
Not quieter in sound — the engines were still there, a constant low vibration under the floor — but quieter in expectation. No engineers waiting with laptops. No strategy discussions. No headset, no countdown, no pressure to perform the second the wheels left the ground.
Just a stretcher bolted into the cabin and a slow climb away from Baku.
Max hadn’t realised how much he hated that place until the aircraft lifted off.
He watched the city through the small oval window beside him as long as his neck allowed. Buildings shrinking. Coastline fading. The circuit — somewhere out there — becoming smaller and smaller until it was just geography instead of memory.
His shoulders loosened for the first time in days.
“I’m not going back there,” he muttered.
Ana, seated right beside the stretcher, looked up immediately. She’d been watching the monitors with the same quiet intensity she watched everything.
“You won’t,” she said calmly. “Your rehabilitation will be in Nice.”
He exhaled slowly.
Good.
He didn’t think he could walk past that wall again. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Across the cabin, Toto was speaking in a low voice to one of the medical staff, practical and focused, while Sophie pretended to read something she hadn’t turned the page of in ten minutes. Jos stood near the cockpit door, arms crossed, still vibrating with contained anger.
Max dragged his attention back to Ana.
She looked… fine.
Too fine.
Hair pulled back neatly. Posture straight. Hands steady as she adjusted the blanket over his leg and checked the IV line. If someone walked in, they’d think she was calm.
Max knew better.
Her movements were precise to the point of overcorrection — the way she behaved when she was holding herself together by structure alone.
“You haven’t slept,” he said.
“I slept,” she replied immediately.
Max raised an eyebrow.
Ana paused. “I rested horizontally.”
“That’s not sleep.”
“It is adjacent to sleep.”
He snorted, then winced when his ribs protested. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“I am not lying. I am approximating.”
He looked at her for a long second.
Her eyes flicked to him, assessing, then away again. She reached automatically for his hand when the aircraft hit a pocket of turbulence, not noticing she’d done it.
Her fingers were cold.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“I’m here.”
“I know.”
He tightened his grip slightly. “You’re allowed to be not okay, you know.”
Her jaw shifted almost imperceptibly. “You survived a high-energy impact with significant injuries and a surgical intervention less than seventy-two hours ago. My emotional state is statistically irrelevant.”
Max stared at her.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s not how that works.”
She didn’t answer.
Instead she adjusted the pillow behind his shoulder for the third time in five minutes.
He let her.
Because this — the fixing, the monitoring, the constant management — was how she coped. And if he took that away right now, she might actually fall apart.
“So,” he said, deliberately casual, “Raymond texted Toto earlier.”
Her eyes flicked up. “I know.”
“He’s in Switzerland?”
“Yes.”
“What is he doing in Switzerland?”
Ana hesitated a fraction.
“Yelling at the FIA,” she said.
Max blinked.
Then he laughed — a short, breathy sound he immediately regretted because it hurt.
“That sounds right,” he murmured. “Poor FIA.”
Max pictured it vividly — Raymond in a suit, restrained fury weaponized into legal language — and felt something close to amusement bubble up.
“Honestly,” he said, “that might be the funniest part of this whole mess.”
“Let’s not call anything about this funny,” Ana said, but there was a ghost of a smile there too.
He glanced at her then. Really looked.
Anything to avoid thinking about the other thing.
The name that kept trying to surface in his head.
George Russell.
He pushed it away immediately. Hard.
He wasn’t ready. His brain just… slid off it every time he tried to hold the thought. Like touching a hot surface and instinctively pulling back.
So he didn’t.
Instead he focused on Ana.
On how she kept checking his pulse even though the monitor did it for her.
On how she hadn’t eaten the food the nurse brought.
On how every time he shifted even slightly, her attention snapped back to him instantly.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
“Doing what.”
“Watching me like I might disappear.”
For a second — just a second — something cracked in her expression.
Gone almost immediately.
“I am monitoring you,” she said quietly.
Max squeezed her hand.
“I’m not going anywhere, Nastya.”
Her fingers tightened around his in response — not enough anyone else would notice. He did.
Across the cabin, Sophie glanced over, relief softening her features when she saw Max awake. Jos looked too, his expression complicated — anger, exhaustion, and something almost like gratitude when he saw Ana still sitting there beside him.
Toto caught Max’s eye a moment later and gave him a small nod.
Everything was still chaos. Investigations, statements, lawyers, headlines.
But inside the cabin, for a few hours, it was contained.
Max looked back at Ana.
“You should sleep,” he murmured.
“I will later.”
“You always say that.”
“Yes.”
He shifted his hand slightly so she couldn’t pull away.
“Stay.”
“I wasn’t planning on leaving.”
He believed her.
The aircraft hummed steadily westward across Europe, away from sirens, flashing lights, and concrete walls.
For the first time since the crash, Max felt something dangerously close to safe.
Not because of the doctors.
Not because of the team.
Because she was still sitting there, fingers wrapped around his, watching him breathe like it mattered more than anything else in the world.
***
Nice Côte d'Azur Airport, Nice, France - 24 September 2025
The arrivals hall at Nice Côte d’Azur Airport was too bright.
Victoria hadn’t slept on the flight. She hadn’t really sat either — just existed in a tight coil of adrenaline and dread, fingers locked around her phone like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Every hour she had checked for messages. Every vibration had stopped her heart.
She knew Max was alive.
Everyone kept telling her he was alive.
Her brain accepted the words.
Her body did not.
The sliding doors opened and warm Mediterranean air rushed in, but she barely registered it. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped her passport while shoving it into her bag. People moved around her — tourists, families, taxi drivers holding signs — normal life continuing in a way that felt offensive.
How could everything still be normal?
Her brother had nearly died three days ago.
Nothing had helped since she had watched the crash video on her kitchen floor, the phone falling from her hands before the car even stopped moving.
Max.
Her big brother.
The person who had always been indestructible in her mind.
Victoria scanned the crowd — and then she saw her.
Susie.
Tall, composed, unmistakable even in simple trousers and a blouse, standing just beyond the barrier. She wasn’t doing anything dramatic, not waving or calling out. Just watching the exit with the stillness of someone who was used to waiting through crises without showing it publicly.
Victoria had met her many times before — paddocks and race weekends, and during that summer she had gotten to know her better— and she had always liked her. Susie carried authority without trying. Not loud, not performative, just… steady. The kind of person people instinctively listened to.
And now Victoria suddenly understood why Ana was the way she was.
Because the second Susie saw her, the professional composure softened into something unmistakably maternal.
Victoria didn’t remember crossing the distance.
One moment she was gripping her suitcase handle. The next she was standing in front of her and her vision blurred.
“I’m so sorry,” she heard herself say — completely nonsensical and yet the only words her brain produced.
Susie didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and pulled her into a firm hug.
“Hey,” Susie said gently. “No. None of that.”
That was it.
Victoria broke.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a sudden collapse of the control she hadn’t realized she’d been holding for seventy-two hours. Her hands grabbed the back of Susie’s jacket, shoulders shaking as the adrenaline finally drained out.
“I thought—” she started, and couldn’t finish.
Susie tightened her arms around her. Not comforting in the vague, polite way people did when they didn’t know what to say. Anchoring. Grounding. The way you held someone when you meant it.
“He’s alive,” Susie said quietly. “He’s injured, and he’s exhausted, but he’s alive.”
Victoria nodded into her shoulder, tears hot and relentless. “I saw it. I watched it happen.”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t crash like that,” Victoria whispered. “Max doesn’t lose control like that.”
Susie didn’t immediately answer.
And that silence told Victoria more than reassurance would have.
After a moment Susie gently drew back, hands steady on her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you to the car. You need water. And probably sugar.”
Victoria wiped at her face, though the tears kept coming anyway. As they began walking, she found herself watching Susie from the corner of her eye — the calm way she moved, the way she quietly guided rather than pushed, the subtle awareness of everything around them.
“Is Ana okay?” Victoria asked, the first question she’d asked that wasn’t about Max.
Susie’s expression softened further. “She’s holding herself together for him.”
Victoria exhaled shakily. “That means she’s not okay.”
A small, sad smile. “No. She’s not.”
They stepped into the parking structure, the air cooler now. Victoria’s legs still felt oddly unsteady, like her body hadn’t yet accepted that the worst outcome hadn’t happened.
At the passenger door she stopped.
“What—” Her voice wavered. “What am I going to see?”
Susie didn’t sugarcoat it.
“He’s injured,” she said calmly. “You’ll see the external fixation on his leg. His shoulder is immobilisied. Bruising. He tires easily. But he is himself. Talk to him normally. That will help more than anything.”
Victoria nodded, forcing a breath into her lungs. “Okay.”
She opened the door but didn’t get in yet.
Her voice dropped. “They said George Russell did it.”
Susie’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.
“Yes.”
Victoria stared at the pavement. “I don’t understand how anyone could look at Maxie and…” Her voice failed again.
Susie placed a steady hand over hers. “You don’t need to understand it right now.”
Victoria swallowed. “I just need to see him.”
“You will,” Susie said. “We’re going straight to the hospital.”
Inside the car, Victoria clasped her hands in her lap as Susie pulled onto the road. She barely noticed the sea, the light on the water, the palms along the promenade. Her mind kept replaying childhood memories instead — Max teaching her to ride a bike, Max sitting beside her during thunderstorms, Max always being the one she called first.
“I’ve never seen him hurt like this,” she said quietly. “Even when we were kids, Max’d just… get back up immediately.”
Susie glanced at her. “He still will.”
Victoria nodded, though her voice trembled. “I know. I just need to see it.”
Silence settled for a minute.
“Was Ana there the whole time?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Victoria swallowed. “Good.”
She stared out the window for a moment, then said softly, almost to herself, “She’s like you.”
Susie looked at her. “How?”
“She doesn’t panic,” Victoria said. “Not outwardly. She… organizes. Fixes. Takes control of everything around her. It’s terrifying.”
Susie huffed a faint breath. “She feels it. She just processes differently.”
Victoria nodded. “I know. But Max—” Her voice softened. “Max trusts very few people completely.”
Another pause.
“He trusts her,” she said.
Susie didn’t disagree.
“I know.”
Victoria watched the hospital buildings approaching in the distance, heart starting to race again.
“He won’t say it,” she whispered, “but he needs her.”
Susie’s gaze softened, looking out toward the road ahead.
“Yes,” she said gently. “He does.”
And for the first time since the crash, something inside Victoria steadied — fragile but real.
If Ana was still beside him…
then Max hadn’t faced it alone.
And that, more than any doctor’s reassurance, finally made her believe he might actually be okay.
***
Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France - 24 September 2025
The hospital in Nice did not smell like Baku.
That was the first thing Max noticed.
No jet fuel lingering in his memory, no smoke that his brain kept insisting he could still taste, no distant echo of sirens layered into the back of his thoughts. Just clean air, filtered and cool, sunlight cutting across white walls in long Mediterranean lines.
He hadn’t realized how much he hated the other place until he left it.
Here, the room had windows. Real ones. They looked out over trees that didn’t belong to a world where cars disintegrated at 300 kilometers per hour. Nurses spoke softly in French. No one ran. No one whispered in urgent tones just outside the door.
His body still hurt everywhere, but his brain — for the first time since the crash — wasn’t waiting for the next catastrophe.
He lay propped against pillows, shoulder immobilized, leg elevated and still held by external fixation. Every movement was calculated. Even breathing too deep pulled somewhere along his ribs.
But it was quiet.
Ana sat in the chair beside the bed, laptop closed, phone in her hand but not really looking at it. She had been like that the whole flight too — present, alert, watching him without appearing to watch him.
He studied her for a moment.
She looked worse than he did.
Not physically. No bruises. No casts.
Just… thinner. Tighter. As if someone had wound a spring inside her and never let it release.
“You’re still running on no sleep,” he said.
She looked up immediately. “You need water.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
“You do need water.”
“Nastya.”
Her eyes met his, and for a second the mask slipped — exhaustion, fear, something fragile she would never willingly show anyone else.
“I am fine,” she said.
Max exhaled slowly.
He knew she wasn’t.
She had not cried once. Not really. Not in Baku. Not on the flight. Not here.
And that scared him more than if she had screamed.
He shifted slightly, wincing. “You need to go home.”
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
He gave her a look. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
“I am not.”
“You haven’t slept more than a handful of hours.”
“I have rested.”
“That’s not sleep.”
Silence.
Then, softer: “I’m okay.”
Max shook his head carefully against the pillow. “You’re not okay. And you’re no good to me if you collapse.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m not leaving you.”
“You’re not leaving,” he corrected gently. “You’re going to sleep.”
She didn’t answer. Her fingers tightened around her phone.
“Nastya,” he said quietly. “Please.”
That word did it.
That stopped her more than anything else had.
Before she could answer, there was a soft knock at the door and it opened.
Susie stepped in first, giving him a smile.
And behind her—
Victoria.
For a split second Max thought his brain had invented her.
She looked smaller than he remembered, hair messy from travel, eyes already red before she even fully crossed the threshold.
“Hi,” he said softly.
That was all it took.
His little sister burst into tears and crossed the room in three quick steps, stopping only when she reached the bed because she clearly didn’t know where she could safely touch him.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, crying openly now. “Oh my god.”
Max lifted his good arm carefully.
She leaned into him immediately, careful but desperate, hugging around his shoulder without jostling anything. He felt her shaking.
“Hey,” he murmured. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay,” she choked.
“I’m alive.”
Her face pressed into his shoulder, and he felt something inside his chest settle for the first time since Baku.
“I thought you died,” she whispered.
Max closed his eyes briefly.
“I didn’t.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him, scanning every bruise like she was memorizing proof.
“You scared me,” she said, voice breaking.
“Sorry.”
“You’re not allowed to do that again.”
He gave the faintest smile. “I’ll try.”
She tried to say something else and failed, pressing her forehead into his shoulder instead.
“I thought—” she choked.
“I know.”
Her grip tightened. “I watched it.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Don’t do that again.”
She let out a wet laugh that turned into another tearful breath. “You idiot.”
“Accurate.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him properly, eyes scanning his face like she needed visual confirmation.
“You’re really here.”
“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he said. “You’re still stuck with me.”
She wiped her eyes quickly. “Good.”
The room had softened around them — even Jos had gone quiet, standing near the window, watching with an expression Max rarely saw on his father’s face. Not anger.
Relief.
Victoria finally sat beside the bed, still holding his hand. “Does it hurt?”
“Everything hurts.”
“Okay.”
Max glanced toward Ana.
She hadn’t moved closer. She stood slightly back, giving them space, but he could feel her attention on him anyway. Always tracking.
He sighed softly.
“Nastya,” he said gently. “Go.”
She didn’t move. “Max—”
“Go home with your parents. Sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
Susie spoke softly from the doorway. “He’s right.”
Ana hesitated.
Max gave her a small tired smile. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”
Victoria laughed wetly and wiped her face. Then she glanced toward Ana, and something softer passed through her expression.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Ana looked almost startled. “I did nothing.”
“You stayed,” Victoria said.
Ana didn’t know how to answer that.
Max watched them both — and then looked at his parents.
They were exhausted. All of them were.
“Okay,” he said gently. “Everyone out.”
Four heads turned toward him.
“What?” Sophie asked.
“You,” he said to Ana. “Go with your parents. Sleep.”
She hesitated again.
He raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Sophie understood immediately. “He’s right.”
Jos started to protest, but Max cut him off softly. “Pa. I’m not going anywhere.”
Toto, standing near the door, nodded. “I’ve arranged hotel rooms five minutes away.”
Max looked at his mother. “You need sleep too.”
Sophie squeezed his hand gently. “We’ll be back in the morning.”
Victoria squeezed Max’s hand. “I’ll stay.”
Max smirked faintly. “You’re worse than her.”
“Yes,” she said immediately.
For the first time since Baku, the room felt almost normal.
Not safe yet.
But human.
One by one, they left.
Ana was last.
She stood beside the bed for a moment.
“You call me if you need me,” she said.
“I will.”
Her hand rested lightly against his wrist — a small, grounding touch — before she finally allowed Susie to guide her out.
And as everyone slowly began to leave, Max leaned back against the pillows, watching his sister still standing beside him, refusing to let go of his hand.
The betrayal, the crash, George — it all waited somewhere outside the room.
For a few quiet minutes, he allowed himself not to think about any of it.
He was alive.
And his little sister was here to prove it.
***
Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France - 24 September 2025
The door closed softly behind her.
Ana made it three steps down the corridor.
That was as far as she got.
She had been moving on instructions for three days — speak to doctors, sign papers, verify medication dosages, check vitals, coordinate transport, answer questions, filter noise. Every thought had been a task, every emotion categorized as non-actionable. There had simply not been time for anything else.
The corridor in Nice was quiet. No journalists shouting. No sirens. No smell of fuel. Just believe-it-or-not normal hospital sounds: a trolley rolling somewhere distant, muted voices, afternoon light falling across the tiled floor.
Her brain finally registered something it had not allowed itself to register since Baku.
There was no next step.
Max was alive.
And she was no longer required to keep him alive minute-to-minute.
The system lost its emergency load.
Her body did not know what to do with that.
Her hands began shaking.
At first it was small — a tremor in her fingers as she reached for her phone to check something she didn’t need to check. The screen blurred. She blinked hard, once, twice, trying to refocus.
It didn’t work.
Her breathing shortened. Not panic yet — just… wrong. Her chest felt tight, air not quite reaching the bottom of her lungs.
Incorrect input, her mind supplied automatically, searching for a problem to solve.
She tried to take a deeper breath.
It hitched.
Her throat tightened.
And suddenly every sound in the corridor became too loud and too far away at the same time.
Susie had only taken a few steps ahead before she heard it — a small, broken inhale behind her. Not a sob yet. The precursor.
She turned.
Ana was standing in the middle of the hallway, completely still.
Her face had gone white. Not pale — drained. Her eyes unfocused, hands hanging uselessly at her sides like she’d forgotten how to use them.
“Ana?” Susie said softly.
Ana tried to answer.
Nothing came out.
For seventy-two hours she had functioned on a single operating mode: control.
Collect data.
Talk to doctors.
Track medication.
Anticipate complications.
Prevent worst outcomes.
She had not cried when she saw the wrecked car.
Not when the surgeon described the leg.
Not when Max woke up confused and in pain.
Not when the mechanics were arrested.
Not when George’s name was spoken.
Because crying did not help systems survive.
But now she was outside the room.
Now she could not hear his breathing.
She pressed her palm flat against the wall.
The wall did not stop the sensation that the world had tilted sideways.
Her thoughts stopped being ordered. They came all at once — images, not logic.
Carbon fibre folding.
The onboard replay she should never have watched.
The silence on the radio.
His head unmoving inside the cockpit.
The doctor saying he was lucky.
The words he could have died.
Her breathing broke.
She tried to inhale and instead made a sharp, involuntary sound she didn’t recognize as her own voice.
Susie reached her just as her knees nearly gave out.
“Ana—”
Ana grabbed her.
Not politely. Not composed.
Her hands clutched at Susie’s coat like she needed a physical anchor to remain upright and then the first sob tore out of her chest, raw and uncontrolled.
It hurt.
Actual physical pain, like her ribs were collapsing inward.
“I—” Ana tried to speak, but it dissolved into another broken sound.
She buried her face into her mother’s shoulder and the dam finally failed.
Ana cried.
Not quiet tears.
Not the restrained blinking she used in public.
Hysterical, shaking sobs she couldn’t stop even when she tried. Her fingers tightened in the fabric of Susie’s coat, knuckles white, like letting go would make something terrible happen.
“I thought he died,” Ana choked. “I thought— I thought—He chose the wall — I know he did — he protected Lando and I knew what that meant and they said surgery and nobody would give me numbers and I calculated survival probabilities and I—”
Her words fractured, breath hitching violently. Every suppressed hour hit at once.
Susie wrapped both arms around her immediately, one hand cradling the back of her head, pressing her close without trying to quiet her.
“I— I couldn’t— they said— he didn’t answer—”
She was crying hard now. Not silent tears — full, shaking, hysterical sobs that made her shoulders heave. Her forehead pressed into Susie’s shoulder as if proximity alone could anchor her.
“It’s alright,” she whispered, one hand cradling the back of Ana’s head. “He’s here. He’s alive. You did it. You got him here.”
Ana shook her head rapidly, clinging harder. “I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t stop it. I run simulations for failure, I— I plan for failure, I—” Her breath hitched painfully. “I watched it happen and I couldn’t do anything.”
The words dissolved into another wave of sobbing. The kind that emptied lungs and left her gasping. She was no longer trying to be quiet, no longer trying to be composed. All the fear she had compressed into orderly function spilled out at once.
“He was alone in the car,” she whispered, voice raw. “And I couldn’t reach him.”
Susie pressed her cheek to Ana’s hair. “But you were there when he woke.”
A shuddering breath.
Ana buried her face against her shoulder and the crying came all at once, violently, as if something inside her had been held under pressure and the seal finally failed.
She couldn’t stop.
Her body shook hard enough that Susie had to steady them both against the wall.
“I couldn’t— I couldn’t fix it,” Ana choked. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know— I didn’t see it and I always see it—”
For three days she had operated on logic: stabilise patient, coordinate transfer, manage pain, control variables. Every decision had been actionable.
But the crash had not been a system failure she could engineer around.
It had been intentional..
Human.
“I can’t fix this,” she sobbed. “I can’t design around this. I can’t— I couldn’t stop it.”
That was the real terror.
Not the injuries.
The unpredictability.
Systems she could model, she could control.
Human malice she could not.
Her breathing stuttered again, tears still falling uncontrollably. For the first time in days she wasn’t the composed engineer, the calm presence in the hospital room.
She was just a woman who had watched the person she loved almost die.
“I was there,” she sobbed. “And I couldn’t stop it. He trusted them— he trusted— and I—”
Her voice broke completely.
Susie stroked her hair, holding her.
“This wasn’t yours to stop,” she said softly. “You didn’t cause it.”
Ana shook her head violently, clutching tighter. “If I hadn’t— if George— if I—”
She couldn’t finish the thought.
But Susie understood anyway.
Not logic.
Guilt.
Because Ana’s mind built causal chains for everything. Every outcome had an input. Every failure had a root cause. And somewhere in her brain, she had already drawn a line:
George → her → Max.
Susie cupped the back of her head gently, forcing her to stay present. “Listen to me. Max is alive because of what you did. Not in spite of it.”
Ana cried harder.
“I watched the monitors,” she whispered hoarsely. “Every hour I thought they would drop. I thought I would look away and he would—”
Her breathing broke into near-panic.
Susie shifted, guiding her down onto the corridor bench and sitting beside her without letting go. Ana still clung to her coat, fingers knotted into the wool like letting go would undo reality.
Her breath hitched into near-hyperventilation. She broke again, clutching Susie harder.
“I can’t lose him,” she sobbed. “I can’t.”
Susie’s eyes closed briefly, her own throat tightening, but her voice stayed steady.
“You didn’t,” she said softly. “He’s here. You did exactly what he needed you to do.”
Ana shook her head, crying harder.
“I should have stopped it,” she whispered, irrational guilt flooding out now that control was gone. “I should have seen it. I see everything. I missed this and he almost died because I didn’t—”
Susie gently cupped her face, forcing her to look up.
“No,” she said firmly, but gently. “You are not responsible for someone else’s violence.”
“I love him,” Ana whispered, voice small and wrecked. “And I almost lost him.”
Susie held her tighter.
“I know,” she said softly. “I know.”
Ana’s grip loosened only slightly, exhaustion finally catching up to her, sobs fading into shuddering breaths as adrenaline drained away. She didn’t stop holding onto her mother, forehead pressed to her shoulder, eyes squeezed shut like if she opened them the world might rewind to the moment the car hit the wall.
Susie rested her cheek against Ana’s hair.
“I’m so tired,” Ana whispered eventually, voice shredded. “I don’t know how to turn my brain off.”
Susie pressed a kiss into her hair. “Then don’t. Just let someone else hold you while it runs.”
Ana clung to her like a child who had finally reached the end of her endurance.
When the sobs eased into shaky breaths, Susie kept her there anyway, one hand smoothing down her back, steady and warm.
“We’ll go home,” she said quietly. “You’ll sleep. We’ll come back in the morning.”
Ana nodded weakly, eyes red, utterly spent.
Toto stepped forward then, resting a hand at her back—present, grounding, wordless.
And together, the three of them walked down the corridor.
***
Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France - 24 September 2025
Jos heard the sound before he understood it.
A sob.
Not the quiet crying he had heard from drivers over the years — disappointment, pain, frustration — but something rawer. It cut through the corridor sharply enough that he looked up immediately.
Down the hall, near the windows, Susie stood with someone in her arms.
Ana.
Jos stopped moving.
For a moment his brain didn’t reconcile what he was seeing.
Because the girl he had watched for days didn’t break.
She calculated. She organised. She spoke to surgeons like a colleague, not a frightened twenty-something. She corrected medication timings before nurses did. She had looked at Max’s external fixation frame without flinching while he himself had needed to look away constantly.
He had privately decided she was… strange. Too controlled. Too cold.
Now she was shaking so hard Susie had to hold her upright.
Her hands were gripping Susie’s coat like a drowning person clinging to a rope, shoulders jerking with each sob she couldn’t contain. The sounds coming from her weren’t composed or quiet — they were wrecked, torn out of her without permission.
“I thought he died,” she choked, the words carrying down the corridor.
Jos felt something in his chest shift.
He had expected tears from Sophie. From Victoria when she arrived. From family.
He had not expected this.
“Oh,” Sophie breathed beside him, having followed him out more quietly than he’d realized.
Jos didn’t answer.
He couldn’t take his eyes off Ana.
Susie had her wrapped up completely, one hand cradling the back of her head, murmuring something Jos couldn’t hear. Toto stood a little to the side, close enough to step in if Ana collapsed entirely, his face tight with worry and something like helplessness Jos recognized all too well.
Ana bent forward slightly, almost folding into herself as the crying intensified, Susie bracing her weight and guiding her toward the bench. She didn’t look like the woman who had calmly instructed doctors about transfer logistics an hour ago. She looked young. Terribly young.
“I should have stopped it,” she whispered hoarsely. “I should have seen it—”
Susie held her face gently, forcing her to look up. “You are not responsible for someone else’s violence.”
Ana shook her head, still crying. “I love him.”
The words landed harder than the sobbing.
Jos looked away for a second — not out of discomfort, but because something unfamiliar tightened behind his eyes and he didn’t like the sensation.
He had seen drivers celebrate championships with less emotion than that.
This wasn’t fear of scandal. Not reputation. Not convenience.
This was raw terror at almost losing Max.
Realisation settled slowly and uncomfortably.
She hadn’t been calm because she didn’t care.
She had been calm because she was holding herself together so Max could.
And now, outside the room, when Max was finally stable, when someone else was there to catch her—
She broke.
Jos shifted his weight, suddenly unsure where to put himself. He felt like an intruder on something deeply private. Something sacred.
Toto caught his eye briefly, then nodded once—an unspoken agreement. He stepped closer to Susie, murmured something low and calm. Susie nodded back, pressing a kiss into Ana’s hair.
“We’ll take her home,” Susie said softly. “She needs sleep. Real sleep.”
Ana didn’t protest. She didn’t even lift her head. She just let Susie and Toto guide her up, still clinging faintly to her mother’s sleeve like a child afraid to be left alone.
Jos watched them walk down the corridor together.
Watched Ana’s shoulders shake less with every step as Susie murmured to her, Toto steady at her other side.
When they were gone, the corridor felt oddly hollow.
Jos exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.
Only when they turned the corner did Sophie come to stand beside him.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Sophie exhaled slowly. “You saw.”
He nodded once.
“I thought…” Jos stopped. He didn’t finish the sentence. He wasn’t even sure what he had thought — that she was detached, clinical, incapable of emotional response. That Max had fallen too hard for someone who wouldn’t fall back.
He had been wrong.
Sophie’s voice softened. “To see our son loved like that…”
Jos looked toward the door of Max’s room.
Through the small window he could see him — pale, alive.
For the first time since Baku, some of the anger inside him shifted into something else. Not gone. Never gone. But changed.
Because he understood something now with absolute clarity:
Max wasn’t holding onto her.
She was holding onto him just as tightly.
Jos rubbed a hand over his face, voice rougher than he intended.
“Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “He picked the right one.”
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 24 September 2025
Susie knew her daughter’s panic.
She knew the signs the way only a mother could — the sharp, shallow breathing, the moment Ana’s eyes stopped tracking the room, the way her hands searched for something predictable to hold onto when the world became too loud, too chaotic, too human. She knew how to lower her voice, how to slow her own movements, how to sit nearby without touching until touching was wanted.
She had spent years learning the rhythm of it.
This wasn’t that.
Ana sat in the passenger seat on the drive back to Monaco as if the scaffolding inside her had been quietly removed. No trembling, no pacing fingers, no repetitive motions to anchor herself. She didn’t watch the coastline or the passing traffic. She didn’t even seem to blink much. She simply existed — upright because the seat held her there, hands resting loosely in her lap, gaze unfixed.
It frightened Susie more than any panic attack ever had.
Toto drove in silence.
Susie could read him without looking directly: the stiffness in his shoulders, the careful control in the way he held the steering wheel, the way his jaw tightened every time the road curved. He was doing what he always did under pressure — focusing on something concrete so he wouldn’t think about what wasn’t.
She reached across the console once and rested her hand over his forearm. He didn’t look at her, but his grip eased a fraction.
When they reached the apartment, Susie didn’t ask Ana what she wanted. Choice required energy, and Ana had none left.
She guided her inside gently, one hand warm and steady at her elbow.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Bath first.”
Ana nodded immediately, automatic compliance — not agreement, just relief at not needing to decide.
Susie ran the water herself. She checked the temperature, then checked it again. She added the lavender oil Ana always relaxed into, the scent familiar and grounding. She moved slowly and without commentary as she helped her daughter out of her clothes — not clinical, not brisk, simply present. No fussing, no questions.
Care, not caretaking.
Ana lowered herself into the bath with a quiet exhale, like gravity had finally caught up with her. The tension didn’t vanish, but it softened at the edges. Her shoulders dipped beneath the water, and for the first time since leaving the hospital she seemed less rigidly upright.
Susie stayed seated beside the tub the entire time. One hand rested on the tile, the other occasionally smoothing damp strands of hair away from Ana’s face when they clung to her cheek.
“You’re safe,” Susie said quietly. She didn’t wait for Ana to ask. “Max is safe. You did everything you could.”
Tears slid from the corners of Ana’s eyes, silent, disappearing into the bathwater.
When she finally helped her out, Susie wrapped her in the largest towel they owned and held it closed around her shoulders, guiding her down the hallway without hurry. Ana leaned into the guidance without resistance.
Susie paused only briefly at the bedroom door.
Ana’s bedroom.
She didn’t overthink it. She pulled back the covers and settled Ana beneath them. The bed was warm and familiar and unmistakably home, and Ana seemed to sink into it as if her body had been waiting for permission to stop.
Susie stood there a moment longer than necessary, watching her daughter’s eyes flutter with exhaustion.
This wasn’t temporary, she realized with quiet certainty. Not the fear, not the attachment, not the place Ana held in their lives. Guest rooms were for visitors.
Ana wasn’t a visitor.
“I’ll be right back,” she said softly.
In the kitchen, Toto stood at the counter, hands braced against the marble, staring down without seeing anything. He looked composed to anyone who didn’t know him. Susie knew better. He was holding himself together by routine alone.
“She asleep?” he asked, voice low.
“Nearly,” Susie said. “She hasn’t eaten.”
Toto closed his eyes briefly. “Of course she hasn’t.”
Susie moved without thinking — cupboards opening, cereal poured, bread toasted, honey drizzled, juice poured. Familiar tasks. Nourishment before questions.
Jack padded into the kitchen in his pyjamas, relief immediate when he saw both parents present.
“Is Ana staying?” he asked.
“Yes,” Susie answered instantly. “She’s staying.”
His shoulders relaxed. He climbed onto a stool and waited with patient seriousness.
They carried the tray together.
Ana stirred when Susie sat beside her, blinking slowly, disoriented for a second before recognizing the room. Susie kept her voice gentle.
“Hey. Just a little bit.”
Ana studied the cereal bowl like it required solving, then accepted the spoon Jack offered. He watched her with intense focus, the solemn responsibility of a child determined to help.
“That one’s good,” he said earnestly. “It has marshmallows.”
A faint smile touched her mouth.
Toto remained in the doorway, arms folded tight across his chest, watching his daughter eat cereal in her bed as though it were the most important thing he would witness that day.
Jack finished his toast, yawned, and climbed onto the bed beside her without asking.
“We’re all here,” he declared, satisfied.
Susie tucked the blankets around both of them, a deep ache of relief settling beneath her ribs.
Ana’s eyes drifted shut again, exhaustion finally winning. Susie smoothed her hair back from her forehead.
“You sleep,” she murmured. “We’ll wake you when it’s time to go back.”
Ana’s voice was barely audible.
“Thank you.”
Susie pressed a light kiss to her temple.
“Always,” she said.
Susie stayed until her breathing evened out, until the house felt quieter again.
Only then did she allow herself to sit back and feel it — the fear, the fury, the relief — all tangled together.
Her daughter was safe.
For tonight, that was enough.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 24 September 2025
Toto didn’t come to bed immediately.
Susie found him on the balcony.
Monaco was quiet at that hour — the harbor lights reflecting in the water, a few late cars humming somewhere below, the city moving at a softer pace than the one they had just left behind in Baku and hospital corridors and fluorescent stairwells.
He was leaning on the railing, both hands gripping it, shoulders bowed forward like the weight he was holding had finally become physical.
She didn’t speak right away. She simply stepped beside him and rested a hand lightly between his shoulder blades.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Then he exhaled.
“She’s asleep,” Susie said softly.
“I know,” Toto replied. His voice sounded steady. That was the problem. “Jack too?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“And you?” she asked.
He exhaled through his nose. “Working on it.”
For a long moment, Toto said nothing.
Then, quietly, like the words surprised him too, he said, “If that had been my son… I don’t think I would have survived it.”
Susie closed her eyes.
“I watched Max on that hospital bed,” Toto continued, staring out at the dark. “Anastasia holding his hand. Tubes everywhere. That leg…” His jaw tightened. “And all I could think was: if that were Jack or Benny in that bed, I would be feral. Completely feral.”
He laughed once, hollow. “And then I realised — I already am.”
Susie’s hand pressed more firmly against his back.
Toto swallowed hard. “I don’t know how Jos stood there,” he admitted. “I don’t know how any parent does. I watched Anastasia get hurt this year and that made me want to murder people. But this—” He shook his head. “She loves him, Susie. Completely. If he had died, it would have taken something from her she would never get back.”
Susie understood immediately. This wasn’t about contracts or teams or even the sport anymore.
It was about the fact that Toto had watched a boy who mattered to his daughter almost die in front of him.
Susie reached for his hand. He let her take it, fingers cold against hers.
“I keep thinking I should be… doing something,” he said. “Calling someone. Fixing something. Managing it. That’s what I do. But there’s nothing to fix. He nearly died. Someone wanted him to die. And all I could do was stand there and watch monitors.”
His voice finally cracked.
“I felt useless,” he said hoarsely. “The same way I did when my father was sick. Sitting there as a teenager, listening to doctors talk about tumours and timelines and knowing none of it mattered because I couldn’t change the outcome.”
Susie’s grip tightened.
“I hated that feeling,” Toto went on. “I built my entire life around never feeling that powerless again. And then Baku happened.”
Silence settled between them, heavy but not empty.
He stared out over the water, eyes unfocused. “I felt… useless. Completely useless. Like I did when I was fifteen.”
Susie’s fingers stilled slightly against his back.
“My father,” Toto said, barely above a whisper. “When he got sick. The brain tumour. Everyone around me was doing things — doctors, adults, decisions — and I could do nothing. I remember standing in the hospital and realizing that adults don’t actually control anything. Not the important things.”
He let out a shaky breath.
“That’s what this felt like. I could organize aircraft, surgeons, legal teams, entire corporations — and none of it mattered if his heart stopped on that monitor.”
Susie slid her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek against his shoulder.
“You weren’t useless,” she said softly.
“I couldn’t protect Anastasia from it,” he replied.
“You helped keep Max alive,” she said gently. “And you kept her standing long enough to get him here.”
Toto shook his head slightly. “I still wanted to fix it. Like a problem. And it wasn’t a problem. It was… chance. Violence. Human stupidity.”
Silence settled between them, the kind that only exists between people who know each other too well to fill it unnecessarily.
“Maybe you should call your sister,” Susie said gently. “Not tonight. Just… soon.”
Toto nodded slowly. “Yeah. Tomorrow.” He swallowed. “She’ll tell me I’m catastrophising.”
“She loves you,” Susie said.
He rubbed his face with both hands, forcing himself back into practical thought because it was safer there.
“The surgeons want to do the internal fixation on his leg tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “If the swelling holds. I’ll need to go to Stuttgart Friday — board meeting, engines, and I need to look like a functioning human being.”
Susie turned him gently toward her.
“Shhh,” she murmured, placing a hand against his chest. “Not tonight.”
He tried to keep talking anyway. “There are still statements to review and—”
“No,” she said softly but firmly. “Now you sleep.”
He didn’t argue.
He leaned forward, forehead resting briefly against hers, exhaustion finally breaking through the structure he held himself together with.
And then, almost absently, he said:
“He made me his medical proxy.”
Susie blinked. “Who did?”
Toto frowned slightly, as if realizing he’d said something he hadn’t intended to.
“Max,” he answered. “After surgery, when he woke completely drugged, he looked at me and said I had every reason to keep him alive next year. And I told him I had every reason to keep him alive, period,” Toto said quietly. “That was after he proposed to Ana.”
Susie blinked. “He what?”
Toto froze.
Slowly, he turned his head toward her.
“…I may have forgotten to mention that.”
Susie stared at him. “Toto.”
“He was on painkillers,” Toto said quickly. “Very strong ones.”
“That is not the relevant part.”
“He was extremely sincere,” Toto added weakly.
Susie pressed her hand to her mouth — not shocked exactly, but overwhelmed by the timing, the absurdity, the tenderness of it.
“And she said yes?” she asked quietly.
“She said she wouldn’t hold him to what he said while high on painkillers, but yes.”
“She didn’t tell me,” she said, half laughing, half stunned.
“She hasn’t really told anyone,” Toto replied. “I don’t think she’s processed it yet.”
Susie leaned back against the wall, exhaling. “Of course he did it high on painkillers.”
Then Susie exhaled softly, emotion finally catching up to her. “Well,” she said, voice gentler now, “that explains a lot.”
Toto leaned into her then, the last of the control draining away.
“We nearly lost him,” he whispered.
Susie held him tighter.
“But we didn’t,” she said. “And she didn’t.”
She pulled him toward the bedroom.
“Come to bed,” she murmured. “Tomorrow we deal with the world again.”
Toto didn’t argue. He just nodded and let her lead him inside.
***
Hospital Pasteur, Nice, France - 24 September 2025
“You can sit, you know,” Max said, a faint thread of amusement in his voice, because Victoria was still hovering beside the bed like the floor might collapse if she committed to it.
Victoria glanced at the empty chair Ana had left behind.
Then at the bed.
Then she made a decision.
Without asking, she climbed in.
Carefully — very carefully — navigating around the traction frame and wires with surprising precision. She settled beside him, curling against his good shoulder and resting her head on his chest exactly the way she used to when they were kids.
For one disorienting second, Max wasn’t in a hospital in Nice.
He was a kid again in a tiny bedroom in Hasselt, one blanket pulled over both of them while their parents argued downstairs. Victoria pressed into his side because she was scared, and he pretended he wasn’t.
His arm moved before he thought about it, wrapping around her shoulders, hand coming to rest gently in her hair.
The movement hurt — a deep pull through bruised muscle and stitched skin — but he didn’t let it show. He’d taken worse hits in races. This one mattered.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
She made a small, unimpressed sound. “You nearly died.”
“Technically didn’t.”
“Max.”
He sighed softly. “I’m okay, Vic.” His arm tightened slightly around her. “I’m here.”
They stayed like that for a while, the monitors clicking steadily beside them.
“I watched it,” she admitted finally.
Max winced. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I couldn’t not,” she whispered. “Everyone was texting, nobody knew anything, and then the replay—” She pressed her face into his shirt. “It didn’t look like a normal crash.”
Max stared at the far wall.
“The car didn’t… behave,” he said.
He could still feel it.
Not the impact — his brain refused to replay that — but the moment before. The steering weight vanishing. The rear stepping out in a way that didn’t belong to physics he understood. The instant calculation happening faster than conscious thought.
Wall or Lando.
He swallowed.
“It went too fast to fix,” he said gently.
Victoria was quiet for a moment.
“…Did you choose the wall?” she asked softly.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because he remembered the orange car in his peripheral vision and the math his brain had done before he even formed the thought.
Then, quietly, “It was the safest direction available.”
Her fingers clenched in his shirt.
“Max—”
“I’m okay,” he said firmly. “Focus on that part.”
She nodded into his shoulder.
After a moment she asked, very carefully, “George Russell.”
Max went completely still.
His chest tightened — not from injury. From something colder.
He looked up at the ceiling.
“I don’t want to talk about him,” he said.
Her voice was small. “He tried to kill you.”
Max closed his eyes.
He didn’t feel anger first.
He felt… confusion. A kind of disorientation deeper than the concussion. Because racing had rules — even unspoken ones. You fought hard. You took risks. But you trusted the other driver wanted to go home alive too.
“I don’t understand it yet,” he admitted quietly. “So I’m not thinking about it tonight.”
He knew himself well enough to recognize a limit. If he opened that door right now he wouldn’t sleep again.
She accepted that immediately. She knew him — when he locked a door in his head, it stayed locked.
Instead she sniffed. “Ana told me you proposed.”
Max groaned softly. “I was high.”
“You did it on morphine,” she said, a weak laugh escaping despite the tears. “Iconic behavior.”
“I barely remember it.”
“Do you regret it?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“No,” he said quietly. “Not one bit.”
He stared at the ceiling again.
“I probably owe her a real proposal though.”
“Yes,” Victoria said firmly. “Preferably while sober.”
She shifted to look at him. “Are you gonna show me the ring?”
He hesitated.
“…maybe.”
“Max Emilian Verstappen.”
He sighed. “It’s in my apartment.”
“Where.”
“In the sock drawer.”
Victoria stared at him.
Then she burst into laughter. “You hid an engagement ring in the sock drawer?!”
“It’s safe!”
“It’s socks!”
“No one touches my socks.”
He could feel her laughter against his ribs. It hurt a little — but it was worth it. The sound pulled something tight out of his chest.
She was still laughing when she asked, “What does it look like?”
Max glanced away, suddenly awkward.
“It’s a star sapphire,” he said.
Victoria blinked. “A what?”
“A star sapphire,” he repeated. “It has this optical thing — asterism — it looks like a star when light hits it.”
She stared at him in disbelief.
“And a double diamond halo,” he added. “Platinum Band. It’s engraved.”
She pushed herself up on an elbow. “How the fuck do you know what any of that means?!”
Max looked vaguely defensive. “It’s custom. It took like a year,” he muttered. “I worked with a designer.”
“A year?! You, the man who wears the same five T-shirts on rotation, secretly designed jewelry for twelve months?”
“I wanted it to be right,” he said quietly.
He remembered emails sent after midnight, video calls between races, holding stones under different light conditions because he’d asked for photos from multiple angles. He’d learned more about gemstones in twelve months than he ever intended to know.
Victoria’s expression softened immediately.
“…Max.”
He shrugged as much as his shoulder allowed. “I had time between races.”
“You designed a ring for a year,” she said, stunned.
He looked back at the ceiling, almost embarrassed. “Yeah.”
He hesitated, then added more quietly:
“She likes stars.”
His voice softened further.
“She names everything after them. Her simulations. Projects. Code branches. I figured… she should have one she can actually hold.”
Victoria stared at him.
“It wasn’t just… a year,” he said after a moment, voice low. “The design part, yeah. But the stone took longer.”
Victoria lifted her head slightly. “What do you mean?”
Max stared at the ceiling again, seeing not hospital lights but jewelers’ benches and velvet trays and the way light fractured differently depending on the cut.
“I went through a lot of sapphires,” he admitted.
“A lot like… three?” she asked.
He huffed out a quiet, humorless breath. “Like twelve.”
She pushed herself up properly now, bracing on her elbow. “Twelve.”
“Still have them,” he added. “They’re in a safe.”
Victoria blinked at him. “You own a collection of rejected sapphires?”
“They weren’t rejected,” he said, faintly defensive. “They just weren’t hers.”
He remembered each one. Too blue. Too light. Too clean. Too modern. Stones that looked perfect on paper and dead in his hand. Stones that threw light without character. Without… history.
“I wanted one that did the star thing properly,” he continued. “Not just technically. I wanted it to… move. When you tilt it. Like it’s alive.”
Victoria stared at him like she was watching a stranger wearing her brother’s face.
“And the one you chose?” she asked carefully.
Max hesitated.
“Vintage,” he said. “Russian mined — Ural Mountains origin. Old deposit. They don’t really get stones like that anymore.”
Her eyes widened. “Max.”
“It mattered,” he said quietly.
He remembered the moment he’d known.
The jeweler had placed it on the table last, almost as an afterthought. Smaller than some of the others. Darker in tone. Not perfect — a faint inclusion off-center that only showed if you knew where to look.
He’d tilted it under the light.
And the star had bloomed across its surface — not sharp, not artificial. Soft-edged. Like something ancient and patient.
It had reminded him of the way Ana talked about stars. Not romantically. Practically. As constants. Reference points. Things you navigated by when everything else moved.
“That one felt… right,” he said. “Like it had already lived a life before it got to her.”
Victoria swallowed.
“You went through all that,” she said quietly, “and you still hid it in a sock drawer.”
Max shrugged faintly. “Didn’t want it in a hotel safe. Or with security. Socks are… stable.”
She let out a weak laugh, then shook her head, overwhelmed.
“You realize,” she said, “this is the most insane thing you’ve ever done.”
He smiled a little. “I’ve won championships.”
“This is worse,” she said. “This is emotional planning.”
He didn’t deny it.
Because the truth was, designing that ring had been the one thing in his life that had never been about pressure or expectations or performance. There had been no stopwatch. No one watching. No one to impress.
He hadn’t chosen the ring because it was beautiful, even though it was.
He had chosen it because it was durable — sapphire was one of the hardest natural materials on earth.
He’d picked a stone that would survive impact.
“You are so gone,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” he said simply.
“You never actually told me how you met her.”
He smiled faintly — a real one, the first in days.
“After Monaco 2016. Sass Café.”
Victoria perked up. “Oh this is going to be catastrophic.”
“It was,” he admitted.
He could still see it clearly.
“Ana was standing by the bar looking like she wanted to be literally anywhere else on earth. Everyone else was drunk. She was… observing.”
“Of course she was.”
“I tried to flirt.”
“You flirted in a nightclub?”
“I attempted to.”
“And?”
“I used a racing themed pickup line.”
Her eyes widened. “No.”
He winced. “I asked if she was an undercut because she just changed my whole strategy.”
Victoria covered her mouth. “MAX.”
“I know.”
“And she still dated you?”
“She told me it was bad,” he said dryly. “So I tried another one. And then a third.”
Victoria was laughing into his shoulder.
“How did you recover from that disaster?”
“I asked her to leave the club with me,” he said softly. “We got burgers.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
His voice grew quieter.
“We talked for hours. Then we went back to my apartment.”
Victoria studied him — really studied him.
“You love her.”
Max didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah.”
She rested her head back on his chest.
“Good,” she murmured. “Because she loves you like you’re oxygen.”
He looked down, surprised. “You noticed?”
“Max,” she said softly, “she hasn’t slept in three days.”
Silence settled — gentle this time.
He stared at the dark window.
“I scared you,” he said quietly.
“You terrified me.”
He rested his cheek lightly against her hair.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t get to die,” she murmured.
He closed his eyes.
He hadn’t realized until now how close that had been. Not in the car — afterward. The waiting. The blankness he remembered before waking.
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: This chapter contains major character injury, graphic portrayal of injuries and graphic portrayal of a crash in Formula 1. However, I do not write anything other than Happy Endings, so I am not going to kill off any of my major characters. So the cliffhanger isn’t a cliffhanger, because he’ll survive. I swear. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Victoria Verstappen
Ana: He’s awake.
Victoria: OH THANK GOD.
How awake is awake?
Ana: Eyes open. Recognised me. Asked for water. Complained about the lights.
Victoria: That tracks.
How does he look?
Ana: Bruised. Very drugged. Still Max.
Victoria: Still Max is the important part.
Is he talking nonsense yet?
Ana: Define nonsense.
Victoria: Ana.
Ana: …
Victoria: Ana Wolff.
Ana: He proposed.
Victoria: I KNEW IT.
Ana: You absolutely did not.
Victoria: I 100% did.
You don’t survive that crash, wake up high on morphine, and not confess something dramatic.
Ana: It wasn’t even dramatic.
He just… said it. Very sincerely. Slightly slurred.
Victoria: Oh my god.
Ana: Before you say anything —
I am not holding him to it.
Victoria: You don’t have to explain that to me.
Ana: He was on an insane amount of painkillers.
This does not count as informed consent.
Victoria: You are impossible.
Ana: I’m serious.
If he still wants it when he’s clear-headed and not hallucinating hospital ceiling tiles, then we’ll talk.
Victoria: And what did you say?
Ana: I said yes. He smiled. Then fell asleep again.
Victoria: Of course he did.
Ana: Vic… he’s really hurt.
I don’t want this moment tangled up in trauma and medication.
Victoria: I know.
And you’re right. Annoyingly so.
Ana: Still.
He’s awake.
Victoria: That’s everything.
I’m so relieved I could cry.
Ana: Me too.
I just… not right now.
Victoria: That’s okay.
I’ll cry enough for both of us.
Ana: Thank you.
Victoria: Tell him I love him when he wakes up properly.
Ana: I will.
Victoria: And Ana?
Ana: Yes?
Victoria: Whether he was drugged or not —
He meant it.
Ana: …I know.
Victoria: We’ll talk later.
Go sit with him.
Ana: Already am.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Gianpiero Lambiase
Ana: He’s awake.
GP: …properly awake?
Ana: Eyes open. Conscious. Knows who he is. Knows who I am.
GP: Thank fuck.
Ana: Very drugged. Complained about the lights. Asked for water. Tried to sit up.
GP: That sounds like him.
Did you stop him?
Ana: Immediately.
He was deeply offended.
GP: Good. He’s alive enough to be annoyed — that’s a very strong sign.
Ana: They’re optimistic. Leg is bad, but manageable. Neuro looks okay so far.
GP: I don’t think I’ve unclenched my jaw since yesterday.
Ana: Neither have I.
GP: Tell him—
Actually. Don’t. He doesn’t need engineering updates right now.
Ana: I won’t.
I’m just sitting here.
GP: That’s exactly where you should be.
Ana: Thank you for… everything. Even when you weren’t allowed to be there.
GP: He’s my driver. Gardening leave or not.
That doesn’t switch off.
Ana: I know.
GP: Let me know when he’s properly lucid.
And Ana?
Ana: Yes?
GP: I’m very glad he woke up to you.
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Valterri Bottas
Ana: Max is awake.
Valtteri: Awake awake?
Ana: Yes. Conscious. Responsive. Very medicated and grumpy.
Valtteri: Thank fuck.
How bad?
Ana: Leg is bad but stable. Surgery went well. Neuro looks okay so far.
Doctors are cautiously optimistic.
Valtteri: I’m telling everyone. They’ve all been on edge.
Ana: Please do.
Just… keep it factual. No speculation.
Valtteri: Of course.
The grid’s been asking nonstop. Lando especially looks wrecked.
Ana: Tell them he knows what happened. He asked about the race before he asked about his phone.
Valtteri: That tracks.
I’ll update the group chats.
Ana: Thank you. Truly.
Valtteri: Anytime.
We’re all pulling for him. And for you.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Dr. Edward Moran-Portman
Ana: Surgery went well.
He’s out. Awake. Talking.
Still very… Max, just heavily medicated.
Edward: Thank God.
I’ve been thinking about you both nonstop.
What’s the status on the leg?
Ana: Open fracture stabilized.
Aggressive intervention, plates, external fixation for now.
They’re optimistic about long-term recovery, but it’ll be months.
Edward: That was the right call. Young, strong, excellent baseline fitness.
Aggressive is exactly what you want.
Ana: That’s what you said earlier. You were right.
They’re keeping him here overnight for monitoring, but we’re already talking about transfer.
Edward: Good. He doesn’t need to recover long-term in Baku.
Ana: Exactly.
Toto asked whether moving him closer to home would be medically reasonable once he’s stable.
Edward: It would be preferable.
Listen—there’s an excellent orthopedic and trauma unit in Nice.
Centre Hospitalier Universitaire de Nice. I know the lead surgeon personally.
Ana: You do.
Edward: I trained with him. Brilliant hands. Conservative ego. Exactly what you want.
If Max is stable enough to transport, I can make a call tonight.
Ana: That would mean Monaco is… an hour away.
Edward: Yes.
And continuity of care, privacy, better rehab planning.
Ana: I like all of those words.
Edward: Of course you do.
How are you, Ana?
Ana: Functioning.
Edward: That wasn’t the question.
Ana: …Ask me again in a week.
Edward: Fair enough.
I’ll make the call. Discreetly.
Once he’s stable for air transfer, it’s the right move.
Ana: Thank you. Truly.
And—Edward?
Edward: Yes?
Ana: I’m glad Henry married you.
Edward: He says the same thing when I stop him from catastrophizing.
Get some rest if you can. I’ll message once I’ve spoken to the surgeon.
Ana: Okay.
And thank you—for translating the medical reality when my brain couldn’t.
Edward: Anytime.
***
Group Chat: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Yuki Tsunoda, Liam Lawson, Isack Hadjar, Oliver Bearman, Esteban Ocon, Gabriel Bortoleto, Nico Hulkenberg, Kimi Antonelli, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly, Franco Colapinto, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Alex Albon, Carlos Sainz, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso)
Valtteri: Update: Max is awake.
Leg looks good considering everything.
Neuro checks are good too.
Lando: Oh thank fuck.
Oscar: That’s the best message I’ve read in 24 hours.
Alex: I didn’t realize how tense I was until just now.
Charles: Merci, Valtteri. Truly.
Lewis: Good. That matters.
Yuki: Okay but WHAT is going on here
I was literally questioned by police like 20 minutes ago??
Lando: Wait—what??
Yuki: Yeah. Actual questions. Names. Times.
I thought it was a joke. It was not a joke.
Charles: …questioned about what?
Alex: Have you SEEN the paddock??
It’s crawling with cops.
Oscar: This is not normal. At all.
Fernando: For what it’s worth—
The FIA is suddenly being very apologetic about the GDPA statement.
Carlos: Yeah. This morning they were dismissive and hostile.
Now it’s all “we understand your concerns” and “thank you for your cooperation.”
Lando: That’s… ominous.
Fernando: It tells me something is happening behind the scenes.
Institutions don’t change tone unless they’ve lost control of the narrative.
Yuki: So you’re saying I wasn’t questioned for fun.
Carlos: Correct. Extremely not for fun.
Lewis: I’ve seen this before.
When it stops being sporting politics and starts being legal.
Alex: Jesus.
Valtteri: I don’t know details.
But I know this isn’t about racing anymore.
Lando: Yeah.
This feels… darker.
Fernando: Whatever it is, we were right to stop that race.
Carlos: And we’ll stand by that.
Oscar: Seconded.
Yuki: Same.
Also I would like ONE normal race weekend please.
Lando: Denied by the universe, mate.
Valtteri: I’ll update if I hear more.
For now—Max is alive. That’s the headline.
Lewis: Agreed.
Everything else can burn later.
Fernando: Exactly.
****
Twitter Thread: What’s up with the Police?!
@/gridlockgossip:
🚨 uh. why does the Baku paddock look like a crime drama this morning
there are POLICE. like… actual police. plural.
@/pitlanepanic:
just walked past the media entrance and counted THREE uniformed officers + plainclothes
since when is F1 doing Law & Order: Motorsport Unit???
@/f1overcaffeinated:
me yesterday: wow what a horrific crash
me today: why is the paddock being treated like a crime scene
@/sector3stress:
no because this isn’t normal “we’re asking questions” police
this is “cordons + notebooks + very serious vibes” police
@/wifiofthewindtunnel:
why are people acting like this is normal
I have been watching F1 for 20 years and the only time I’ve seen police like this is AFTER A DEATH
@/tiresmokeandtears:
someone pls explain why there are cops going in and out of team hospitality
this is a RACE WEEKEND not a Netflix true crime pilot
@/garagepsychology:
the fact that the paddock is QUIET says everything
no joking, no laughing, no media chaos
everyone looks like they know something we don’t
@/f1detectiveagency:
okay THEORY TIME 🧵
– horrific crash
– immediate black flag after driver revolt
– Red Bull statement blaming driver
– police swarm next morning
this is not coincidence
@/nothisturntobechaotic:
are we seriously pretending this isn’t about sabotage
because I am not that stupid and neither is anyone else here
@/pitwallprofessor:
for context: police don’t just “check things out” in F1
if they’re here, someone filed a report that crossed from sporting issue → criminal issue
@/mercedescryaccount:
saw officers near the Red Bull garage specifically
not saying anything
just saying 👀
@/redflagpsychology:
this is giving “we found something in the data” energy
and I don’t like it
@/systemsandsecrets:
I watched three mechanics go pale when the police walked past
like FULL color drain
whatever this is, it’s serious
@/holygridmess:
yesterday we were arguing about penalty points
today we are watching a literal investigation unfold
formula 1 has fully left the chat
@/paddockrentfree:
remember when people said “let the FIA investigate”
yeah well apparently someone skipped them and went STRAIGHT to the cops
@/oversteerenthusiast:
if this turns out to be sabotage i am never shutting up again
NEVER
@/gridgaslight:
I feel sick
if someone messed with that car knowingly
and we all watched it live
that’s not sport anymore
@/burnbookbutpolite:
the silence from Red Bull this morning is deafening
no updates
no outrage
no “we’re cooperating”
nothing
@/monacopsychoanalysis:
Max is still in hospital
and the paddock looks like this
I need everyone to sit with the implications for five seconds
@/f1femmes:
whatever happened
someone crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed
@/cryingovercars:
this isn’t gossip anymore
this is history happening in real time
@/gridlockgossip:
no official statements yet
but yeah
the Baku paddock is swarming with police
and nobody looks surprised
which might be the scariest part
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
JadeQueen: It was George Russell. I have proof. Financial. Direct. Multiple mechanics.
It’s him, Ana.
JadeQueen:Listen to me.
This isn’t internet sleuthing. This isn’t fandom bullshit.
This is criminal. This is prison-level criminal.
It’s attempted murder.
Andromeda: I am aware.
JadeQueen: Annie—
You’re not reacting.
Andromeda: I am.
JadeQueen: No, you’re not yelling. Or spiraling. Or asking for more proof.
You’re just… flat.
Andromeda: Because if I let myself feel this, Xia, I will break something that cannot be put back together.
JadeQueen: …that scares me.
Andromeda: Good. It should.
JadeQueen: Okay.
Okay, listen to me very carefully.
I can package this. Quietly. Securely. I can drop it anonymously to journalists, to the FIA, to—
Andromeda: No.
JadeQueen: Annie.
Andromeda: I don’t want leaks.
I don’t want threads.
I don’t want speculation or public bloodsport.
JadeQueen: Then what do you want?
Andromeda: I want it done properly.
JadeQueen: Meaning?
Andromeda: Police.
Courts.
Evidence chains that cannot be questioned.
Consequences that are permanent.
JadeQueen: …Jesus.
Andromeda: He put money into a system to make a machine fail at 300 kilometers per hour.
My partner almost died.
There is no version of this that ends with a PR apology.
JadeQueen: Ana, I’ve known you a long time.
I’ve seen you angry.
This is different.
Andromeda: Yes.
JadeQueen: You sound like you’re standing in a vacuum.
Andromeda: I am thinking clearly.
JadeQueen: That’s what terrifies me.
Andromeda: Xia.
JadeQueen: Yeah?
Andromeda: I don’t know what to do with this knowledge yet.
JadeQueen: Okay.
Andromeda: But I know exactly what cannot happen.
JadeQueen: Which is?
Andromeda: He does not get to walk away.
Not quietly.
Not loudly.
Not ever.
JadeQueen: …I’m with you.
Andromeda: I know.
JadeQueen: Whatever you need—data, timelines, cross-verification, legal packaging—
I’m here.
Andromeda: Thank you.
JadeQueen: Annie?
Andromeda: Yes.
JadeQueen: Promise me something.
Andromeda: What.
JadeQueen: Don’t burn yourself alive to keep him safe.
Andromeda: I won’t.
Andromeda:I will make sure George Russell never does this to anyone again.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Hospitals had a way of stripping time down to something thin and cruel.
Minutes stretched. Hours folded in on themselves. Everything smelled faintly of antiseptic and overheated machines, like the building itself was holding its breath.
Sophie sat in the chair beside Max’s bed, fingers wrapped around a paper cup she’d forgotten to drink from. The monitors hummed steadily. Too steadily. She’d learned, over years of racing, to distrust silence almost as much as noise.
Max lay pale against the sheets, dark lashes stark against skin that still looked wrongfully still. Tubes. Bandages. The immobilized leg that made her chest tighten every time she looked at it.
Alive, she reminded herself. He’s alive.
Ana sat on the other side of the bed, close enough that her knee touched the mattress frame, phone resting loosely in her hand. She hadn’t been scrolling—Sophie had noticed that immediately. Ana’s eyes had gone distant in a way Sophie recognized with the instinct of a mother who’d watched a child shut doors quietly instead of slamming them.
A buzz. Ana glanced down.
Just once.
Something changed.
It wasn’t dramatic. No gasp. No tears. No visible reaction at all. But the air around her seemed to cool, like someone had opened a window Sophie couldn’t see.
“Ana?” Sophie said softly.
Ana locked her phone and set it face-down on the table, movements precise, controlled. She looked back at Max instead of at Sophie.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ana said quietly. “Not right now.”
Sophie studied her face. Too calm. Too still. She’d seen that look before—in mirrors, years ago, when fear had nowhere safe to go and had learned to behave.
“What doesn’t matter?” Sophie asked gently.
“Anything that isn’t him,” Ana replied.
Sophie nodded. She understood that language. She’d spoken it herself in pit lanes and medical centers and too many nights that smelled like oil and dread.
They sat in silence for a moment, broken only by the steady beeping of the monitors and the distant murmur of nurses’ voices in the corridor.
Then Sophie smiled faintly, because she needed to say something that wasn’t terrifying.
“He really did it,” she said.
Ana’s brow creased slightly. “Did what?”
Sophie tilted her head toward Max. “Proposed. High as a kite. Barely coherent. Very romantic.”
A ghost of a smile touched Ana’s mouth. It didn’t reach her eyes, but it was real. Ana nodded. Her fingers brushed the edge of the mattress, careful, reverent.
“I said yes,” she said quietly. Not triumphantly. Not for effect. Just a fact, offered gently into the room.
Sophie felt something warm and sharp bloom behind her eyes.
“Good,” she said, voice thick. “About time he figured that out.”
They sat like that for a while longer, two women orbiting the same fragile center.
Then Ana spoke again, hesitating this time—just a fraction.
“We bought a house,” she said.
Sophie blinked. “You did?”
Ana nodded. “In Monaco. Quiet street. He wanted a garden. I wanted light.”
Sophie stared at her, surprise giving way to something softer. “He didn’t tell me.”
“He wanted it to be finished first,” Ana said. “He said… he wanted something that stayed.”
Sophie swallowed hard.
“Maxie,” she murmured fondly. “Always planning the future like it’s a secret strategy.”
Ana glanced at Max again, her expression tightening for just a heartbeat before smoothing out.
“He was happy,” she said. “About it. About us.”
Sophie reached across the bed rail and placed her hand over Ana’s, squeezing gently.
“He still will be,” she said. “You hear me? This doesn’t get to steal that.”
Ana didn’t look at her, but she squeezed back.
“I know,” she said.
Sophie watched her then—really watched her. The way Ana sat so straight it had to hurt. The way she kept herself contained, like a storm wrapped in glass.
Whatever had come through on that phone… it hadn’t been small.
But Sophie also knew this: there would be time for answers later. For anger. For justice. For reckoning.
Right now, there was only the quiet rise and fall of her son’s chest.
Only the fact that he was still here.
Sophie leaned back in her chair, eyes never leaving Max.
“Rest,” she murmured—to both of them, she wasn’t sure. “We’ll deal with the world later.”
Ana didn’t respond.
But she didn’t move away either.
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo, Alex Albon)
Daniel: Alright I’m not even in F1 anymore and I’m stress-refreshing Twitter like it pays my mortgage.
Someone tell me what’s real. Is Max okay??
Lando: Yeah. He’s out of surgery.
Awake now. Still in hospital but stable.
Daniel: Oh thank god.
That crash was— mate. I nearly threw my phone.
Oscar: Same.
Ana told Valtteri, Valtteri told us. Doctors are optimistic.
Alex: Leg’s broken, surgery went aggressive but clean.
No head injury so far.
Daniel: Fuck.
That could’ve been… so much worse.
Lando: It shouldn’t have happened.
Car was wrong. Everyone saw it.
Carlos: Which is why the GDPA is fighting the FIA right now.
We’re pushing for a formal statement + investigation.
Daniel: GOOD.
Because giving him penalty points while he’s literally in surgery is psychotic.
Alex: I lost it when I saw that.
Like—read the room???
Oscar: Drivers are united on this.
Lewis, Fernando, everyone.
Daniel: If you need a retired idiot yelling into a microphone, I volunteer.
Lando: Noted 😂
But yeah—GDPA’s standing firm. Race shouldn’t have resumed, penalties are a joke, and safety comes first.
Daniel: Tell Max when he’s more human again that the whole grid had his back.
Even the annoying ones.
Oscar: Especially the annoying ones.
Alex: We’ll keep you updated, mate.
Daniel: Please do.
And give Ana… idk. A hug. Or a medal. Or both.
Lando: Yeah.
She’s holding it together in a way that’s honestly terrifying.
Carlos: We’ve got him.
And we’re not letting this go.
Daniel: Good.
Because nobody deserves to go out like that.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Susie Wolff
Ana: Max is awake.
Susie: Oh sweetheart—thank God.
How are you?
Ana: Functional.
I’m sitting with him.
Susie: That’s about what I expected.
Jack keeps asking if Max is awake yet. I told him yes.
Ana: Is he okay?
Jack, I mean.
Susie: He’s rattled, but he’s safe.
We watched together. He knew it was bad even when they cut the feed.
Ana: I’m sorry he had to see that.
Susie: So am I. But he also saw how everyone came together.
That matters.
Ana: Are you okay?
Susie: I am.
Scared. Angry. Protective. But okay.
Ana: Good.
Susie: You can call me, you know.
Ana: If I call you, I’m going to cry.
Susie: That would also be okay.
Ana: I can’t right now.
I need to keep my head clear.
Susie: I understand.
I’m here whenever you need me—crying or not.
Ana: I just needed to know you and Jack are fine.
Susie: We are. And we’re not going anywhere.
Ana: Thank you.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Toto didn’t bother sitting down before he called.
Susie picked up on the second ring.
“Toto?”
He exhaled slowly. “They paid them.”
A beat.
Then—
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
He closed his eyes. Of all the reactions he’d braced for, that one meant she understood immediately, viscerally.
“The mechanics,” he continued, voice low and tight. “Money changed hands. To alter the car. Intentionally.”
Silence. Not disbelief. Not shock. The kind of silence that meant Susie was going very, very still.
“They nearly killed him,” she said at last. Not raised. Worse—flat.
“Yes.”
“And Red Bull said nothing.”
“Yes.”
“And the FIA—”
“Is still pretending this is a driving standards issue,” Toto finished, bitterness leaking through despite himself.
Susie swore, viciously. The kind of swearing she reserved for structural injustice and people who should know better.
“Do we know who ordered it?” she asked.
“We know the money trail. We know the component. We know it wasn’t an accident,” Toto said. “That’s enough for the police. The rest will come.”
Another pause. Shorter this time. Sharper.
“Toto,” Susie said quietly, “there’s something else, isn’t there.”
He hesitated. Just long enough for her to know.
“My private investigator,” he said finally. “The one I’ve had keeping an eye on… other matters.” He swallowed. “He flagged something. Before the crash.”
Susie’s voice dropped. “What kind of something.”
“One of the Red Bull mechanics,” Toto said, choosing each word with care, “was seen meeting with George Russell. A few days before Baku.”
The silence on the line shattered.
“What.”
Not a question. A warning.
“They were seen together,” Toto repeated. “At a hotel bar.”
Susie inhaled sharply.
“Oh no,” she said. “No. No no no.”
“I don’t have proof yet,” Toto said quickly. “Just enough to know this is no coincidence.”
“George Russell,” Susie repeated, her voice climbing now. “The same George Russell who assaulted Ana. The same George Russell who just happened to lose his seat to Max next year.”
“Yes.”
Her restraint snapped.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she said, fury blazing through the line. “That man does not get to touch our family again. He does not get to orbit this story.”
Toto rubbed a hand over his face. “I know.”
“He doesn’t get to ruin Ana’s life and try to murder her partner,” Susie continued, words sharp enough to cut glass. “If this is true—”
“If this is true,” Toto said quietly, “it becomes criminal conspiracy. At minimum.”
Susie laughed once, short and dangerous. “At minimum.”
Another breath. Controlled. Measured. He could hear her pulling herself back from the edge.
“Have you told Ana?” she asked again, more softly now.
“About the meeting with Geroge yes,” Toto said. “Not yet about the mechanics.”
“Good,” Susie replied immediately. “Not until you have something she can use. You don’t drop that kind of truth without a plan.”
“That was my instinct too.”
“And Max’s parents?”
“I’ll tell them,” Toto said. “Carefully.”
Susie hummed darkly. “Jos is going to explode.”
“Yes.”
“And Sophie will go very, very quiet,” Susie added. “Which is worse.”
Toto allowed himself a thin, humorless smile. “You know them well.”
A beat.
“And in the middle of all this,” Toto added, because apparently the universe enjoyed piling on, “Hannah Schmitz quit.”
Susie blinked audibly. “She what.”
“She resigned on the spot,” Toto said. “Showed up with Max’s luggage and internal telemetry on a USB stick at Bonos’s doorstep.”
There was a stunned pause—then Susie laughed, incredulous and sharp.
“Of course she did.”
“Yes,” Toto said dryly. “Which brings me to my next problem.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Ana’s birthday,” Toto said. “And I need to somehow acquire Hannah Schmitz as a gift.”
Susie laughed properly now—brittle, furious, real. “You are planning to poach Red Bull’s head of strategy while their driver is in hospital, their mechanics are under investigation, and Geroge Russell might be exposed as a criminal.”
“When you list it like that,” Toto said, “it sounds… bold.”
“You’ve always been bold,” Susie replied. Then, softer: “Ana will love that.”
“She will,” Toto agreed. “Once she’s done being incandescent.”
“And Max?”
“He’s alive,” Toto said quietly. “That’s all that matters right now.”
Susie’s voice softened instantly. “I’m proud of you.”
He swallowed. “I wish I’d been this good at protecting her earlier.”
“You are now,” she said firmly. “That counts.”
They sat in silence for a moment—distance, grief, resolve braided together.
“Come home when you can,” Susie said eventually. “Or don’t. We’ll manage.”
Toto nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “I’ll call you after I speak to Ana.”
“And Toto?”
“Yes?”
“If this involves George Russell,” Susie said coldly, “then this doesn’t end quietly.”
Toto’s mouth curved into something grim and resolute.
“No,” he said. “It really doesn’t.”
He hung up.
Squared his shoulders.
There were truths to tell.
And this time, the war wasn’t metaphorical.
***
Peter Bonnington’s Hotel Room, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Bono hadn’t slept.
That much was obvious the second Toto walked into the hotel conference room that had been quietly commandeered sometime around three in the morning. Coffee cups everywhere. A laptop balanced on a stack of folders. Three phones charging at once. The hollowed-out look of someone who had decided rest was a luxury for later.
Bono looked up when the door opened.
“Toto,” he said, voice rough. “You look like you’ve been negotiating with the devil.”
“Close enough,” Toto replied dryly, shutting the door behind him. “I hear you’ve been busy.”
Bono snorted once and gestured to the table.
“Busy is one word for it.”
“This,” Bono said, tapping the top folder, “is everything we have. Public footage, private analysis, the Red Bull telemetry Hannah brought, and cross-correlated data from Kimi’s dash cam.”
Toto’s eyes flicked instinctively to Hannah.
She was sitting on the edge of the table, arms crossed, hair in a messy knot, looking like someone who had detonated her life and didn’t regret it even a little.
Bono continued, voice steady now, focused in the way engineers got when the emotion had burned off and left purpose behind.
“We isolated the failure point. The fracture wasn’t random. It propagated along a stress line that should never have existed unless the component was altered.”
He flipped a page.
“Manufacturing defect? Ruled out. Fatigue? No. Assembly variance?” A sharp breath. “Yes. Very deliberate variance.”
Toto closed his eyes briefly.
Bono didn’t stop.
“I’ve packaged it for law enforcement. Azerbaijan authorities, British police, FIA if they dare ask. Chain of custody is clean. Hannah logged when she copied the data, I verified hashes. Nothing here can be dismissed as speculation.”
He slid the folder across the table.
“For the police,” Bono said quietly. “And for Max.”
Toto picked it up with both hands.
“Thank you,” he said, and for once the words were insufficient.
Behind him, Hannah cleared her throat.
“Well,” she said lightly, “since we’re already in a life-changing conversation—”
Toto turned to her fully.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
Toto didn’t dance around it. There was no point.
“Mercedes would like you,” he said. “Immediately. Strategy. Full authority. No political nonsense. You’d work with Ana.”
Hannah’s expression flickered—just for a moment.
“Of course I would,” she said dryly. “She’s terrifying.”
Toto allowed himself a thin smile.
“She is.”
Hannah tilted her head. “I want it in writing.”
Bono choked on his coffee.
Toto laughed—actually laughed, sharp and surprised.
“Fair,” he said. “Very fair.”
She hopped off the table, all business now.
“Contract. Role. Protection,” she added calmly. “Because I didn’t just quit a job. I burned a bridge with a flamethrower.”
“You won’t be exposed,” Toto said immediately. “We’ll handle the optics. And the legal side.”
Hannah studied him for a long moment.
Then she nodded. “Good. Then yes.”
Bono let out a breath he’d been holding for hours.
Toto tucked the folder under his arm.
“I’ll get legal on this,” he said. “Both matters.”
He paused at the door, looking back at them—at the engineer who’d stayed up all night to make the truth undeniable, and the strategist who’d walked away from a team that failed its driver.
“For what it’s worth,” Toto said quietly, “Ana will be… very glad you’re here.”
Hannah smirked faintly.
“I assumed she would be.”
Toto opened the door.
“And Bono?”
“Yes?”
Toto met his eyes, voice low, unwavering.
“You did good.”
Bono swallowed and nodded once.
As Toto walked out, folder in hand, one thing was clear:
This wasn’t just damage control anymore.
It was accountability.
****
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Jos had been pacing the same four tiles of hospital corridor for nearly an hour.
Forward. Turn. Back. Turn again.
Like an old habit he couldn’t break, even now—especially now.
Max was alive. That should have been enough.
But it wasn’t.
Sophie sat rigidly in one of the plastic chairs, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She hadn’t cried—not yet—but Jos could feel the pressure of it in the room, the way storms gathered before breaking.
Ana stood a little apart from them, back against the wall, phone in her hand but dark. Still. Too still. Like a piece of machinery powered down, waiting for a command.
And then Toto arrived.
Jos saw it immediately—the way Toto carried himself had changed. No frantic edge. No uncertainty. Just a grim, contained certainty that made Jos’s stomach drop.
“Toto,” Sophie said, standing at once. “What is it?”
Toto didn’t waste time.
“We have evidence,” he said. “Not speculation. Evidence. At least two Red Bull mechanics deliberately altered a component on Max’s car.”
The words landed like a bomb.
Jos felt something tear loose inside his chest.
“What,” he said hoarsely. “What did you just say?”
“They interfered with a structural component,” Toto continued, voice controlled, precise. “It caused the failure cascade. It wasn’t driver error. It wasn’t racing. It was sabotage.”
Sophie made a sharp, furious sound—half breath, half growl.
“They what?” she snapped. “They tampered with his car?”
Jos didn’t hear the rest.
His vision tunneled. Blood roared in his ears.
“They tried to kill him,” Jos said, voice rising, breaking. “They tried to kill my son.”
“Yes,” Toto said firmly. “They endangered him. Recklessly. Criminally. The police are involved.”
Jos surged forward a step before Sophie’s hand snapped out, gripping his arm.
“Jos,” she hissed. “Don’t.”
But Jos couldn’t stop shaking.
He turned—wildly—to Ana.
She hadn’t moved.
Her face was pale, composed, unreadable. No tears. No shaking. No visible reaction at all.
And something about that—about her stillness—lit Jos’s anger like a match to fuel.
“You hear that?” Jos snapped at her. “They nearly killed him. And you’re just standing there like—like it’s data on a screen.”
Ana didn’t look at him.
“That’s because it is data,” she said calmly.
The temperature in the hospital room dropped.
Jos stared at her. “Excuse me?”
She finally lifted her eyes.
They were flat. Cold. Focused in a way that made something in Jos’s gut twist unpleasantly.
“I screamed when the car hit the wall,” Ana said evenly. “I dissociated when they couldn’t get him out. I sat through surgery without breathing properly for five hours.”
Her voice never rose.
“Now,” she continued, “I am thinking.”
Jos scoffed, sharp and ugly. “Thinking? That’s your answer? You think that makes you better than the rest of us?”
Ana took a step forward.
Just one.
But it was enough.
“You want hysterics?” she asked softly. “You want rage? Because I can do that too.”
Jos opened his mouth—
She cut him off.
“If you want to scream, scream at the people who taught Max that pain is how you earn love,” she said, voice sharpening like a blade. “Scream at the culture that convinced him driving a broken car was better than disappointing a team. Scream at yourself for every time you told him to push through danger like it was character-building.”
Jos froze.
Sophie sucked in a sharp breath.
Ana didn’t stop.
“But do not,” she said, stepping closer now, eyes burning with something far more frightening than anger, “tell me how I’m allowed to survive watching the man I love almost die.”
Her voice dropped—quiet, lethal.
“I am cold right now because if I let myself feel what I want to do to the people who did this,” she said, “they would not survive it.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Jos felt it then.
Fear.
Not for Max.
Not for the mechanics.
But for the woman standing in front of him.
This wasn’t grief.
This was resolve.
Ana stepped back, composure snapping neatly back into place like armor locking into position.
“The police will handle the mechanics,” she said, turning slightly toward Toto. “I will handle everything else.”
Jos swallowed.
For the first time since Max was a child, since rain-soaked kart tracks and shouting and expectation, Jos Verstappen understood something with bone-deep clarity:
Ana Wolff was not fragile.
She was dangerous.
And she was on Max’s side.
Sophie exhaled slowly, then reached out and took Ana’s hand without asking.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Ana squeezed back once.
Jos said nothing.
He didn’t trust himself to speak.
And somewhere deep inside him, a truth settled—heavy and undeniable:
Whoever had hurt Max had made a catastrophic miscalculation.
Because Ana Wolff did not forget.
And she did not forgive.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 22 September 2025
Solomon Becker was halfway through his coffee when the email came in.
From: A. Wolff
Subject: —
Attachment: 2026.zip
No greeting.
No explanation.
Just a folder.
That alone made his stomach tighten.
Ana did not send things casually. Ana sent things when the ground was about to move.
He closed Slack. Silenced his phone. Took a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding since yesterday. Then he clicked.
The folder opened.
And Solomon said, out loud, to an empty office:
“…fuck.”
It wasn’t just one document.
It was an ecosystem.
Subfolders bloomed across his screen like a star map—Control Architecture, Redundancy Models, Failure Containment, Adaptive Feedback, Predictive Load Migration.
Solomon ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair.
He had known Ana since she was a teenager—brilliant, feral, quiet in the way dangerous things were quiet. He’d watched her walk into rooms full of senior engineers twice her age and calmly dismantle their assumptions with a whiteboard marker and a raised eyebrow. He had accepted, years ago, that she would one day be smarter than him.
But this—
This was something else.
He opened the first architecture diagram.
And immediately lost the thread.
Not because it was sloppy.
Because it was too clean.
The logic trees weren’t linear. They braided. Feedback loops didn’t just respond—they anticipated. Failure states weren’t mitigated; they were rerouted, redistributed, absorbed like shockwaves disappearing into deep water.
This wasn’t a car system.
This was a philosophy.
“Jesus Christ,” Solomon muttered, scrolling.
She’d built redundancy not as backup, but as continuity. Systems that assumed something would go wrong—and simply refused to let that matter. Load-balancing that treated instability as data, not error. Control layers that could isolate a catastrophic failure in microseconds without cascading loss.
It was elegant.
It was ruthless.
It was personal.
Halfway through a document titled Non-Negotiables, Solomon had to stop and just stare at the screen.
He understood maybe half of it.
And that was the most frightening part.
Because the half he did understand was revolutionary.
Because Solomon Becker was not stupid. He was one of the best systems engineers in Brackley. If he was struggling—
Then Ana hadn’t just raised the ceiling.
She’d left the building entirely.
He scrolled further.
Margin notes appeared—Ana’s voice bleeding through the code and diagrams.
No single point of failure. Ever. Assume the worst. Build anyway. Drivers should never have to fight the car.
Solomon swallowed.
This wasn’t R&D.
This was a vow.
A quiet, furious promise written in architecture and math and foresight.
He checked the timestamps.
Some of these files were old. Months old. Maybe longer.
She’d been carrying this alone.
Of course she had.
Solomon felt something he rarely felt in his career:
Pure, unfiltered awe.
Then, a creeping, rising panic.
Ana had done all of this without telling anyone.
Not the team.
Not the board.
Not him.
She’d built an entire next generation of systems architecture quietly—like someone making a secret weapon from logic, precision, and absolute obsession.
Finally, he whispered:
“Jesus Christ…”
He sat there, stunned.
Then leaned back again.
Because he already knew what the world would say about this.
“Game-changing.”
But Solomon—who had seen Ana build whole subsystems while others were still debugging dead-ends—knew the deeper truth:
This wasn’t just a technical leap.
It was Ana being Ana.
And he felt—terrified and privileged—that he was the only person in the world to see it before everyone else did.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face.
“She’s changed the game,” he murmured to no one.
He thought about the timing.
The crash.
The hospital.
Max.
Of course she had done this now.
Ana didn’t rage like other people. She didn’t scream. She didn’t flail.
She built systems so nothing like that could ever happen again.
This wasn’t just a car.
This was a promise.
A promise that the machine would never betray the driver the way that Red Bull car had betrayed Max.
Solomon closed the folder carefully, like it might bite.
Then he reopened it.
Because if Ana Wolff had just quietly handed him the future of Formula 1—
Then his job wasn’t to fully understand it yet.
His job was to protect it.
And to make sure the world was ready for what she’d just unleashed.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 22 September 2025
Solomon Becker did not go home.
He stood in the doorway of Elliot Price’s office instead, one hand braced against the frame, laptop tucked under his arm like contraband.
Elliot looked up from his screen, glasses halfway down his nose. “If this is about the actuator latency report, I swear to God—”
“We need to talk,” Solomon said.
Elliot frowned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Worse,” Solomon replied. “I’ve seen Ana’s private folder.”
That did it.
Elliot’s chair scraped back as he stood. “Her what?”
Solomon walked in, shut the door, and wordlessly placed the laptop on Elliot’s desk. He opened the folder. The same one. The one that had been haunting him for the last three hours.
Elliot leaned in.
Ten seconds passed.
Then twenty.
Then—
“…what the fuck,” Elliot breathed.
Solomon let out a humorless laugh. “That was my reaction too.”
Elliot scrolled. Slower now. Careful. Like someone handling something explosive.
“This isn’t—” He stopped, started again. “This isn’t an architecture proposal.”
“No.”
“This is a philosophy.”
“Yes.”
Elliot clicked into Adaptive Redundancy Logic.
His eyebrows climbed his forehead in real time.
“She’s not just adding layers,” he said slowly. “She’s… braiding them.”
Solomon nodded. “Horizontal failover. No single collapse point.”
Elliot swore under his breath. “That alone would’ve prevented—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “Jesus.”
They moved to the whiteboard without discussing it, instinctively grabbing markers like this was muscle memory.
Boxes. Arrows. Loops.
Then more arrows.
Then crossed-out arrows.
Then silence.
Elliot stepped back, marker still in hand. “Okay. Either I’m missing something obvious—”
“You’re not.”
“—or she’s solved a problem the entire paddock has been quietly pretending wasn’t solvable.”
Solomon stared at the board. “She’s made the car a partner instead of a tool.”
Elliot laughed once, incredulous. “Of course she did.”
They opened Driver-Centric Stability Arbitration next.
Elliot read. Froze.
Read it again.
“This system prioritizes intent,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Not input.”
“Yes.”
“That’s—” He stopped. Dragged a hand down his face. “That’s insane.”
“That’s Ana.”
They worked in near silence for an hour.
Then two.
Coffee appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
At some point Elliot sank into the chair, staring at the screen like it had personally offended him.
“She’s built in ethical governors,” he said quietly. “Do you see this?”
Solomon nodded. “Real-Time Ethics Gate. Version three.”
Elliot let out a sound halfway between awe and despair. “She’s put morality into a control system.”
“She’s put care into it.”
Another long silence.
Elliot finally looked up at Solomon. “She didn’t send this because she wanted feedback.”
“No.”
“She sent this because she trusts us.”
“Yes.”
“And because something scared her badly enough that she never wants to see it happen again.”
Solomon swallowed.
Elliot leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “She’s too fucking smart.”
Solomon snorted. “Welcome to the club.”
Elliot glanced at him sideways. “Do you understand all of it?”
Solomon didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“Do you understand enough to know it’ll work?”
“Yes.”
Elliot exhaled slowly. “That’s somehow worse.”
They sat there, surrounded by equations that bent reality and logic diagrams that felt almost… protective.
After a while, Elliot spoke again, softer.
“She’s building this for him, isn’t she.”
Solomon didn’t ask who.
“Yes,” he said. “But not just for him.”
Elliot nodded. “For anyone who comes after.”
They closed the folder together.
Locked it down.
Added layers of security without saying a word.
Because this wasn’t just IP.
This was Ana Wolff turning pain into architecture.
And Solomon knew, with bone-deep certainty, that when the Mercedes 2026 car hit the track—
Nothing like Baku would ever happen again.
“She’s terrifying,” Elliot said quietly.
Solomon smiled, tired and proud all at once.
“Yes,” he said. “And thank God she’s on our side.”
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
The hospital at night felt like a different country.
Muted lights. Slower footsteps. The low, rhythmic beeping of machines that reminded Toto—over and over—that Max was still here. Breathing. Alive. Sleeping under layers of sedation and monitoring and quiet vigilance.
Sophie and Jos had left an hour ago, exhaustion finally winning out after too many confrontations and too little resolution. Raymond had shepherded them toward a hotel with the firmness of a man who knew when everyone was one wrong word away from disaster.
So now it was just Toto and Ana.
And Max.
Ana sat in the chair beside the bed, spine straight, phone face-down in her lap. She hadn’t moved in a long time. Hadn’t scrolled. Hadn’t typed. Hadn’t coded. She was simply… there. Watching the slow rise and fall of Max’s chest as if it were the only variable left in the universe.
Toto leaned against the doorframe for a moment, studying her.
She looked smaller like this. Stripped of adrenaline. Of purpose. Of anger. Just a young woman who had burned through every ounce of herself and was running on nothing but stubbornness and love.
He cleared his throat softly.
“Sternchen,” he said.
Ana didn’t look up.
“You haven’t slept in thirty-six hours.”
“I know.”
“You haven’t eaten properly.”
“I know.”
“And you’ve been sitting like that since surgery ended.”
“I know.”
Toto walked over and crouched in front of her, careful not to block her view of Max.
“Ana,” he said gently. “He’s stable. The doctors will wake him properly in the morning. You cannot keep going like this.”
Her fingers tightened minutely around her phone.
“I will sleep,” she said, voice flat, “when he’s better.”
Toto exhaled through his nose.
“That’s not how recovery works,” he said quietly. “For him or for you.”
She finally looked at him then.
Her eyes were ringed with exhaustion, red at the edges—not from crying, but from not allowing herself to. The control it must have taken hurt him more than tears would have.
“You don’t understand,” she said softly.
“I think I do,” Toto replied.
She shook her head once. “No. You don’t. Because if I stop—if I sleep—my brain will replay everything. The crash. The silence. The saws. The bone.” Her jaw clenched. “I can’t do that yet.”
Toto felt his chest tighten.
He reached up and gently took her wrist.
“Then don’t do it alone,” he said.
She hesitated.
Just for a second.
And then the armor cracked.
She stood abruptly, as if the decision had been made somewhere deeper than thought, crossed the small space between them, and sank down beside him on the narrow couch under the window.
Curled in.
Not delicately. Not politely. But fully—knees tucked up, shoulder pressed into his chest, her forehead resting just beneath his collarbone like it had known that place once.
Like it remembered something he had never been able to give her.
Toto wrapped an arm around her instinctively.
She made a small sound—barely audible—and relaxed into him, tension leaking out of her in slow, painful increments.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The machines hummed.
The city slept.
And Toto thought, not for the first time tonight, about time.
About the first eight years of Ana’s life he had never known existed.
Eight years of scraped knees and bad dreams and first words and first fears—gone. Not because he chose absence, but because fate had stolen the choice entirely.
He had met her at eight already guarded. Already quiet. Already too self-contained for a child.
He had never had this.
Never had her curl into him because she was tired. Never had to convince her to sleep. Never carried her to bed. Never held her through childhood storms.
And now, here she was—twenty-seven years old, brilliant, terrifying, unbreakable—and somehow still capable of fitting against him like this.
Trusting him.
He pressed his chin lightly to the top of her head.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
She shifted slightly. “For what?”
“For the years I didn’t know you,” he said. “For the years you had to learn how to be strong by yourself.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
“You’re here now,” she said, very quietly.
Toto swallowed.
They sat like that for a while longer.
Then Ana spoke again, muffled against his chest.
“He proposed.”
Toto stiffened. Just a fraction.
“He… what?”
Ana huffed—a breath that might have been a laugh in another life.
“Max,” she said. “When he woke up briefly earlier. Completely drugged. Very convincing.” A pause. “Very sincere.”
Toto leaned back slightly to look at her.
“And?”
“I said yes,” she said simply. “But I told him I won’t hold him to it until he’s fully awake and painkillers aren’t doing… whatever that was.”
Toto stared at her.
Then—slowly—he smiled.
Not the CEO smile. Not the press conference one.
The one he rarely allowed himself.
“He chose well,” Toto said quietly.
She tilted her head up just enough to look at him. “You’re not… upset?”
“Upset?” he echoed. “Ana, after tonight? After everything?” He shook his head. “If anyone deserves someone who would crash into a wall rather than hurt another driver—it’s you.”
Her throat bobbed.
“I love him,” she whispered.
“I know,” Toto said. “I can see it.”
She settled back against him, exhaustion finally dragging at her limbs.
Minutes passed.
Her breathing slowed.
Evened out.
And sometime before dawn, Ana Wolff fell asleep curled against her father, as machines kept watch over the man she loved.
Toto didn’t move.
He didn’t dare.
He simply held her, guarding the fragile peace of the moment, thinking that maybe—just maybe—some things lost could still be found again.
Even if it took a lifetime to get there.
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Max woke up the way people surfaced from deep water.
Slow. Confused. Heavy.
Pain came first—not sharp, not screaming, but vast. A whole-body ache wrapped in cotton. His limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. His head was full of fog and strange light, like he’d been poured full of warm honey.
He blinked.
Ceiling. White. Too clean.
Hospital.
Right.
That… tracked.
He tried to move and immediately regretted it. Something tugged at his leg in a way that made the world tilt sideways. He made a noise—half groan, half confused protest.
“Easy,” someone said quietly.
Max turned his head.
Toto.
That took a second to process.
Not GP. Not Ana. Not a doctor.
Toto Wolff. Sitting in a chair near the bed, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, looking like he hadn’t slept in a decade.
Max squinted at him.
“Huh,” he murmured. “You’re real.”
Toto snorted softly. “Unfortunately.”
Max considered this, very seriously.
“…you’re my emergency contact,” he said.
“Yes,” Toto replied. “Apparently.”
Max nodded, satisfied. “Good choice.”
Toto raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Raymond did it. Or maybe I did it. Hard to say. Forms were involved.” Max said earnestly.
He licked his lips, blinking slowly.
“Did I crash?”
“Yes,” Toto said.
“Bad?”
“Very.”
Max winced in delayed sympathy with himself. “That explains the leg. And… the floating feeling.”
“That would be the painkillers.”
“Oh.” He smiled faintly. “They’re great.”
Toto watched him carefully. “Do you remember anything?”
Max stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“The wall,” he said slowly. “The castle bit. Lando was there. Blue flags.” His brow furrowed. “The car… wasn’t listening. It wasn’t me.”
“I know,” Toto said.
Max exhaled, relieved. “Good. Because if it was me, Ana would pretend not to be mad but she’d be so disappointed.”
Toto’s mouth tightened.
Max turned his head again, squinting around the room.
“Where is she?”
“Asleep,” Toto said. “On the couch. She hasn’t left your side.”
Max’s expression softened instantly, like someone had turned down the noise in his head.
“I love her,” he said, very seriously. “A lot.”
“I know.”
“No, like—a lot,” Max insisted, frowning as if Toto hadn’t grasped the scale of the thing. “I think I told her. Did I tell her?”
“You proposed,” Toto said.
Max’s eyes widened.
“I did?” A beat. “Nice.”
Toto huffed a quiet laugh despite himself.
“She said yes,” Toto added. “With conditions.”
Max nodded solemnly. “Good. Sensible woman. Drugs make me bold.”
“You’re bold without them.”
“True.” He paused. “Did I say something stupid?”
“Only that you wanted to marry her.”
Max smiled, slow and hazy. He shifted slightly, then hissed and froze.
“Don’t move,” Toto warned.
“Noted.” He breathed through it, then looked back at Toto with surprising clarity. “Hey.”
“Yes?”
“You’re her dad.”
“I am.”
Max nodded again, as if confirming a crucial data point.
“She loves you,” he said. “A lot. Doesn’t always say it. But she does.”
Toto swallowed.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Max’s eyes drifted, then snapped back into focus with a crooked grin.
“You’re my emergency contact because you have every reason to keep me alive for next year.”
Toto leaned forward slightly.
“Max,” he said firmly, “I have every reason to keep you alive. Period.”
Max blinked at him.
Then—unexpectedly—his eyes filled.
“Oh,” he said, voice wobbling. “Okay. That’s… better.”
He sniffed once, offended by his own emotions.
“Sorry,” he added. “Drugs.”
Toto reached out and rested a steady hand on Max’s shoulder.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
Max stared at that hand for a moment, then relaxed.
“I scared her,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“Can you tell her,” Max said slowly, carefully, “that if she doesn’t want to marry me when I’m not high, that’s okay. But I’m still going to love her. And I still want that house. And maybe two dogs.
Toto smiled, eyes stinging.
“I’ll tell her,” he said.
Max’s eyelids drooped.
“Good,” he murmured. “You’re good at this dad thing. Late start. But strong finish.”
Toto snorted. “Go to sleep.”
Max smiled faintly, already drifting.
“Okay,” he said. “But tell Ana I’m still alive. And that I meant it.”
“I will.”
Max’s breathing evened out, consciousness slipping away again, leaving behind the soft, steady beep of monitors and the quiet certainty of a man who had survived.
Toto stayed where he was.
***
Press Release: Verstappen.com
We would like to share a brief update on Max’s condition and to express our gratitude following the events of the Azerbaijan Grand Prix.
Max has come through surgery and the immediate medical procedures well. He is awake, responsive, and receiving excellent care. While there is still a long road ahead in terms of recovery, we are relieved and grateful to say that his condition is stable and progressing as expected.
We would like to sincerely thank the medical teams at the circuit, the doctors and nurses at the hospital, and the emergency responders whose professionalism, speed, and expertise made a critical difference. Their actions undoubtedly saved Max’s life, and our gratitude to them cannot be overstated.
We also want to thank the marshals, stewards, and paddock personnel who acted decisively and selflessly in extremely difficult circumstances. Motorsport is built on risk, but it is also built on people who step forward when it matters most. We saw that clearly this weekend.
Our thanks extend to the mechanics and team members from across the paddock who assisted during the incident. In a moment that transcended teams and rivalries, they came together as one. That solidarity will stay with us forever.
We would also like to thank the drivers, teams, and members of the GPDA for their support, solidarity, and humanity in the hours that followed. The messages of concern and care have meant more than words can adequately express.
Finally, we would like to thank everyone who has sent messages of support—fans, fellow drivers, teams, and members of the wider motorsport community. Max and our family have felt that support deeply.
Right now, our focus is entirely on Max’s recovery and well-being. We ask for privacy and patience as he takes the time he needs to heal.
***
Twitter Thread: Thank God
@/RaceWatcher77 This is how you do a statement. Classy. Human. No blame, just gratitude. Glad Max is awake 💙
@/DutchLion_33 “Undoubtedly saved Max’s life”
I’m not crying. You’re crying.
Thank you to every marshal and medic out there.
@/F1EthicsNow Notice how this statement thanks everyone who helped — across teams.
And yet one team still hasn’t managed a proper well-wishes post.
Interesting.
@/SectorThree The fact they explicitly thanked mechanics from other teams…
That says everything about what really happened in that pit lane.
@/MaxForever1 Long road ahead but HE IS AWAKE.
That’s all that matters right now. 🧡🧡🧡
@PaddockInsider This reads like people who know exactly how close they came to losing him.
@/Turn8Trauma “Motorsport is built on risk, but also on people who step forward when it matters most.”
That line should be printed on every paddock wall.
@/GridDadEnergy The Verstappens thanking the GPDA tells you how bad this really was.
@/OrangeSmoke Notice what they don’t say.
No mention of penalties.
No mention of blame.
Just recovery.
That’s restraint.
@/NotTheFIA Meanwhile the FIA:
👁️👄👁️
(reading this and pretending nothing else happened)
@/SimRacingLover If Max wasn’t as strong as he is, this would be a very different statement.
Hug your loved ones tonight.
@/LandoFanButHumanFirst Rivals or not — nobody deserves that.
Glad he’s stable. Speedy recovery, Max.
@/OrangeArmyNL Privacy. Patience. Recovery.
We’ll wait as long as it takes. 🧡
@/TelemetryNerd The way they emphasize solidarity across teams…
Yeah. Something shifted in Baku.
@/JustHereForTruth This statement makes Red Bull’s earlier one look even worse, somehow.
@MedicsOfMotorsport Thank you for highlighting emergency responders.
These are the people who stand between tragedy and survival.
@/F1IsFamily Today reminded us that behind helmets are sons, partners, families.
Wishing Max strength and peace during recovery.
@/AlwaysMax33 He’s alive.
That’s it.
That’s the tweet. 🧡
@/MercMechanicFan“In a moment that transcended teams and rivalries”
This is why I love this sport, even when it breaks my heart.
@/FIAwatchdogThis statement reads like dignity in the face of absolute chaos.
****
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
james.brakes: Okay but can someone explain why half the paddock looks like a crime drama right now
jules.elec: I just walked past three police vans and a guy with a clipboard who absolutely did not look FIA
tom.sim: Same. I am choosing to interpret this as ✨not our problem✨
liv.strategy: Honestly? I’m just glad we’re getting out of here tonight. This weekend has taken years off my life.
sam.transmission: The vibes are… deeply off.
Like “everyone suddenly being very polite” levels of off.
flo.eng: You know it’s bad when even the PR people look scared.
leo.mechanic: I am not saying anything.
But the police are doing their job.
james.brakes: LEO.
jules.elec: Leo that sentence alone is saying something
leo.mechanic: I am saying nothing.
I am saying I trust due process.
tom.sim: That is the most ominous thing you could have said.
Anna K. Whatever is happening, I just want to be very clear that I did not touch anything.
liv.strategy: Same. I barely even breathed near the cars.
sam.transmission: I nodded at a Red Bull mechanic once and now I’m wondering if that was too much interaction.
flo.eng: I made eye contact with someone in a navy polo. Am I an accessory.
elliott.systems: Quick systems update:
We’re running internal sims tonight. Don’t worry about us.
tom.sim: Bold of you to say that in this week.
jules.elec: Please don’t break anything before Ana comes back to fix it 😭
flo.eng: Yes, respectfully, we do not have the emotional bandwidth.
elliott.systems: Oh, don’t worry.
She’s the one breaking our brains, not the other way around.
liv.strategy: You okay there, mate?
elliott.systems: Define okay.
sam.transmission: Oh no. He’s spiralling again.
elliott.systems: I opened the new architecture folder she sent.
I understood maybe… 60%.
Which is humbling because 60% of Ana is still more advanced than anything I’ve seen in my life.
james.brakes: That sounds about right.
elliott.systems: There are feedback loops in there that feel illegal.
Like I keep expecting the laws of physics to email me a cease and desist.
jules.elec: She’s terrifying. Affectionately.
tom.sim: Genius-level terrifying.
liv.strategy: This is why she’s banned from explaining things without a whiteboard and snacks.
flo.eng: And why we all just nod like we understand and then panic later.
sam.transmission: Circling back—does anyone actually know what’s happening in the paddock?
leo.mechanic: No.
james.brakes: Do we suspect?
leo.mechanic: Yes.
jules.elec: Do we discuss it?
leo.mechanic: Absolutely not.
Anna K. I like this policy.
liv.strategy: Same. Ignorance is safety.
tom.sim: All I know is:
Police everywhere
Everyone looks exhausted
I want a shower and a bed
sam.transmission: Amen.
elliott.systems: And tomorrow we go back to pretending our jobs are normal.
james.brakes: Nothing says “normal” like advanced hybrid systems and potential international incidents.
sam.transmission: Mercedes things.
leo.mechanic: Get home safe, everyone.
liv.strategy: Seconded.
And maybe… don’t google anything tonight.
elliott.systems: Too late.
I googled Ana Wolff’s math references and now I’m worse.
james.brakes: Goodnight, Elliott.
elliott.systems: Goodnight.
If I don’t understand systems tomorrow, please tell my family I tried.
***
Group Chat: The Old Wolves
(Members: Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, Nico Rosberg, David Coulthard, Mark Webber, Fernando Alonso)
Fernando: He’s awake.
Mark: Thank fuck.
Jenson: Proper awake? Or “eyes open, still on the good drugs” awake?
Fernando: Awake enough. Stable. Doctors are cautiously optimistic.
David: That’s the best sentence I’ve read all day.
Sebastian: Good. Really good. That crash… I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
Nico: Same. I was on air trying to sound calm while my brain was screaming.
Fernando: I’m going to the hospital tomorrow.
And I’m dragging Lando with me whether he likes it or not.
Jenson: He still not okay?
Fernando: He’s a wreck.
Won’t sleep. Keeps replaying it. Keeps saying “he chose the wall” like it’s a loop he can’t break.
Mark: That kind of thing stays with you. Especially when you know why it happened.
Seb: Good call, Nando. He shouldn’t be alone with that.
Mark: Oscar okay?
Fernando: Holding it together better, but still shaken.
Honestly? Half the grid looked like they needed supervision.
David: Which brings us to… the police.
Jenson: Yeah, can we talk about that?
Nico: I’ve never seen a paddock swarm like that outside of a fatality.
Unmarked cars. Plain clothes. Not FIA security. Real police. I had a producer whispering in my ear asking if this was “routine.”
I nearly laughed.
Fernando: Oh, it’s not routine.
And notice how the FIA suddenly found their manners?
Lots of “we appreciate the drivers’ concerns” and “ongoing cooperation.”
David: Amazing what a few police badges will do for tone.
Fernando: They were all teeth yesterday.
Today? Apologies. Handshakes. Reassurances.
Sebastian:
That doesn’t happen unless something’s actually moving behind the scenes.
Fernando: Exactly.
I don’t know details—and honestly, I don’t want them yet—but something is very, very wrong.
Nico: And Max being awake changes everything.
Jenson: Yeah. Hard to sweep things under the rug when the driver survives and can talk.
Mark: Also explains why everyone’s suddenly walking on eggshells.
Sebastian:
Good. They should.
Fernando: For now, priority is him.
Then we make sure this never happens again.
David: If the drivers need us—press, statements, whatever—we’re there.
Jenson: Always.
Mark: You don’t leave one of your own hanging.
Sebastian:
Never.
Nico: Keep us posted after the hospital, Fernando.
Fernando: Will do.
And if Lando tries to dodge me, I’ll physically carry him.
Jenson: I would pay to see that.
Fernando: You’ll get the video after.
Mark: Good night, lads.
Sleep if you can.
Sebastian:
Good night.
And… I’m really glad he’s still with us.
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: This chapter contains major character injury, graphic portrayal of injuries and graphic portrayal of a crash in Formula 1. However, I do not write anything other than Happy Endings, so I am not going to kill off any of my major characters. So the cliffhanger isn’t a cliffhanger, because he’ll survive. I swear. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Press Release: GDPA Statement Regarding the Azerbaijan Grand Prix
The Grand Prix Drivers’ Association wishes to address the events of the 2025 Azerbaijan Grand Prix.
First and foremost, our thoughts are with Max Verstappen and his family and loved ones. We are relieved to confirm that Max has come through surgery and is in stable condition. We wish him strength and a full recovery.
Max is a colleague, a competitor, and a friend to many of us, and seeing a driver suffer a serious accident is something that affects the entire grid deeply.
However, the circumstances surrounding the incident raise serious and urgent concerns.
The drivers collectively witnessed a crash of exceptional violence, involving a car that displayed clear instability over multiple laps prior to the accident. Following the incident, the prolonged extraction, the absence of immediate information, and the visible distress among drivers and personnel underscored the severity of the situation.
In light of this, the GDPA wishes to make the following points clear:
Driver safety must be the absolute priority. When there is credible evidence that a car may be mechanically compromised, responsibility cannot be shifted onto the driver by default. The burden must be on systems, teams, and regulators to ensure that unsafe machinery is removed from competition.
The continuation of the race would have been unacceptable. Multiple drivers expressed, in real time, that the race should not continue under these conditions. The emotional and psychological state of the grid, combined with the uncertainty surrounding the incident, made any resumption incompatible with safe competition.
The timing and nature of post-incident sporting penalties are deeply troubling. Issuing sporting sanctions while a driver is undergoing emergency surgery undermines trust in governance and raises serious questions about judgment, process, and proportionality.
A full, independent investigation is required. The drivers call for a transparent investigation into the technical, procedural, and regulatory factors that contributed to this incident, including pre-crash car behavior, team decision-making, and race control responses.We are deeply troubled by disciplinary actions taken in the immediate aftermath of the accident, at a time when the full technical and medical facts were neither available nor understood. Any assessment of responsibility must wait until a thorough, independent investigation has been completed.
The GDPA therefore formally requests:
A full and transparent investigation into the technical failure that led to the accident.
Clear accountability regarding decisions made before and after the incident.
A reaffirmation that driver safety must always take precedence over sporting outcomes, commercial considerations, or procedural inertia.
Formula 1 is inherently dangerous: it is a sport where human lives are placed at risk every time the lights go out. Every driver accepts that risk. But accepting risk does not mean accepting preventable failure, nor does it mean accepting processes that prioritise continuation over care.
We race because we love this sport. We continue racing because we trust that when something goes wrong, our safety will never be treated as secondary.
That trust must be upheld.
On behalf of the drivers,
Grand Prix Drivers’ Association
For media enquiries, please contact:
press@/gpda.org
****
Twitter Thread: Nuclear
@/pitlaneempathy:
FINALLY. The GDPA said what everyone is thinking. Safety first. Not PR.
@/oversteerenthusiast
That GDPA statement is tone-perfect. Concise, firm, no bullshit. THIS is how you speak for the drivers.
@/f1moralcompass
Drivers united for safety AND accountability = REAL leadership. Respect.
@/holygridmess
The part about not assessing responsibility until after independent investigation — chef’s kiss. Rational and powerful.
@/softlaunchdetective
This is going to put pressure on the FIA more than any hashtag or fan campaign.
@/gridlockgossip
GDPA just served a statement that’s equal parts compassion and fire. Also: that line about relief not erasing concern hits HARD.
@/charleslecryn
Drivers’ union with actual teeth. Respect for calling out the timing of the penalties.
@/f1watchdog
Waiting for the FIA comment now… this just raised the stakes significantly.
@/systemsruinedme
Okay but: they actually called out disciplinary timing. That’s bold AF.
@/paddockrentfree
Totally agree with this. We should want a thorough investigation before blame is assigned.
@/moralchicane
The GDPA didn’t just say “Max should be safe” — they said all drivers. That’s integrity.
@/emotionallyunstablepaddockfan
I wasn’t expecting this level of unity from the grid but I am HERE for it.
@/checkeredflagged
If this doesn’t trigger real action — clear reports, transparency, maybe even changes to safety protocols — then nothing will.
@/f1moralcompass
The GDPA didn’t mince words and they shouldn’t have.
This whole circus needed this.
@/circuitcryclub
Driver unity is everything. Hearing them speak with clarity instead of PR doublespeak is refreshing.
@/nojustcars
The stewards gave penalty points while he was in surgery. This statement might be the first sane thing that happened all weekend.
@/charleslecryn
Respect to the drivers for speaking out together. This isn’t about sides. It’s about basics.
@/f1watchdog
This sets precedent — driver welfare over optics, and that’s significant.
@/paddockdetective
GDPA stepping up and voicing exactly what we all knew but couldn’t say in 280 characters.
@/holygrid
Just. Respect.
@/emotionallyunstablepaddockfan
Can we get a moment to appreciate how rare it is for a group statement to actually matter?
@/charlespitlanepapi
The boardrooms should feel this. Not just read it.
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Ana told Toto it was fine.
She said it calmly, evenly, with the same tone she used when she signed off seven-figure development budgets or told people that no, actually, the simulation was right and they were wrong.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “Go. Deal with the team.”
Toto hesitated—because of course he did—but he knew that look. The one that said this is not a debate. He squeezed her shoulder once, quietly, like an apology and a promise wrapped together.
Raymond went with him. He didn’t even pretend otherwise. He’d already been vibrating with contained rage since the moment he arrived. Red Bull was going to hear from him. Loudly.
So Ana stayed.
The hospital room was too white. Too clean. Too quiet.
Max lay in the bed, wrapped in wires and tubing and casts, his left leg elevated and encased in something that looked more like scaffolding than medical equipment. His face was pale, lips slightly parted, breathing slow and assisted. He looked smaller like this. Younger. Not the unstoppable force the world argued about—just a man who had been broken open by a machine that should have protected him.
Ana sat in the chair beside the bed, spine straight, phone in her hands.
Sophie sat on the other side, fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles had gone white hours ago. She hadn’t left once. Not to eat. Not to drink. She watched Max breathe like it was the only thing anchoring her to the planet.
Jos stood near the window.
Pacing.
Stopping.
Starting again.
Every so often his gaze would flick to Ana—sharp, assessing, irritated in that way that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the fact that she existed in this room at all.
After the third time, he finally snapped.
“You could at least look at him,” Jos said, voice tight. “Instead of playing on your phone.”
Ana didn’t look up.
“I am,” she said.
Jos scoffed. “Doesn’t look like it.”
She paused then. Just for a second.
Her thumbs stopped moving.
Then she lifted her eyes to him—flat, glacial, utterly uninterested in whatever power he thought he held here.
“I am building the car he will drive in 2026,” Ana said quietly. “One that won’t try to kill him.”
Silence.
Sophie turned her head slowly, startled.
Jos blinked. “What?”
Ana looked back down at her screen and resumed typing, thumbs flying with brutal efficiency.
“I don’t need to hold his hand to be present,” she continued, voice level. “He knows I’m here. I don’t need to perform grief to satisfy you.”
Jos bristled. “You think this is about me?”
“Yes,” Ana said, instantly. “Almost everything you do is.”
That landed.
Hard.
Sophie sucked in a sharp breath—not disapproval, not shock, just… tired recognition.
Jos opened his mouth. Closed it. Took a step forward like he might say something truly unforgivable.
Ana didn’t even look up again.
Hours passed.
Machines beeped. Nurses came and went. Sophie dozed sitting upright, one hand still wrapped around Max’s fingers. Jos eventually went silent, retreating back to the window, reduced to a restless shadow.
Ana coded.
Lines of logic. Safety redundancies. Structural failure pathways mapped and remapped. No single-point failures. No compromised components. No “acceptable risk” margins that could be bought or ignored or overridden.
Her phone screen reflected faintly in the glass of the monitor beside Max’s bed—green text on black, endless, ruthless.
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t shaking.
This was what she did when fear threatened to eat her alive.
She built something better.
Every so often she glanced up—at Max’s chest rising and falling, at the steady rhythm of his heart on the monitor—and then she went back to work.
The car would be perfect.
It would protect him.
It would never betray him the way that Red Bull had.
And anyone who thought otherwise—anyone at all—was going to learn just how dangerous Ana Wolff could be when she decided to love someone like this.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 19 September 2025
Raymond Vermeulen did not raise his voice often.
When he did, it was because something had gone catastrophically wrong.
The Red Bull hospitality suite looked like a crime scene trying to pass as a workplace—half-drunk coffees, discarded headsets, people standing in small clusters speaking in low, frantic tones. No one quite knew where to stand. No one quite knew who was in charge anymore.
Raymond walked in like a storm given human shape.
“Where is he,” he demanded.
A junior PR staffer flinched. “Mr. Vermeulen—”
“Where,” Raymond repeated, louder, “is the person who thought it was acceptable to release that statement.”
Silence.
Then someone—brave or foolish—gestured vaguely toward the back.
Raymond didn’t wait. He marched straight through, past engineers who suddenly found the floor fascinating, past comms staff pretending to be on calls, until he reached a cluster of senior personnel.
And Laurent Mekies.
Laurent looked… unwell.
His eyes were red-rimmed. One hand kept rubbing at his forehead like he was trying to erase a migraine by force. Papers were spread in front of him, but none of them were being read.
Raymond stopped in front of the table and dropped Max’s printed medical update on top of everything.
“That,” Raymond said, voice shaking with fury, “is the condition of your driver.”
Laurent blinked at the paper like it might bite him.
“He’s—he’s in surgery,” Laurent said weakly. “We’re waiting for confirmation—”
“And while he’s unconscious,” Raymond snapped, “you put out a statement blaming him.”
One of the comms directors tried to interject. “We had to say something. The media—”
“You did not have to say that,” Raymond cut in. “You did not have to imply driver error. You did not have to talk about ‘aggressive driving.’ You did not have to mention car damage before mentioning that he might lose his leg.”
The room tightened.
Laurent swallowed. “We’re under immense pressure.”
Raymond laughed—a sharp, humorless sound.
“Oh, good,” he said. “Because Max Verstappen is under a lot of pressure too. Mostly from the crushed car that nearly killed him.”
Laurent pushed his chair back abruptly and stood.
“You think I wanted this?” he burst out. His voice cracked. “You think I wanted my first season as team principal to end with a car upside down in the castle and the entire grid threatening a boycott?”
Raymond stepped closer.
“I think,” he said quietly, “that your job was to keep your driver safe.”
Laurent’s hands were shaking now.
“The data didn’t show a critical fault,” Laurent said, too fast. “The car was unstable, yes, but not— not to that extent. He didn’t ask to retire. Race control penalized him. We—”
“You left him out,” Raymond roared.
That finally did it.
Laurent’s composure shattered.
He dragged both hands down his face and turned away, pacing like a trapped animal.
“I didn’t know,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t know it would fail like that. God, do you think I’d let him drive if I thought the car would disintegrate?”
Raymond’s voice dropped to something cold and lethal.
“Someone did.”
Laurent stopped pacing.
“What?”
“Someone knew,” Raymond said. “And until I know who, you don’t get to talk about pressure.”
A senior engineer tried to calm things down. “Raymond, emotions are high—”
“No,” Raymond snapped, rounding on him. “Emotions are appropriate.”
He turned back to Laurent.
“Max trusted this team,” Raymond said. “He trusted the people who touched that car. And now he’s lying in a hospital bed with his leg held together by metal because of it.”
Laurent’s eyes shone.
“I can’t fix this,” he whispered.
“No,” Raymond agreed. “You can’t.”
The words landed like a verdict.
Laurent sank back into his chair, staring at nothing. His breathing was shallow, uneven. For a moment, he looked like a man realizing—too late—that the job he’d wanted was never going to survive the reality.
Raymond straightened his jacket.
“You will cooperate,” he said flatly. “With the FIA. With the GDPA. With any investigation that comes. You will not release another statement without clearing it with me. And if I find out even one person in this team knew something was wrong and stayed silent—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
Laurent nodded, numb.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
Raymond turned and walked out.
Behind him, the Red Bull garage remained frozen—leaderless, shaken, and painfully aware of one simple truth:
Max Verstappen wasn’t just injured.
He was gone.
And everything that had been built around him was coming apart at the seams.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 19 September 2025
Toto returned to the Mercedes hospitality like a man walking back into a battlefield after the bodies had been cleared.
The place was quieter than usual—too quiet. Engineers spoke in low voices. Phones buzzed and were silenced immediately. Every screen still seemed to carry the ghost of that wrecked Red Bull, upside down against stone.
He had just dropped his bag onto the chair in his office when there was a hesitant knock at the door.
“Boss?”
Leo.
Toto looked up instantly. One glance told him everything—Leo’s shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched, his eyes bright with something between fear and resolve.
“Come in,” Toto said.
Leo shut the door behind him. Locked it.
Then he pulled out his phone.
“I… I need to show you something,” Leo said. “I wasn’t sure at first. But I recorded it. Just in case.”
Toto didn’t interrupt. He didn’t rush him. He simply nodded.
Leo hit play.
Voices sharpened. Accents familiar enough to make Toto’s stomach drop.
“Don’t get dramatic. You got paid. We all did.”
“…I didn’t think it’d fail like that. I just— I filed it thinner. Just a touch. Enough that it’d go under stress.”
“And now? Now it’s done. Money’s cleared. Don’t start losing your nerve.”
Leo stopped the recording, hands shaking slightly. “There’s more,” he said quietly. “He starts panicking after that. I’ve got the whole thing. Time stamps. Faces. Voices.”
Toto stared at the phone like it might combust.
For one long, dangerous second, something very dark passed through his expression.
Then it vanished.
What replaced it was colder. Sharper. Controlled.
“We are not sitting on this,” Toto said immediately. No hesitation. No discussion. “We are going straight to the police.”
Leo swallowed. “Azerbaijan or—?”
“Both,” Toto said. “Now.”
He was already reaching for his own phone.
Within minutes, the room filled with quiet, lethal efficiency.
Mercedes legal. FIA legal. External counsel.
And then—Azerbaijani authorities.
The response was immediate. Almost eager.
Sabotage.
Deliberate mechanical interference.
Near-fatal consequences during an FIA-sanctioned event.
That wasn’t motorsport anymore.
That was criminal.
Toto stood beside Leo as the recording was formally handed over, his voice calm and unmistakable.
“The mechanics involved are British citizens,” Toto said. “Red Bull Racing operates out of Milton Keynes. This will require cooperation with UK authorities.”
The Azerbaijani officer nodded without hesitation.
“Of course,” he said. “We will liaise directly with British police. This incident occurred on our circuit. We take it very seriously.”
Very seriously turned out to be an understatement.
By the time Toto left the room, warrants were already being discussed.
Phones were ringing in England.
And somewhere between Baku and Britain, the walls were beginning to close in.
Leo stood there, pale but resolute.
“I didn’t know if I should—” he started.
Toto turned to him sharply. Not angry. Not cold.
Proud.
“You did exactly what you should have done,” Toto said. “You may have saved a life.”
Leo’s throat bobbed.
Toto placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
“And I promise you this,” he added quietly. “No one who touched that car will ever touch another one again.”
As Toto walked away to make the next call his thoughts were brutally clear.
This was no longer about contracts, politics, or championships.
Someone had tried to kill a driver.
Someone had almost killed the man his daughter loved.
And now?
Now there would be consequences.
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Max surfaced the way people do from deep water—slow, disoriented, lungs burning with the vague sense that he’d forgotten something important.
Light hurt.
Sound came in fragments: a machine beeping too close to his head, muffled voices, the soft rustle of fabric. His body felt… wrong. Heavy. Not painful, exactly—more like pain had been wrapped in cotton and shoved to the edges of his awareness.
He blinked.
Once. Twice.
The ceiling swam.
“—awake,” someone said. Far away. “He’s waking up.”
Max frowned. That seemed inconvenient. He was very busy doing… something. Thinking? No. Not thinking. Wanting.
There was one thing—one person—his brain latched onto with absolute, drug-fuelled clarity.
Ana.
“Ana?” he croaked.
His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. A bad impression of himself.
Immediately—instantly—she was there.
She appeared in his line of sight like she’d been summoned, moving too fast, eyes sharp and bright and terrified and controlled all at once. He registered her face before he registered anything else.
Good. She was real. Still here.
“Hey,” she said softly, leaning in. “I’m here.”
Relief hit him so hard his eyes burned.
“There you are,” he slurred, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Been lookin’ for you.”
Ana huffed out something that might have been a laugh if she wasn’t clearly on the verge of several emotional crises. “You’re not lost. You’re in hospital.”
“Mm,” Max said thoughtfully. “Hate that place.”
“You love hospitals,” she replied. “They keep you alive.”
The fog made it hard to hold onto more than one thought at a time, but this one felt important.
“I crashed,” he said slowly, like he was piecing together a mystery. “Did I—did I hit Lando?”
Ana’s hand slid into his hair immediately, grounding, steady.
“No,” she said firmly. “You didn’t hit anyone.”
Max relaxed instantly.
“Good,” he said. “Couldn’t live with that.”
She laughed again, wet and broken.
“You don’t remember anything else?”
He squinted.
“There was a wall,” he said thoughtfully. “I picked the wall.”
Ana closed her eyes.
“Of course you did,” she whispered.
Max watched her for a moment, drugged brain humming, emotions leaking through the cracks without permission. Everything felt louder, closer. The love sat in his chest like a physical thing, heavy and undeniable.
Then his gaze drifted—briefly—to the side of the room.
His mother.
His father.
Oh.
Right.
Parents.
This information did absolutely nothing to stop him.
“Nastya,” he said again, more urgently now, fingers twitching weakly against the sheets like he was trying to reach for her and his body hadn’t quite caught up with the instruction.
She took his hand immediately. Wrapped both of hers around it, grounding, steady.
“I’m here,” she repeated. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That felt important.
Max nodded solemnly, as if she’d just answered a very serious question about the universe.
He was quiet for a few seconds, eyes drifting shut, then opening again with renewed focus—as if he’d remembered something extremely important.
“Nastya.”
“Yes?”
“I had a dream.”
Her chest tightened. “Yeah?”
“We had a house,” he said slowly, as if the words were precious and slippery. “In Monaco. And a baby.”
Ana stopped breathing.
“She had dark hair,” Max continued earnestly. “And she was really small. And I was holding her and—” he blinked, visibly overwhelmed, “—I was really good at it. Holding her. I think.”
Sophie made a strangled sound.
Jos turned around sharply. “What?”
Max frowned at the interruption. “I’m talking.”
Ana squeezed his hand gently. “Max—”
“No, wait,” he insisted, suddenly serious in that drugged, unfiltered way. “This is important.”
He shifted slightly, grimaced, then powered through it with the stubbornness that had won him four championships and nearly gotten him killed.
“I was thinkin’… while I was… asleep,” he murmured.
Ana’s eyebrows knit together. “You were unconscious.”
“Yeah,” he said cheerfully. “That. Very productive.”
Sophie made a small, fond noise from the other side of the bed. Jos shifted, arms crossed, clearly trying not to listen while listening extremely hard.
Max tightened his grip on Ana’s hand with surprising strength.
“Listen,” he said, words starting to blur together, sincerity leaking out of every syllable. “I don’t wanna do life without you. Like—at all. Zero percent.”
Ana froze.
“Max—”
“I mean it,” he continued, steamrolling gently but decisively, eyes glassy and unfocused but locked on her face like she was the only thing anchoring him to consciousness. “You’re my favourite person. Ever. You fix stuff. You scare people. You smell nice. You yell at me when I’m stupid.”
Sophie pressed a hand over her mouth.
Jos stared at the wall with the intensity of a man praying for divine intervention.
Max squinted at Ana, concentrating very hard.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that means I should marry you.”
The room went silent.
Flatlined.
Ana stared at him.
“Max,” she said carefully, “you are extremely high right now.”
He frowned. “Rude.”
“You are on enough pain medication to tranquillise a horse.”
“Strong horse,” he countered.
“You just woke up from surgery.”
“I did,” he agreed cheerfully.
“You have a broken leg. Several broken ribs. A concussion.”
He considered this.
“…still wanna marry you.”
Ana laughed, the sound breaking apart halfway through.
She swallowed. “You cannot propose in front of your parents while barely conscious.”
Max’s mouth twisted into something stubborn and soft and unbearably him.
“Why not?” he asked. “They already like you. Ma loves you. Pa’s scared of you.”
Jos bristled. “I am not—”
“See?” Max said, triumphant. “Perfect.”
Ana squeezed his hand, torn between laughter and tears and the very real urge to throttle him gently.
“This is not how this works,” she whispered.
Max’s eyes flickered, heavy-lidded but earnest.
“I almost died,” he said, like he was stating a mildly inconvenient fact. “And all I wanted was you. So… seems logical.”
Logic.
Her fatal weakness.
“You can’t propose like this,” she said, voice shaking. “You’re not even coherent.”
Max squeezed her fingers weakly.
“I am,” he insisted. “I just… don’t have a ring with me.”
“That is not the main issue.”
“I should. I have it. It’s in Monaco,” Max said firmly. “I should have planned this better. But I didn’t. Because Red Bull—” he scowled faintly, then lost that thought entirely, “—anyway.”
He tugged weakly at her fingers.
“Nastya,” he slurred solemnly, “will you marry me? I promise I’ll listen to you about cars and… everything. And I’ll never drive a possessed Red Bull again.”
Her breath left her in a broken laugh-sob.
Sophie was openly crying now.
Jos closed his eyes and rubbed his face like a man who had lost control of his entire life.
Ana leaned forward, forehead pressing gently to Max’s.
“You are unbelievable,” she whispered.
“Is that a yes?” he asked, hopeful, eyes drooping.
She kissed him.
Soft. Careful. Trembling.
“Yes,” she breathed against his lips. “It’s a yes.”
Max smiled—slow, victorious, utterly wrecked.
“Knew it,” he murmured. “Best decisions while drugged.”
His eyes fluttered shut almost immediately after, consciousness slipping away again, proposal complete.
His eyes fluttered once more.
“Nastya?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t let them put me back in the Red Bull.”
She laughed through tears. “I won’t.”
“Good,” he said sleepily. “I trust you.”
And with that, Max Verstappen—four-time world champion, absolute menace—fell back asleep, still holding her hand, a crooked, satisfied smile on his face.
Ana stayed exactly where she was.
Because even high, even broken, even surrounded by beeping machines and stunned parents—
He had chosen her.
***
Murphy Sheep Farm, Harlestone, England - 22 September 2025
Xia stared at the terminal like it had personally offended her.
Not because it was difficult.
Because it was easy.
That was the part that made her stomach sink.
She sat cross-legged on the floor of home office, back against the couch, laptop balanced on her knees, secondary screen glowing with raw packet logs she’d pulled out of places that were never meant to be seen. The room was dark except for the blue-white light of code and the city glow bleeding in through the windows.
Forget the mechanics, Ana had said.
I need to know if it was him.
Xia had laughed then. A sharp, disbelieving sound.
What the hell, Annie.
But she’d done it anyway.
Because when Ana asked for something like that, it was never paranoia. It was pattern recognition.
Xia flexed her fingers once, then went back to work.
Xia slipped through the backdoor she’d left months ago when she hacked George the last time—custom, elegant, almost affectionate in its design. Not a smash-and-grab. More like leaving a window unlatched because she knew she might want to come back.
The machine welcomed her in without resistance.
She slid through the system without resistance, bypassing biometric logs, ghosting past encryption layers like they were polite suggestions. His desktop bloomed into view.
Tidy. Minimalist. Corporate neutral.
She felt a flicker of irritation.
“Of course,” she muttered.
She didn’t look at his emails first. Or his calendar.
She went straight to the money.
Follow the money. Always.
Her script unfurled silently, parsing transaction histories buried beneath three layers of obfuscation—shell accounts, intermediary wallets, offshore buffers designed to look like boring investment noise.
Xia leaned forward.
There.
A cluster.
Not big sums. That was the clever part.
Five figures here.
Four there.
Staggered.
Irregular.
She tagged the recipients.
One name.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Her breath went shallow.
Red Bull mechanics.
Not senior engineers. Not management.
Hands-on crew.
The kind who touched cars.
The kind who could loosen something. Replace something. “Miss” something during inspection.
Xia felt cold settle behind her eyes.
She opened the message logs tied to the transfers.
Encrypted chats. Auto-delete enabled.
Cute.
She recovered them anyway.
The first message bloomed on screen.
Just make sure it doesn’t last the race.
Xia didn’t blink.
Another.
It has to look like failure. Not interference.
Another.
He always pushes. It’ll finish itself.
Her jaw tightened.
She scrolled.
There was no anger in the messages.
No panic.
No desperation.
Just… certainty.
The calm entitlement of someone who believed the universe owed him correction.
Xia exhaled slowly through her nose.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.
She leaned back, rubbing a hand over her face.
This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing.
This wasn’t rage.
This wasn’t an accident.
This was planning.
She pulled more data—timestamps, locations, metadata triangulation. One of the mechanics had logged a purchase hours after the crash. A car. Too expensive for his salary. Another had paid off a loan.
And there—
She froze.
A note. Not meant to be sent. Drafted. Deleted. Recovered from cache.
He’s had everything handed to him since birth. They built him a car. A team. A narrative. Nobody ever made it hard for him.
Xia’s fingers went numb.
People like that don’t learn unless something breaks.
She slammed the laptop shut.
For three full seconds, she just sat there, breathing hard, the countryside humming obliviously outside.
Ana had been right.
There were not many people allowed to touch that car.
Xia opened the laptop again and began exporting files—clean, verified, redundant. She packaged everything: transactions, messages, metadata, cryptographic hashes.
She triple-backed it up.
Then she encrypted it in a way that would make most law enforcement agencies weep.
Then she left a tidy little file right there in plain view on George’s desktop.
Only then did she open her phone.
Her message to Ana was short.
Clinical.
Unmistakable.
Xia:
It was George Russell. I have proof. Financial. Direct. Multiple mechanics.
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: This chapter contains major character injury, graphic portrayal of injuries and graphic portrayal of a crash in Formula 1. However, I do not write anything other than Happy Endings, so I am not going to kill off any of my major characters. So the cliffhanger isn’t a cliffhanger, because he’ll survive. I swear. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Peter Bonnington’s Hotel Room, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
Bono had been sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, elbows on knees, staring at absolutely nothing.
He’d replayed the crash a dozen times already. Not because he wanted to—God, no—but because his brain wouldn’t stop demanding answers. Engineers were built like that. If something catastrophic happened, there had to be a reason. A cause. A failure point you could name and kill.
There was a knock at the door.
Bono frowned.
He crossed the room and opened it.
And stared.
Jonathan Wheatley stood there, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable.
Behind him—
Adrian Newey.
Bono blinked once.
Twice.
“…what the hell.”
Jonathan tilted his head. “Evening, Bono.”
Adrian smiled faintly, like this was all perfectly reasonable. “Heard you might appreciate an extra set of eyes.”
Bono stepped back automatically. “Right. Sure. Why not. Come in. Do you want tea? Or to dismantle my understanding of reality?”
They were barely inside when Jonathan gestured at Bono’s laptop.
“Can we see what you’ve got?”
Bono nodded numbly and reopened the crash footage. Onboards. Trackside. Slow-motion telemetry overlays he’d pulled from public feeds.
They leaned in.
Silence filled the room—heavy, reverent, terrifying.
Adrian’s brow furrowed.
Jonathan exhaled sharply.
“That yaw spike,” Jonathan muttered. “That’s not driver input.”
“No,” Adrian agreed quietly. “That’s structural.”
Bono swallowed. “So I’m not losing my mind.”
“No,” Adrian said gently. “You’re just very, very unlucky to be right.”
Another knock.
Bono didn’t even question it anymore.
He opened the door.
Hannah Schmitz stood there.
With a suitcase.
And a second bag slung over her shoulder.
And a USB stick held between two fingers like a peace offering.
She looked exhausted. Furious. Free.
“Hi,” she said. “I quit my job.”
Silence.
Absolute, biblical silence.
Bono stared. Adrian blinked. Jonathan swore under his breath.
Hannah stepped inside, dropped the suitcase by the wall, and held out the USB.
“Internal telemetry,” she said. “Everything. Control loops. Power unit logs. Brake migration. All of it.”
Bono took it like it might explode.
“You—” He cleared his throat. “You what?”
“I quit,” she repeated calmly. “Damage limitation mode started the moment Max stopped moving. I wasn’t going to be part of that.”
She nudged the second bag with her foot.
“And that’s Max’s luggage. From his hotel room. Red Bull PR wanted it secured.” She smiled thinly. “I disagreed.”
Bono exhaled shakily and laughed once—sharp, incredulous.
“Well,” he said, plugging the USB in, “I doubt you’ll be unemployed for long.”
Hannah snorted. “Why’s that?”
Bono didn’t look up from the screen.
“Because Ana Wolff is going to pounce on you like a heat-seeking missile.”
Adrian, without looking up from the screen, added mildly, “Alternatively, Aston Martin would be very interested.”
Jonathan smirked. “As would Audi.”
She smiled tiredly.
“Good to know,” she said. “I like being wanted.”
Bono watched the first data streams populate the screen and felt that familiar, sickening calm settle over him.
The kind that came when you stopped hoping it was nothing and started preparing for it to be something.
Lines of telemetry bloomed across the laptop—clean, horrifyingly precise. Control loops. Rear suspension load traces. Torque demand vs delivery. Brake migration spikes that didn’t line up with driver input.
Adrian leaned closer, fingers steepled.
Jonathan shifted his weight, already frowning.
Hannah folded her arms and said nothing. She didn’t need to.
Bono swallowed and reached for his phone.
“Let’s get GP,” he said quietly.
No one argued.
He dialed. Put it on speaker. The ring barely completed before it connected.
GP’s voice came through instantly. “I’m here.”
Bono didn’t waste time. “We’ve got you on speaker. Adrian’s here. Jonathan too. Hannah just dropped internal telemetry on my desk.”
A beat.
Then GP said, flat and controlled, “Okay.”
Bono shared his screen to the TV and scrubbed back through the onboards.
“Watch this,” he said. “Lap thirty-seven. Castle section approach.”
They watched Max’s onboard first. The twitch. The correction. The moment the car stopped behaving like a machine and started acting like a betrayal.
Adrian shook his head slowly. “That’s not progressive failure.”
“No,” Jonathan agreed. “That’s instantaneous.”
Bono pulled up Kimi Antonelli’s dash cam—two cars back, slightly offset. A view no one had really looked at yet.
“Here,” Bono said. “Frame-by-frame.”
He slowed it.
Once. Twice.
Then GP inhaled sharply.
“Stop,” GP said. “There.”
Bono froze the frame.
A flicker at the rear of Max’s car—tiny, almost invisible at full speed.
Adrian leaned in until his nose was practically touching the screen.
A component—small, dark—sheared away from the rear assembly and vanished sideways into the air.
Hannah’s breath caught.
“That’s not debris pickup,” Jonathan said immediately. “That’s parting.”
GP’s voice was tight now. “Zoom.”
Bono zoomed.
The fragment rotated once before disappearing under Kimi’s front wing.
Adrian straightened slowly.
“That,” he said, very quietly, “is a load-bearing element.”
Bono felt his pulse in his ears. “Rear suspension interface,” he murmured. “Or—”
“Or the damper linkage,” Hannah finished. Her voice was deadly calm. “That explains the yaw spike. Total loss of rear stability in under a tenth.”
Jonathan exhaled hard. “That part doesn’t just fail.”
GP was silent.
Too silent.
“GP?” Bono prompted.
GP spoke at last, each word measured. “That component is over-engineered to hell. Safety factor of—what—four? Five?”
“At least,” Adrian said.
“And it doesn’t shear clean like that unless—” GP stopped.
Bono closed his eyes for half a second. “Unless it was compromised.”
“Yes,” GP said. “Unless someone made sure it would break.”
The room went still.
Not shocked.
Not confused.
Just… grimly, devastatingly aligned.
Hannah’s jaw tightened. “There are maybe six people allowed to touch that area without secondary sign-off.”
Jonathan nodded. “And only three during parc fermé prep.”
Bono stared at the frozen frame—at the exact instant Max lost the car.
“That wasn’t driver error,” he said hoarsely.
“No,” Adrian agreed. “That was inevitability.”
GP’s voice hardened. “Someone sabotaged that car.”
No one corrected him.
No one softened it.
Bono leaned back against the desk, suddenly lightheaded.
“So,” he said, voice hoarse, “this wasn’t a freak accident.”
GP’s voice softened—just a fraction. “No. This was a mechanical failure.”
A beat.
“Engineered.”
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Adrian straightened slowly. “We need copies of everything. Now. Before Red Bull locks it down completely.”
He thought of Ana—white-faced in the garage, silent, breaking apart molecule by molecule while the world kept spinning.
He clenched his jaw.
“Yeah,” he said. “She does.”
The line went dead.
Bono stared at the phone for a long moment.
Then at the screen.
At the broken car.
At the moment something snapped.
At the proof.
Bono felt something cold and furious settle into his chest—not panic, not grief, but clarity.
He rewound the clip once more and watched it again.
The moment.
The break.
The silence that followed.
Max choosing the wall instead of Lando.
Max paying for someone else’s decision with his body.
Bono straightened.
This wasn’t just a failure.
It was a line crossed.
And Ana Wolff was going to burn the ground down to find out who did it.
***
Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
GP: Ana.
We’ve got it.
Ana: What failed.
GP: Rear load-bearing structural component.
Under-floor assembly, just ahead of the rear axle.
It shouldn’t fail. Ever.
Ana: Mode of failure.
GP: Microfracture.
Deliberate weakening.
Would only snap under peak lateral load.
Which is exactly what happened in Turn 8.
Ana: So not driver error.
GP: Not even close.
Max never had a chance to save it.
Ana: Who is allowed to touch that component?
GP: Five people.
Six, if you count sign-off authority.
All senior. All trusted. All know exactly what they’re doing.
Ana: Names.
GP: I’ll send them separately.
Ana: Good.
I’ll deal with it.
GP: I figured you would.
GP: Also—
Hannah quit.
Ana: …she did what.
GP: Walked. Brought all internal telemetry with her.
Damage limitation mode was the final straw.
Ana: Is she safe?
GP: Yes. With Bono.If you want her, move quickly.
Adrian and Jonathan are already circling, and Aston/Audi will not hesitate.
Ana: I do.
GP: Didn’t doubt that for a second.
Ana: Thank you. For finding this.
For not letting it disappear.
GP: For him?
Always.
We’ll get him the car he deserves.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
Ana: It was sabotage.
Mechanical. Intentional.
One component. One failure point.
It was always meant to break.
Xia: …Jesus.
So you’re not asking if anymore. You’re asking who.
Ana: Exactly.
Xia: Send me what you have.
Ana: Sending names.
One of them did it.
Ana: —
[redacted]
[redacted]
[redacted]
[redacted]
[redacted]
[redacted]
All had authorized access.
All were present across the relevant build window.
Xia: That’s not a list.
That’s a kill room.
Ana: I don’t want revenge.
I want certainty.
Xia: You’ll get it.
Digital footprints don’t lie—people do.
Ana: Be careful.
Xia: Always.
I won’t touch anything that traces back to you.
Ana: Good.
Xia: One question.
If I find the answer… what do you want done with it?
Ana:I want them to never touch a race car again.
Xia: Understood.
I’ll start.
Ana: Thank you.
Xia: Annie…
Whoever did this underestimated you.
Ana: They always do.
Xia: I’ll message you when I have something solid.
Until then—stay with Max.
Ana: I will.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
FIA Formula 1 World Championship
2025 AZERBAIJAN GRAND PRIX
19 - 21 September 2025
From The Stewards
To The Team Manager, Oracle Red Bull Racing
Document 45
Date 21 September 2025
Time 23:33
The Stewards, having received a report from the Race Director, have considered the following matter and determine the following:
No / Driver 1 - Max Verstappen
Competitor Oracle Red Bull Racing
Time 15:51
Session Race
Fact Car 1 drove erratically when defending its position against car 23
Infringement Breach of Appendix L, Chapter IV, Article 2 e) of the International Sporting Code.
Decision 10 second time penalty.
4 penalty point (total of 12 for the 12 month period).
Reason
The Stewards reviewed positioning/marshalling system data, and video evidence.
Car 1 made several erratic moves between turns 2 and 3 as Car 23 was approaching.
Competitors are reminded that they have the right to appeal certain decisions of the Stewards, in accordance with Article 15 of the FIA International Sporting Code and Chapter 4 of the FIA Judicial and Disciplinary Rules, within the applicable time limits.
Decisions of the Stewards are taken independently of the FIA and are based solely on the relevant regulations, guidelines and evidence presented.
***
Twitter Thread: Stewarts 1 - Humanity 0
Twitter Thread: FIA Penalty Fallout
@/pitlanechaos
ARE YOU ACTUALLY KIDDING ME
THE FIA JUST GAVE MAX 4 PENALTY POINTS
WHILE HE IS IN SURGERYAFTER THE MOST HORRIFIC CRASH IN YEARS
@/apextrauma
Let me get this straight:
– No collision
– Car clearly unstable
– Driver later nearly killed
– FIA: “yes but vibes were erratic”
@/turn1truth
Four penalty points is what you give someone who punts another driver into the wall.
Not someone who was fighting a possessed car and then ended up upside down in a castle.
@/oversteerpls
They penalized him for “erratic defending”
And then the car LITERALLY DISINTEGRATED
Do you think—just maybe—that explains the erratic movement???
@/fiawatchlist
Max Verstappen now on 12 penalty pointsBecause the FIA decided to play bureaucratic whack-a-mole
While he’s unconscious in a hospital bed.
@/carbonfibercrying
The timing is what gets me.
You could’ve waited.
You could’ve reviewed it later.
You chose now.
@/racecontrolwho
So let me summarize:
Car breaks
Driver fights it
Driver crashes violently
FIA: “Also you’ve got a race ban, babes 💕”
@/alexalbonfan
As an Alex fan:
Alex would be HORRIFIED by this decision.
There was no contact.
No harm.
Nothing to penalize.
@/monacopsyche
They’re effectively saying:
“Yes the car failed catastrophically BUT ALSO that’s the driver’s fault.”
@/downforceandrage
Penalty points are supposed to be a safety deterrent.
How does this improve safety??
Explain it like we’re five.
@/ghostofspa
We have precedent for delaying steward decisions after medical incidents.
The FIA just chose not to use it.
@/screamingintogravel
This is how you turn a safety issue into a scandal.
This is how you tell drivers:
“If your car fails, we’ll blame you.”
@/notneutralanymore
Imagine being Alex Albon and waking up to see THIS
When you weren’t even touched.
@/wheelgunriot
If Max misses a race next year because of THIS
This decision will live in infamy.
@/f1ethicscommittee
Penalty issued at 23:33 local timeWhile the driver is still in surgery
Is not “procedural neutrality”
It’s cruelty.
@/marshalscorner
The FIA could have shown restraint.
Instead they showed paperwork.
@/flatoutfurious
No “get well soon.”
No acknowledgment of the crash severity.
Just:
“Here’s 4 points. Good luck with the titanium.”
@/f1memorylane
We’ve seen drivers kill cars, crash out, walk away — and stewards wait days.
But today?
Speedrun accountability, zero humanity.
@/maxdefenseleague
You can dislike Max Verstappen
You can argue about his driving style
But if you’re okay with THIS decision?
You’re the problem.
@/blackflagtruth
They black-flagged the race eventually.
But they couldn’t black-flag their own decision making.
@/gridwideanger
FIA really said:
“Thoughts and prayers. Also here’s a ban countdown.”
@/endofthread
This isn’t justice.
It’s tone-deaf, dangerous, and insulting.
And the paddock will not forget it.
@/monacopaddock
Max is literally on an operating table right now
And the FIA is like:
“Also, fuck you.”
@/safetyfirstmyass
What message does this send exactly?
That drivers should… what?
Let the car take them out sooner???
@/carbonfibretears
This feels like they’re trying to rewrite the narrative
“erratic driving” instead of “mechanical failure”
@/f1watchdog
Remember:
Penalty points stay on your license for 12 months
This could affect 2026
While the man is still unconscious
@/racecontrolpls
I need someone at the FIA to explain this decision
ON CAMERA
With a straight face
***
Lambiase Residence, Milton Keynes, England - 21 September 2025
GP had stopped pretending he was going to sleep hours ago.
The living room was dark except for the muted glow of the television, paused on a frame he had memorised against his will: Castle section. Frame-by-frame scrub. The Red Bull already wrong. Already gone.
Francesca had fallen asleep curled up at one end of the couch, knees tucked to her chest, one arm thrown over Max the dog’s back. The dog hadn’t moved in over an hour—head up, ears alert, like he understood exactly what kind of night this was. Like he was standing guard for someone who wasn’t here.
Eloisa sat beside GP on the floor, her back against the couch, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. She hadn’t told him to turn it off. She knew better than that.
GP rewound again.
The rear snapped. Not a driver correction. Not instinct. Failure.
“I’ve watched this crash more times than I watched my own wedding video,” he said quietly, voice rough around the edges. “And I still keep thinking—maybe if I look at it again, it won’t happen.”
Eloisa leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re trying to undo it.”
“I should’ve been there,” GP said immediately. The words came out sharp, rehearsed. “I should’ve been on the radio. I should’ve been talking him through it. He listens when I talk. He trusts me.”
“You weren’t allowed,” she said gently.
“I don’t care.” His jaw clenched. “I’ve been talking him through bad cars since he was eighteen years old. Eighteen. A kid who looked like he was carved out of stubbornness and bad sleep.”
He scrubbed back again, stopping just before the moment everything went wrong.
“When he first came in,” GP continued, softer now, “he didn’t ask questions. He absorbed. Everything. You’d explain something once and he’d never forget it. He was angry back then—angry at everything—but not cruel. Never cruel.”
Eloisa smiled faintly. “You always said he was older than he looked.”
“He was.” GP exhaled. “But he still trusted people like a kid. Trusted that if something was wrong, we’d catch it. That someone was watching his back.”
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the paused broadcast.
“I’ve seen him grow up,” GP said. “I’ve seen him learn when to push and when to lift. When to fight and when to protect himself. And tonight—” His voice cracked. “Tonight he chose the wall instead of another driver. Like it was nothing. Like pain was just another variable to manage.”
Eloisa squeezed his shoulder. “He’s alive because of that.”
“I know.” GP swallowed hard. “But he shouldn’t have had to make that choice.”
Francesca shifted in her sleep, murmuring Max’s name—half-dream, half-prayer. Max the dog lifted his head briefly, then settled again when everything stayed quiet.
GP reached for his phone without really thinking.
Big mistake.
The screen lit up with notifications—mentions, screenshots, outrage. One headline burned straight into his skull.
FIA Decision: 4 Penalty Points Issued to Verstappen
GP stared.
Once.
Twice.
Then the dam broke.
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” he snapped, shooting to his feet so fast Eloisa startled.
“What?” she asked.
“They penalised him,” GP said, scrolling furiously. “Four penalty points. For ‘erratic driving.’”
Eloisa went still. “He’s in surgery.”
“I KNOW,” GP barked. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “He’s unconscious on an operating table and they’re handing out penalty points like it’s a goddamn parking ticket.”
He laughed once—short, furious, disbelieving. “Erratic driving. The car was breaking underneath him. We KNOW it was sabotage. We KNOW something snapped.”
He jabbed a finger at the screen like it could feel shame. “They’re rewriting it. Blaming him. Again.”
Eloisa stood and took his face in her hands, forcing him to stop pacing. “Hey. Breathe.”
His chest heaved. “They let him go out in that car. They ignored the signs. And now they’re punishing him for surviving.”
Francesca stirred again, eyes blinking open, immediately scanning the room. “Is Max okay?” she asked sleepily.
GP’s anger softened instantly. He knelt in front of her. “He’s still in surgery, sweetheart. But he’s strong. He’s very strong.”
She nodded solemnly. “He’s brave,” she said. “He always is.”
“Yes,” GP said, voice thick. “He is.”
She curled back into the couch, Max the dog pressing closer to her like a furry shield.
GP stood again, slower this time. He looked back at the paused screen—at the moment before everything went wrong.
“I should’ve protected him better,” he said quietly.
Eloisa wrapped her arms around him from behind. “You’ve protected him for years.”
“Not tonight.”
“You didn’t fail him,” she said firmly. “The system did.”
GP closed his eyes.
Then he opened them, fire settling into something colder. Sharper.
“They can give him all the penalty points they want,” he said. “I don’t care. Because we know the truth. And so will everyone else.”
He reached for his phone again—this time not to scroll.
“To hell with gardening leave,” he muttered.
And somewhere far away, in a hospital filled with fluorescent lights and quiet beeping machines, Max Verstappen was still alive.
And that, for GP, was the only thing that mattered.
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Anastasia sat beside him.
She hadn’t moved in hours.
Not really.
Her body was still—perfect posture, legs crossed, shoulders squared—but her thumbs were moving constantly, flying across her phone screen with frightening precision. No doom-scrolling. No spiraling. Just typing. Sending. Receiving. Processing.
Building something.
Toto watched her out of the corner of his eye and felt a prickle of unease he didn’t fully understand yet.
He’d seen Anastasia under pressure before.
Boardrooms. Technical crises. Race weekends where everything hinged on a single decision.
But this was different.
This was personal.
“Anastasia,” he said gently, after watching her type for what felt like the hundredth uninterrupted minute. “You need to put that down for a moment.”
She didn’t look up. “I can’t.”
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’ve been on that phone since we got here.”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.”
That made him look at her properly.
Her eyes were bright—too bright. Focused. Sharp in a way that made his instincts, honed over decades of negotiation and crisis, whisper a warning.
This was not panic.
This was something far more dangerous.
Then she spoke, flat and precise, without lifting her gaze.
“The car was sabotaged.”
Toto stilled.
The words hung between them, absurd and enormous.
“Sternchen,” he said carefully, “you don’t have evidence for that.”
Her thumbs stopped.
Slowly, she looked up at him.
Not angry.
Not hysterical.
Just… cold.
“I do,” she said. “I just don’t have something that would satisfy a press release.”
Toto shook his head. “You’re exhausted. You’re emotional. This is not the moment to—”
“The failure mode doesn’t match fatigue,” she interrupted calmly. “It doesn’t match wear. It doesn’t match manufacturing variance or installation error.”
“Anastasia—”
“It matches a controlled mechanical failure under load,” she continued, voice steady, clinical. “A component designed to hold until a specific threshold, and then fail catastrophically.”
Toto leaned back in his chair, jaw tightening. “The FIA will investigate.”
She stared at him.
Actually stared.
“The same FIA,” she said quietly, “that just issued Max enough penalty points for a race ban while he’s still in surgery?”
That landed like a punch.
Toto’s mouth opened. Closed.
“That FIA?” she finished.
Silence stretched.
Toto exhaled slowly. “You’re asking me to believe that someone intentionally put him in that car knowing it would fail.”
“Yes.”
“Someone who works at Red Bull.”
“Yes.”
“Someone who had access to that specific component.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re prepared to accuse—”
“I’m not accusing,” Ana said softly. “I’m identifying.”
That was when Toto felt it.
That shift.
The moment he realised his daughter was no longer reacting to trauma.
She was processing a problem.
And Ana, when faced with a problem, did not flail.
She dissected.
He’d always known she was brilliant. Ruthlessly so.
But sitting here, fluorescent lights humming overhead, Max’s life balanced on surgical precision behind closed doors—
Toto realised something new.
Ana was incandescent with rage.
And she wasn’t burning.
She was freezing.
“Papa,” she said, using the word rarely, deliberately, “Hannah Schmitz quit her job tonight.”
That snapped his attention back fully. “What?”
“She walked out,” Ana said. “Brought internal telemetry with her. Handed it to Bono.”
Toto’s eyebrows shot up. “She did what?”
“Red Bull went into damage limitation mode the moment Max stopped moving,” Ana continued evenly. “She refused to be part of it.”
Toto closed his eyes for a moment.
Hannah Schmitz didn’t quit lightly.
People like her didn’t jump without a parachute.
Unless the ground behind them was on fire.
“When?” he asked.
“Hours ago.”
“And you’re telling me this now.”
“Yes.”
Because she hadn’t been asking his permission.
She’d been informing him.
Toto looked at his daughter properly now.
Her spine was straight. Her breathing measured. Her face composed in a way that chilled him.
This wasn’t grief.
This wasn’t fear.
This was a systems engineer confronting a hostile variable.
He’d seen this version of Ana exactly twice before.
Once, when a supplier lied to her about tolerances.
Once, when a senior engineer tried to bury a fault to protect his reputation.
Both men no longer worked in Formula One.
“Anastasia,” Toto said slowly, “if you’re wrong—”
“I’m not.”
“If you’re right,” he countered, “this becomes criminal.”
She nodded. “I’m aware.”
“This will destroy careers.”
“Yes.”
“It will ignite a war.”
She tilted her head slightly, considering.
“Good.”
That was the moment Toto understood just how dangerous she was when angry.
Not because she would shout.
Not because she would lash out.
But because she would apply logic without mercy.
No emotion clouding judgment.
No hesitation.
No concern for collateral damage.
Only cause and effect.
Toto leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“You are not doing this alone,” he said firmly.
Ana held his gaze.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
A beat passed.
Then she looked back down at her phone and resumed typing—calm, efficient, surgical.
Outside the operating theatre, the world still believed this was an accident.
Inside that corridor, Toto Wolff realised something else entirely:
Whoever had touched that car had made a catastrophic miscalculation.
They had hurt Max Verstappen.
And they had awakened Anastasia Wolff.
And Toto, watching his daughter turn fury into evidence, knew with terrifying certainty—
The reckoning would be absolute.
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
The news came quietly.
No fanfare. No rush of feet. Just a doctor stepping into the waiting area with a tired smile that didn’t quite hide the hours behind it.
“He’s out of surgery,” he said. “It went well.”
Ana felt the words register somewhere far away—like sound underwater. Out of surgery. Went well. Stable. The vocabulary of survival, delivered with practiced calm.
Toto exhaled beside her, a sound that carried weeks of pressure in it.
The doctor kept talking. Leg stabilised. Internal fixation successful. No neurological deficits observed so far. He’ll be monitored closely for the next twenty-four hours. ICU, but precautionary. You can see him, if you’d like.
If you’d like.
Ana stood before she consciously decided to. Her body moved on instruction she didn’t remember issuing.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice was steady. “I’d like to.”
The walk down the corridor felt unreal—too long, too bright, too clean for what had happened inside those walls. Her reflection slid past in the glass panels: composed, upright, almost serene.
Nobody would have guessed that she was holding herself together molecule by molecule.
The door opened.
Max lay in the bed like a ghost of himself.
Machines surrounded him—monitors, lines, quiet beeping that felt obscenely gentle after the violence of the crash. His leg was immobilised, wrapped and braced in layers that spoke of surgical precision and brutal force. There were bruises already blooming along his collarbone, his ribs. Scratches. Tape. A faint mark on his temple where something had kissed skin too hard.
He was pale.
Breathing.
Alive.
Ana stopped just inside the room.
And something inside her locked shut.
Not because she didn’t feel.
Because she felt too much.
Love hit her first—violent, immediate, bone-deep. The kind of love that didn’t flutter or warm but anchored, heavy and absolute. The kind that said: this person is mine, and the world is smaller without them.
Then came the images.
The car airborne.
The halo twisted.
The silence on the radio.
The bone.
Her mind tried to connect them to the man in the bed, and something in her refused to let that happen all at once.
So she did what she had learned to do a lifetime ago.
She compartmentalised.
Ana stepped closer, carefully, like approaching a wild animal that had been hurt. She didn’t touch him yet. She needed to see everything first. To catalogue. To understand.
He looked impossibly young like this. Stripped of speed and fire and defiance. Just a man, unconscious, breathing because other people had fought very hard to keep him that way.
Her chest tightened.
She loved him.
God, she loved him.
And underneath that love—sharp and crystalline—was something else entirely.
Rage.
Not loud. Not hot.
Clean.
She looked at his leg and felt the calm certainty of someone identifying a fault in a system.
Someone did this.
Someone decided his life was an acceptable variable.
Her jaw tightened imperceptibly.
Ana had spent years pretending she didn’t have feelings.
It was easier that way. Feelings were messy. Inefficient. Vulnerable to exploitation. She told herself she was above them, that she operated on logic and precision alone.
That had never been entirely true.
There had always been a handful of people who bypassed the armour. Jack. Susie. Toto, eventually.
And now Max.
She would never admit it out loud, but she had known the moment he mattered in a way that was dangerous. The moment she stopped seeing him as a driver, a variable, a brilliant mind behind a wheel—and started seeing him as someone she would break the world for if necessary.
She stepped closer and finally let herself touch him.
Her fingers wrapped gently around his hand, careful of lines and tape. Warm. Real.
“I’m here,” she murmured, even though he couldn’t hear her. “You’re okay.”
The words were for her as much as for him.
She stood there for a long moment, breathing in time with the machines, anchoring herself to the simple, miraculous fact of his existence.
And beneath the calm surface she presented to the world, a promise formed—quiet, unyielding, absolute.
She would find who did this.
She would dismantle every choice that led to him lying here.
Ana Wolff did not go to war often.
But when she did—
She did not miss.
And as the machines continued their steady vigil around Max Verstappen, Ana Wolff sat perfectly still and made a silent promise:
Everyone responsible for this would suffer.
Not emotionally.
Not publicly.
Precisely.
Completely.
And without mercy.
And as the machines continued their steady vigil around Max Verstappen, Ana Wolff sat perfectly still and made a silent promise:
Everyone responsible for this would suffer.
Precisely.
Completely.
And without mercy.
***
Somewhere - 22 September 2025
Max didn’t feel pain.
Not in the way people meant when they said the word.
There was pressure—distant, rhythmic, like waves breaking far below him—but it never quite reached him. Instead, there was light. Warm, filtered light. The kind that came through linen curtains in the late afternoon.
He was standing in a house.
Their house.
Monaco sunlight spilled across pale stone floors, soft and honeyed, catching dust motes in the air.
Max stood in a doorway, barefoot, slightly disoriented, with the vague sense that he’d forgotten something important — like how he’d gotten here, or why his chest felt tight — but none of that seemed urgent.
Because the house was theirs.
He knew it the way you know your own name.
Monaco. The new place. The one with the garden that Ana had walked through three times already, mentally rearranging furniture that didn’t exist yet. The one with the skylight she wanted for the library. The one that still smelled faintly of plaster and salt air and possibility.
And Ana was there.
She stood by the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back in a messy knot that meant she’d been thinking hard about something and lost the fight with gravity. She was laughing — actually laughing — at something he couldn’t quite hear.
In her arms—
Max’s breath caught.
A baby.
A little girl.
She was impossibly small and impossibly solid at the same time, bundled against Ana’s chest, one tiny fist gripping the collar of her shirt like she refused to be put down ever again. She was wrapped in a light pink blanket, covered in stars.
And her hair—
Dark.
Thick.
A shock of it, already unruly, standing up in soft defiance.
Max felt something in his chest crack open.
“Oh,” he whispered, without meaning to.
Ana looked up, eyes softening instantly when she saw him — that look she only ever gave him when she forgot to guard herself.
“Hey,” she said, quietly. “You’re awake.”
That felt important.
Max crossed the room without quite remembering moving. His hands shook when he reached out, hovering uselessly until Ana shifted the baby slightly and smiled at him — reassuring, gentle, unafraid.
She shifted, holding the baby out to him.
“Here. She missed you.”
He took her before he could think—instinct, not choice.
The weight was perfect.
So light, so real.
She blinked up at him with impossibly big eyes and a frown that was definitely Ana’s.
“Hey there,” Max whispered. His throat went tight. “Hey, meisje.”
Her tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb.
The world stopped existing.
Ana leaned against his shoulder, watching them.
“Every time you hold her, you look surprised,” she murmured.
“I am,” he said quietly.
“She’s… she’s perfect.”
The moment the weight settled against him, Max’s entire world rearranged itself.
She fit.
Like she had always belonged there.
Her warmth soaked straight through his shirt. Her breath puffed softly against his collarbone. One tiny hand curled around his finger with surprising strength, like she was claiming him.
Max stared down at her, stunned.
She blinked up at him — unfocused, solemn, ancient in the way newborns sometimes are — and then frowned slightly, as if considering something very serious.
“Oh no,” Max murmured. “She’s judging me already.”
Ana laughed, low and fond. “She gets that from you.”
“No,” he said fiercely. “She gets everything good from you.”
The baby yawned — a ridiculous, gummy thing — and then, without warning, settled completely.
Trusted him.
Max felt tears prick his eyes, sudden and humiliating and unstoppable.
“I love her,” he said hoarsely, the words tearing themselves out of him before he could think better of it.
Max held his daughter—his daughter—and the world felt suddenly fragile in a way that made sense. Precious. Worth fighting for.
“I don’t ever want to leave this,” he admitted.
Ana’s voice was gentle but steady. “Then don’t.”
He frowned. “What if—”
She cut him off, placing her hand over his heart.
“You’re still here,” she said. “You’re fighting. Come back to me.”
The room began to blur.
The sunlight softened, stretched, like it was being pulled away.
The baby stirred, then yawned, impossibly small mouth opening wide.
Max tightened his arms instinctively.
“No,” he whispered. “Please—”
Ana leaned in, forehead to his.
“Remember this,” she said. “Remember what you’re coming back to.”
He felt it then.
A tug.
A distant, insistent pull.
Beeping.
Cold.
Voices.
Max pressed a kiss to his daughter’s hair.
“I’ll be back,” he promised her. “I swear.”
Her fingers tightened once more around his.
Then—
Darkness.
But not empty.
Full.
And when his body fought its way back toward pain and light and reality, one truth burned brighter than anything else:
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: This chapter contains major character injury, graphic portrayal of injuries and graphic portrayal of a crash in Formula 1. However, I do not write anything other than Happy Endings, so I am not going to kill off any of my major characters. So the cliffhanger isn’t a cliffhanger, because he’ll survive. I swear. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
The hospital corridor smelled like antiseptic and something metallic that clung to the back of the throat.
Too bright.
Too quiet.
Too final in the way only hospitals ever were.
Toto sat rigid in the hard plastic chair outside the operating theatre, hands folded because if he let them move, he wasn’t sure what they’d do. Ana sat beside him, close enough that he could feel the tension rolling off her in waves, but not touching. She hadn’t leaned into him. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t said much of anything at all.
She was folded inward.
Her posture was precise. Controlled. Almost clinical.
The way she got when emotion became too large to process safely.
She stared at the floor tiles like they contained answers.
Max was in surgery.
Orthopaedic trauma team. Vascular consult. Neuro on standby.
Aggressive intervention.
The words replayed in Toto’s head like a broken record.
His phone buzzed.
Susie.
He hesitated for half a second—then answered.
“Susie.”
Her voice came through immediately, too calm, which meant she was holding herself together by her fingernails.
“How is she?” she asked. “How is Ana?”
Toto closed his eyes.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, phone pressed to his ear like it might anchor him.
“How would you feel,” he said quietly, “if that was me in surgery?”
There was silence on the line.
A breath. Sharp. Caught.
“Oh,” Susie whispered. “Oh, Toto.”
“She’s functioning,” he continued, voice low, steady because it had to be. “Not… coping. Functioning. She hasn’t cried. She hasn’t shaken. She hasn’t asked questions she doesn’t already know the answers to.”
Susie exhaled slowly. “That’s worse.”
“Yes,” Toto said. “It is.”
He glanced sideways.
Ana hadn’t moved. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, fingers interlaced, knuckles white. Her foot bounced once, stopped, bounced again—precise, rhythmic, like she was regulating herself one small movement at a time.
“She watched him disappear into that car,” Toto said, voice roughening despite himself. “And she watched them cut him out. She watched his leg—”
He stopped.
Swallowed.
“She thinks if she feels too much,” he said, “she’ll break.”
Susie’s voice softened into something fierce and aching.
“Is she letting you sit with her?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t leave.”
“I won’t.”
Another pause.
“Does she know how bad it is?” Susie asked gently.
“She knows exactly how bad it is,” Toto replied. “She just refuses to speculate beyond confirmed data.”
Of course she does, Susie didn’t say—but Toto heard it anyway.
Susie took a breath on the other end.
“If it were you,” she said quietly, “I would not be functioning.”
Toto’s jaw tightened.
“That’s how she feels,” he said. “She just doesn’t allow herself to show it.”
He watched as Ana’s fingers flexed once—just once—before locking together again.
“She asked Edward to translate the medical language,” Toto added. “Not because she didn’t understand it. Because she didn’t trust herself not to dissociate if she heard it raw.”
Susie exhaled shakily. “My poor girl.”
Toto’s throat tightened at that.
At the ownership in it. The certainty.
“I should be there,” Susie said. “I should be with her.”
“You are,” Toto replied softly. “She knows. She asked me earlier if you were watching Jack.”
That did it.
Susie’s breath hitched.
“I am,” she said. “He knows something bad happened. He’s pretending he doesn’t. He asked if Max is brave.”
Toto closed his eyes.
“He is,” he said. “He’s very brave.”
A nurse walked past. The operating theatre doors stayed closed.
Still no news.
“How long?” Susie asked.
“They said hours.”
“Call me the second you know anything.”
“I will.”
“Toto,” she said, and there was steel under the softness now. “If she starts to unravel—really unravel—don’t try to fix it. Just stay.”
“I know,” he said.
Because he had learned that lesson the hard way.
He ended the call and lowered the phone slowly.
Ana didn’t look up.
He shifted just enough that their shoulders brushed.
She flinched—then didn’t pull away.
After a long moment, she spoke. Her voice was flat, careful.
“Did Susie ask how I am?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell her?”
Toto didn’t lie.
“I told her the truth.”
Ana nodded once.
Then, after a beat, she whispered—not breaking, not shaking, just devastatingly honest:
“If he dies, I don’t think I will survive it intact.”
Toto turned toward her fully.
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t reassure.
Didn’t lie.
He simply said, with all the gravity of a man who had failed once and would not fail again:
“Then he won’t die.”
Ana finally looked at him.
Her eyes were dry.
Her face was wreckage.
“Promise?” she asked. Not like a scientist. Like a child.
Toto didn’t hesitate.
“I promise,” he said.
And in that moment, sitting under fluorescent lights outside an operating theatre, Toto Wolff understood something with brutal clarity:
This wasn’t about motorsport. This wasn’t about contracts or teams or futures.
This was about a young woman who had finally allowed herself to love—and the man she loved fighting to come back to her.
And Toto would burn the world down before he let her lose him.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
Andromeda: Something was wrong with that car.
JadeQueen: Annie… I build neural nets and break firewalls for fun.
I know exactly nothing about F1 cars.
Andromeda: I’m not asking about aerodynamics.
JadeQueen: That’s somehow worse.
Andromeda: I need a favour.
JadeQueen:Anything.
Andromeda: I need to know who did this.
JadeQueen: …did what.
Andromeda: The failure wasn’t stochastic.
It wasn’t wear.
It wasn’t random.
JadeQueen: Annie. You think it was sabotage.
Andromeda: I think it was a mechanical failure.
JadeQueen: That is not reassuring.
Andromeda: There are not many people who are allowed to touch that car, Xia.
Not many who can alter a load path.
Not many who know which bolt fails last.
JadeQueen: Jesus.
Andromeda: I need names.
JadeQueen: You’re asking me to dig into a Formula 1 team.
Andromeda: I’m asking you to find out who put the wrong variable into a closed system.
JadeQueen: If you’re wrong—
Andromeda: Then we confirm I’m wrong and we stop.
JadeQueen: And if you’re right?
Andromeda: Then someone sent the man I love into a wall at 200 km/h.
JadeQueen: I’ve got you, Annie.
Andromeda: I know you do.
JadeQueen: I’ll start pulling threads.
Quietly.
Andromeda: Please.
JadeQueen: And Annie?
Andromeda: Yes?
JadeQueen: If this turns out to be nothing—
Andromeda:Then we pretend this conversation never happened.
JadeQueen: If this is sabotage…
What are you going to do?
Andromeda: Make sure it never happens again.
JadeQueen: That wasn’t an answer.
Andromeda: It’s the only one I’m willing to give right now.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
The call connected on the third ring.
“Dr. Wolff,” Solomon said, professional as ever. “I was just about to message you—”
“Solomon,” Ana interrupted quietly. “I need to tell you something. And I need you to listen all the way through before you respond.”
There was a pause. The kind that meant he’d already clocked the tone shift.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m listening.”
Ana exhaled slowly. Measured. Controlled. The way she did before walking into a systems review that could end careers.
“Max Verstappen is my boyfriend,” she said. “Has been for a … very long time. And he was in that car today.”
Silence.
Not the awkward kind. The stunned, processing kind.
“…Right,” Solomon said eventually. “Okay. That’s—okay.”
She waited for the question. The disbelief. The why didn’t you tell us.
It didn’t come.
“I’m not coming in on Monday,” Ana continued. “Or Tuesday. Possibly longer. He’s in surgery. I’m at the hospital with my father. I won’t be available except for absolute emergencies, and even then—” She swallowed. “—you should assume I’m not reachable.”
Another pause.
Then Solomon exhaled, slow and steady.
“Okay,” he said again. Firmer this time. “We’ll manage.”
Ana blinked. “You—what?”
“We’ll manage,” he repeated. “Altair is stable. The deployment window is locked. I know the failure trees, I know who to lean on, and I know when to say no. Nothing is going to break just because you’re not here for a few days.”
She stared at the wall opposite the hospital corridor, lights humming softly above her.
“I didn’t want this to affect the team,” she said quietly.
“Ana,” Solomon said, and for the first time he dropped the title, “the team is not a glass ornament. And neither are you.”
She closed her eyes.
“I should have told you earlier,” she murmured. “About him. About… us.”
“Yes,” Solomon agreed gently. “You probably should have.”
Her shoulders tightened.
“But,” he added immediately, “I also understand why you didn’t.”
That made her open her eyes again.
“I’ve worked with you for years,” he continued. “I’ve seen how you separate variables. How you protect what matters by keeping it out of the noise. Max was… clearly one of those protected variables.”
A beat.
“And frankly,” he said dryly, “this explains a lot of your calendar gymnastics over the last decade.”
Despite everything, a weak huff of a laugh escaped her.
“I’m serious,” Solomon said. “Go be where you need to be. We’ll hold the line. If anything truly critical comes up, I’ll decide whether it’s worth interrupting you—and ninety-nine percent of the time, it won’t be. You built this department to run without you in emergencies.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You absolutely did,” he interrupted gently. “You just didn’t plan on the emergency being the man you love nearly dying on live television.”
Her breath stuttered. She pressed her thumb into her palm until it hurt.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“For what?” Solomon asked.
“For making this… complicated.”
Solomon laughed once, incredulous.
“Ana,” he said, “you secretly dated a four-time world champion for years and still delivered a Grand Chelem-winning control system. Complicated is kind of your brand.”
“…Thank you,” Ana said. The words felt heavier than equations, harder than any presentation she’d ever given.
“Don’t thank me,” he replied. “Just—when he wakes up, tell him that the systems department is rooting for him. Even if we’re not supposed to say that out loud.”
Her throat tightened.
“I will,” she promised.
“And Ana?”
“Yes?”
“If anyone gives you grief for this—internally or otherwise—send them to me. I enjoy dismantling bad arguments.”
That earned a real smile this time.
“I know you do.”
“Go,” Solomon said softly. “Be human. We’ve got the machines.”
***
Somewhere above Europe - 21 September 2025
Raymond Vermeulen hated flying for exactly this reason.
Not the turbulence.
Not the cramped seats.
Not even the dreadful coffee.
This.
Being wedged between two people who had once loved each other, then loathed each other, and now existed in a brittle ceasefire held together by shared children and mutual trauma.
He sat between Jos Verstappen and Sophie Kumpen, knees angled awkwardly, hands folded in his lap like a man waiting to be judged by a panel. Across the aisle, nobody from the crew dared look at them. Even the flight attendants moved with the reverence usually reserved for funerals.
Which, Raymond thought grimly, wasn’t far off.
Jos stared straight ahead, jaw tight, vibrating with a fury that had nowhere to go at thirty thousand feet.
Sophie stared out the window, arms crossed, fury honed into something colder. Sharper.
Raymond cleared his throat. Immediately regretted it.
“So,” Jos said, finally, voice clipped and dangerous. “Explain it to me again.”
Raymond sighed inwardly. Here we go.
“Max changed his medical proxy this season,” he said evenly. “Quietly. Legally. Everything filed correctly.”
Jos snapped his head toward him. “To Toto Wolff.”
“Yes.”
“Why,” Jos demanded, “would my son choose him over his own father?”
Raymond chose his words carefully. He’d been doing that for years now.
“Because Max is a grown man,” he said. “And because he made a rational decision.”
Jos scoffed. “Rational.”
“Yes,” Raymond said calmly. “In Max’s words: Toto has every reason to keep me alive for next year.”
The silence that followed was radioactive.
Jos turned red. “That’s—” He broke off, hands clenching. “That’s business. That’s cynical.”
“It’s Max,” Raymond replied. “He doesn’t separate those things.”
Jos’s voice rose. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
Raymond finally turned fully toward him. Tired. Measured. Done.
“No,” he said. “Because your son didn’t ask me to. And because your son is not a child.”
Jos turned on Raymond again.
“You should have told me.”
Raymond didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t soften it either.
“No. I shouldn’t have. He trusted me to execute his wishes, not to manage your feelings.”
That did it.
Jos’s anger finally cracked through the surface.
“This is what happens when everyone keeps secrets,” he snapped. “He shuts people out, he makes decisions alone—”
Sophie cut in like a blade. “Oh, don’t you dare.”
Jos turned toward her.
“Don’t I dare what?”
“Pretend this is about secrecy,” she shot back. “This is about control. It always has been.”
Raymond closed his eyes briefly. This was going exactly where he feared it would.
Jos bristled. “I pushed him because that’s how you make champions.”
“And he became one,” Sophie said sharply. “Four times over. This happened,” Sophie continued, voice shaking with contained fury, “because you never know when to stop.”
Jos laughed harshly. “That’s rich.”
“You push,” she said, turning fully toward him now, eyes blazing. “You always push. More. Faster. Harder. Like nothing is ever enough.”
“He’s a four-time world champion,” Jos shot back. “That doesn’t happen by accident.”
“And he’s reached more than you ever did,” Sophie snapped, venomous. “Mr Two-Time Podium Sitter.”
Raymond winced. That one landed.
Jos snapped back, “Pressure made him who he is!”
“No,” Sophie said, eyes flashing. “Talent did. And discipline. And intelligence. And maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t be hurt right now without the constant push for more.”
Raymond felt his stomach tighten.
Jos stood abruptly, pacing the narrow aisle.
“So now this is my fault.”
Sophie didn’t flinch. “He crashed in a car that was wrong. But yes—I think the environment he was in didn’t protect him. And you were part of that.”
Raymond watched Jos deflate just a fraction—enough to notice.
There it was. The guilt. The thing Jos never admitted to out loud.
Raymond leaned back in his seat, mind drifting despite himself.
Max had known something was off at Red Bull. Not just technically—structurally. Politically. Emotionally. The way systems failed when people stopped listening. The way warning signs got brushed aside because performance mattered more than safety.
He’d felt it.
He’d prepared for it.
Changed his will.
Named a medical proxy.
Planned an exit.
Raymond swallowed hard.
Jos finally sat back down, rubbing his face with both hands.
“I sent him texts before the race,” he muttered. “About qualifying. About the car.”
Sophie looked at him sharply.
“And?”
Jos didn’t answer.
Raymond felt his stomach sink.
Sophie’s voice went very quiet. “Jos.”
“He didn’t answer,” Jos said hoarsely. “I thought he was just pissed at me.”
Raymond closed his eyes for a brief second.
No one spoke after that.
The plane droned on, indifferent.
Raymond sat between them, the keeper of too many secrets, thinking about how Max had trusted him with decisions that suggested he’d known—on some level—that something was wrong at Red Bull long before the crash.
And as the aircraft began its descent, Raymond had one clear, sobering thought:
Max hadn’t been reckless.
He’d been prepared.
And that realization scared him more than the turbulence ever could.
The plane droned on, carrying three people bound together by a man currently unconscious in a hospital bed—each of them grappling with their own version of fear, regret, and love.
Raymond stared out the window, watching clouds drift past.
Max had always been ten steps ahead.
Even when no one else wanted to see it.
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
The phone in Toto’s hand vibrated.
He looked at the name on the screen and exhaled through his nose.
Ola.
He stepped a few meters away, lowering his voice automatically, as if Max could hear him through concrete and steel.
“Ola.”
“Toto.” Ola Källenius sounded unusually restrained. Not panicked. Not cold. Something in between. “Do we know anything yet?”
Toto closed his eyes briefly. “He’s still in surgery.”
A pause. The kind where too many people are listening on the other end.
“I heard,” Ola said carefully, “that you’re listed as his medical proxy.”
Toto let out a short, humorless breath. “Yes. I found that out today. Along with everyone else.”
“You didn’t know?”
“No,” Toto said flatly. “I had no bloody clue.”
Another pause. This one heavier.
“The board is… nervous,” Ola admitted. “About what that implies. About next year. About—”
Toto cut him off, not sharply, but decisively.
“Ola,” he said, voice low and steady in a way that had ended arguments far more political than this, “I think we should concentrate on him surviving the next few hours before we worry about whether he’s driving a car for us next year.”
Silence.
Then, quietly: “Of course.”
Toto looked back down the corridor, where a red light glowed above the theatre doors like an accusation.
“He’s twenty-seven,” Toto continued, not raising his voice. “He’s young. He’s strong. And right now he’s on an operating table with surgeons deciding how aggressive they can be without risking his life or his leg. That is the only timeline that matters.”
“I understand,” Ola said, and this time it wasn’t corporate reassurance. It sounded human. “The board will wait.”
“They will,” Toto said. “And if they can’t—” He stopped himself, then finished calmly. “—then that’s my problem, not his.”
Another beat.
“How is Ana?” Ola asked, more softly now.
Toto glanced back at her. She was staring at the floor, jaw set, eyes too clear. Holding herself together with pure will.
“She’s standing,” he said. “Which is more than I expected.”
Ola exhaled. “Please tell her we’re thinking of her.”
“I will.”
When the call ended, Toto didn’t put the phone away immediately. He stood there for a moment longer, grounding himself, then walked back to Ana and sat down beside her.
“Ola?” she asked without looking up.
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
Toto didn’t lie. He never lied to her about things that mattered.
“He wanted to know what this means for next year.”
Ana’s lips twitched, just barely. “Figures.”
“I told him,” Toto said quietly, “that right now the only thing that matters is Max surviving.”
She nodded once. Hard. Like she needed the confirmation.
“Good,” she said. “Because I don’t care about next year. Or contracts. Or boards.”
Her voice didn’t waver—but her hands did.
“I just need him to wake up.”
***
Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Jonathan Wheatley
GP:
I’m on gardening leave so officially I’m a decorative houseplant.
Unofficially I want the truth.
Jonathan: I’m here.
GP: For Max.
Jonathan: Always.
GP: We need to figure out what went wrong with that car.
Jonathan: Say less.
GP: I’m serious, Jonathan.
Jonathan: So am I.
I started as a mechanic. I don’t forget what “wrong” looks like.
And that wasn’t driver error. That was a failure.
GP: They’re going to bury it.
Jonathan: They’ll try.
For him, I’ll tear the whole place apart with a toothbrush.
GP: Good.
Jonathan: Where are you?
GP: Not in the paddock. Gardening leave.
Jonathan: Convenient for plausible deniability.
GP: Exactly.
Jonathan: Who’s coordinating?
GP: Me. Go find Bono.
Jonathan: Bono?
GP: He sees it.
He’ll know what matters.
And he’ll keep his mouth shut until it’s time.
Jonathan: Understood.
***
Text Messages: Adrian Newey & Jonathan Wheatley
Jonathan: Adrian.
Adrian: I’m assuming this is about Max.
Jonathan: It is.
Adrian: I thought so.
I’ve already watched the footage.
Jonathan: Then you saw it wasn’t driver error.
Adrian: I saw a car behave in a way it mathematically shouldn’t.
That rear didn’t step out — it left.
Jonathan: Exactly.
Adrian: Something failed.
Jonathan: Or was allowed to fail.
Adrian: They didn’t retire him.
Jonathan: No.
Adrian: They knew it was unstable.
Jonathan: Yes.
Adrian: And they left him out there in the castle section.
Jonathan: Yes.
Adrian: …Right.
Jonathan: I need your eyes on this. Not as a designer. As someone who knows when a system has been compromised.
Adrian: You realise this will not make me popular.
Jonathan: Max is in surgery with an open fracture.
Adrian: Say no more.
Jonathan: Good.
Adrian: Who else is involved?
Jonathan: GP.
Bono’s apparently already tearing the crash apart frame by frame.
Adrian: Then that’s who I want to speak to.
Jonathan: That’s what I was going to say.
Bono is very good when he’s angry.
Adrian: So am I.
Adrian: Jonathan.
Jonathan: Yeah?
Adrian: Max chose the wall.
Jonathan: I know.
Adrian: That tells me everything about the man.
Now let’s find out what betrayed him.
Jonathan: Thank you.
Adrian: This isn’t about teams.
It’s about truth.
Adrian: If someone touched that car knowing what it would do—
we will find it.
Jonathan: We will.
***
Valtteri Bottas’ Hotel Room, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
Lando had stopped being surprised by anything around hour three.
Hour one had been shock.
Hour two had been anger.
Hour three was this strange, hollow limbo where the grid had collectively decided that if they stayed still for too long, they might actually fall apart.
So they moved.
First from Mercedes hospitality—too many eyes, too many whispers, too many screens replaying the same horrific angles—to somewhere smaller. Quieter. Contained.
Valtteri’s hotel room.
Which, somehow, felt exactly right.
It was neat in that aggressively Finnish way: clean surfaces, blackout curtains half-drawn, one lonely plant on the windowsill doing its best. Someone had dragged chairs in from the hallway. Someone else had sat on the floor. Someone—Oscar, Lando thought—had taken it upon themselves to start handing out water like a flight attendant during turbulence.
No one was really talking.
Until someone pulled up the Red Bull statement.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lando said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
Oscar leaned over his shoulder. Read it once. Twice.
“That’s it?” Oscar said flatly. “That’s… that’s what they’re putting out?”
Carlos, sitting on the edge of the bed, scoffed. “No well wishes. No ‘we’re relieved he’s alive.’ Just—‘earlier penalty for erratic driving’ like they’re underlining it with a highlighter.”
“Like he caused it,” Lando snapped. His hands were shaking again, and he hated that they were. “Like it was his fault.”
Valtteri, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke from where he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
“They’re in damage-control mode,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “Which usually means they don’t know what the hell actually happened.”
“Or they know,” Oscar said quietly, “and don’t want to say it.”
That settled like lead in Lando’s stomach.
Someone knocked.
Yuki stuck his head in, eyes red, expression tight.
“You guys okay?” he asked.
A chorus of humorless laughs answered him.
Yuki stepped fully inside, shutting the door behind him. “Red Bull is a mess,” he said flatly
Lando lifted his head. “Yeah? You don’t say.”
Yuki ran a hand through his hair. “Like… actually a mess. No one’s talking to anyone. Nobody knows anything. Nobody’s talking. Engineers are scared. Management is angry. Everyone is blaming everyone else.”
Esteban frowned. “Blaming who?”
Yuki didn’t hesitate. “Max. Of course.”
The room went very still.
“That’s bullshit,” Lando said immediately. “That car tried to kill him.”
Yuki nodded. “I know. We know. But they’re not saying that.”
Fernando swore quietly in Spanish.
Valtteri exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. “They should have retired the car,” he said. “Much earlier.”
“Yes,” Lando snapped. “Thank you. Someone with sense.”
“They didn’t even tell Jos anything,” Yuki added. “I overheard that from one of the press officers.”
Lando clenched his jaw. “Unbelievable.”
Another knock. Firmer this time.
Isack Hadjar stepped in.
He looked… wrong.
Not injured. Not panicked. Just hollowed out in that very specific way that came from having your future rearranged without your consent.
He closed the door behind him slowly.
“So,” Isack said, voice thin, trying for humor and failing miserably, “apparently I’m driving for Red Bull now.”
The room went dead silent.
Pierre blinked. “What?”
“Yeah,” Isack said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just got the call. ‘Interim replacement.’ Effective immediately. No pressure.”
Yuki let out a bitter laugh. “Welcome to the chaos.”
“I didn’t even celebrate,” Isack continued, voice cracking just a little. “I just thought—if that’s how they treat him—what the hell are they going to do to me?”
No one had an answer.
Lando felt that familiar, sickening churn in his gut—the one that came when he realized the sport he loved was perfectly capable of being cruel beyond reason.
“They threw him under the bus,” Lando said quietly. “And he’s not even awake to defend himself.”
Oscar nodded. “That’s the part that’s getting me.”
Valtteri pushed off the wall and crossed the room, stopping in front of Isack.
“Listen,” he said, voice steady, grounding. “This is not on you. You didn’t ask for this. And if anyone tries to make you the villain in their story—” He shook his head. “That’s their failure. Not yours.”
Isack swallowed. “Thanks.”
Lando sank into his chair, running a hand through his hair.
“This is so fucked,” he muttered. “All of it.”
Oscar nodded. “They nearly kill one of the greatest drivers ever and the response is… a press release about damage.”
“And a replacement announcement before he’s even out of surgery,” Carlos added darkly.
Lando felt something snap—not loudly, not explosively, but cleanly.
“I don’t care what anyone says,” he said. “He saved my life out there.”
Everyone looked at him.
“He could’ve hit me,” Lando continued, jaw tight, eyes burning. “He didn’t. He chose the wall. On instinct. And now they’re treating him like a liability.”
Nobody argued.
Isack stared at the floor.
“I don’t want to be there,” he admitted. “But if I say no…”
“They’ll blacklist you,” Oscar said softly.
Isack nodded.
“Then you survive it,” Valterri said. “You keep your head down. You learn. And you remember this feeling.”
Isack looked up. “Why?”
“So you never become them.”
The room went quiet again.
Lando pulled his phone out, staring at the blank screen like he might will it into lighting up with news that Max had woken up, that everything was suddenly less broken.
Nothing.
Outside, the city of Baku hummed on, oblivious.
Inside Valtteri Bottas’s hotel room, the grid sat in a loose circle—drivers, rivals, kids who’d grown up watching Max Verstappen like he was gravity itself.
***
Somewhere - 21 September 2025
The room was dark, but not carelessly so.
The lights were low by design — a single lamp behind the screens, angled just enough to keep reflections off the glass.
Two monitors.
One replaying the crash on a slow loop.
One showing a news feed that refreshed every thirty seconds whether anyone was watching or not.
The sound was off.
It didn’t need sound.
The footage played again.
The car twitched.
The rear snapped.
The impact bloomed white.
He rewound it two seconds.
Paused.
There it was — the moment everyone else missed. The fraction of a second where something let go. Where physics took over because it had been allowed to.
A finger tapped once against the desk.
Not nervously.
Not excitedly.
In acknowledgment.
People were dramatic about it. Online, especially.
Threads and think pieces and prayers from people who had never once cared how the sport actually worked.
Thoughts and prayers, as if that mattered.
He leaned back in the chair, arms crossing loosely.
Deserved was an ugly word, people said. But he’d always found it efficient.
Some drivers were handed careers. Others had to fight for them.
That was the difference no one ever wanted to talk about.
The screen switched automatically to an interview clip — old, archived. A younger face, already confident, already celebrated. Talking about how racing was “just in his blood.”
Of course it was.
When your father put you in a kart before you could spell your own name.
Built-in advantage.
Generational backing.
Born into it. Raised in it. A father who had been there, who had known the paddock, the people, the rules — who had known how to shape a boy into a weapon and call it destiny.
Some people were handed a map before they ever learned how to read.
A pipeline no one else got.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
They liked to pretend the playing field was even.
It never was.
Some people had teams built around them — cars shaped to their preferences, entire organizations bending until the machine fit like a glove.
Red Bull had built an empire around Max Verstappen. They had bent themselves into the shape he needed. Built cars that suited him and only him. Let teammates orbit like afterthoughts — useful, expendable, replaceable.
No real challenge.
No real threat.
Just a straight line from talent to dominance, lubricated by resources and worship.
Championship after championship handed over with a bow on top.
No mention of how convenient it was to never be seriously challenged by a teammate. No real threat. No equal machinery with someone just as hungry on the other side of the garage.
The news feed refreshed.
CONDITION STABLE
SURGERY ONGOING
FIA INVESTIGATING INCIDENT
He snorted quietly.
Investigate all you want.
They’d find what he’d allowed them to find. A failure. A mistake. A tragic, unfortunate chain of events.
That was the beauty of it.
He’d simply… corrected an imbalance.
Money moved quietly when you knew who to speak to.
People were always eager to be helpful when they thought they were fixing a problem for the right person.
A finger flicked to another window.
A banking app.
Transaction complete.
He closed it without ceremony.
Online, they were losing their minds now. Calling it a miracle he was alive. Talking about legacy and safety and how the sport had nearly lost one of its greats.
As if greatness was some kind of divine right.
He watched the replay one last time.
The car snapped.
The wall came fast.
Not fatal. He hadn’t wanted that.
Just… humbling.
A reminder.
If you were going to take someone else’s future, you didn’t get to do it untouched.
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: This chapter contains major character injury, graphic portrayal of injuries and graphic portrayal of a crash in Formula 1. However, I do not write anything other than Happy Endings, so I am not going to kill off any of my major characters. So the cliffhanger isn’t a cliffhanger, because he’ll survive. I swear. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
lorelai.pa: Is everyone okay?
kayleigh.powerunit:: No.
leo.mechanic: Short answer: absolutely not.
Long answer: WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT.
fatima.pr: I can’t stop replaying it. That wasn’t driver input. That was a system failure.
kayleigh.powerunit: Thank you. I thought I was losing my mind. Rear load dropped like it fell off a cliff.
leo.mechanic:That car shouldn’t have been able to do that.
liam.eng-lead: The way it snapped wasn’t oversteer. It was… structural.
lorelai.pa: Also—has anyone heard anything? Properly? Not Sky. Not PR.
rachel.aero: Brad just told me: surgery. Leg. That’s all he’d say.
kayleigh.powerunit: Fuck.
liam.eng-lead: I’m so angry I can’t even focus.
leo.mechanic: Same. And then that Red Bull statement??
“Significant damage to the car.”
I nearly threw my laptop.
kayleigh.powerunit: They didn’t even wish him well.
james.brakes: I know we’re not supposed to speculate but—
That wasn’t “driver error.”
rachel.aero: No. And anyone who says it is has never looked at telemetry in their life.
fatima.pr: Also… Ana.
Has anyone checked if she’s okay?
liam.eng-lead: Toto took her with him to the hospital. That’s all I know.
kayleigh.powerunit: Good. Thank god she wasn’t alone.
rachel.aero: I’ve never seen her freeze like that. Ever.
liam.eng-lead: Me neither. And I’ve seen her handle cost cap hearings and engine failures like it was sudoku.
rachel.aero: Did you all see the other teams helping cut him out?
leo.mechanic: Yeah.
Mercedes. McLaren. Williams.
Everyone except Red Bull.
kayleigh.powerunit: That’s going to sit badly with people for a long time.
fatima.pr: I keep thinking—if Altair had been under him today, he’d have finished the race.
rachel.aero: Next year.
liam.eng-lead: Next year.
leo.mechanic: I don’t usually say this but—
I want him in our car. Yesterday.
kayleigh.powerunit: Same. And not just because he’s Max.
Because no one deserves to be treated like that by their own team.
rachel.aero: Drivers are not expendable variables.
Someone should remind Red Bull of that.
fatima.pr: Do we think the race resumes?
liam.eng-lead: If it does, I’ll lose a lot of respect for a lot of people.
kayleigh.powerunit: Lando looked wrecked. Oscar too.
leo.mechanic: Good. Because that means they’re human.
kayleigh.powerunit: Ana screamed.
lorelai.pa: What?
kayleigh.powerunit: Not a gasp. Not a sharp inhale.
When the crash happened. A scream. Like—raw. It cut straight through the room.
liam.eng-lead: Jesus.
kayleigh.powerunit: I’ve never heard her make a sound like that. Ever.
She went completely white. Like all the blood just… left.
james.brakes: I saw her too. She wasn’t moving. Just staring at the screen like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
rachel.aero: She didn’t even react when the saws started cutting.
liam.eng-lead:And then the FIA showed up, they literally said, “You’re listed as the primary medical proxy,” and Toto looked just as surprised as everyone else.
james.brakes: That is not… casual.
fatima.pr: That’s not “friend of the family” territory.
james.brakes: That’s “this has been serious for a long time” territory.
rachel.aero: That explains why he didn’t hesitate. He just grabbed Ana and left with them.
kayleigh.powerunit: She clung to him like she was about to fall apart. I don’t think she even realized where she was.
rachel.aero: So…
We’re all thinking the same thing, right?
liam.eng-lead: Yeah.
lorelai.pa: They’re together.
james.brakes: Like. Actually together.
leo.mechanic: Not PR. Not rumor. Not speculation.
kayleigh.powerunit: I’ve seen fake relationships in this paddock.
That was not one of them.
liam.eng-lead: No one screams like that for a rumor.
lorelai.pa: And no one becomes your medical proxy by accident.
rachel.aero: For what it’s worth—
If anyone needs to step away, do it. Nobody’s keeping score today.
lorelai.pa: Thanks. I’m going to walk outside and scream into the air.
fatima.pr: Mood.
leo.mechanic: We’ll pick up the pieces when we can.
Right now? We just wait.
rachel.aero: And hope.
***
Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
GP: Ana.
How is he?
Ana: In surgery.
Left leg: open fracture.
Head injury under evaluation.
Dislocated Shoulder.
Vitals unstable on arrival, now improving.
GP: …Okay.
Is anyone with you?
Ana: Toto.
GP: Good.
And you?
Are you doing alright?
Ana: Unnecessary question.
GP: It’s really not.
Ana: There was something wrong with that car.
GP: Yeah.
I saw it too.
Rear stability was behaving like the dampers were haunted.
Ana: None of it correlated with driver input.
GP: Exactly what I thought.
Max wasn’t erratic.
The chassis was.
Ana: Red Bull’s analysis will cover that.
If they are competent.
GP: They’re not.
Not anymore.
Ana: Yes.
GP: Ana…
You don’t have to pretend with me.
Ana: I am not pretending.
I am prioritizing.
GP: Prioritizing what?
Ana: Information.
Decisions.
Containment.
GP: Containment of… what?
Ana: If I let anything else through, I won’t function.
GP: Alright.
Then tell me what you know.
Ana: The car was wrong.
Fatally wrong.
And Max compensated until he couldn’t.
He chose the wall instead of Lando.
He should not have been in that position.
Systemic failure leading to catastrophic failure.
Preventable.
GP: I agree.
I saw the inputs.
He was fighting a vehicle that wanted to kill him.
Ana: Yes.
GP: And next year?
We’ll build him something that won’t.
Ana: Yes.
Next year will be different.
GP:
You’re not alone in this.
Ana: Acknowledged.
GP: Update me when he’s out of surgery?
Ana: Yes.
GP: And Ana?
Ana: What?
GP: He’s strong.
And stubborn.
Just like you.
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)
Daniel: Has anyone heard anything???
They cut the broadcast, I’m not in the paddock anymore, and I’m losing my mind.
Lando: No.
And I hate that.
Daniel: That crash was fucked.
Like—not racing incident fucked.
End-of-highlights-montage fucked.
Oscar: It was bad bad.
Daniel: He chose the wall.
I saw it.
You don’t do that unless you’re protecting someone.
Lando: Yeah.
Carlos: I was watching the replay on loop.
That car snapped in a way it shouldn’t.
Daniel: Is he moving? Is he conscious? Why is nobody saying anything??
Oscar: They haven’t said a word.
Medical car left.
That’s all we know.
Daniel: I swear to god if the FIA tries to “wait and see”—
Lando: They already are.
Daniel: You’re kidding.
Lando: Nope.
Race control wants to “assess conditions.”
Daniel: ASSESS WHAT THE MAN WAS STUCK UPSIDE DOWN IN A WALL
Carlos: This race is done.
Oscar: Yeah.
Daniel: You mean like… metaphorically or—
Lando: No. Literally.
We’re not racing.
Daniel: Oh thank god.
Oscar: Drivers are talking.
Garage to garage.
Daniel: Good. Because if anyone goes back out there—
Carlos: Fernando is already with the FIA.
Daniel: Of course he is. King behaviour.
Lando: Lewis too.
Daniel: Okay yeah if Lewis and Fernando agree on something the universe has spoken.
Oscar: No one feels right.
You could feel it in the pit lane.
Everyone’s just… off.
Daniel: I’m not even there and I feel sick.
Lando: I threw up when I got back to the garage.
Daniel: Mate…
Lando: I keep seeing it.
The angle.
If he hadn’t turned—
Oscar: Don’t.
Daniel: He saved you.
Lando: …I know.
Carlos: This isn’t something you just “continue” from.
Daniel: Absolutely not.
You don’t wave a green flag after that.
Oscar: We’re boycotting.
All of us.
Daniel: Good.
Full support from retired chaos uncle Daniel.
Lando: If the FIA forces it, I’m parking the car.
Carlos: Same.
Oscar: Same.
Daniel: Proud of you idiots.
Seriously.
Lando: I just want to know he’s alive.
Daniel: Yeah.
Oscar: Same.
Carlos: Same.
Daniel: Someone better start talking soon.
Because silence like this is terrifying.
Lando: We’ll sit.
We’ll wait.
We won’t race.
Daniel: As it should be.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
Bono watched the crash again.
He told himself it was technical diligence.
That rewatching incidents was part of the job.
That this was no different from any other red-flag analysis he’d done in his career.
It was a lie.
. Bono stood alone in front of the replay screen, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw locked.
He pressed play.
Again.
Max’s onboard filled the screen.
The steering trace jittered before the braking zone—tiny, almost imperceptible corrections that shouldn’t have been there. Not from Max. Not at that speed. Not in that corner.
Not progressive. Not aerodynamic wash. Not tyre degradation.
A snap.
Something gave.
And Bono felt a cold, familiar sensation crawl up his spine—the same one he’d had years ago, in another category, when a car failed in a way that didn’t match any model.
“That’s not driving error,” he said quietly.
He scrubbed back ten seconds.
The car didn’t slide.
It broke.
The rear stepped out as if something structural had failed under load—sudden loss of compliance, instant asymmetry. The kind of failure you saw when a component didn’t just wear out, but let go.
Bono leaned closer to the screen.
“That’s not overcorrection,” he whispered. “That’s a release.”
He replayed the moment Max chose the wall.
Because that, too, mattered.
The steering input—brief, decisive, unmistakable.
Max had space.
Fractional space.
Enough to let the car rotate further.
Enough to risk clipping Norris.
He didn’t.
He turned the other way.
Into stone.
Bono closed his eyes.
“You knew,” he said softly. “You knew what would happen.”
He opened them again and scrubbed back, this time focusing not on the crash—but the laps before.
Lap 31.
Lap 32.
Lap 33.
Micro-instability. Increasing amplitude.
The car had been deteriorating.
Not suddenly.
Progressively.
Like a crack propagating under stress.
Bono straightened slowly.
“That doesn’t happen by accident,” he said.
His mind—trained by decades of racing—started doing what it always did: building failure trees.
If it were tyre-related, it would show thermal warning signs.
If it were aero damage, there would be loss of load consistency.
If it were driver input, the traces would be chaotic but human.
This wasn’t human.
This was mechanical.
And not random.
He pulled up still images from parc fermé photos—screenshots circulating online already. Rear suspension geometry. Floor edges. The way the diffuser sat.
Bono’s jaw clenched.
If a component had been improperly torqued…
If a fastening had been compromised…
If someone had wanted a failure under load…
He swallowed.
No.
That was a dangerous thought.
Formula 1 didn’t do sabotage.
Not like that.
Not intentionally.
And yet—
Bono had been around long enough to know two things were true at the same time:
People were fallible.
And pressure made people do unforgivable things.
Red Bull right now was chaos.
Leadership fracture.
Key personnel leaving.
A star driver on his way out.
And a car that suddenly behaved like a grenade.
Bono ran a hand down his face.
“If someone touched that car,” he murmured, “they didn’t mean for it to do that.”
Because no one—no one—planned a crash like that.
But intent didn’t matter when consequences looked like Max Verstappen being cut out of carbon fibre while unconscious.
Bono stared at the frozen frame of the car mid-air, upside down, halo sparking against stone.
“Someone needs to look at this,” he said quietly.
Not Red Bull.
Not the FIA alone.
Independent.
Forensic.
Because this wasn’t just a crash.
It was a failure that didn’t make sense.
And Bono—engineer, race veteran, man who had watched too many drivers get hurt by systems that failed them—knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Something was wrong with that car.
And whether by negligence or by hand, something snapped.
And Max Verstappen paid for it with his body.
***
Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Peter “Bono” Bonnington
Bono: Hey mate.
How are you holding up?
GP: I wasn’t in the car.
Bono: I know.
That’s not what I meant.
GP: …
Bono: You weren’t on the radio.
First time in years that a crash happens and you’re not there talking him through it.
That’s not nothing.
GP: Gardening leave.
Couldn’t even open the channel if I wanted to.
Bono: Yeah.
I know.
GP: Doesn’t make it easier.
Bono: No.
It really doesn’t.
Bono: Listen.
I’ve watched that onboard five times now.
GP: So have I.
Bono: That wasn’t Max.
That wasn’t driving error.
That wasn’t “pushing too hard.”
GP: I know.
Bono: The rear just… let go.
No warning.
No correction window.
That doesn’t happen at that speed in that corner unless something fails.
GP: Or is made to fail.
Bono: …yeah.
GP: Something was wrong with that car.
Bono: I want more data.
GP: I know you do.
Bono: Full trace.
Mechanical.
Hydraulics.
Control loops.
Everything.
GP: I’m not supposed to have access.
Bono: I don’t care.
GP: Neither do I.
Bono: Good.
GP: I’ll get more data.
Bono: How?
GP: Carefully.
Quietly.
And not in a way that leaves fingerprints.
Bono: That’s all I needed to hear.
GP: Whatever happened out there—
Max didn’t deserve it.
Bono: No.
He didn’t.
GP: And Ana shouldn’t be standing in a hospital wondering if the man she loves is going to wake up.
Bono: …yeah.
GP: I’ll be in touch.
Bono: I’ll be waiting.
***
Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Hannah Schmitz
GP: Hannah.
Hannah: I can’t do this.
I actually can’t do this anymore.
GP: I saw the crash.
Hannah: They’re already in damage limitation mode.
Statements.
Talking points.
“Unfortunate incident.”
I want to throw up.
GP: I know.
Hannah: We knew something was off.
We knew it.
The balance was wrong all weekend, the oscillation never settled, the rear was unpredictable and nobody wanted to be the person who said park the car.
GP: Did you tell them?
Hannah: Of course I did.
Multiple times.
So did half the strategy room.
But it’s Max, and it’s points, and it’s “he can handle it.”
So they let him fight a car that was actively trying to kill him.
GP: Silence on the pit wall doesn’t mean ignorance.
It means cowardice.
Hannah: And now they’re acting like this was inevitable.
Like it’s just racing.
Like he didn’t choose the wall over Lando.
GP: He did.
Hannah: I’m done, GP.
I mean it.
I can’t keep doing this and pretending it’s fine.
I’m going to quit.
I’m going to disappear.
Change my number.
Move somewhere quiet.
Grow tomatoes.
Anything but this.
GP: Okay.
Hannah: …okay?
GP: When you disappear can you take the data with you?
GP: I think a system failed where it shouldn’t have.
And I think people ignored it because it was inconvenient.
Hannah: …they’re already blaming driving style.
GP: Of course they are.
Hannah: I watched the traces live, GP.
That wasn’t a style issue.
That was structural.
GP: Then I need it.
Hannah: All of it?
GP: Everything.
Hannah: If I do this… I’m really gone.
GP: Good.
You deserve better than them.
Hannah: You swear this doesn’t get buried?
GP: On my life.
Hannah: …fine.
GP: Thank you.
Hannah: For the record?
GP: Yeah.
Hannah: If he dies because we didn’t stop that car—
I will never forgive them.
Or myself.
GP: He won’t die.
But the truth doesn’t get to disappear with you.
Hannah: I’ll be in touch.
GP: I’ll be ready.
***
Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Nico Rosberg
Lewis: They’re still trying to restart the race.
Nico: …what?
Lewis: FIA says “we’ll reassess shortly.”
Which is PR-speak for let’s see if the drivers fall back in line.
Nico: Mate. I’m literally on air right now.
Lewis: Perfect.
Nico: That is not perfect.
Lewis: It is if you interview me.
Nico: I’m sorry—what?
Lewis: I’ll come find you.
You put a mic in my face.
I’ll say it out loud.
Nico: Lewis, I am contractually obligated to be neutral.
Lewis: You’re contractually obligated not to swear.
Not to be blind.
Nico: You are absolutely insane.
Lewis: I’m a seven-time world champion.
If anyone can say “this race should not restart” and survive it—it’s me.
Nico: This will set the internet on fire.
Lewis: Good. It should be on fire.
Nico: They’re going to accuse you of politicising it.
Lewis: Let them.
This isn’t politics.
This is safety.
Nico: Lewis—
Lewis: Max Verstappen chose the wall instead of another driver.
That car failed him.
And now he’s in surgery.
Nico: …you really want to do this.
Lewis: I do.
Nico: You and Max haven’t exactly been best friends.
Lewis: We don’t have to like each other to respect each other.
He’s one of the best drivers this sport has ever seen.
And even if he wasn’t—this still wouldn’t be right.
Nico: The FIA won’t like this.
Lewis: I don’t care.
I’m not letting them sweep this under a red flag and a press release.
Nico: You realise once you say it, you can’t take it back.
Lewis: I’m counting on that.
Nico: Where are you?
Lewis: On my way down the pit lane.
Red fireproofs. Hard to miss.
Nico: I swear, you’re going to give my producer a heart attack.
Lewis: Tell them it’s for the greater good.
Nico: …Fine.
Lewis: Thank you.
Nico: Lewis?
Lewis: Yeah?
Nico: For what it’s worth—
you’re right.
This doesn’t feel right.
Lewis: I know.
Nico: I’ll ask you the question.
Lewis: Good.
I’ll give you the answer they don’t want.
***
Transcript: Sky Sports F1 – Azerbaijjan GP
Nico Rosberg (live, to camera): “…and while we await further information on Max Verstappen’s condition, questions are being raised about whether this race should resume. We’re joined now by—”
(A figure steps into frame from the left. Red race suit.
Nico (blinks): —Lewis Hamilton.
Well. This is… unexpected.
Lewis Hamilton: Hi, Nico.
Nico: Lewis, you’re—this wasn’t scheduled.
Lewis: I know. That’s kind of the point.
(Producer’s voice faintly audible in Nico’s earpiece. Nico winces.)
Nico (measured): Lewis, obviously emotions are high. Before we—
Lewis (cuts in, calm, steady): I’m not here to speculate. I’m here to be very clear.
This race should not restart.
Nico: That’s… a strong statement.
Lewis: It needs to be.
A driver has just had one of the worst crashes we’ve seen in years. He’s been taken to hospital. He’s in surgery. And we’re still talking about lap counts and tyre windows.
Nico: The FIA position is that—
Lewis: —With respect, I don’t care what the FIA position is right now.
(Somewhere off-camera, someone audibly inhales.)
Lewis (continues): We all saw it. That wasn’t a small accident. That wasn’t “driver error.”
Something was wrong with that car. Everyone in this paddock knows it.
Nico: Lewis, to be fair, we don’t have confirmation of a mechanical failure—
Lewis: You don’t need a spreadsheet to know when a car behaves like that.
Max didn’t lose it. The car did.
Nico: You and Max—haven’t always seen eye to eye.
Lewis: That has nothing to do with this.
I respect him as a driver. I respect what he did today.
He chose the wall instead of another car. That’s instinct. That’s character.
And now he’s paying for it with his body.
(Nico swallows. His voice lowers.)
Nico: You’re saying the drivers won’t continue?
Lewis: I’m saying they shouldn’t.
And if the FIA insists, they should be prepared to explain why entertainment mattered more than safety.
Nico: Lewis—
Lewis: I’ve been in this sport a long time. I’ve seen what happens when we rush back because the schedule demands it.
We always say “we learn.”
Well—here’s the moment to prove it.
(Another pause. Nico glances briefly off-camera, then back.)
Nico: Ferrari, Red Bull, Mercedes—teams are waiting for direction.
Lewis: Drivers don’t need direction right now.
We need decency.
Nico: You understand this will put pressure on the FIA.
Lewis: Good.
That’s literally their job.
(A murmur ripples through the paddock behind them.)
Nico: Last question—if the race is restarted?
Lewis: Then they’re telling every driver on this grid that what happened to Max Verstappen is acceptable collateral.
And I don’t believe a single driver here agrees with that.
(Lewis looks directly into the camera now.)
Lewis: We race cars.
We’re not disposable.
(He steps back out of frame.)
Nico (quietly): …Lewis Hamilton, ladies and gentlemen.
(The broadcast cuts abruptly to a wide shot of the pit lane. The Sky Sports logo reappears. The FIA ticker at the bottom now reads: “Race restart under review.”)
Somewhere in Race Control, phones start ringing.
***
Twitter Thread: Lewis Hamilton Hijacks Sky Sports
@/gridlockgossip:
LEWIS HAMILTON JUST HIJACKED SKY SPORTS AND SAID “I DON’T CARE WHAT THE FIA THINKS”
SEVEN. TIME. WORLD. CHAMPION. ENERGY.
@/tiresmokeandtears:
The way Lewis walked into that interview like “I am not asking, I am informing.”
That man said NOT TODAY.
@/holygridmess:
Lewis Hamilton using his entire legacy as a weapon to protect another driver is actually making me emotional??
THIS is leadership.
@/f1feminist:
“I respect him as a driver. He chose the wall.”
Lewis acknowledging Max’s instinctive decision instead of rivalry talk???
I am unwell.
@/paddockpsychology:
You could literally see Nico switch from pundit mode to “oh god this is history happening” mode in real time.
@/oversteerenthusiast:
Ferrari PR department currently screaming crying throwing up because Lewis does NOT care.
@/racecontrolnightmare:
The FIA absolutely did not plan for Lewis Hamilton to go rogue on LIVE TELEVISION.
@/thisisnotadrillf1:
Lewis Hamilton just reframed the entire conversation from “can we race?” to “should we race?”
That’s power.
@/maxverstappenfanclub:
I have never said this before but:
Thank you, Lewis Hamilton.
@/archivistofchaos:
Mark this down.
This is one of those moments people will reference in documentaries in 10 years.
@/softlaunchdetective:
Lewis didn’t even mention championships or points.
Just safety.
Just humanity.
Insane levels of respect.
@/danicadefender:
Danica Patrick real quiet right now.
@/f1dadenergy:
Lewis Hamilton said “I’ve seen what happens when we rush back” and suddenly the ghosts of this sport stood up behind him.
@/brakebiasbaby:
The FIA thought they could just red flag, wait 20 minutes, and carry on.
Lewis said absolutely not.
@/landoisstillpale:
Lando looked like he saw death and Lewis said “listen to the drivers.”
THANK YOU.
@/mercedeslegacy:
Seven world titles and he used them to protect someone else.
@/safetynotshow:
If the race restarts after THAT interview, the FIA deserves every ounce of backlash.
@/cryingovercars:
Max and Lewis have fought for YEARS and Lewis still said “this isn’t right.”
I’m actually crying.
@/fiawatch:
“Race restart under review” =
“We did not expect Lewis Hamilton to drag us like this on live TV.”
@/monacobabysquirrel:
If Lewis Hamilton says stop the race, you stop the damn race.
@/noonemoved:
That wasn’t a protest.
That was a statement.
@/systemsruinedme:
Lewis Hamilton didn’t crash the interview.
He commandeered it.
@/f1historynerd:
Add this to the list of moments where drivers forced the sport to evolve.
Right next to Senna. Right next to Lauda.
@/finalsector:
Lewis Hamilton just reminded everyone that drivers are not expendable.
And I hope the FIA heard him loud and clear.
@/gridlockgossip:
LEWIS HAMILTON JUST WALKED INTO A LIVE SKY INTERVIEW AND SAID “I DON’T CARE WHAT THE FIA THINKS”
SEVEN. TIME. WORLD. CHAMPION. ENERGY.
@/pitlanechaos:
Lewis said “this race should not restart” ON LIVE TV and I felt the FIA’s soul leave their body.
@/silverarrowslegacy:
You could literally hear the producers screaming in Nico’s earpiece and Lewis just… kept talking. King behavior.
@/tyresmokeandtruth:
“He chose the wall instead of another car.”
Lewis Hamilton just reframed the entire crash in one sentence.
@/f1unionnow:
THIS is why drivers need collective power. Lewis just used his platform exactly how it should be used.
@/holygridmess:
Lewis Hamilton 🤝 crashing Sky Sports
🤝 publicly dragging the FIA
🤝 being correct
@/mclarenheart:
The way Nico’s face dropped when Lewis said “I don’t care what the FIA position is” 😭😭😭
@/dataoverdrama:
Notice how Lewis never speculated recklessly. He didn’t accuse. He didn’t scream.
He just said: this isn’t right. And that’s worse for the FIA.
@/redflagmeansSTOP:
If a 7x world champion says this race shouldn’t restart, maybe—JUST MAYBE—we listen???
@/ferraristrategist:
Ferrari PR team currently having a collective aneurysm because Lewis just hijacked the narrative.
@/engineerscantlie:
Lewis Hamilton saying “something was wrong with that car” is NOT casual commentary.
That’s someone who knows.
@/landohastoomanyopinions:
Lewis said what every driver is thinking but isn’t allowed to say. Respect.
@/maxprotectors:
Max and Lewis haven’t always agreed but THIS is respect. This is solidarity. This is drivers protecting drivers.
@/wifiofthewindtunnel:
The FIA wanted to restart the race like nothing happened and Lewis Hamilton said ABSOLUTELY NOT on live television.
This is historic.
@/formula1:
🚨 UPDATE 🚨
Race restart decision pending further review.
@/holyshitf1:
Lewis Hamilton really said “schedule be damned” on LIVE TELEVISION
7x world champion behavior
@/fiawatcher:
The FIA HATES this man right now and I LOVE IT
@/silverarrowlegacy:
Lewis crashing Nico’s interview to protect Max Verstappen was NOT on my 2025 bingo card but here we are
@/oversteerenthusiast:
Lewis: “I don’t care what the FIA position is”
FIA: screams into cost cap spreadsheets
@/safetyfirstf1:
Say what you want about Lewis but when it comes to driver safety he has NEVER missed
This is why he’s respected across the grid
@/engineerscantlie:
When Lewis says “something was wrong with that car” every engineer on the grid just nodded silently
@/papayaplease:
Max and Lewis don’t have to like each other for this
Respect is louder than rivalry
@/redflagtruth:
Lewis Hamilton just forced the FIA into a PR nightmare in under 90 seconds
That is TALENT
@/formulaunhinged
Ferrari execs watching Lewis say this on Sky like 😐😐😐
Sir he does NOT drive for you anymore
@/pitlanepsychology:
Notice how Lewis never once blamed a driver
Only the system
That’s intentional
@/nicoappreciation:
Nico Rosberg trying to keep a straight face while Lewis detonates race control live on air deserves an Emmy
@/carbonfiberheart:
7 time champion using his platform to say “we are not disposable”
That’s not drama
That’s legacy
@/fiaskeptic:
If the FIA restarts this race after THAT interview they are insane
@/standwithdrivers:
Drivers are already parking cars
Lewis just gave them public cover
Brilliant move
@/maxverstappn:
I’ve never agreed with Lewis more in my life
@/landohastoomanyopinions:
that was the calmest act of violence i’ve ever seen
@/holygridmess:
First Bottas to Cadillac
Then secret adoption drama
Now Lewis Hamilton staging a live TV coup
Formula 1 is NOT REAL ANYMORE.
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
The Mercedes hospitality was unusually quiet.
Not silent — Formula 1 was never silent — but muted, like the volume of the world had been turned down out of respect. Coffee cups sat untouched. Someone had forgotten a tablet on a chair, telemetry frozen mid-lap like a paused heartbeat.
That was how the rookies ended up there.
Not summoned.
Not scheduled.
Just… drawn.
Kimi Antonelli sat curled into one of the couches, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, staring into a mug he hadn’t touched in ten minutes.
Gabriel Bortoleto leaned against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. Oliver Bearman was perched on the arm of a chair, foot bouncing nonstop. Isack Hadjar hovered nearby, quiet, listening more than speaking.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Ollie exhaled, sharp and disbelieving.
“Fuck,” he said quietly. “That was… that was bad.”
No one told him not to swear.
Kimi nodded once. “Yeah.”
Gabriel leaned back against the counter, arms folded. His voice was calm, but his eyes weren’t.
“I’ve watched Max crash before,” he said. “We all have. But not like that. Not… stuck.”
Kimi swallowed.
“I was behind Lando,” he said, finally. “I saw it from the worst possible angle. The moment the rear snapped — it wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t overdriving. It just… went.”
Ollie frowned. “You sure?”
Kimi nodded again. Firmer this time. “I’ve spun cars. I’ve lost rears. This wasn’t that. He was correcting before it even finished breaking.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Gabriel said softly, “He chose the wall.”
All of them knew what that meant.
Ollie ran a hand through his hair. “It’s insane. He’s… he’s Max Verstappen. Like — the Max Verstappen. And he still—”
“—still thinks about other drivers,” Kimi finished. His voice cracked, just slightly. “Yeah.”
He shifted, elbows on knees now, hands clasped.
“You know what fucked me up?” Kimi said. “Austria. Our crash. I thought he was going to murder me.”
Ollie snorted weakly. “Everyone did.”
Kimi gave a small, humourless smile.
“I went to Red Bull to apologise later. He wasn’t angry.”
Ollie looked at him. “He didn’t blame you?”
“Not even once,” Kimi said. “I was shaking like an idiot and he just—” He shrugged. “Treated me like I belonged there.”
That landed.
“He said that I was young…that I was gonna make mistakes. And that he had made stupid moves too. That everyone has. That I should try to learn from it.”
Gabriel stared down at the floor for a second, then laughed quietly — not because it was funny, but because it hurt less than not laughing.
“He’s been like that since karting,” he said. “When I joined Team Redline…I was just some Brazilian kid with good laps and bad funding.”
Ollie looked up. “Yeah?”
Gabriel nodded. “He’d message me setups. Randomly. Or ask if I wanted to run stints together. When people started paying attention, he told me, ‘Don’t let it make you smaller.’”
Kimi blinked. “That’s… very Max, actually.”
Gabriel’s mouth twitched. “When I got my first F2 win, he sent me a voice note. Just said, ‘Told you.’ Like it was obvious.”
Ollie shook his head slowly. “That’s mad.”
They sat with that for a moment — the weight of realizing that the man lying in a hospital bed was not just a legend, not just a rival, not just a benchmark — but someone who had quietly shaped all of them.
“He didn’t have to,” Ollie said finally. “He could’ve been a dick. Plenty of champions are.”
Kimi looked up, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. “He knows what it’s like to be young and fast and alone.”
Gabriel nodded. “And he hates when people forget that part.”
Another silence.
This one heavier.
Ollie broke it, voice low. “If he doesn’t make it back…”
Kimi’s head snapped up. “He will.”
There was no doubt in it. No hedging.
Gabriel straightened too. “He will.”
They weren’t saying it like hope.
They were saying it like fact.
Because legends didn’t end like that.
Because stubborn people didn’t.
Because Max Verstappen had always been the kind of person who got back up — and made sure others did too.
Outside, the paddock buzzed with uncertainty and anger and politics.
Inside the Mercedes hospitality, the rookies sat together — quiet, shaken, fiercely loyal — carrying the unspoken understanding that whatever happened next, they would remember this:
That the benchmark had also been a mentor.
That the legend had been kind.
And that one day, if they were ever half the driver Max Verstappen was — they hoped they’d be half the person too.
****
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
Lando had stopped pretending he was fine somewhere around the second replay.
The first time the footage looped, he told himself it was just adrenaline.
The second time, his hands started shaking.
By the third, he couldn’t look at the screen at all.
He was sitting on the edge of a folding chair in the McLaren garage,, fireproofs half-unzipped, chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with belts or G-forces. Oscar hovered nearby, saying nothing, because Oscar understood when silence was better than words.
Lando kept seeing it anyway.
The blue flags.
The castle section.
The split second where Max’s car snapped and there was no space left to save anything except someone else.
He chose the wall.
The realization sat in his stomach like a swallowed stone.
Someone handed him water. He drank it without tasting anything.
And then Lewis went on air.
Lando didn’t see it live. Someone swore loudly from the next garage. Another voice said, “Holy shit, Lewis.” A mechanic froze mid-step.
By the time Lando looked up, Sky Sports was showing Lewis Hamilton standing exactly where the FIA did not want him to be, saying exactly what they did not want him to say.
Lando felt something shift.
Not relief.
Not yet.
Permission.
Lewis wasn’t emotional. He wasn’t dramatic. He was calm in the way that only came from someone who had seen death up close and decided not to look away.
“We race cars. We’re not disposable,” Lewis said.
Lando swallowed hard.
Drivers started moving before anyone consciously decided to.
It wasn’t a march. It wasn’t coordinated. It was instinct.
Fernando appeared first—arms folded, jaw set, expression grim. Carlos followed him without a word. Charles drifted in, pale and tight-lipped.
Then more.
Williams. Aston. Haas. Kick Sauber.
One by one.
They didn’t go to Race Control.
They went to Mercedes.
Lando realized it slowly, the way you realize a room has filled without noticing the doors opening. The Mercedes hospitality became a gravitational point—quiet, steady, unflinching.
In some weird way did it make sense. Max was going to be driving for them next year.
Lando found himself walking too.
Oscar stayed half a step behind him, like he always did when things got overwhelming. No words. Just presence.
Inside, no one talked much.
Someone passed coffee. Someone else handed out towels. A few drivers sat. A few paced. Most just stood, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing.
Lando’s stomach rolled again.
“I can’t do this,” he muttered, not really to anyone.
Oscar nodded. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Lando ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard.
“They can’t restart this. They just can’t.”
Fernando’s voice cut in, low and absolute. “They won’t. Not now.”
Lando wasn’t sure he believed that.
The FIA had waited too long before. They always waited too long.
Then someone’s phone buzzed.
Then another.
Then a murmur rippled through the room—quiet, disbelieving, fragile.
Lando felt Oscar’s hand touch his arm.
“Lando.”
He looked up.
Black flag. Race abandoned.
For a second, Lando didn’t react.
Then his knees went weak.
He sat down hard, elbows on his thighs, head dropping forward as the adrenaline finally, mercifully, drained out of him.
It wasn’t victory.
It wasn’t justice.
It wasn’t even enough.
But it was something.
He pressed his palms to his eyes and breathed.
Around him, drivers exhaled too. Some swore softly. Someone laughed once—sharp and broken. Someone else wiped their face and didn’t bother pretending it was sweat.
Lando thought of Max again.
Of the split second.
Of the choice.
And of Lewis—standing in front of cameras, using everything he was to stop the sport from pretending this was normal.
For the first time since the crash, Lando felt something loosen in his chest.
They had listened.
Too late.
But not completely.
No restart.
No pretending this was normal.
No points that mattered more than a life.
Oscar sat beside him without a word.
Across the room, someone started crying — openly, unashamed.
Lewis closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, like he’d just finished carrying something impossibly heavy.
Lando felt it then — the full weight of it.
They’d stopped the race.
They’d done the right thing.
And it had taken a crash that could have killed one of the best drivers any of them had ever known to make it happen.
He wiped at his eyes angrily.
“This shouldn’t be what it takes,” he muttered.
Oscar nodded. “No.”
Lando looked around the room — at rivals, champions, rookies, legends — all of them gathered not under a team banner, but under something older and simpler.
Solidarity.
Fear.
Respect.
Somewhere across the city, Max Verstappen was in surgery.
And here, in the quiet of Mercedes hospitality, Lando understood something with absolute clarity:
Formula 1 liked to pretend it was about speed.
About bravery.
About pushing limits.
But when it really mattered — when metal met stone and the margin disappeared — it was about people choosing each other.
And today, at least, they had.
***
Twitter Thread: Black Flag
@/gridlockgossip:
every single driver just… gravitated to the mercedes hospitality. no pr, no team orders, just quiet solidarity. and THEN the black flag.
this is going to go down in f1 history.
@/holygridmess:
lewis spoke.
the grid moved.
the fia folded.
that’s the tweet.
@/oversteerenthusiast:
you could literally SEE the moment everyone collectively said “nah, we’re not doing this.”
that wasn’t a boycott, that was a moral compass.
@/pitwallpoet:
not one driver went to the fia.
they went to mercedes.
to each other.
that tells you everything.
@/landoapologist:
lando norris looked haunted.
like he was still seeing the crash every time he blinked. i can’t even imagine being the one max avoided.
@/monacobabysquirrel:
oscar walking behind lando like his emotional service australian is going to make me cry.
the kids should not have to carry this kind of trauma.
@/charleslecryn:
charles, carlos, lando, fernando, kimi, oscar, everyone.
no rivalry.
no colors.
just drivers standing together.
chills.
@/circuitcryclub:
the black flag came down AFTER the grid stood together, not before.
they forced the fia’s hand.
they did that.
@/systemsruinedme:
the optics of every single team’s driver huddled under the silver star while the fia scrambled for a statement??
cinema.
@/teamradiolewis:
lewis really said “i respect max as a driver” and then mobilized the entire grid like a union leader.
we are witnessing a moment.
@/archivistofchaos:
black flag confirmed.
race abandoned.
the right decision.
but it took too damn long.
@/brakebiasbaby:
drivers 1, fia 0.
lewis hamilton 1000000.
@/gridlawyer:
people underestimate what “black flag” means.
it’s the nuclear option.
it means: the race is over, safety has failed, we start again another day.
@/softlaunchdetective:
the whole paddock basically turned into “no one races until we know max is alive.”
and honestly? that’s the only human response.
@/whydidnoonetellme:
fernando and carlos reportedly told the fia “you want to race? do it without us.”
spanish solidarity supremacy.
@/paddockrentfree:
the way they all drifted toward mercedes hospitality like moths to the only source of decency left in that paddock 😭
@/garagepsych:
not to be dramatic but the drivers refusing to go back out might have just changed f1 culture forever.
@/burnbookbutpolite:
the fia: “we’re evaluating conditions”
the grid: “we already evaluated morality.”
@/redflagromantic:
in twenty years they’ll show a shot of all the helmets lined up on the table in mercedes hospitality and say
that’s the day the drivers took back their sport.
@/emotionallyunstablepaddockfan:
every generation needs a moment where they draw the line.
this was theirs.
@/noonecallracecontrol:
can we take a second to appreciate that lewis hamilton might’ve just saved someone’s life after the crash by refusing to let them restart?
@/tiresmokeandtears:
if this doesn’t force a full investigation into red bull and fia safety protocols i will riot.
@/f1feminist:
black flag doesn’t erase what happened. but it acknowledges it.
and that’s where healing starts.
@/pitlaneafterdark:
it took trauma, unity, and lewis hamilton hijacking a live broadcast for the fia to remember drivers are people.
@/gridheart:
the grid stood together.
for once, everyone stood on the same side.
and that side was human.
@/landoisstillpale:
I have never seen Lando Norris look like that. Ever.
That boy was TRAUMATIZED.
@/f1femmes:
Black flag confirmed.
That happened because drivers stood together.
Because Lewis spoke up.
Because they refused to pretend this was fine.
@/paddockpsychology:
Group trauma response in real time.
People seek safety where leadership feels real.
Mercedes hospitality became that space today.
@/smoothoperator33:
Fernando arguing with the FIA while the grid backs him up is EXACTLY why the GPDA exists.
@/engineerscantlie:
The silence in that room must’ve been unreal.
No egos. No rivalries. Just “are you okay?”
@/oversteerenthusiast:
Lewis Hamilton didn’t just stop a race.
He unified the grid.
@/racecontrolnightmare:
FIA thought they could wait this out.
They underestimated Lewis Hamilton and 19 drivers with eyes.
@/monacobabysquirrel
Everyone keeps saying “historic moment” but like… yeah.
This is one of those days we’ll talk about in 20 years.
@/systemsruinedme:
No memes. No jokes.
Just relief.
@/charlespitlanepapi:
Rivalries ended the moment Max didn’t answer the radio.
@/gridunion:
THIS is what unity looks like.
@/f1historynerd:
Mark it down:
Baku 2025 — the day drivers said no more.
@/safetynotshow:
If you still think “the show must go on” after today, please find another sport.
@/finalsector:
Black flag confirmed.
Drivers safe.
And for once—
the right call.
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: This chapter contains major character injury, graphic portrayal of injuries and graphic portrayal of a crash in Formula 1. However, I do not write anything other than Happy Endings, so I am not going to kill off any of my major characters. So the cliffhanger isn’t a cliffhanger, because he’ll survive. I swear. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 19 September 2025
The Baku paddock always felt like a contradiction —
ancient stone walls meeting neon sponsor boards,
flat-out straights framed by medieval towers,
chaos wrapped in glamour wrapped in mathematical precision.
Ana liked contradictions.
They behaved like systems.
Predictable in their unpredictability.
But today?
Today was something else entirely.
Because the moment the W16 rolled out for the first laps of FP1,
Altair sang.
Not literally of course — but the data stream lit up her tablet like a sunrise.
Smoother-than-simulator energy recovery.
Stability at speed that shouldn’t be possible on a street circuit.
Thermal dissipation exactly on target.
And the holy grail:
zero hysteresis across the castle section.
Ana felt a slow, contented warmth settle beneath her ribs — a rarity during sessions.
Kimi keyed his radio, voice calm but unmistakably pleased: “Car feels good. Like Monza but… calmer? Very stable on entry.”
Valtteri followed, the smile audible in his tone: “Rear is planted. I can trust it. Nice job, team.”
Nice job, team.
Ana’s lips quirked, just slightly.
She didn’t need the credit.
But she liked hearing the system behave exactly as she designed it to.
Around her, the garage hummed with quiet, controlled satisfaction.
The engineers hovered, the strategists murmured, and somewhere behind her, Toto pretended he wasn’t glowing like a proud father with two golden children.
Mercedes: fast. Efficient. In control.
Meanwhile—
Ana flicked her eyes to the Red Bull timing mini-window.
Max: P13.
Yuki: P20.
Both complaining about instability.
Both losing time in the same places Altair was giving Mercedes free performance.
Ana watched the deltas tighten. Watched panic ripple in the Red Bull garage on the overhead feed.
Watched Laurent Mekies rub his face like a man reconsidering all his life choices.
She inhaled through her nose.
Not pride.
Not schadenfreude.
Resolve.
Because Max deserved better than the twitchy, unpredictable, politically-corroded mess he was driving this year.
He deserved a car worthy of the way he drove — sharp, instinctual, brilliant.
Max wasn’t even bothering to hide the radio frustration.
Understeer, oversteer, snap oversteer, pick one — at least commit!
We changed the setup but nothing responds.
Why is the torque mapping this inconsistent?
Is this car allergic to corners?
Ana exhaled slowly.
Max deserved better.
She watched his on-board again: the wheel corrections, the micro-fights, the irritation threading his voice.
He was wrestling a car that refused to cooperate.
Her chest tightened.
Three more months, she reminded herself. Just get him through this year.
Next season, he would be in a Mercedes.
Her Mercedes.
Altair was just the beginning. She had entire architectures prototyped. Versions of systems the board didn’t even know existed yet. Notes scribbled in three languages. Models that ran overnight because she couldn’t trust anyone else with the simulations yet.
She could see it — the car she would build him.
A thing of precision. Stability. Elegance. A system that anticipated him instead of punishing him.
The car he deserved.
And maybe—for the first time in his career—Max could just drive, not fight.
A new delta flashed across the monitors.
Kimi: P1. Valtteri: P3. Max: still languishing.
Someone behind her whistled. “Mercedes is cooking again.”
Ana kept her voice flat. “It’s early.”
But inside:
Just wait. Just wait until next year.
She gripped the pit wall railing, grounding herself as the wind whipped across the straight.
Baku was chaos. But controlled chaos was her domain.
And the future? The future was hers to build.
For Kimi.
For the team.
And especially—quietly, fiercely—for Max.
I’ll build you a car worthy of you, she promised in silence.
The data stream ticked upward, purple sectors flooding across the screens.
It was a good start.
A very good start.
And next year?
Next year would be war.
Her war.
His victory.
Together.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
Max: GP.
Max: GP.
Max: GP.
GP: I’m on a walk with Max the dog.
Max: I’m in hell.
GP: Yes, I saw your lap times.
Max: I swear to god I am going to throw this car into the Caspian Sea.
GP: We’ve talked about this.
You can’t litter in international waters.
Max: THE CAR DOESN’T TURN.
GP: Have you tried asking nicely?
Max: GP.
GP: Just brainstorming.
Max: It either understeers like a dying cow OR snaps like a feral cat. Pick one. PICK ONE.
GP: So… inconsistency across the load curve?
Max: YES.
And no one knows why.
It’s like the car is possessed. By a demon who hates me personally.
GP: That does sound suboptimal.
Max: UNDERSTATEMENT.
GP: Have you described this to the engineers?
Max: YES.
They nodded.
Then Laurent Mekies looked like he needed a therapist and a vacation.
And Hannah almost cried. AGAIN.
I HATE this.
GP: Don’t make Hannah cry. She’s the only thing holding that place together.
Max: I KNOW.
Which is why I didn’t yell.
I just… aggressively breathed.
GP: Terrifying.
Max: Also Bearman is P12 and having the time of his life because apparently he thinks this is “a good challenge.”
GP:His brain isn’t done cooking.
Max: GP I cannot do another year of this car.
I swear the steering wheel is sentient and trying to kill me.
GP: Three more months.
Then you get a competent car and a functional workplace.
Max: Are you speaking about Mercedes or Ana?
GP: Yes.
Max: Altair is insane. Did you see Kimi? And Bottas??
GP: Yes. Ana built a weapon.
Max: Tell her to stop being good at her job until NEXT YEAR when I BENEFIT.
GP: Oh sure, let me just text her:
“Hi Ana, Max says please sabotage your own team for his emotional comfort.”
Max: Don’t actually text that.
GP: I’m already typing it.
Max: DON’T.
GP: Relax.
She’s busy building you your future world championship car.
Max: …she told you that?
GP: She didn’t have to.
Max: Okay I actually feel better now.
GP: Good.
Now go to the engineering room and pretend to be polite.
Max: I will make NO promises.
GP: I’m putting you on mute.
***
Text Messages: Benedict Wolff & Toto Wolff
Benedict: Papa??
Benedict: Are you awake?
Toto: What happened?
Benedict:Rosa said you “cut her off”.
Her words, not mine.
She’s been screaming for twenty minutes.
Toto: No.
I did not cut her off.
Benedict: She said you “abandoned” her financially.
Toto: I set up a trust fund.
A one-time sum.
Enough to support her comfortably while she learns how to live like an adult.
What she does with that money is her choice.
Benedict: …wait.
A trust fund?
That’s it?
Toto: Yes.
Benedict: She made it sound like you left her on the street with a backpack and a prayer.
Toto: I did not.
She received exactly the same amount Ana received when she turned 18.
And the same amount you received.
Benedict: …oh.
Right.
I DID get that.
Toto: Yes.
And you handled it responsibly.
Benedict: I keep it in the bank.
And bought that stupid bike, but you told me that was fine.
Toto: Because it was fine.
Benedict: So Rosa is…
being dramatic?
Toto: Rosa is having a tantrum because she is not being given unlimited access to my bank account.
Benedict: That… sounds accurate.
Toto: This is not punishment.
This is a boundary.
Benedict: Papa, I believe you.
I just—
She said you “chose Ana over her.”
Toto: I chose to stop enabling bad behaviour.
That is different from choosing one child over another.
Benedict: Right.
Right.
I’m trying to explain that to her, but she’s—
Well.
She’s Rosa.
Toto: I know.
Benedict: She also said something about how “Ana gets everything handed to her,” which made me laugh so hard she threw a pillow at me.
Ana worked harder than all of us combined.
Toto: Thank you for saying that.
Benedict: Papa…
She’s really spiraling.
Toto: Let her calm down.
She needs space to sit with her choices.
Benedict: Okay.
Just—
One more question.
Toto: Yes?
Benedict: Does Ana know?
Toto: Yes.
We told her.
Benedict: How did she react?
Toto: Exactly as I expected.
She said she didn’t want me to choose.
Then she accepted the boundary.
Because she understands the difference.
Benedict: Of course she did.
Ana always did understand things we didn’t.
Toto: She sees reality clearly.
Even when it hurts.
Benedict: Okay.
I’ll handle Rosa.
Or at least… try.
Toto: Thank you, Benedict.
Benedict: Papa?
Toto: Yes?
Benedict: For what it’s worth…
You’re doing the right thing.
Toto: I hope so.
Benedict: I know so.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 20 September 2025
Toto had spent half his life in garages.
He knew every sound by heart — the pneumatic guns, the generators, the comms static, the shouted numbers, the collective inhale when a car fired up.
He had never thought of the noise as too much.
Not until he began to really see his daughter.
Anastasia stood beside the rear workstation table, tablet in one hand, stylus in the other, light hair pulled back, posture laser-focused on the hybrid data scrolling across her screen. To anyone else, she looked like the most self-possessed engineer in the building.
But Toto knew the tells.
The small ones.
The ones you didn’t see unless you were her father.
Or unless you had once missed them.
Her noise-cancelling headphones were hooked around her neck — not on, not needed yet, but ready.
Her room service breakfast tray from the morning had been untouched except for half a slice of toast— she always ate the least sensory food on race weekends.
And even though she stood in the center of the garage, she positioned herself with a wall at her back.
Not fully enclosed.
Just enough to know nothing could come up behind her.
Every few minutes she tapped her stylus against her thigh three times — not four, not two, always three — an anchor rhythm she had done since she was eight years old.
She didn’t even realize she was doing it.
And the heartbreak of it — the softness of it, the strength of it — hit Toto fresh every time.
She handed a datapad to another trackside systems engineer. Her voice was crisp, clinical, perfectly professional.
“No, leave the modulation the way I programmed it,” she said. “The software is more stable than the driver right now.”
Kimi overheard and laughed from across the garage.
Valtteri gave her a thumbs-up.
Ana didn’t react. She never did when someone praised her work. She simply nodded and sunk deeper into the data.
Toto watched her, arms folded, pretending he was observing the team. But really—he was observing her.
She moved through the garage like someone walking through a museum of landmines — not afraid, not fragile, just… aware.
Hyper-aware.
When the mechanics began a wheel gun test, she subtly flinched. No one noticed — except him.
Her hand drifted toward the headphones around her neck, fingers brushing the ear cup, deciding whether she needed them yet.
She didn’t put them on.
But she stayed close to the wall.
When the crowd outside roared — some replay on the big screen — she took a half-step back, eyes narrowing, inhaling through her nose the way she’d taught herself. Grounding. Resetting.
She had told Toto once, years ago, “I’m not overwhelmed. I just have to manage the world harder than most people.”
He hadn’t understood then.
He understood now.
Every mechanic in the garage respected her.
Every engineer deferred to her judgment.
Kimi worshipped her.
Valtteri listened when she spoke like it was gospel.
But only Toto saw the exhaustion woven in her edges.
Only Toto knew that after FP1 she would slip quietly into the small engineering office two doors down, the one with the broken light and unused whiteboard, where she kept a blanket and a thermos and an emergency protein bar.
Anastasia thought she was being subtle.
She wasn’t.
Toto had made sure that office stayed empty for her.
He watched now as she touched the comms unit, adjusting a fader because the crackle was too sharp for her.
Saw the stiffness in her shoulders when a cameraman walked behind her unexpectedly.
Noticed the way her eyes tracked exit points on instinct.
She carried all of it with quiet grace — the routines, the accommodations, the coping mechanisms she’d built because no one built them for her when she was small.
And still, she built masterpieces like Altair.
Still, she held the entire hybrid program together in her hands.
Still, she changed the trajectory of their team.
He felt a swell of pride so sharp it bordered on pain.
Then she looked up at him.
Just a glance — barely a second.
But she softened, only a fraction, when she saw him.
Not the steel-spined engineer.
Not the clinical genius.
Just his daughter.
Toto nodded once, slow and deliberate.
A silent message:
I see you.
I see all of it.
And I am here.
Ana looked away — but the tension in her shoulders eased by two degrees.
And Toto thought, not for the first time:
She survived a world never built for her.
She thrived in it anyway.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 20 September 2025
Ana didn’t need a screen to know when something had gone wrong.
She felt it first.
A shift in radio tone.
A silence where there should have been swearing.
A drop — not in lap time, but in certainty.
When the timing tower flashed P17 — Verstappen, she forced herself not to react.
Not outwardly.
Inside, something went cold.
She stood in the Mercedes garage with her tablet tucked against her chest, Altair data running quietly in the background, and watched the replay once, twice, a third time.
Max’s car didn’t look slow.
It looked… wrong.
Not broken.
Not misconfigured.
Not catastrophically flawed the way Red Bull’s internal collapse had been slowly revealing itself all year.
Just… off.
A half-beat delay in rotation.
A throttle pickup that lagged by something she couldn’t quantify.
A steering correction in Turn 3 that didn’t match the input telemetry shown on the broadcast overlays.
But she didn’t have the data.
She’d memorized how the RB21 behaved when it was healthy.
She knew what Max could force a car to do even when it resisted.
And that—That wasn’t him wrestling a stubborn chassis.
That was him fighting a ghost in the machine.
Ana narrowed her eyes, replaying the clip again.
It wasn’t aero balance.
It wasn’t rear instability.
But it was something.
She hated “something.”
“Something” was what killed reliability programs.
“Something” was what destroyed races.
“Something” was what engineers said when they didn’t want to admit they’d made a mistake.
Behind her, the garage erupted as Kimi posted P2 and Valtteri P4.
The hybrid mapping gleamed on her screen—smooth, elegant, purring like music. Altair was doing exactly what it was designed to do.
Exactly what she had designed it to do.
Kimi’s sector times glowed green.
Valtteri’s lift-and-coast was perfectly aligned.
Every algorithm, every micro-adjustment, every calibration behaved seamlessly.
Mercedes was thriving.
And Max was out in Q1.
Her stomach tightened.
She tracked him on the monitor as he climbed from the car — jaw set, eyes flat, frustration pulled tight beneath his skin.
The look he had when he wasn’t angry yet.
Just disappointed.
Which was worse.
He didn’t throw anything.
He didn’t scowl.
He didn’t publicly spiral like so many other drivers would.
He just… shut down.
A quiet switch flicking inside him.
And every instinct in Ana’s body recognized it.
She forced herself to focus back on the data stream.
This was her job.
Her team.
Her drivers.
Kimi was waiting for her adjustments for Q3.
Valtteri wanted confirmation that his turn-in preset could handle the evening temperature drop.
She pushed the worry down into the compartment of her mind where she stored everything she couldn’t afford to feel yet.
Max wouldn’t want her to be distracted.
He wouldn’t want her risking Mercedes performance for something she could not control, could not fix—not yet.
Mercedes first.
Emotion later.
Still, as she typed a note into her tablet — Altair performing at +0.03 above expected; full optimization achievable — her thoughts drifted back to the Red Bull.
It wasn’t the car falling apart from incompetence.
It wasn’t haphazard development.
It wasn’t even the typical instability from internal chaos.
It was something subtler.
Smaller.
Technical.
Hidden.
Something no one else would see unless they were looking for it.
Something Ana couldn’t diagnose.
Kimi’s car flashed P3 on the tower
Valtteri locked in P5.
The garage roared.
Ana exhaled.
She straightened her shoulders.
Adjusted her headset.
Braced for Parc Fermé procedures.
Mercedes had done well.
But as she walked toward the back rooms for the hybrid briefing, one thought lingered like a shadow:
Next year, she promised silently, fingers tightening around her tablet—
I’ll build you a car that never lets you down again.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Max Verstappen
Ana: I’m sorry.
I know it sucks.
I love you.
Max: It sucks a lot.
Ana: I know.
If I could drag that car into Q1 myself I would.
Or set it on fire.
Either/or.
Max: …probably both knowing you.
Ana: Correct.
Max: But hey
I love you too.
Ana: Even when I’m texting you during debrief?
Max: Especially then.
You should see my face. I look like a kicked puppy waiting for a treat.
Ana: That’s horrifying.
Stop being cute while I’m working.
Max: Can’t.
Also
don’t worry about me.
Ana: I always worry about you.
Max: I know.
But I’ve had much worse days.
And I still get to go home with you.
Ana: …that’s not fair.
You can’t just say things like that.
I’m supposed to be focusing.
Max: I’m helping your cortisol levels.
Ana: That is not scientifically accurate.
Max: It feels accurate.
Ana: Okay but seriously—
Are you okay?
Max: Frustrated.
Annoyed.
Very annoyed.
But not broken.
Ana: Good.
Because next year?
I’m not letting you out in Q1 ever again.
Max: That’s hot.
Ana: Stop.
Max: Never.
Ana: I love you.
Max: I love you more.
Now go win a race for me.
Ana: Fine.
But only because you asked nicely.
***
Text Messages: Sophie Kumpen & Max Verstappen
Sophie: Good morning, Maxie ❤️
Are you feeling okay today?
Max: Morning mama
Yeah
Car is terrible
But I’m fine
Sophie: You always say that when you are not fine.
Max: I’m… medium.
Sophie: Ah.
Well, medium is better than bad.
And nerves mean you care.
That’s a good sign.
Sophie: Also
I lit your candle this morning. 🕯️
Like always.
For luck.
For safety.
For a calm mind.
Max: Thanks mama
Light a second one
Maybe it will fix the car
Sophie: Even candles have limits, Max.
Max: I was afraid of that.
Sophie: But it will keep you safe.
And that matters more than the car.
Max: I know
Love you
Thanks for lighting it
Sophie: Altijd 💛
And remember:
Drive smart today.
And try not to shout at the engineers, even if they deserve it.
Max: No promises
Sophie: Of course not.
But I believe in you.
And the candle does too.
Max: I’ll call you after the race
Love you mama
Sophie: Love you too, Maxie.
***
Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Max Verstappen
Jos: What the hell was qualifying yesterday?
P18? Max. P18.
You were outqualified by a bloody Haas.
Max: Good morning to you too 🙃
Jos: Don’t be smart.
Explain.
How does the best driver on the grid end up behind Hulkenberg?
Max: Maybe because the car is POSSESSED.
It snaps if I breathe wrong.
Jos: Excuses.
You didn’t push hard enough.
Max: I DID push.
That’s why I almost put it in the wall three times.
The setup is a disaster.
The rear end tries to kill me every corner.
Jos: Others manage it.
Tsunoda got through Q2.
Max: Because he drives like he’s on a Sunday cruise.
I’m trying to survive AND go fast.
Jos: You can survive AND go fast if you drive properly.
Max: Right.
Thanks.
Great pep talk.
Jos: Don’t get emotional. I’m telling you the truth.
If you want to win championships, you can’t let weekends like this happen.
Max: I already HAVE four championships.
Jos: And?
Do you want more or do you want excuses?
Max: I’m doing my best with what I’ve got.
Jos: Your best used to be better.
Max: I can’t fight the car AND you.
Not today.
Jos: I’m not fighting you.
I just know what you’re capable of.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
Max knew the car was wrong.
He’d known since Lap 3.
The rear didn’t step — it lurched. The torque didn’t respond — it surged. The floor didn’t load — it dropped.
Something inside the Red Bull was breaking, and he could feel it in his bones.
But he could still drive it.
He always could.
Or… he used to.
Lap after lap, he fought the thing like wrestling a wild animal.
Every corner was a negotiation.
Every straight a gamble.
Every correction a lightning-fast prayer.
Then Lando appeared in his mirrors.
Blue flags.
Shit.
He wasn’t proud of being lapped, but he also didn’t care.
The car was dying under him.
He just needed to bring it home.
Let him through cleanly, he thought. Don’t be the problem.
He braked early into Turn 7.
Left enough space for a double-decker bus.
But the car—
The car didn’t care.
Something in the rear suspension twitched.
A vibration he’d felt for ten laps suddenly magnified into a violent shudder.
“No no no—”
The rear snapped.
Not gently.
Not progressively.
Catastrophically.
The wheel went light in his hands.
Then heavy.
Then useless.
He tried to countersteer — instinct, muscle memory —
but the car wasn’t listening anymore.
It jerked toward Lando’s line.
Max’s blood ran cold.
There wasn’t time to think.
Barely time to breathe.
Hit Lando?
No.
Never.
Max yanked the wheel — hard, too hard, the kind of movement you only make when you’ve chosen the wall instead of another human being.
The car obeyed just enough to betray him completely.
The impact with the first wall knocked the air out of him.
Pain lanced down his left side.
His head snapped forward—
the belts caught—
then the world turned upside-down.
No—
The world disappeared.
He wasn’t sure when he left the ground.
He only registered the sickening, weightless float of a car no longer touching the earth.
Then he heard metal scream.
Not scrape.
Scream.
The car hit something — the castle wall? the barrier? — he couldn’t tell.
Everything spun.
His vision blurred into sky-stone-sparks-sky-stone-sparks.
He tried to breathe.
Nothing.
He tried to radio.
Nothing.
He tried to move.
God—
no.
His left leg lit up in blinding, nauseating pain.
Something warm flooded his fireproofs.
He didn’t want to look.
He didn’t have to.
He knew a broken bone when his body screamed it.
Then came the second impact.
Worse.
A crunch so deep his skull rang and his teeth ached.
The car folded inward.
The halo smashed sideways into stone.
His helmet bounced off something hard.
His world fractured into black spots.
Upside-down.
He was upside-down.
He sucked in a breath but the belts dug into his chest and no air came.
He tried to speak—
“—help—”
But nothing left his mouth.
He tasted blood.
His ears rang.
He couldn’t see properly. Everything was sideways. Wrong. Warped.
His vision tunneled.
His pulse slowed.
And in the narrowing world inside his helmet, one name surfaced through the fog.
Ana.
Her face —
Her laugh —
The way she took his hand in the mornings like she was grounding him to the planet.
He saw her sitting in their new house, sunlight on her hair, a blueprint spread over her lap.
He saw the ring he’d been hiding for years in a drawer she never opened.
Burning a hole in his entire future.
He saw kids — hazy, imagined, but real — with her eyes and his smile.
He saw her at breakfast, hand wrapped around a mug, teasing him about being jealous of Henry.
He saw her looking at him like he was the only thing that had ever made sense.
No.
No no no.
Not yet.
He pushed against the belt, pain exploding down his leg like fireworks.
He choked on a breath.
Darkness pulled at him.
I can’t die. I can’t die yet. I haven’t asked her. I haven’t married her. We don’t have kids. I haven’t had enough time with her. Not even close.
Something warm trickled down his temple.
His eyes fluttered.
He heard shouting — far away, underwater.
Saw sparks — saws hitting carbon.
Saw hands reaching but not reaching him.
Darkness claimed the edges of the world.
Max forced one last thought, a desperate, furious snarl inside his own mind:
I’m not finished. She’s waiting for me. I’m not done. I’m not done.
His consciousness flickered—
Then went dark.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
The race had been chaos from the start — unpredictable gusts, the asphalt heating in uneven patches, debris appearing and disappearing in ways that made Ana’s skin itch. But even through all of that, even through the rising tension of the midfield and the brilliance of Mercedes’ own pace, one thing never settled:
Red Bull’s car was wrong.
Deeply, structurally, frighteningly wrong.
Ana kept glancing at Max’s sector traces, overlaying them mentally with the baseline from Friday.
Stability variance: rising.
Torque delivery: inconsistent.
Rear load distribution: off by a margin no championship team should ever allow.
He was coaxing a wounded animal, and it was biting back.
The first laps were chaos disguised as racing.
He caught a snap in Turn 2.
Another in Turn 3.
The car behaved like it had seven personalities and all of them angry.
Each time the rear stepped out, he corrected it instinctively, violently—but always perfectly.
But even perfection couldn’t fight physics forever.
From the Red Bull pit wall, she heard swearing over the open feed.
From the race control speakers came something worse:
“Car 1 — noted for erratic driving.”
Ana’s head snapped up.
“What?” she breathed.
Seconds later:
“Car 1 — five-second penalty for unsafe maneuvering.”
Her stomach plummeted.
Because she knew what that meant.
She knew how race control worked.
Max hadn’t done anything dangerous—the car had.
It was the classic illusion:
When the machinery fails, the driver gets blamed.
She wanted to scream.
Wanted to reach through the screen and shake the Race Directors by their collars.
His sector times were a horror show—no consistency, no rhythm.
She could see the feedback loops destabilizing, the oscillation curve on throttle spikes doubling where it should halve. The car wasn’t just unstable.
It was fighting him.
By Lap 38, she felt nauseous.
Then the blue flags lit.
Lando Norris — leading dominantly — was about to lap Max.
Ana’s stomach dropped.
Castle section.
Of all places.
A part of the track built for nightmares.
She forced herself to breathe.
Max will let him through. Max is smart. He’s careful around lapped traffic—
Then she saw it.
A flicker.
A twitch in the rear.
The kind of movement she wished she didn’t understand.
Everything inside her went still.
Turn 8.
Too fast.
Too narrow.
Too unforgiving.
Max braked.
The Red Bull snapped sideways, violently — not a slide, but a catastrophic failure of rear stability.
The car hit the wall.
And the world ended.
A split-second after the initial impact, a structural piece under the floor tore free — and the Red Bull launched.
Not a hop.
Not a bounce.
A flight.
The car was airborne — fully, horrifyingly airborne — twisting like a thrown blade.
It rotated once.
Twice.
A third time.
Its nose clipped the castle wall at nearly 200 km/h, shattering carbon fiber like shrapnel.
Sparks.
Debris.
A shower of parts raining down onto the track and into the narrow alleyways.
Then the chassis slammed into the barrier upside-down.
But the momentum didn’t stop.
The car skidded on its halo — grinding metal, screeching like a dying animal — until it hit a secondary wall and bounced upward again.
The Red Bull wedged itself between the barrier and the stone wall of the castle.
Upside-down.
Crushed.
Unrecognizable.
Half the rear wing was gone.
The right sidepod had caved in.
The suspension hung limp like broken limbs.
And worst of all—
The cockpit was buried.
The halo was twisted at an angle no halo should ever be.
Someone screamed.
Ana didn’t realize it was her until her throat burned.
Her headset filled with chaos:
“RED FLAG! RED FLAG!” “Medical car approaching—” “We’ve lost the feed— telemetry’s dead—” “Max? Max, do you copy?!”
Silence.
Somebody’s voice cracked:
“Max? Please answer. Max?!”
Still nothing.
No movement.
No flicker.
Nothing.
Ana felt everything inside her stop.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Her heart skipped, then stuttered painfully, then slammed back to life at double speed.
“Red flag,” someone said distantly. “Red flag. Medical car is deployed.”
The Mercedes pit wall moved, shouted, coordinated—every engineer snapping into protocols—but Ana heard none of it.
Every cell in her body had tunneled into that crushed, upside-down car wedged into medieval stone.
The underside of Max’s car — crushed, twisted, bent around him like a metal coffin.
Her chest spasmed.
No. No no no no no.
She swallowed a sob, her whole body trembling.
Around her, Mercedes personnel froze. Even rival engineers stopped mid-sentence. Mechanics stared at the screens with hands over their mouths.
Someone touched her shoulder gently — she flinched like she’d been burned.
The marshals reached the car.
They tried to lift it.
It didn’t move.
The halo was jammed into stone.
Then—
Smoke.
Thin at first.
Then heavier.
Not flames — battery discharge. The kind that could become fire.
Ana’s breath hitched so violently she choked.
No radio.
No movement.
He should be speaking.
Even unconscious drivers groaned. Even stunned drivers moved.
But Max’s car—
Max—
was silent.
Nothing.
Just the sickening image of a car that should have protected him crushed into a shape that looked like death.
The camera cut away again.
She couldn’t breathe.
Her brain—so precise, so analytical—couldn’t build a model to sit inside this kind of terror.
She wasn’t an engineer right now.
Not a Wolff.
Not the head of systems.
Not the woman who could tell if a calibration was off by 0.002 milliseconds.
She was just Ana.
Ana who had watched her mother leave.
Ana who grew up holding her own fear because no one else would.
Ana who finally, finally had something she wasn’t ready to lose.
Her knees buckled.
She grabbed onto a console to stay upright.
Some part of her registered Toto shouting orders, voices rising, marshals sprinting.
But all she could see was the number on the top left of her live telemetry feed:
Car 1 — No Signal.
Ana’s hand pressed over her mouth, as if she could physically hold in the terror tearing through her.
She didn’t think.
She didn’t calculate.
She didn’t reason.
She only knew one thing with absolute, devastating clarity:
The man she loved might be dying inside a broken machine, and she could do nothing to save him.
And Ana Wolff had never felt helpless like this in her life.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
Lando had seen crashes.
He’d seen bad ones — Silverstone, Spa, Zandvoort.
He’d seen the ones that made the whole grid go silent in group chats at 2 a.m.
But he had never — in his entire career — seen anything like this.
He’d been leading the race.
Smooth. Controlled. Baku actually behaving for once.
Lap 38.
Blue flags ahead.
He saw the car he was about to lap and exhaled.
Max.
He trusted Max.
Trusted him more than most.
Trusted him because Max was predictable in traffic — as predictable as brilliance could be.
But the Red Bull ahead wasn’t predictable.
It was twitching.
Fighting itself.
Snapping in ways that made Lando’s instincts scream.
“Car ahead struggling with rear stability,” his engineer warned, voice tight.
No shit, Lando wanted to snap.
He closed the gap carefully, ready to take the inside of Turn 8 —
Then it happened.
The Red Bull lurched.
Not slid.
Not stepped out.
Lurched sideways like something underneath had broken.
Max had less than a heartbeat to react — and still reacted faster than any other human alive.
The car veered toward Lando’s line.
And then—
He chose.
Lando saw the moment — crystal clear, horrifying, definitive.
Max could hit him.
Or he could hit the wall.
The decision took a tenth of a second.
Max wrenched the wheel away.
Away from Lando.
Straight into stone.
The Red Bull slammed the barrier.
Lifted.
Launched — horrifyingly, violently, impossibly high.
Carbon exploded in every direction.
The car twisted midair like a piece of scrap metal caught in a tornado.
Lando’s breath vanished.
“No—no no no—” he gasped.
The Red Bull hit the castle wall upside-down.
Then slid.
On its halo.
For meters.
And meters.
And meters.
Sparks. Screeching. Debris. Smoke.
And no movement.
His engineer was yelling something — safety car, delta, avoid debris — but Lando wasn’t hearing a word.
Max wasn’t getting out.
The marshals were sprinting.
The medical car was tearing down the straight.
Lando’s stomach turned.
Then the replay hit him like a punch to the chest:
Max had turned away from him.
He had sacrificed himself — violently — to avoid hitting Lando.
“He did that… for me,” Lando whispered, voice cracking inside his helmet.
His engineer tried to calm him — “Focus, mate, focus. Keep the delta positive.” — but Lando was already shaking.
He pulled into the pits at the red flag.
And the world around him blurred.
McLaren mechanics swarmed.
Hands pulled him from the car.
Someone removed his helmet.
Lando dropped to his knees, nausea punching up his throat so violently he didn’t even try to stop it.
He threw up beside his front wing.
Someone touched his shoulder — gentle, familiar.
Oscar.
“Mate,” Oscar whispered, voice trembling. “Lando. Lando, breathe—”
“He did that for me.” Lando’s voice cracked open like glass. “He deliberately put it in the wall so he wouldn’t hit me. I saw it. I saw it, Oscar—he chose the wall.”
Oscar froze, horror flickering across his face.
“No,” Oscar began, “Lando, you don’t know that—”
“Yes, I do!” Lando shouted, chest heaving. “I felt it! I saw the correction! He saw me coming and he—he—”
He couldn’t finish.
Because the screens cut to Max being pulled out.
Limp.
Unmoving.
Blood on the suit.
His leg—
God—
His leg.
Open fracture.
Bone visible.
Oscar gagged, turning away, hand over his mouth.
Lando shook, fists pressed to his forehead.
“They can’t keep racing,” he whispered. “Oscar. They can’t. They can’t run this race.”
Oscar swallowed hard. “They’re discussing—”
“Discussing?!”
Lando snapped upright, eyes bloodshot and furious.
“He might be dying and they’re DISCUSSING?!”
McLaren staff looked terrified — not of the crash, not of the red flag — but of Lando.
He was shaking.
Vibrating.
A breath away from a full meltdown.
Oscar knelt in front of him, grounding him with both hands on his shoulders.
“Look at me.”
Lando blinked.
“Lando, look at me.”
His eyes finally locked onto Oscar’s.
“We go to Zak,” Oscar said quietly. “We go now.”
Lando nodded once, stumbling to his feet.
Oscar kept one hand on his back the entire time — not guiding him, just keeping him upright.
They found Zak mid-argument with FIA officials.
“No, absolutely not, you cannot restart—”
“We are assessing the circuit safety—”
“ASSESS FASTER,” Zak barked.
Lando didn’t wait.
He shoved between them.
“You can’t restart this race,” he said, voice low and violently steady. “You can’t. Max is—Max—”
His throat closed.
Oscar stepped in, finishing for him:
“You need to black flag the race. You cannot ask drivers to continue after witnessing that. We’re human beings, not simulations.”
The FIA official pinched the bridge of his nose.
“We understand the emotional distress—”
“No, you don’t,” Lando snapped. “Because if you did, this race would already be over.”
He pointed at the screen — at the wreckage, at the blood, at the halo twisted into a shape it was never designed for.
“You send us back out there and every driver on that grid is going to be thinking not about racing, but about whether their friend just died.”
Zak put a firm hand on Lando’s shoulder.
The FIA official looked between them — then at the screens — then finally muttered:
“We… will convene again. Thank you.”
They walked away.
Lando leaned into Oscar for a moment, just to stay upright.
“He saved me,” he whispered, voice breaking again.
“He chose the wall so he wouldn’t kill me. And now he might—he might—”
Oscar tightened his grip.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t. Don’t go there. Not yet.”
Lando choked out a breath that might’ve been a sob.
All he could see — over and over and over — was the moment Max made the choice.
Him or the wall.
And Max chose the wall.
And now Max might not survive it.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 21 September 2025
The race was quiet.
Not completely — she could still hear the engines through the speakers,, still hear Jack’s quiet commentary as he lined his toy cars on the carpet — but quiet enough that it didn’t overwhelm.
A Sunday ritual.
She sat on the edge of the sofa, one eye on the screen, one eye on her son.
Jack, at eight years old, had inherited all of Toto’s intensity and none of his poker face.
His little Mercedes hoodie was too big, sleeves swallowed his hands, and he kept leaning forward like he could will the cars into behaving.
“Valtteri’s doing well,” he said matter-of-factly. “Kimi too. Red Bull still looks wrong.”
Susie gave a small smile. “Your sister said the same.”
He beamed at that — he always did when Ana noticed something he noticed too.
They watched a few laps in companionable silence.
Until they didn’t.
Because something changed.
Susie felt it before the commentators reacted — a tightening in her chest, a prickle down her arms, a shift in the tone of the onboards. Years of racing had trained her instincts to hear danger before it arrived.
The camera cut to Max.
Rear sliding.
Countersteer.
Correction.
Another snap.
Jack straightened sharply.
“Mama… that’s not normal.”
“No,” she said quietly. “It isn’t.”
Then the blue flags lit.
Lando behind him.
Castle section ahead.
Susie’s stomach dropped.
“Come on, Max,” she whispered. “Just let him through.”
Jack leaned forward, breath held.
And then—
The car stepped out.
Not a twitch.
Not a slide.
A violent, catastrophic loss of control.
Max corrected — too hard, too fast — and Susie saw it before the camera could track it:
He wasn’t avoiding the wall.
He was avoiding Lando.
“Oh god,” Susie breathed—
And the world shattered.
The Red Bull hit the wall.
Launched.
Twisted.
Flipped.
Not once.
Twice.
Three full rotations.
Jack screamed.
“Mama!”
Her hand shot out blindly for him, pulling him against her chest as the car smashed into the castle wall upside-down with a force that made her ribs ache just watching it.
Sparks burst across the screen.
Debris rained down.
The chassis folded where no chassis should fold.
The commentators’ voices had dissolved into horrified noise.
Then the broadcast cut away.
Straight to pit lane.
Straight to officials.
Straight to anything except the car wedged into the castle.
Jack was shaking in her arms.
“Mama… Mama, is he alive?”
She swallowed — or tried to. Her throat wouldn’t cooperate.
Broadcast cameras never cut away that fast unless—
She couldn’t finish the thought.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears.
Her fingers trembled where they held her son.
Her mind raced through every crash she’d ever seen, every nightmare scenario, every time motorsport reminded everyone that safety wasn’t absolute.
Jack looked up at her — tear-filled, terrified, far too old in that moment.
“Mama… they’re not showing him. Why aren’t they showing him?”
She smoothed a hand through his hair, trying to steady her breathing, trying to be calm for him, trying not to imagine Ana seeing this live from the garage.
“It’s because it looked very bad,” Susie said softly. “And when it looks very bad, they hide it until they know more.”
Jack’s lip quivered.
“Is he—?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“But he wasn’t moving,” Jack whispered, voice cracking. “When it flipped, Max wasn’t— Mama, I didn’t see him move.”
Susie’s breath caught in her chest so fast it hurt.
He was eight.
He should not understand this.
He should not recognize stillness like that.
But he had Ana for a sister.
Toto for a father.
Motorsport for a household language.
He knew more than he should.
She tightened her arms around him.
“We wait,” she said, though her own voice shook. “And we hope.”
Jack nodded, pressing his face into her shoulder.
A beat later —
The feed briefly, accidentally, showed a sliver of the wreck again.
Susie’s hand flew to her mouth.
The Red Bull was upside-down.
The halo twisted.
Marshals trying — and failing — to lift the car.
“Oh god.”
Jack saw it too.
“Mama… Ana’s there.”
“Yes,” Susie whispered, feeling tears burn the back of her eyes. “Your sister is there.”
Which meant Ana was watching this.
Hearing nothing.
Seeing nothing.
Knowing nothing except that the man she loved was trapped under a car that would not lift.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 21 September 2025
Toto had seen crashes.
He had lived through the sport’s worst nights.
He had stood at the edge of tracks with sirens wailing and known what grief felt like before the medical reports arrived.
But this—
this was something far more ancient and primal.
The moment Max Verstappen’s car hit the wall, flipped, and stayed upside-down, wedged like wreckage in a medieval grave, Toto felt the garage inhale as one.
A collective, horrified breath.
And then the silence.
No radio.
No movement.
No confirmation of life.
Just the image of a crushed chassis jammed into the castle wall like the circuit itself had swallowed him.
Max Verstappen’s car wasn’t just crashed.
It was entombed.
And he wasn’t answering.
Not on the radio.
Not through telemetry.
Dead silence.
Around Toto, the garage screens flickered between shaky camera angles and horrified commentators grasping for words. Engineers froze mid-analysis. Crew members stared, white-knuckled.
Only Ana…
She wasn’t staring.
She was gone.
Standing there physically, headset askew, eyes fixed on nothing.
A stillness so deep it terrified him more than the crash.
Her hands trembled—not visibly, not dramatically. He only saw it because he knew her. Because he’d watched her steady scalpel-precise hands build the Altair system from nothing. Now they shook so slightly it fractured him.
He didn’t touch her.
Not yet.
If he touched her, she would break.
A roar outside. A ripple through the pit lane.
The marshals had arrived at the wreck.
Toto’s gaze snapped to the monitor.
Three marshals were trying to lift the car.
It didn’t budge.
The Red Bull chassis was wedged into the stone like it had tried to bury itself alive. One marshal crawled halfway under it, helmet scraping the debris.
He shouted something—urgent, panicked.
More marshals came.
Eight of them now.
Pushing, pulling, bracing.
Nothing.
Then Toto heard a voice behind him—tight, hoarse, panicked but certain:
“They need to cut him out.”
He turned.
Leo.
One of Mercedes’ quieter mechanics.
Brilliant with power units.
He was trembling.
And crying.
“They can’t get him out unless they cut the car,” Leo said again, louder this time, voice cracking. “They have to cut him out. The chassis is collapsed around the halo. It’s locked.”
Toto didn’t question it.
He didn’t need to.
He saw it too.
And then, like a dam breaking—
The pit lane mobilized.
Mercedes mechanics sprinted out first—no hesitation, grabbing the electric saws kept for emergency extraction training.
Then McLaren joined them.
Then Williams.
Three teams.
Thirty people.
Running toward a Red Bull car as if their own lives depended on it.
He watched them disappear down the pit lane, packs of men in fireproof suits carrying saws as if heading into battle.
The camera cut again—to the wreck.
Williams mechanics arrived first, jumping the barrier without waiting for permission.
McLaren followed—three of their biggest guys helping lift debris.
Mercedes arrived with Leo at the front, already fitting a cutting disk to a portable saw with shaking hands.
A marshal shouted—but didn’t stop them.
Nobody was stopping them.
Formula 1 became a single team in twenty seconds.
Sparks erupted as the first saw hit carbon fiber.
They were cutting Max out.
Because there was no other way.
Still no radio.
Still no movement.
The Red Bull halo was so twisted it hardly looked like a protective structure anymore.
The cockpit padding was partially ripped.
There was blood—Toto’s stomach lurched hard at that—visible on the edge of the chassis.
Someone swore on the Mercedes radio.
Someone else sounded like they were praying.
Ana didn’t react.
Not to the cutting.
Not to the sparks.
Not to the fact that three teams were working together to save her boyfriend's life.
She wasn’t seeing any of it anymore.
Her breath was shallow.
Her pupils blown wide.
Her hands rigid at her sides.
Frozen.
Shock.
Toto moved—slowly, carefully—until he was standing beside her.
“Anastasia,” he said quietly.
No response.
“Ana… look at me.”
Nothing.
“Anastasia.”
Her eyes flicked toward him, but she didn’t really see him.
Behind them, the saw screeched. Sparks sprayed against the wall. A chunk of carbon fell away from the car.
Still no movement from Max.
Still no voice.
Still nothing but dread.
Toto put a hand on Ana’s shoulder.
She flinched.
Then her voice—barely a whisper, cracked, empty:
“…he’s not answering.”
Toto swallowed hard.
“I know.”
“…he should be answering.”
“I know.”
Toto felt his throat close.
“…he’s not moving.”
And Toto’s heart broke.
Because she didn’t sound panicked.
She didn’t sound hysterical.
She sounded eight years old again—
standing in his doorway, clutching a backpack, trying not to cry.
He reached her and gently touched her arm.
“Ana,” he whispered, “look at me.”
She didn’t.
She physically couldn’t pull her eyes from the screen.
The saws screamed louder.
Carbon hissed and splintered.
Sparks flew like fireworks over the castle stones.
Still no radio.
Still no movement.
And Toto understood something he had never fully realized until this moment:
Ana might have been born in Russia.
Raised partly in Austria.
Educated in England.
But her heart — the only real, unguarded part of her — lived in a Red Bull car currently being carved open like a can of sardines.
She was not built to survive this.
He stood beside her.
Not touching.
Not rushing.
Just anchoring her with presence.
Because she was shaking now.
Visibly.
Quietly.
Then—
One of the medical crew shouted something and waved frantically.
More sparks.
More cutting.
And Toto’s breath caught in his chest as the halo finally began to separate from the stone.
The car shifted.
Just a few centimeters.
But enough for medics to crawl deeper under the chassis.
Still no movement inside.
Still no voice on radio.
Ana whispered one word, cracked and broken:
“…Max.”
And Toto tightened his jaw, his hands, his stance—
Because he had never hated helplessness more in his life.
The saws screamed.
Carbon cracked.
Stone dust fell in grey sheets over the marshals crawling under the chassis.
The halo was pried, bent, cracked again — and finally gave with a horrible metallic snap.
The Red Bull shifted.
Not much.
Not enough for comfort.
Just enough to allow medics to wedge themselves deeper into the crushed survival cell.
Toto held his breath.
Ana didn’t breathe at all.
Then—
A medic’s voice rose above the noise:
“WE HAVE ACCESS!”
The world lurched forward.
Hands reached.
Harnesses were cut.
Debris cleared with frantic efficiency.
Then the part Toto had been dreading —
and praying for —
and fearing most:
They pulled Max out.
Limp.
Unresponsive.
His head lolled sideways, neck brace hastily attached. His race suit was torn. One arm hung wrong. But what made the Mercedes garage gasp—
What made Ana’s knees tremble and buckle—
Was the sight of his left leg.
The bone was visible.
Protruding.
White, shocking, monstrous against the red and blue of the fireproofs.
An open fracture.
Bad.
Very bad.
Toto’s breath caught — a silent, brutal thing.
The medic shouted for a stretcher.
Another yelled for additional stabilizers.
Someone else called:
“No response!
No movement!
Pulse is weak—very weak—”
The words sliced straight into Toto’s chest.
Ana made a sound — quiet, strangled, almost swallowed — and Toto reached instinctively for her arm.
She was ice-cold.
Her eyes were glassy and wide and fixed on Max like she could somehow will him back into himself.
A medic lifted one of Max’s eyelids briefly.
Flashlight.
No reaction.
Toto swore under his breath.
They hoisted Max onto a spinal board.
His head rocked slightly.
He didn’t wake.
He didn’t twitch.
He didn’t exist in that moment except as a terrifying stillness.
Then someone in an FIA jacket appeared beside Toto so suddenly he nearly snapped at them.
“Mr. Wolff?” the official said breathlessly.
Toto blinked. “Yes?”
“You’re listed as Max Verstappen’s primary emergency contact.”
For a moment—
just a moment—
the world went silent.
Toto stared at him.
Then at Ana.
Then back at the official.
“I am his—what?”
“Primary emergency contact. Signed on all forms.”
Toto blinked again.
Then slowly exhaled.
“Of course,” he muttered. “Of course it would be me.”
He didn’t have time to process it.
Because the official continued—
“You need to accompany him to the hospital. Now.”
Toto turned instantly to Ana.
“You’re coming,” he said — not a question.
She didn’t argue.
She couldn’t.
Her mouth had gone slack and pale, and her hands shook uncontrollably.
When the medical helicopter doors slammed shut around Max’s stretcher, Toto grabbed Ana’s hand — firm, anchoring, commanding — and pulled her with him.
They ran.
Through the paddock.
Down the tunnel.
Into the waiting Mercedes car the FIA had already flagged.
The door shut behind them.
The engine roared.
They sped toward the hospital.
Ana stared out the window with dead, unseeing eyes.
Toto watched her for a long moment before he spoke — softly, terribly aware this was the child he once failed and the woman he would never fail again:
“We will get there,” he said. “We will be with him. Do you hear me?”
Her voice was a ghost.
“I can’t lose him.”
“You won’t,” Toto said, with a conviction he forced into existence. “He is strong. He is stubborn.”
Her hands shook harder.
“He wasn’t moving,” she whispered.
Toto reached over and held her hand with both of his.
“He will move again,” he said. “And we will be there when he does.”
“Papa,” she choked, “if he dies—”
“He won’t,” Toto said, voice iron, absolute. “We’re going to the hospital. We will be there when he wakes up.”
Ana swallowed — hard, painful.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t let me lose him.”
Toto didn’t hesitate.
“You won’t,” he said, “I swear it.”
As the door slammed and the car sped toward the hospital, Toto’s thoughts split in two:
Executive: Max Verstappen — star driver, future Mercedes signing, massive PR crisis.
Father: My daughter is breaking.
And the man she loves is somewhere between life and death.
He reached over and took Ana’s shaking hand again.
This time, she held on like he was the only thing keeping her upright.
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. Questionable family dynamics. Questionable Engineering Science...also Questionable work ethic. Questionable Media Ethics. I feel like I owe Toto's kids an apology after this. I bet they are lovely in real life, they just suck in my fictional version! Discussion of death and the dangers of Formula 1 Racing... Oh Smut at the end! Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
(Also apparently I need to add this following disclaimer: There's this magical thing in a fic called character development and plot. If there was neither of those there wouldn't be much of a fic. So yes, characters will make stupid decisions and act in a way that is not very smart.)
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 15 September 2025
Toto had dressed for Stuttgart the way a knight dressed for battle: dark suit, understated watch, expression carved from granite.
The only difference was that knights got swords.
He got the Mercedes Board.
He stood in the bedroom adjusting his cufflinks—though “adjusting” was generous; it was more like inflicting structural damage—when Susie appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with the serenity of someone who had already accepted that the universe had it out for them.
“Take a breath,” she said.
“I am breathing,” he replied.
“Through your teeth.”
He paused. Considered this.
“…It’s efficient.”
Susie stepped in behind him, smoothing the back of his collar with gentle, practiced hands.
“So,” she said lightly, “are you planning to tell the Board that your daughter is dating their future lead driver?”
Toto closed his eyes.
Ah. That.
“I am planning,” he said slowly, “to get through the quarterly financial review without anyone collapsing, and possibly avoid dying before lunch.”
“That wasn’t the question,” Susie said pleasantly.
“No,” he admitted. “It wasn’t.”
She moved around to face him, arms crossing, one eyebrow raised in that way that always meant: Don’t you dare pretend this will magically resolve itself.
Toto exhaled through his nose, a sound that in any other man might have been considered a sigh but in him was simply… pressure release.
“Stuttgart will ask about everything today,” he muttered. “And I mean everything.”
“George's legal case?”
He nodded. “Yes. That. And the rumors. And the fact that all of F1 Twitter appears to be reconstructing the emotional archaeology of my family.” He made a face. “Our daughter is not a PR liability.”
“She isn’t,” Susie agreed. “But they know headlines. And they know Max Verstappen. And unfortunately, Max Verstappen dating the Head of Systems is not something they’ll interpret as a footnote if they find that out on their own..”
Toto groaned quietly into his palms.
“I can already hear it,” he muttered. “‘Is this appropriate?’ ‘Is this a conflict of interest?’ ‘Are you compromising team integrity by letting young romance cloud engineering judgement?’”
Susie patted his shoulder. “You forgot ‘how long have you known?’ and ‘were you hiding it from us?’”
He let his hands fall away, staring at her.
“You are not helping.”
“I’m helping you be prepared,” she said. “You know how they think.”
He did. Unfortunately.
The Mercedes Board liked predictability.
It liked control.
It liked news delivered in calm, carefully curated phrases.
And nothing about Max and Ana was calm.
Or curated.
Or predictable.
Which, ironically, was why he adored them both.
Susie squeezed his arm. “Warn at least some of them.”
He hesitated. “Which ones?”
“The ones who won’t immediately combust,” she said. “Ola and Markus, for a start.”
Toto grimaced, but she was right.
If anyone in the upper ranks of Mercedes had earned the right to be told early—to process the shock privately, to adjust without theatrics—it was Ola Källenius and Markus Schäfer.
He trusted them. They trusted him.
And this… was not the kind of information you dropped into a crowded boardroom like an emotional hand grenade.
“I can invite them to dinner after the meeting,” Toto said slowly. “Perhaps the restaurant at the Althoff. Something quiet. Controlled.”
Susie smirked. “Controlled? With you delivering news that your daughter is dating Max Verstappen who is moving to Mercedes next year?”
Toto glared half-heartedly. “I had not planned to phrase it that way.”
“They’re going to phrase it that way.”
He rubbed his forehead.
He could face Liberty Media.
He could outmaneuver Red Bull.
He could navigate the political labyrinth of F1 like he built it himself.
But telling two of the most powerful men in German motorsport that his daughter had somehow become romantically entangled with the incoming golden boy of their entire future project?
That was… delicate.
“Do you think they’ll take it badly?” he asked quietly.
Susie softened.
She stepped closer, her hand resting over his heart.
“I think,” she said, “that once they understand Ana… they’ll see it as the advantage it is.”
Toto blinked. “Advantage?”
Susie shrugged. “Max is calmer around her. More grounded. Less self-destructive. And Ana? She’s already responsible for the systems upgrades that kept Mercedes afloat this season.”
Toto exhaled.
“That is true.”
“And they trust you,” Susie continued. “You’ve led this team for over a decade. They know you don’t mix personal and professional without thought.”
He nodded. Slowly.
Steadily.
She brushed a stray hair off his forehead.
“You don’t have to tell all of them today. But give Ola and Markus a heads-up. You’ll sleep better.”
Toto let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“Yes,” he said finally. “Dinner, then.”
Susie smiled. “Good.”
He picked up his briefcase.
Checked his watch.
Straightened his posture—back into the form of a man who commanded boardrooms and battlefields.
“You will be brilliant,” Susie said.
“I intend to be,” he replied.
But as he kissed her goodbye and headed for the door, one thought lingered—quiet, wry, and entirely unhelpful:
They survived Hamilton to Ferrari. They can survive this.
…Hopefully.
***
The Townhouse, Brackley, England - 15 September 2025
The sky was a washed-out early-September grey — the kind that made everything feel too quiet and too sharp at once.
Ana stood beside her front door, laptop bag over one shoulder, hair in a low bun, and a folder under her arm containing her lecture outline, because even if she’d long since memorized it, redundancy was comfort.
Max was leaning against the door, yawning dramatically into his hoodie sleeve like a feral housecat dragged out of sleep.
“You look like someone who lost a custody battle with gravity,” Ana said flatly.
Max blinked slow. “I don’t function well before 8 AM.”
“You chose sim sessions at 8.”
He stared at her.
“I regret that.”
Before she could respond, a black Mercedes SUV rolled to a stop in front of them, windows tinted, engine quiet — the kind that cost more than a midi piano and was designed purely to intimidate.
Ana froze.
“Oh no.”
Max grinned, sudden energy like a man who loved chaos.
“Oh yes.”
The driver door opened.
Out stepped the bodyguard.
Black suit. Tactical boots. Earpiece. Expression like he could bench press regret.
Ana exhaled through her nose.
Max tried — tried — not to laugh.
“That is not a bodyguard,” he murmured. “That is a former Eastern European special forces operative named Igor who sleeps with one eye open.”
Ana didn’t even blink.
“That is Nikolai. My father only uses operatives with background checks so extensive the CIA looks sloppy.”
Max leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“Your father definitely threatened someone to hire that man.”
“He threatened three people,” Ana corrected. “One of them was the legal department.”
Max’s grin was immediate.
God, he loved her family chaos.
Ana, however, tightened her ponytail like she was preparing for war.
“I do not need a bodyguard to walk onto a university campus,” she muttered.
“No,” Max said softly, “but Toto needs to feel like he’s doing something. Let him. It’s easier than fighting him.”
She hesitated.
Max rested a hand lightly on her shoulder.
“You don’t have to like it,” he murmured, “just let people care about you.”
That landed heavier than intended.
She swallowed.
“…fine.”
Max smiled — the small, proud one she pretended not to collect like medals.
Then Nikolai approached.
“Dr. Wolff,” he said with a polite nod that somehow sounded like I will neutralize threats and also morally questionable pigeons for you.
Ana blinked. “Good morning.”
He opened the passenger door of the car as if she were royalty.
Max leaned toward him. “You have tasers, right?”
Nikolai nodded once.
Ana smacked Max’s arm. “Do not encourage him.”
“It brings me joy,” Max whispered.
She rolled her eyes but her smile betrayed her.
Nikolai cleared his throat. “We need to depart in three minutes to maintain schedule buffer.”
Which was code for: I have already measured Cambridge traffic patterns with satellite and you will not ruin my itinerary.
Max just grinned
“I’ll walk you to the car.”
“You’re walking five meters.”
“It feels symbolic.”
So they walked five meters — Max, Ana, and an ex-military shadow with the emotional range of granite.
At the door, Max stopped her.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” he said simply.
Ana nodded — not modestly, but like a fact she could accept.
Max brushed a kiss against her cheek, soft and quick, just for them.
She let herself lean into it for a microsecond.
Nikolai pretended he was blind.
“See you after sim?” Max asked.
“You’ll be swearing at software and brake bias by 1 p.m.,” she replied. “I’ll bring coffee this evening.”
“Make it two,” he grinned.
She slipped into the car, Nikolai shutting the door quietly before circling to the driver's side.
As the engine started and the vehicle rolled toward the exit, Ana looked back:
Max still stood there beside her townhouse— hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, hands in pockets — watching her leave with that expression he only wore when she wasn’t looking.
Except she was.
Warm.
Steady.
Certain.
The convoy turned the corner and Brackley disappeared behind them.
Ana opened her laptop.
Slides. Notes. Henry’s seminar outline.
She inhaled.
Okay.
Cambridge could judge her.
Twitter could speculate.
Her past could claw at her heels all it wanted.
She was walking into that lecture with a security detail, a career she built herself, and someone waiting for her at the end of the day.
For the first time in her life,
she wasn’t running from anything.
She was walking toward something.
And it felt like belonging.
***
Trinity College, Cambridge, England - 15 September 2025
The air smelled exactly the same.
Cold stone. Old paper. Rain waiting in the clouds even when the sky was clear.
Cambridge always smelled like memory — polished and archived, like nothing here ever changed except the names printed on the door signs.
Ana adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder and scanned the courtyard — the worn path where students trudged half-awake to morning lectures, the ivy climbing centuries-old brick, the bikes chained to metal rails in organized chaos.
And then—
“Anastasia Wolff. Still punctual. Still terrifying.”
She turned.
Henry Portman was leaning against the archway entrance in the exact pose of a man who wanted to appear casual but absolutely rehearsed it on the walk over — scarf perfectly arranged, glasses slightly crooked in a way that looked intentional, coffee in hand.
He grinned.
She didn’t.
“What,” she said dryly, “no fanfare? No banner reading Welcome Back, Chaos Algorithm?”
Henry placed a hand to his chest dramatically.
“I tried. The ethics committee said no. Apparently confetti cannons are still frowned upon indoors.”
She shook her head, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her:
just barely softening.
The bodyguard — stationed precisely one polite meter behind her — cleared his throat.
Henry blinked at the man. Then at Ana. Then back at the man.
“…Oh my god,” Henry whispered, horrified-delighted. “Toto sent a handler.”
Ana sighed.
“Yes.”
“You have security.”
“Yes.”
“You’re being escorted across campus.”
“Yes.”
Henry’s eyes sparkled with cruel delight.
“Oh, this is going in my speech introduction.”
“No, it is not.”
Henry held up his coffee in surrender.
“Fine. But I reserve the right to laugh quietly and pitifully.”
Ana glanced around — taking in students who were younger than she felt comfortable acknowledging, laughing about deadlines she remembered surviving with caffeine and suppressed emotion.
“How have you been?” Henry asked, softer now.
She shrugged, clinical.
“Busy. Development is constant. Post-season simulations are ongoing.”
“And emotionally?”
She gave him a blank look.
Henry sighed.
“For normal humans,” he translated, “that means: how are you?”
Ana hesitated.
Then — with the honesty that existed only between old ghosts and people who knew your worst haircut phase — she said quietly:
“…Good. Mostly.”
Henry nodded — like he understood the unspoken list beneath it.
Henry brightened.
“Excellent. My students fear me, my husband loves me, and I recently convinced the Dean to let me add the word ‘catastrophic’ into an exam question.”
“…Why?”
“Because it builds character.”
Ana blinked slowly.
“Yes. I forgot teaching is just structured cruelty.”
Henry looped his arm through hers — ignoring the bodyguard’s raised eyebrow — and walked her toward the lecture hall.
“Edward is joining us for lunch,” he said. “He’s excited to see you.”
“I still don’t understand why you two married each other,” she muttered.
Henry smirked.
“Because I enjoy being adored, and Edward enjoys being mocked. It’s a perfect balance.”
As they approached the double doors, students filtered inside — notebooks out, laptops flashing spreadsheets and simulation graphs.
Henry slowed.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“No.”
He arched a brow.
She inhaled.
“…A little.”
Henry softened — something warm and annoyingly fond settling over his expression.
“They don’t know what’s coming,” he murmured. “Half of them will fall in love with you, the other half will fear you, and one or two will dramatically question their entire academic path.”
Ana blinked.
“Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“Yes,” Henry said cheerfully. “You break minds for a living. This is just doing it in person.”
The bodyguard opened the door for her.
She stepped through.
The room quieted — rows of students looking up, expectation thick and electric.
Ana placed her laptop on the desk, connected the cable, opened her slides.
Title page:
Hybrid Systems Integration: Fail-Proof Logic in Failure-Prone Environments — Dr. Anastasia Wolff, Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS
Henry watched her with the knowing calm of someone who remembered exactly who she was before the world did.
“You ready?” he murmured.
Ana clicked the slide.
Her voice was steady. Controlled. Precise.
“Good morning. Let’s begin.”
And just like that—
the noise from the outside world fell away.
***
Twitter Thread: Dr. Ana Wolff’s Guest Lecture
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: GUYS.
GUYS.
GUYS.
OUR GUEST LECTURER TODAY IS ANA FREAKING WOLFF.
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie:
AS IN MERCEDES F1. ALTAR/ALT-AIR/WHATEVER THE SIM NERDS CALL IT. THE SYSTEMS GENIUS. THE WOMAN WHO BUILT HALF OF HAMILTON’S 2024 RELIABILITY RECOVERY WITH HER BARE LOGIC.
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie:
I THOUGHT THE EMAIL WAS A TYPO.
IT WASN’T.
I AM ACTUALLY GOING TO ASCEND.
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie Update:
She walked in with a bodyguard.
A BODYGUARD.
We have finally reached the celebrity guest lecturer final boss level.Someone behind me whispered “we’re not worthy” and I have never agreed with anything more.
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: HER TITLE SLIDE JUST SAID:
Hybrid Systems Integration: Fail-Proof Logic in Failure-Prone Environments
And then she looked at us like she could hear who didn’t finish the pre-reading.
I’ve never felt shame and attraction at the same time before.
@/graham_crackers_97:
WHAT DID SHE SAY?? WE NEED DETAILS
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: Okay okay I’m trying to type but my brain is soup but HERE:
She started with:
“Assuming you completed the assigned papers, you already know the difference between a stable, predictable hybrid system and one that fails under stress.”
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie:
A girl in the front row immediately froze because she did not read the papers.
Ana paused. Looked RIGHT AT HER.
And said:
“Don’t worry. The FIA does that every season.”
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie:
THE ROOM LAUGHED AND SHE DID NOT.
SHE KEPT TALKING LIKE SHE HADN’T MADE THE FUNNIEST JOKE OF THE YEAR.
@/caffeineandcatastrophes:
NO SHE DID NOT DRAG THE FIA TO OUR FACES 😭😭
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: SHE DID.
AND IT GOT WORSE (better).
Someone asked: “How do you prevent catastrophic failure?”
And Ana said — dead serious: “You don’t. You plan for it.”
THE AUDACITY.
THE WISDOM.
THE TRAUMA SHE HAS SEEN.
@/oversteeranxiety:
WHAT???? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN???
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: She explained: “Systems will fail. Humans will make mistakes. Software will behave unexpectedly. The only variable you truly control is how gracefully a failure recovers.”
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie:
Then she showed a graph and I swear half the room fell in love and the other half questioned every career choice they've ever made.
@/f1academicsimp:
TELL US SHE DID A Q&A PLEASE
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: Best Q&A moment:
Random dude: “How do you deal with pressure? You work in the most high-stakes environment in motorsport.”
Ana: “Pressure isn’t the problem. Silence is. Pressure means there is something at stake. Silence means nobody cares.”
SIR. MA’AM. WHAT DOES THAT MEAN.
WHY AM I HAVING AN EXISTENTIAL CRISIS IN WEEK 2 OF TERM???
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: Anyway I’m now 100% sure she could overthrow a government using only a whiteboard and a spreadsheet and we would all thank her.
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie:
10/10 lecture.
12/10 fear.
100/10 would abandon my degree to become her unpaid minion.
@/flooritandhope: be honest
did ANYONE try to ask about Max???
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: One guy whispered “ask her” to his friend and the friend whispered back “I enjoy breathing.”
So… no 😂
@/GridTeaOverGrades:
BUT DID SHE LOOK LIKE SOMEONE DATING MAX VERSTAPPEN???
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: She looked like someone who:
Knows thermal modelling better than God
Hasn't slept enough since 2016
Could end a man using only MATLAB
Drinks espresso like it’s a threat
So yeah. Probably.
@/softpitwall: Did she talk about legacy or her upbringing???
Twitter is losing it over her last name rn.
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: SOMEONE almost asked.
This dude opened his mouth with:
“So about your family—”
And before he could finish, Ana said:
“Irrelevant to system integration. Next.”
THE ROOM WENT DEAD SILENT.
He nodded like he’d been spiritually backhanded.
@/noSenseOnlyChaos:
YES EMPRESS. BOUNDARIES.
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: Okay but real question:
Would fully take a bullet for her?
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: After today?
Yes.
But honestly I think her bodyguard would get there first.
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie: OKAY SO I THOUGHT THE DRAMA WAS DONE BUT NO.
Someone in the front row asked the professor how he and Dr. Wolff knew each other and—
I. WAS. NOT. PREPARED.
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie:
The guy just casually went: “Oh, Ana and I briefly dated in Cambridge before I realized I’m very, very gay. Now we’re just friends.”
AND KEPT SPEAKING.
LIKE THAT WAS A NORMAL SENTENCE.
@/chaoticSTEMgirlie:
Ana didn’t even blink.
Just looked at him like,
“Correct. Move on.”
The rest of us???
We ASCENDED.
@/F1Academic: IM SORRY??????
ANA + UNIVERSITY SITUATIONSHIP LORE JUST DROPPED?????
@/tyresmokeandtea: “briefly dated before I realized I’m very gay” IS THE FUNNIEST EXPLANATION EVER 💀💀💀
***
Mercedes-Benz HQ, Stuttgart, Germany - 15 September 2025
The boardroom was designed to intimidate.
Glass walls. Brutalist concrete. A table so long it needed its own zip code. Twelve executives in impeccable suits, each of them with expressions that said we sell millions of road cars a year, do not waste our time.
Toto had handled negotiations with the FIA, Liberty Media, Dietrich Mateschitz, and Bernie Ecclestone in his prime. None of them made him sweat like Stuttgart.
Ola Källenius sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled. Markus Schäfer, beside him, tapped his pen with surgical precision.
Toto took his seat.
Ola nodded. “Morning, Toto. Busy few weeks.”
Understatement of the century.
“Shall we begin?” Ola asked.
Toto opened his laptop. “By all means.”
Markus cleared his throat.
“The situation involving George Russell and your daughter.”
The room went uncomfortably quiet.
Toto kept his voice even.
“Yes,” he said. “I anticipated this question.”
Ola nodded sympathetically. “The media storm is… significant.”
“We’ve received inquiries from three major papers,” one board member added.
“And concerned questions from investors,” another said.
“And from our corporate partners,” said a third.
Toto breathed in slowly—measured, grounded.
“Let me clarify the situation,” he said. “There was an incident. A physical incident. George Russell behaved inappropriately, without consent, and my daughter defended herself. The matter is being handled legally.
Markus leaned in. “Toto… is this going to court?”
“Only if necessary,” Toto said. “Russell’s lawyers are attempting a settlement with NDA terms that are unacceptable. My daughter will not be silenced.”
Ola’s jaw tightened. He nodded once, sharply.
“Good.”
A few board members exchanged glances—surprised at the CEO’s tone.
Markus spoke carefully. “Will this affect the team’s image?”
Toto met his gaze directly.
“A woman in motorsport was assaulted by a colleague. The message we send is not in defending optics—it’s in defending her.”
Silence.
Then Ola smiled—faint but real.
“Well said.”
Toto allowed himself a small nod in return.
The board moved on, though the undercurrent of emotion remained.
“Next item,” Markus said, almost relieved. “Monza.”
Finally—something that wouldn’t make him want to throw a chair.
“The Grand Chelem,” Markus said with a rare grin. “Congratulations. The hybrid modulation improvements were extraordinary. Whose work?”
Toto clicked the slide.
A diagram filled the screen—clean, brilliant, terrifyingly elegant.
PROJECT ALTAIR — Lead System Architect: Dr. Anastasia Wolff
“This,” Toto said, voice warming, “was Anastasia”
The board murmured. Even the CFO smiled.
“She delivered a 0.04-second smoothing in modulation curve,” Toto continued. “Better than predicted. Better than the simulator. It allowed Antonelli to run higher efficiency without drop-off.”
Ola leaned back. “She may be the most valuable engineer we have.”
Toto didn’t say she is. But his eyes did.
“Regarding 2026,” Markus said, “we understand you’ve been evaluating new options.”
Toto nodded.
“Max Verstappen and Kimi Antonelli are both signed on multi-year contracts. Frederik Vesti will be our reserve driver.”
Markus narrowed his eyes. “And Bottas to Cadillac—does that affect your plans?”
“Not directly. He preferred a leadership role. That was not available here.”
Ola nodded. “Max. Kimi. Vesti. That is a championship lineup.”
Markus leaned forward. “Why did Verstappen leave Red Bull? Officially?”
Toto opened his mouth—
—and froze.
Because the actual honest answer was:
Because he’s in love with my daughter and wants to live within 500 meters of her.
But he gave the sanitized truth:
“He wanted a new challenge. And Laurent Mekies has… lost control internally. The environment is toxic. Max wanted stability.”
All true. He just… left out a few facts.
The meeting ended two hours later.
Ola clapped a hand on Toto’s shoulder.
“You’re doing good work,” he said. “With the team. With Kimi. With Vesti. And… with your daughter.”
Toto simply nodded.
He did not trust his voice.
Markus joined them. “Dinner tonight still on?”
“Yes,” Toto said.
“Good. We can discuss Verstappen’s onboarding plan.”
Toto swallowed again.
“And,” Markus added casually, “perhaps talk more about Ana. She fascinates half the board.”
Toto forced a smile.
“Yes,” he said. “We’ll… talk.”
As he walked out of the boardroom, one thought chased him all the way down the corridor:
I have exactly two hours to prepare myself for the moment I tell them she’s dating Max fucking Verstappen.
And another thought followed, carried with equal weight:
God help me.
***
Weinstube zum Alten Schloss, Stuttgart, Germany - 15 September 2025
Toto Wolff liked this restaurant because the lighting was low, the tables were tucked into quiet corners, and the wine list was good enough to soften the edges of even the worst day.
He suspected, as he sat across from Ola Källenius and Markus Schäfer with a perfectly respectable Riesling in front of him, that tonight would require two bottles.
Maybe three.
“So,” Ola said warmly, loosening his tie. “A less formal setting. We can talk drivers. The factory. Strategy. All the things you didn’t have time to say in the boardroom.”
Markus nodded, leaning back. “And you promised us an update on… personal matters.”
Toto took a long sip of wine.
This was already going badly.
Susie had warned him — “Rip the bandage off. They’ll take it better than you think.” He wanted to believe her.
He set down his glass.
“Before we talk about Max’s onboarding,” he said carefully, “there are some things you should know about my family. About… Ana.”
Ola gestured with his hand. “Of course. You never need to hesitate.”
Markus nodded. “You have our trust.”
Which made it worse.
Toto inhaled. Braced. Began.
“I’ll start with the… adoption.”
Both men blinked.
“Adoption?” Markus repeated. “As in—?”
“Yes,” Toto said. “Susie is formally adopting Anastasia.”
Ola’s eyebrows shot upward.
“Oh.”
Markus let out a soft, surprised breath.
“That’s… significant.”
“It is,” Toto said. “And it is something Ana chose. Something that reflects where her loyalty and belonging truly lie.”
Ola smiled faintly. “She and Susie have always been close.”
“They are family,” Toto said simply.
Markus nodded thoughtfully. “Well… congratulations to all of you. Truly.”
Toto exhaled, relieved by their reaction.
Then Ola added lightly:
“Is this also connected to the… situation with your ex-wife?”
And Toto nearly choked on air.
“I— yes,” he admitted. “There has been… tension. And hostile behavior. Toward Anastasia.”
Ola and Markus exchanged a sharp, knowing look — far more perceptive than Toto wanted.
“Family politics,” Markus murmured. “Always the worst kind.”
Toto nodded grimly. “I won’t tolerate any further harm to her. Not from outside. Not from within.”
Ola’s eyes softened. “Good.”
Toto took another sip of wine.
Now the hard part.
“There is something else,” he said, slow and deliberate. “Something you will need to know before the media discover it.”
Ola raised an eyebrow. “More than adoption and a legal case involving a driver?”
“Yes,” Toto said darkly. “More.”
Markus leaned in. “Toto… you’re scaring us.”
Toto cleared his throat.
“It concerns Max.”
Silence.
Long, slow silence.
Finally Ola asked, “Max… Verstappen? What about him?”
Toto paused — then delivered the blow:
“He is in a relationship with my daughter.”
Both men stared.
Stared.
And then—
“What?” Markus whispered.
“What?” Ola repeated, louder.
Toto kept his expression neutral, because someone had to.
“Yes,” he said. “They are together.”
“How long?” Markus demanded.
Toto hesitated.
He regretted hesitating.
Because the moment he hesitated, both board members leaned forward like wolves scenting blood.
“How. Long?” Ola asked, enunciating every word.
Toto took a sip of wine.
A long sip.
“…ten years,” he said finally.
Ola’s mouth fell open.
Markus went rigid.
“TEN—” Markus began.
“Toto—” Ola said at the same time.
“TEN YEARS?” Markus finished, voice cracking.
Toto nodded miserably.
“And you didn’t KNOW?” Ola demanded.
“No,” Toto said. “No, I did not know.”
Markus put a hand to his forehead.
“How is that even possible?!”
“They kept it quiet. Very quiet.”
“Toto,” Ola said, torn between laughter and disbelief, “your daughter has been in a decade-long relationship with one of the most famous athletes in the world and you had NO idea?”
“Yes,” Toto said flatly.
Markus blinked. “Did Susie know?”
“No.”
“Did anyone know?”
Toto lifted a hand and gestured vaguely.
“His race engineer.”
Markus swore under his breath.
Ola sat back in his chair, stunned. Then, slowly, he began to laugh.
Not mockingly — just incredulously.
“This is unbelievable,” he said. “All these years we’ve negotiated with him. All the contracts. All the rivalry. And he was—”
“Dating your daughter,” Markus finished, rubbing his temples.
“Yes,” Toto said again.
The two board members stared at him for a moment longer.
Then Markus whispered, half-amused, half-horrified:
“So Max Verstappen is going to be your son-in-law?”
Toto shut his eyes.
“Do not say those words,” he said. “I cannot handle that today.”
Ola laughed harder.
“Does this complicate his signing?”
“No,” Toto said quickly. “Max separates personal and professional very cleanly. And so does Anastasia.”
“Does the team know?” Markus asked.
“No.”
“But they will,” Ola added, amused.
“Yes,” Toto sighed. “They will.”
Markus scrolled through his phone. “The media will have a meltdown.”
“I know.”
“And the fans—”
“I know.”
“And Christian Horner—”
“Oh, Christian deserves worse,” Toto muttered under his breath.
Ola nearly spit out his wine.
They settled eventually, still shaking their heads in disbelief.
“Alright,” Markus said finally. “We can manage this. We can control the narrative.”
Ola pointed at Toto’s glass.
“You’re going to need something stronger than Riesling.”
“I already ordered schnapps,” Toto said grimly.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Markus asked:
“And… are they serious? Your daughter and Max?”
Toto hesitated.
Then he allowed himself a small, quiet smile.
“Yes,” he said. “Very.”
Ola exhaled softly.
“Well,” he said, lifting his glass, “in that case… to Anastasia. To Max. To new beginnings. And to whatever chaos follows.”
Toto raised his own glass.
“To surviving it.”
They clinked glasses.
And as Toto drank, one last thought crossed his mind:
This is only the beginning.
***
The Eagle, Cambridge, England - 15 September 2025
The Eagle hadn’t changed.
Same slightly sticky wooden tables.
Same riverside chatter.
Same menu that had lied to generations of students by calling three leaves a “side salad.”
Ana slid into the booth opposite Henry and Edward and let herself breathe for the first time since the guest lecture ended.
Henry looked delighted in the way only a man who’d just watched a room full of terrified undergraduates get intellectually body-slammed could.
Henry had insisted on lunch—“You will not escape this city without being fed, Anastasia.”—and now she sat across from him and Edward, who was somehow both effortlessly elegant and also actively dissecting his sandwich with the precision of someone who spent his weekdays near operating theatres.
Edward Moran-Portman: orthopaedic surgeon, brilliant hands, annoyingly kind eyes.
Henry, gesturing dramatically at his husband:
“Isn’t he beautiful? Look at him. A Greek statue but more medically useful.”
Edward rolled his eyes, but with a smile. “Please ignore him, Ana.”
“I always have,” she replied, sipping her tea.
Henry gasped. “Rude! I invite you to speak at my university and you verbally assault me. You traumatized them beautifully by the way. ”
Ana arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t trying to traumatize them.”
“Oh please.” Henry waved her off. “You used the phrase ‘if you don’t respect your error propagation, it will destroy you’ like it was a moral warning from God.”
Edward took a sip of his beer. “You were brilliant.”
Coming from Edward— orthopaedic surgeon, the man who had once corrected a colleague on the biomechanical failure rate of screws mid-wedding toast—that meant something.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
Henry grinned with pure affection. “God, I missed you.”
They fell into an easy rhythm—academic gossip, Cambridge memories, Edward’s stories from hospital rotations.
Then Henry launched into waxing poetically about his husband again, and Ana tried very hard not to imagine how many bones Edward had seen snapped in half.
Edward raised a brow. “You look like you’re doing math. Don’t do math. I’m off-duty.”
“I was thinking your job sounds like my worst nightmare,” Ana admitted. “Organic systems are messy. They don’t follow logic. Bones snap in random vectors.”
Edward laughed. “That’s what makes it interesting.”
“I prefer machines,” Ana said. “They don’t lie to you.”
Henry snorted. “No, you prefer people who act like machines. Which is why you tolerated me for six weeks.”
Ana gave him a withering look. “You tolerated yourself for six weeks.”
Edward had to put down his fork because he was laughing too hard.
Halfway through lunch, Edward glanced at her casually.
“So, anyone special in your life now?”
Ana froze in the deeply unflattering manner of a startled cat.
Henry stared at her. “Oh my god.”
He slapped the table. “YOU DO. YOU ABSOLUTELY DO. HAH! I told you! I told you she had that look!”
Ana rubbed her temples. “You’re unbearable. What look?” Ana demanded.
“The look of someone who’s getting laid regularly,” Henry said sweetly.
“Henry,” Edward sighed.
“Edward, my love, you know I’m right.”
Ana rolled her eyes. “You’re intolerable.”
“Who is he?” Henry sang, leaning forward. “Is he a scientist? I bet he’s a scientist. Or a pilot. Or some emotionally unavailable academic with opinions about string theory.”
Ana inhaled. Exhaled.
“…Max.”
Both men blinked at the same time.
Henry: “Max who?”
Edward: “Should I know this name?”
Ana resisted the urge to slide under the table.
“Max Verstappen.”
Silence.
Then Henry dropped his fork.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Edward blinked once. Twice. “The racing driver?”
“Yes.”
Henry put his face in his hands. “You—Anastasia Wolff—are dating the Max Verstappen?? The man who drives like gravity is a suggestion??”
Ana drank her tea. “We get along.”
Henry made a strangled noise. “You’re dating Formula 1’s chaos algorithm and you thought that wasn’t worth mentioning?!”
“I don’t lead with it.”
Edward laughed, delighted. “This is incredible. I want to meet him purely to see which one of you is scarier.”
Ana huffed. “No one is scared of Max.”
Henry looked at her in pure disbelief. “His own team is scared of Max.”
Ana shrugged. “Well… I’m not.”
Edward nudged his husband. “She’s glowing.”
Ana kicked him under the table.
Then the conversation shifted—as it always eventually did—to the thing she never mentioned lightly.
Edward said it first, softly:
“We heard about… what happened. With your colleague.”
Ana felt it like a brief drop in temperature.
She nodded. “George.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “I wanted to throw him off a bridge when I read the details.”
Edward’s voice sharpened. “Is the case still ongoing?”
“Yes. His lawyers sent a settlement offer.” Her tone was cold, clipped. “It was insulting.”
Henry swore under his breath. “I cannot believe—actually no, I can believe that man would try to reduce you to a footnote.”
Ana stared at her hands.
“I expected them to minimize it. I didn’t expect them to imply I misunderstood.”
Edward’s expression softened. Fury at the edges. “That’s what they do. They rely on shame. Silence. They try to grind you down until you decide peace is easier than justice.”
Ana swallowed.
But Henry reached across the table, stealing her spoon and pointing it at her dramatically.
“You. Are. Not. Someone. They can grind down.”
Edward nodded. “And you’re not alone.”
Ana breathed out slowly—didn’t smile, but her shoulders loosened.
“They’ll settle eventually,” she said. “But the money isn’t for me.”
Henry tilted his head. “…then for who?”
“For women in STEM,” she said simply. “Especially in motorsport. Grants. Scholarships. Mentorship programs.”
A pause.
“I don’t want it. I want it to do something.”
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
Max: I swear Red Bull is held together with expired glue and trauma bonding right now.
GP: Good morning to you too.
Max: No.
No morning.
No positivity. Sim prep for Baku = unusable.
Not like “bit sloppy.”
Not like “we’ll adjust.”
No.
UN. USE. ABLE.
Telemetry lag, wrong aero model, and the sim literally crashed when we tested the inevitable lap-one chaos.
I ALMOST threw a monitor.
(I didn’t. I am evolving. But I thought about it.)
GP: And Laurent?
Max: Laurent looks like he is three emails away from a public breakdown.
He’s pacing.
He’s sweating.
He’s talking to himself.
He whispers “this is fine” like a man trying to manifest oxygen on Mars.
At one point he said, “You cannot leave. What am I supposed to do?!”
I said: “Run the team?”
He blinked at me like that was a personal attack.
GP: …Bold.
Max: No but the actual worst part?
Someone made Hannah cry.
Or almost.
Her voice did That Wobble™.
I don’t care if I’m leaving next season —
NO ONE makes Hannah upset. She is the one barrier between race strategy and eternal chaos.
She is a national resource.
She is the reason I have trophies instead of restraining orders.
GP: What happened?
Max: Some genius decided to say: “Well, we’ll have to adapt the strategy tools when Max is gone. Might as well start now. It’s not like he’ll need them.”
Mate.
Hannah blinked.
You know the Blink.
The one where she is deciding whether to cry, quit, or commit murder using only a laptop charger.
GP: Oh no.
That Blink has slain men.
Max: YES.
Then Laurent tried a group pep talk and sounded like a man trying to herd caffeinated raccoons while drowning. “We must… align… emotionally. Yes. We are all on the same boat.”
Someone in aero whispered: “The boat is sinking.”
I laughed.
Accidentally.
Then everyone laughed.
Except Laurent.
He looked like someone unplugged his soul.
GP: I’m missing the chaos.
Terribly.
Truly.
(That was sarcasm.)
Half the team acts like I already left.
The other half is acting like I betrayed national loyalty laws.
One person asked if I’m going to change my number and block them.
I said: “Depends how Baku goes.”
GP: 😂
Please tell me you didn’t.
Max: I did.
Absolutely.
GP: Red Bull HR is drafting a file titled “Max Verstappen: Emotional Risk.”
Max: They already had one.
GP: True.
Max: Anyway.
Congrats on gardening leave — you’re missing a full meltdown arc.
Laurent keeps whispering “why Mercedes” under his breath like Shakespeare.
Someone in aero started a betting pool on whether the sim crashes again.
GP: You surviving?
Max: …
Ana made me tea.
Used the expensive honey.
Said I wasn’t allowed to stab anyone “unless it was strategic.”
So yes.
Barely.
But yes.
GP: Good.
3 more months.
Then we rebuild.
Max: Yeah.
3 more months of chaos.
Then Mercedes.
Then… actual structure.
Because right now it feels like I’m racing in a collapsing IKEA cupboard.
GP: I’ll remind you of this when Mercedes has a six-hour strategy debate about comma placement in documentation.
Deep breaths.
Eat something that didn’t come from a vending machine.
And remember:
You’re almost free.
GP: Go home.
Be with your terrifying genius girlfriend.
Touch grass.
Max: I will.
I love her.
***
Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
GP: Evening, Dr. Wolff.
Quick question for… purely hypothetical reasons.
Ana: It is 11:14.
Nothing good starts with “quick question.”
Proceed.
GP: So I was rereading my Red Bull contract last night—
Ana: Already concerning.
GP: —mostly because my wife says I have “issues with boredom and impulse control.”
Anyway. There’s a very clear clause that says:
Section 14.4:
“Employee may not attempt to poach, solicit, lure, persuade, or otherwise incentivise Red Bull Racing technical or strategic personnel to leave the organization.”
Fine. Expected. Normal.
But.
Ana: There’s always a “but” with you, isn’t there…
GP: There is no clause that says I cannot direct someone else to poach staff.
Someone like…
Hypothetically…
You.
Ana: …you have my attention.
GP: Good.
Because I need you to perform a delicate, precision-engineered operation.
Codename:
Operation Steal Hannah.
Ana: …
Ana: You want me to poach Red Bull’s Head of Race Strategy.
GP: Yes.
Ana: Openly.
GP: Correct.
Ana: From a team currently holding itself together with duct tape, coffee, and denial.
GP: Exactly.
She’ll be practically begging for asylum by Abu Dhabi.
Ana: Gianpiero.
This is not how recruitment works.
GP: Well neither is telling the head systems architect at Mercedes to date the number one driver at Red Bull — and yet here we are, thriving.
Ana: …fair point.
GP: I’m just saying:
Mercedes needs someone brilliant, calm, and capable of intimidating men twice her size with one raised eyebrow.
You need someone who can handle Max without crying.
And Hannah?
She’s the overlap of those two circles.
Ana: This feels… unethical.
GP: Unethical?
Ana.
They made her cry yesterday.
Cry.
I haven’t been that close to criminal violence since Abu Dhabi 2021.
Ana: …she cried?
GP: Almost.
Voice tremor.
You know the one.
The precursor to rage or existential collapse.
Ana: That is unacceptable.
GP: Exactly.
So you will poach her.
For humane reasons.
Ana: You’re manipulating me.
GP: No.
I’m appealing to your moral engineering code.
Ana: …interesting phrasing.
GP: So?
Ana: I didn’t say yes.
GP: You didn’t say no.
Which in corporate warfare means:
Contract drafting begins.
Ana: Hypothetically — if such a poach were to occur —
I expect you to handle the onboarding integration model, operational compatibility matrix, and human-factor communication mapping.
GP: Ana.
I have a spreadsheet called
“People I Want When We Inevitably Defect.”
She is in bold.
Underlined.
Highlighted.
With ✨sparkles✨.
Ana: …you’re unhinged.
GP: Max says the same thing, but lovingly.
Ana: Don’t push it.
GP: So?
Shall we begin Operation Steal Hannah?
Ana: I will consider it.
GP: Excellent.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Toto Wolff
Ana: So you know how you never know what to get me for my birthday, Papa?
Toto: Alright…
What do you want for your birthday?
(I am already worried.)
Ana: Hannah.
Toto:
…
What?
Ana: Hannah Schmitz.
From Red Bull.
Lead Strategy.
You know who she is.
Toto: I do know who she is.
Why are you texting me like you are ordering a piece of furniture from IKEA?
Ana: Because I want her.
For Mercedes.
For Strategy.
For Max.
For me.
For general sanity.
She is the only competent stabilizing force left in the Red Bull timeline and GP has emotionally imploded enough to suggest I acquire her.
Toto: GP suggested this?
Ana: Yes.
He… “hypothetically” told me that while his contract forbids him from poaching, it does not forbid me from poaching.
Toto: I am going to have to speak to Legal about that clause.
But go on.
Ana: I want her.
I want her in Brackley.
I want her on my simulation council.
I want her running strategy.
And I want her nowhere near the catastrophe that is Red Bull 2026.
Toto: Your birthday is in December.
It is September.
Why are we planning talent acquisition like it’s a surprise party?
Ana: Because good strategists have long lead times.
And because she nearly cried today and Max nearly committed arson.
Toto: Dear God.
Ana:
So.
Birthday.
Hannah.
Toto: I swear to God you are more effective at talent acquisition than my entire HR department.
Ana: Correct.
Also they only requisition interns.
I want someone actually competent.
Toto: Every time I think you won’t surprise me, you ask me to acquire a human woman as a birthday present.
Ana: Technically, I am asking you to sign off on a contract package.
The woman has free will.
I am not abducting a strategist.
Toto: Thank you for clarifying, Anastasia.
Very comforting.
Ana: So…?
Toto: So:
I will look into it.
Quietly.
Legally.
Without you and GP turning this into a covert ops mission.
Ana: No promises.
Toto: Ana.
Ana: Fine.
Minimal promises.
Toto: I am putting “HR reform” on my calendar because clearly the system is broken if you are doing recruitment for us.
Ana: I am excellent at recruitment.
Toto: I know.
That is the problem. And Anastasia?
Ana: Yes?
Toto: Next year, please ask for something normal for your birthday.
Like diamonds.
Or a holiday.
Not an elite strategist.
Ana: No promises.
Toto: Of course not.
You’re my daughter after all.
Ana: Love you.
Toto: Love you too.
Even when you request strategic masterminds as birthday gifts.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 16 September 2025
Tuesdays had become a ritual.
Today, however, was special.
Today, Ana had come with a gift.
She placed a small box on the table in front of Kimi the moment she sat down.
He blinked at it, wide-eyed and suspicious — because he was 19, Italian, brilliant, and had learned that anything handed to him by Ana Wolff could range from extremely useful to deeply terrifying.
“What is this?” he asked.
Ana nudged the box toward him. “Open it.”
Kimi glanced at Bono and Valtteri as if verifying that no one would detonate.
Bono nodded encouragingly. “Go on, lad.”
Kimi lifted the lid.
Inside was a black nickel keychain: round, engraved with the Mercedes star. Clean. Sharp. Precisely milled. And on the back:
Andrea Kimi Antonelli first win — 2025Altair
Kimi stared at it for almost ten seconds—an eternity for someone who normally communicated in shrugs and glances.
“This is…” He swallowed. “This is really cool.”
Ana hid her smile behind a sip of water. “Good. I’d have been very offended if you hated it.”
“I don’t hate it,” Kimi said immediately. “I love it.”
Ana said lightly. “It felt appropriate.”
Bono smiled into his tea.
Valtteri’s lips twitched — his version of unrestrained joy.
Kimi held the keychain as though it were a holy relic.
“You made this?” he whispered.
“No,” Ana corrected, “I designed it. Someone with actual steady hands made it. But yes — it’s for you.”
Kimi’s expression, normally reserved and composed for meetings, softened into something bright and young and painfully sincere.
“Grazie,” he murmured. “Really. I… I love it.”
Ana blinked at him, fighting the urge to deflect, to crack a joke, to distance herself from sincerity.
Instead, she said simply:
“You earned it.”
Kimi pocketed the keychain like it was worth more than his future salary.
Valtteri clapped him on the shoulder. “Be careful, Kimi. First she gives you a keychain. Next thing you know, you’ll agree to a six-hour simulator session and think it was your idea.”
“Six hours?” Bono snorted. “Try twelve.”
Ana rolled her eyes. “That was one time.”
Kimi laughed — a soft, delighted sound — and then straightened as he remembered the actual purpose of today’s lunch.
“Okay,” he said, already pulling out his tablet. “Baku.” Kimi groaned softly, pushing his curls out of his eyes.
“It’s a street circuit pretending it’s a hypercar test track.”
“Accurate,” Ana said.
Valtteri nodded. “It’s basically Monaco with trauma and a straight long enough to summon God.”
Bono pointed his fork at Ana.
“Hence why we need you to tell us how much the wing profile will fight with the drag reduction in Sector Three.”
Ana pulled up her tablet — as if she hadn’t spent all morning modeling exactly that.
“The problem isn’t the wing,” she said. “It’s the thermal consistency.”
Kimi leaned closer, instantly attentive.
“The batteries?” he asked.
“Yes. Cooling flow is fine in isolation, but the stop-start nature of the castle section spikes the temperature just enough to make the recovery curve less efficient on the straight.”
Valtteri frowned. “Meaning…?”
Ana tapped the graph.
“You’ll need precise throttle feathering through Turn 12. If you stay too aggressive on entry, you’ll heat the pack, and you’ll lose six to eight kilowatts of delivery by the end of the straight.”
Kimi studied it. “But if I lift too much—”
“You lose momentum,” Ana finished. “Exactly. The sweet spot is narrow. You’ll feel it before you see it.”
He nodded, completely locked in.
They drifted through more technical chatter — brake wear considerations, torque maps, how far they could push the new software patch without the FIA accusing them of witchcraft.
Then Kimi held up the keychain again.
“You really didn’t have to get me this,” he said.
Ana looked at him, letting a tiny smile slip.
“I know,” she said. “But Monza was special. You executed Altair exactly how it was designed. That deserved acknowledgment.”
Kimi’s ears went pink.
Valtteri elbowed him lightly. “Kid, you’re glowing.”
“I am not,” Kimi muttered, glowing harder.
Bono leaned back in his chair with a smirk.
“Ana has favorites.”
Ana didn’t look up from her tablet.
“I do.”
Three pairs of eyes snapped to her.
“…and?” Bono prompted.
Ana looked up, expression perfectly neutral.
“Kimi is the only one who doesn’t ignore my notes about optimal glucose intake. So yes. He is my favorite.”
Valtteri threw his napkin at her.
Bono dissolved into laughter.
Kimi looked like he had ascended to a higher plane of existence.
Lunch wound down the way it always did — empty plates, shared notes, inside jokes.
As they got up to leave, Kimi pocketed the keychain carefully, like it was fragile.
“Ana?” he said, quieter now.
She turned.
“Thank you,” he added. “Not just for the keychain. For… everything. For Altair. For trusting me.”
Ana paused.
Then — gently, simply —
“You earned that trust, Kimi.”
He nodded, shoulders squared with quiet pride.
As the group started back toward the garage offices, Bono whispered to Valtteri:
“She’s turning him into a weapon.”
Valtteri replied under his breath:
“He already was. She’s just giving him sharper ammunition.”
Ana heard them.
And smiled.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 15 September 2025
Max had always thought he understood efficiency.
He was a driver, after all.
He lived on marginal gains, on cutting excess, on shaving milliseconds until perfection looked obvious in hindsight.
Then he met Anastasia Wolff.
And realized he knew nothing about efficiency.
He came home from sim work still mildly traumatised by the RB22’s attempts to kill him, opened the door to his apartment—
—and walked straight into a battlefield of blueprints, fabric swatches, PDF renderings, and three open emails on Ana’s laptop addressed to:
An interior design studio he’d never heard of
A contractor who apparently already had site access
Someone called Eliane who seemed to be negotiating custom shelving
He blinked.
Ana looked up from her notebook, pushed her glasses up her nose, and said—
“Oh good, you’re home. I need you to decide on a couch.”
Max stared at her.
“…a couch.”
“Yes,” she said, already spinning the laptop toward him. “Option A or Option B?”
On the screen were two nearly identical couches: one slightly more gray, one slightly more blue.
“Is… is everything okay?” Max asked.
“Yes,” she replied breezily, “but the supplier needs confirmation before Thursday or the delivery date shifts, and that affects the lighting installation timeline.”
Max blinked slowly.
“…lighting installation timeline.”
“Yes,” she said, pointing at a chart he absolutely had no business understanding. “And the contractors have started on the underfloor heating. Oh, and the skylight reinforcement had to be re-approved because the engineer wanted a different load distribution, but I sorted it.”
He sat down.
Hard.
“Ana,” he said, “we signed the house contract last weekend.”
She nodded calmly. “Correct.”
“And you already have an interior designer?”
“Two,” she corrected. “One for structural, one for aesthetic. The celestial-themed library is under the aesthetic designer.”
Max’s jaw dropped.
“You already hired them?”
“No,” she said, writing something on a color-coded page. “I shortlisted them, interviewed them, negotiated their rates, drafted the contract, and assigned deliverables.”
Max stared at her like she’d just solved cold fusion in his living room.
He loved her.
He loved her so stupidly much he sometimes felt dizzy.
But this?
This was witnessing a woman build a home the same way she built control systems: ruthlessly, brilliantly, three weeks ahead of schedule.
He walked over, leaned down, and kissed the top of her head.
“You’re terrifying,” he whispered.
Ana didn’t look up. “Thank you.”
He laughed.
“Nastya,” he said, “I thought we’d spend the next few weeks, you know… picking things together. Browsing Pinterest. Arguing about rugs.”
Ana finally looked at him.
“Oh, you are picking things,” she said. “Look.” She pointed at a neatly organized column on her iPad labeled MAX DECISIONS ONLY.
It contained:
Couch A or Couch B
wood floor A or B
Placement of the sim rig room (“upstairs or basement?”)
If they wanted a gas stove or induction
Paint color palettes (“choose one of three”)
He lifted the device, incredulous.
“This is it? These are my choices?”
“Yes,” she said earnestly. “I filtered out anything inefficient for you.”
He blinked again.
“Inefficient.”
“You’d get overwhelmed,” she said. “And then you’d say ‘whatever you like, Ana,’ and that causes project drift.”
He stared at her for a full five seconds.
Then leaned down and kissed her.
Slow, deep, reverent.
When he pulled back, she looked mildly confused. “What was that for?”
“Nastya,” he said with absolute sincerity, “I love you so much. And your terrifying spreadsheets. And your terrifying efficiency. And the fact that you’ve apparently built an entire house behind my back in twenty-four hours.”
She smirked a little. “Seventy-Two.”
“Even worse,” he whispered.
She tapped her finger against the couch options. “So? A or B?”
“I’m choosing whichever one means I get to kiss you again.”
“That is not a valid metric.”
“It is to me.”
She rolled her eyes — fond, exasperated, glowing.
“Max,” she said, half-laughing, half-warning, “choose the couch.”
He kissed her again.
“Fine,” he murmured against her lips. “Option A.”
She immediately typed something into her email with lethal precision.
“Done,” she said.
Max shook his head.
She was unstoppable.
And she was building them a home.
A real one.
With skylights and libraries and heating systems and a place for his sim rig and a kitchen big enough for the mornings they’d spend making breakfast together.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, rested his chin on her shoulder, and whispered—
“I can’t wait to live there with you.”
Ana didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then her hand found his, squeezed once, tightly, like an anchor.
“…me too,” she said.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 16 September 2025
Ana woke slowly.
Not abruptly — not with alarms, or adrenaline, or the sharp awareness of someone whose childhood taught her to scan rooms first, breathe second.
No.
She woke like someone safe.
Sunlight spilled across the sheets, warm and soft, turning the curtains gold.
The sea outside murmured instead of roared.
And Max — warm, heavy, real Max — was already awake beside her.
Barely awake, really.
Half-lidded eyes.
Sleep-rough breathing.
Hair in a state that could only be described as “battlefield chic.”
He watched her in that way he always did in the mornings, as if he needed the visual confirmation that she was still here.
Still choosing him.
“Hi,” he murmured, voice gravel and sunrise.
Ana blinked, still half-buried in the pillow.
“Hi.”
He smiled — slow, soft, unguarded.
One of the rare ones.
His fingers brushed lightly over her cheek, tracing nothing in particular, just… touching.
Just being allowed to touch.
Ana shifted closer, barely lifting her head, pressing her forehead to his jaw.
Max inhaled like he could feel that everywhere.
The sheets rustled as she rolled onto her side, facing him fully.
Max slid a hand into her hair, guiding her just enough that she knew what he wanted.
What they wanted.
His mouth brushed hers — featherlight, hesitant, almost reverent.
A first kiss, even though they’d had hundreds.
Ana smiled against his lips.
“Why are you awake before me?” she whispered.
Max kissed her again, slower this time.
“Wanted to see you wake up.”
She laughed — quiet, warm, real — and Max swallowed that laugh with another kiss.
This one wasn’t hesitant.
Not rushed, not needy, not hungry.
Just… deep.
Slow.
Like the morning itself.
He shifted closer, his hand sliding to her waist, drawing her in until her leg tangled over his, her body pressed to his chest, her breath mixing with his.
Ana’s fingers curled into his hair.
(Max made a sound at that — low and embarrassingly pleased.)
His lips traced the line of her jaw, then moved back to hers, lingering, tasting, taking his time.
She kissed him back with the same unhurried devotion, one hand cupping his cheek, the other gripping the sheet like it might anchor her.
He pulled back just enough to breathe against her mouth.
“You look happy,” he murmured.
“I am,” she whispered.
Max kissed her again — soft, urgent, worshipful all at once.
Ana shifted, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his lips again — deeper this time, slow enough to make Max’s breath catch.
His hand slid down her spine.
Her fingers tightened in his hair.
His hand splayed at her lower back. Ana felt the heat of his palm through the thin cotton of her shirt—his shirt, really, it still smelled of him, and now of her too. She wondered if he’d notice when she inevitably wore it home. He did that, noticed the little things.
Max eased her closer until there was not even the fiction of space between them. His lips found her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder, the edge of her jaw. Ana didn’t know who moved first—maybe both at once, maybe neither—just that in the next moment her shirt was gone and the world had become impossibly brighter. He traced her with his mouth, his hands, like he was memorizing a topography. Nothing frantic, something practiced. Like he’d never forget, but wanted to make sure.
She slid her own hands beneath the thin waistband of his boxers, and he made a sound in the back of his throat, the kind that made her chest squeeze so tight she nearly laughed, except laughing would make her exhale, and she wanted to hold her breath here, in this perfect and ridiculous moment, for as long as physics would allow.
He shifted, slow and deliberate. His hands mapped her hips, her thighs, the small of her back. She felt both exposed and invincible, like the sun had burned straight through the window and into her ribcage. He kissed her again, and again, and every time it was a new kind of soft.
Ana let the world flatten down to sensation: Max’s heartbeat, heavy against hers; the drag of his thumb over her ribs; the warmth of his skin under her palms. She pressed her nose to his neck, inhaled the salt and sweat and Max of him, and when he rolled her gently onto her back, she went pliant, boneless, like she might melt straight into the mattress.
He was careful, impossibly so, like he worried she might break her, or that he was worried he already had. She almost wanted to tell him, I’m not breakable, you idiot, but then his hand found hers, fingers curling through, steady, sure, and she thought—maybe, for him, she could be. Maybe for once letting someone treat her like something precious didn’t have to feel like surrender.
She let him take his time. He kissed her everywhere, even the places she thought weren’t worth kissing; the sharp angle of her collarbone, the weird dip beneath her ribs, the faint scar on her thigh from falling off a borrowed bicycle in Amsterdam. Each time his mouth found her, the world pressed a little closer to the bone. When she reached for him, he came easily, like they were built for this, for the way her legs found a home around his waist, for the way his shoulders settled above hers, for the impossible, slow warmth of him.
When he finally eased into her, it was so gentle she almost laughed again, until the slow-rocking softness of it left every muscle in her limp with relief. He breathed her name into her neck, syllables dissolving into a blur, and everything was heat and hush and the wild thudding at her pulse points.
Nothing in her life had taught her how to do this—how to be wanted like this, without demand or performance or sharp edges. So she let herself be clumsy, greedy, let her hands clutch at his back, her ankle hook tight behind his knee. He didn’t seem to mind. He just held her, moved with her, kissed her forehead and her eyelids, and didn’t let go for a long time after.
After, she drifted in the afterglow, floating in the golden light and the wreck of sheets and the loose tangle of their limbs. Max’s hand rested at her waist, thumb painting slow, lazy arcs against her skin.
The words rose before she could stop them.
“Max,” she whispered, quiet as breath. “I love you so much.”
He froze for half a beat — not in shock, not in fear, but as if his whole body had just rewired itself around that sentence.
Then he exhaled, soft and reverent, and his forehead pressed to hers.
“I love you too,” he murmured. No hesitation. No tremor. Just truth.
Her eyes fluttered shut. Something settled inside her — something that had rattled loose for most of her life, never finding a place to land.
She slid closer, nose brushing his jaw, and whispered into his skin:
“I want this every morning.”
Max’s hand curved around her hip, protective and impossibly gentle.
“Yeah?” he said, voice warm, a little wrecked in the best way. “Every morning?”
“Every morning,” she repeated, opening her eyes to meet his. “Waking up next to you. Sunlight. Quiet. No pretending. Just… this.”
Max kissed her hairline — slow, like he had all the time in the world.
“Then we’ll make it happen,” he said simply. “No matter what the rest of the world does. No matter how loud it gets. Every morning.”
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. Questionable family dynamics. Questionable Engineering Science...also Questionable work ethic. Questionable Media Ethics. I feel like I owe Toto's kids an apology after this. I bet they are lovely in real life, they just suck in my fictional version! Discussion of death and the dangers of Formula 1 Racing...Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
(Also apparently I need to add this following disclaimer: There's this magical thing in a fic called character development and plot. If there was neither of those there wouldn't be much of a fic. So yes, characters will make stupid decisions and act in a way that is not very smart.)
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
GP: Mate.
Explain your girlfriend.
Max: …what did she do?
GP: Not “did.”
Achieved. Executed.
Orchestrated like a Roman general.
Max: GP…
GP: My entire house move
— EVERY box —
— EVERY label —
— EVERY furniture measurement —
— INTERNET INSTALLATION (HOW??) —
just happened like Austrian precision mated with witchcraft.
GP: And she wasn’t even in the country.
She sent THREE emails.
THREE.
And my life is now organised like a NASA mission.
Max: Yeah. Sounds like her.
GP: No, no.
Do you understand what this means?
My wife thinks I did all the planning.
I have never been this respected in my home.
I am living a lie.
Max: Congrats 👍
GP: No, don’t “👍” me.
She colour coded my spice rack remotely.
She arranged the boxes by ROOM, SUBCATEGORY and EMOTIONAL NECESSITY.
GP: There was a box labelled:
“Kitchen: Frequently Used. Accessible. Yes, Gianpiero, this means on the counter.”
Max: That tracks.
GP: SHE KNEW I WOULD TRY TO PUT IT IN A CUPBOARD.
Max: She knows people.
GP: She scheduled a food shop delivery
TO ARRIVE
AT THE EXACT WINDOW
BETWEEN furniture arrival and my daughters teenage meltdown.
GP: My wife cried.
Like—not sad.
Like religious experience.
Max: Yeah, she’s good at planning.
GP: Planning??
Planning is what normal humans do.
Ana Wolff performs logistical prophecy.
Max: She likes efficiency.
GP: Effici—
Max.
She somehow had the moving crew put my monitor at the EXACT height I had it at the old house. No one told her that.
I DIDN’T remember that.
Max: She probably checked your posture.
GP: …
MAX.
Max: What?
GP: Does she have documents about all of us?
Max: Probably.
GP: Should I be scared?
Max:Nah, you are safe.
GP:
Tell her thank you.
And also please tell her I’m slightly terrified and also grateful and also confused.
Max: I did. She said:
“Tell him he should put the toolbox in the second drawer, not the third.”
GP: ……
HOW DOES SHE KNOW THERE IS A SECOND DRAWER.
Max: She knows everything.
GP: Cool.
If she ever turns evil, we’re doomed.
Max: Yeah. But she won’t.
GP: Good.
Because I, for one, welcome our efficient overlord.
Max: Same.
GP:
If she ever wants to adopt me into her organisational empire, I’m available.
Max: Get in line.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 13 September 2025
The envelope wasn’t dramatic.
Thin cardstock. A wax seal. A standard transfer slip. Two keys on a ribbon.
Logically, it was nothing.
Emotionally… it might as well have been a coronation sword.
Ana took the envelope with steady fingers—only steady because she forced them to be. Years of boardrooms, academic defenses, and FIA politics meant she could hold her posture even if the world underneath her was shifting plates.
But this felt different.
Not like a milestone she survived.
More like one she chose.
Max stood beside her—hands in the pockets of his hoodie like he wasn’t one of the most public human beings on Earth. His eyes flicked to the envelope, then to her, and then he did that small, lopsided smile that always made her feel like he saw things other people never bothered to notice.
“Want to go home?” he asked lowly.
She swallowed.
“Well, technically, we’re in Monaco. So we are already—”
“No,” he interrupted, voice soft and warm. “Our home.”
Oh.
That did something to her breathing.
“We don’t have to go now,” Max said, even though his thumb had already brushed the keys like a fidget.
“No,” Ana agreed. “We shouldn’t rush. We’ll go later. After lunch. Or tomorrow.”
A pause.
Max: “Right.”
Ana: “…right.”
They both stared at the keys.
Two seconds passed.
Then four.
Then Max muttered, “…I want to go now.”
Ana let out a breath that might have been a laugh. “So do I.”
They didn’t talk much on the drive—not because there was nothing to say, but because the air felt full of something wordless. Excitement, maybe. Or something softer. Rooted.
When they parked outside the new house — their house — neither moved immediately.
There it was:
Soft stone exterior. Glass that reflected blue sky. A terrace jutting toward the garden. Lines that matched everything she valued:
Clean. Efficient. Future-oriented.
A place built to breathe.
“This looks unreal,” Max murmured.
Ana swallowed.
“It’s real,” she said quietly. “It’s real I promise.”
She stepped out of the car.
The air smelled like salt and sunlight and peace.
Their footsteps echoed faintly as they walked up the stone path.
Max held out his hand.
“Want to do it?” he asked.
Ana’s fingers tightened around the keys.
She nodded.
She unlocked the door.
It clicked — soft, final, perfect.
Max pushed it open, and they stepped inside.
No furniture yet.
Just space.
Potential.
Light.
Ana walked three steps into the entryway and stopped — breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat.
She tried to analyze the reaction — label it, categorize it, shrink it into a manageable variable — but nothing fit.
This wasn’t a system.
It wasn’t data.
It wasn’t something to optimize.
It was hers.
And his.
And theirs.
Her voice, when it finally came, was quiet, almost wondering:
“It feels like… a beginning.”
Max slid his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“It is,” he murmured. “And we get to decide what it becomes.”
Ana let her eyes close for just a heartbeat.
The chaos — the internet noise, the gossip, the venom — all of it hovered at the edges of her mind like distant static.
But here?
That static had no authority.
Here was where her life expanded instead of defended itself.
Here was stability she didn’t have to perform for.
Here was a future she chose — not one she survived.
Max squeezed her gently.
“You okay?” he asked.
Ana tilted her head back just enough to meet his eyes.
“I’m…” she considered, searching for precision.
Then she smiled — small, rare, real.
“Happy.”
Max kissed her temple.
“Good,” he whispered. “Because so am I.”
They stood there in the quiet, in the sunlight, in the home no one forced on them — and for the first time in her life, Ana Wolff trusted belonging.
Not because she earned it.
Not because she fought for it.
But because it was safe to.
After a moment, Ana turned toward Max.
“We’re going to be happy here,” she said—not a question. A certainty.
Max kissed her—slow, warm, nothing rushed.
“Yeah,” he murmured against her lips. “We are.”
Ana threaded their keys onto the small iron hook beside the door.
Not temporary.
Not borrowed.
Home.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Susie Wolff
Ana: Keys acquired. 🔑
Would you like to see it in person?
Susie: YES.
YES.
YES.
Ana: You didn’t even ask for the address.
Susie: I don’t need the address.
I already have it written on three calendars, memorized, and pinned to the fridge.
Ana: …of course you do.
Susie: Should I bring cake?
Or champagne?
Or a measuring tape?
Ana: Champagne.
And maybe… measuring tape. And snacks.
Susie: I am free.
I have been WAITING for the moment you text those words.
Susie: I am already leaving the house.
If Toto isn’t in the car in 90 seconds I'm going without him.
Susie: Toto is in the car.
He brought the good bottle.
We’re on our way.
Ana: Take your time. No rush.
Susie: No.
There is rush.
Susie: Tell Max to open the gate before we get there.
I refuse to have my emotional moment delayed by intercom buttons.
Ana: Gate will be open.
Susie: Good.
Susie: See you in 10 minutes.
8 if Toto stops obeying speed limits.
Ana: Looking forward to it.
***
Maison Étoiles, Monaco - 13 September 2025
They heard them before they saw them.
Not because the car was loud—Toto Wolff drove like a man who respected insurance premiums—but because Jack was narrating life at full volume.
Max opened the front door just as the car stopped.
The back door flew open first. Jack launched himself out like a barely coordinated missile: tiny backpack, mismatched socks, enthusiasm vibrating at the frequency of a weaponized squirrel.
“MAX!!” he yelled, sprinting across the driveway. “YOU HAVE A GARDEN!”
Max crouched automatically.
“I know. Pretty cool, huh?”
Jack nodded with total seriousness, like he was evaluating real estate for the UN. “I will be climbing every tree.”
“Good to know,” Max said, already mentally filing: add safety nets, or helmets, or maybe both.
Susie got out next—with the energy of someone who had been waiting years for this exact moment. She held a bag, a bottle of champagne, and what suspiciously looked like a tape measure. Her sunglasses were dramatic. Her grin even more so.
Then Toto stepped out—calm, composed… holding a portfolio case and a set of rolled architectural prints.
Of course.
Max leaned against the doorframe, smiling.
“Welcome to… well. Our house.”
Susie kissed both his cheeks like this was a royal visit and then walked straight past him, eyes already shiny.
“Where’s Ana?”
“Inside,” Max said, jerking his head toward the hallway. “Trying to decide if she should sit on the floor or analyze the wall insulation.”
Susie didn’t even blink.
“Floor. Always floor. First hours in a house are meant to be experienced with zero furniture and unreasonable hope.”
She disappeared inside.
Toto paused at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the building like a structural engineer evaluating a potential investment—or a general preparing to assess troop barracks.
He nodded once. “Good bones.”
Max snorted. “You sound like Ana.”
Toto glanced at him. “…she gets it from me.”
Then he climbed the stairs with the air of a man who owned confidence rather than borrowed it.
Max followed.
Inside, Ana stood barefoot in the center of the living room, one hand on the glass wall, staring out at the view like she was trying to memorize every centimeter.
Susie didn’t interrupt. She just went to her and slid an arm around her waist.
Ana leaned into it—not dramatically, but fully.
Like that was safe.
Toto cleared his throat softly.
“Anastasia.”
She turned.
Max watched a subtle shift happen—nothing big, nothing theatrical. Just a softening around the eyes. Trust.
“Papa.”
Toto stepped closer, set a leather portfolio onto the kitchen island, and then—without hesitation—kissed the top of her head.
“I am proud of you,” he said. No preamble. No qualifiers. Just that.
Ana blinked fast once.
Max pretended to examine a wall socket to give her dignity.
“I brought some initial thoughts on interior direction,” Toto said as if discussing tyre strategy.
Ana didn’t flinch.
Of course she didn’t.
She lived with this man for twenty years.
Max, however?
Not ready.
“What… thoughts?” he asked, already halfway terrified.
Toto opened a leather folder.
Fabric swatches.
Renders.
“This wall,” Toto said, pointing to the living room, “is perfect for a large-format piece. Statement. Textured or mixed-medium. I know two galleries—one in Vienna, one near Marbella.
Max blinked. “I have three potential artists shortlisted. I’ll send their portfolios,” Toto said like that was the most natural sentence on earth.
Max nodded slowly, still processing the fact that his future team boss might have strong emotional opinions about paintings.
“Also,” Toto said. “We should talk about acoustics in the living room—you’ll want proper balance for the piano when you get one.”
Max stared.
Not the piano comment—he’d already decided she was getting one.
No.
The entire décor blueprint Toto apparently had stored in his head.
“Oh god,” Susie said fondly, catching Max’s expression, “You’ll adjust,” she murmured. “We all did.”
Toto had already moved on, pulling out his phone and speaking in rapid German to—apparently—someone in his contacts labeled:
ARCHITECT (THE COMPETENT ONE)
Ana didn’t react. At all.
Max leaned toward her and whispered, “How many designers does your father have on speed dial?”
Ana considered thoughtfully.
“…Depends. Just for Monaco? Or in general?”
Max blinked.
She was serious.
Before he could respond, Toto ended the call and turned back to Max with the same expression he used when evaluating a wind tunnel result.
“Do you have someone handling art acquisition?” he asked.
Max blinked again. “Art acquisition?”
“Yes,” Toto repeated, unbothered. “You want pieces that appreciate. No low-value decorative nonsense.”
Susie sighed and shoved her husband lightly. “Darling, they just got the keys.”
Toto looked genuinely confused. “That is the perfect time to plan the art strategy.”
Jack tugged Max’s hand again. “Can I see upstairs? And the garden? And my room?”
“You don’t have a room,” Ana said.
Jack looked scandalized.
Max immediately said:
“You absolutely do.”
Ana shot him a look.
Jack smirked—tiny, victorious chaos gremlin.
Susie laughed, brushing a strand of hair from Ana’s face.
“It’s okay,” she whispered to Max. “This is how they show love.”
Max nodded slowly—because yeah… he could see that now.
The chaos.
The planning.
The investment spreadsheets and unsolicited lighting recommendations.
The champagne waiting to be opened.
The ease with which Jack ran through the halls like he’d always belonged.
The way Susie touched Ana’s shoulder, light and proud.
The way Toto paused—just a second—looking at his daughter and the house she chose.
Like he was quietly, profoundly relieved she finally had somewhere she wanted to stay.
Max stood there, surrounded by all of them, feeling something subtle but unmistakable settle into place:
This was a family. A chaotic one. But hers. And now his too.
Ana looked up at him then—eyes soft, mouth lifted in that small almost-smile she saved just for him.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
Max nodded.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Actually… yeah. I really am.”
And when Jack yelled,
“FIRST ONE TO THE BALCONY WINS!”
and sprinted away like a tiny unlicensed missile— They all followed.
Laughing.
Home.
***
Group Chat: “TEAM 33”
(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)
Jos: MAX.
Max: …yes?
Jos:
A HOUSE??
YOU BOUGHT A HOUSE??
Raymond: Hold on.
WHAT.
You did WHAT??
Max: It’s not that dramatic.
Raymond: Max, you do not casually “accidentally” buy real estate.
That is not bread.
That is not a steering wheel for the sim.
Max: We liked it.
So we got it.
Jos: WE??
Raymond: Oh my god.
So this is a together house?
Like a “shared mortgage, joint keys, maybe matching towels” situation?
Max: There is no mortgage.
We paid.
Raymond: I’m going to pretend I didn’t just read that sentence before breakfast.
Jos: Max.
Are you moving in with her?
Max: We already basically live together.
Jos: EXCUSE ME???
SINCE WHEN??
Raymond: Yeah.
Because last time I checked, you lived in a bachelor apartment with championship trophies, two cats, and a broken toaster.
Max: The toaster is fixed.
Jos: Did you even think this through?
Max: Yes.
Jos: You don’t just BUY HOUSES WITH WOMEN, MAX.
Max: Why not?
Jos: Because that is how marriages happen.
Max: We’re not getting married yet.
Raymond: …yet?
Jos: What does SHE think about all this?
Max: It was her idea.
Raymond: …okay wait.
Back up.
You just said the Russian-engineer-terrifying-genius-who-is-always-three-steps-ahead made the first move??
Max: Yes.
Jos: God help us all.
Raymond: Well… congratulations, I guess. Good for you, kid.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 13 September 2025
Max had seen technical briefings that were less intense than whatever was happening across their kitchen island.
Ana had three notebooks open, her laptop balanced on a stack of swatches, and one eyebrow raised in that precise way that meant she was trying to decide between:
A wall that looked like it belonged in a Scandinavian architecture magazine
or
A wall that looked like it calculated missile trajectories for fun.
He leaned over the counter, chin in hand.
“Explain to me,” he asked slowly, “why the difference between alabaster, bone, and porcelain white matters.”
Without looking up, she replied, “Because alabaster has a warm undertone, bone has a neutral undertone, and porcelain white is cold.”
Max blinked.
“That could also be the description for a human corpse.”
Now she looked up—expression flat, tired, fond.
“You asked.”
“Yeah, I regret that.”
She sat back, reached for her water, and said, softer, like she knew where his thoughts had drifted:
“My father means well. I promise.”
Max nodded, because he did know that.
Toto wasn’t micromanaging—just… aggressively helpful.
As in:
Already emailed an interior designer.
Already recommended two architects.
Already suggested quietly, ‘the living room could support a Steinway’ like it was normal.
Max exhaled.
“I like Toto. But he talks about ‘structural light flow’ like normal people talk about the weather.”
Ana sighed, tapping her pencil against the edge of the blueprint.
“Look,” she said, “my father means well. I promise. He just… thinks interior design is an asset class.”
Max laughed with the contented energy of someone surrounded by chaos he didn’t have to solve. “Yeah, I figured that out when he asked if the house came with an art storage climate system.”
“That’s just him,” Ana said. “He buys art the way other people buy milk. Regularly, without memory of what’s already in the fridge.”
Max grinned. “He texted me a link to a lighting designer in Zürich. Said, ‘good resale value.’ For lamps, Ana.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes, he does that. It’s a compulsion. I’ll handle it.”
He leaned forward, elbow on his knee, still smiling. “You sure? Because I don’t really have any, uh—what’s the word—‘design opinions.’ My mum filled my apartment with IKEA, and it’s fine.”
Ana looked up from the plans. “Fine?”
He shrugged, sheepish. “Functional. Flat-pack aesthetic. I have chairs. A bed. Two lamps.”
Ana gave him a flat look. “Your sofa squeaks when I move.”
“That’s character,” he argued.
“No,” she countered. “That was a warning.”
Max just grinned.
“So,” Ana said slowly, flipping a page, “before we pick furniture, lighting, flooring, textiles, storage, layout flow, and art… I need to know your preferences.”
Max blinked. “My what?”
“Preferences,” she repeated. “Design input. Aesthetic vision.”
Max stared at her the way normal people stared at differential equations.
Ana sighed and pointed at a mood board.
“Light woods? Dark woods? Minimalist? Industrial? Scandinavian—”
Max perked. “Scandinavian means IKEA, right?”
She closed her eyes. “Not necessarily. Please stop associating design with flat-pack furniture.”
He pushed off the counter and tugged lightly on the sleeve of her sweater until she looked at him.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Real answer?”
She waited.
“I trust you.”
Her expression shifted — not disbelief, not surprise… something quieter.
“You don’t care at all?” she asked.
“Oh, I care,” he said immediately. “I care a lot.”
She paused. “About… the aesthetic?”
He shook his head.
“About it feeling like us.”
There it was — the thing that unbalanced her more than blueprints ever could.
“And,” he added with zero shame, “I want a dog.”
Ana blinked. “Max, you already have two cats.”
“Yes,” he said patiently, “and they’re great. Sassy loves you. Jimmy tolerates everything. But a dog—”
“—is chaos.”
“—is perfect.”
Ana looked at him for a long time, lips pressed together in the way she always did when her logic processor was fighting her heart.
Finally: “What breed?”
Max froze. “…I wasn’t ready for the next step.”
Ana let out the smallest laugh — quiet, soft, but real.
“That’s how decisions work, Max.”
He nodded solemnly. “Okay. Something medium. Something that won’t fit in a handbag.”
“So not a Chihuahua.”
“No. That feels like emotional turbulence.”
“And not a Great Dane.”
Max hesitated. “…maybe?”
“Max.”
“Fine. Not a Great Dane.” He paused. “Probably.”
Ana tapped her pencil against her notebook, considering.
“A dog,” she repeated.
Max nodded hopefully.
“And you will walk it,” she said, as if issuing legally binding terms.
“Yes.”
“And train it.”
“Yep.”
“And take it to the vet.”
“That sounds expensive but okay.”
“And deal with it if it chews your sim cables—”
Max paused.
“…we’ll choose a dog with manners.”
Ana finally let her smile show — small but real.
“Alright,” she murmured. “We’ll plan space for a dog bed.”
Max lit up like she’d handed him a trophy. “A house doesn’t feel like a house without a dog. You know? Someone who greets you at the door. Someone who gets excited every time you come home. Someone who—”
“Drools and claws the furniture?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Exactly.”
Ana just stared.
Max stared back — hopeful, earnest, ridiculously soft.
Finally she sighed.
“One. Dog. But it has to get along with the cats,” she added. “And it cannot be huge. And you are walking it.”
“Every day,” he promised immediately. “Twice. I’ll be amazing. I’ll be the dog whisperer.”
“You can’t even train Sassy to stay off the printer.”
“That’s because Sassy has no respect for authority,” Max defended. “She would stage a revolution if he had thumbs.”
Ana huffed a laugh and returned her focus to the plans.
“We’ll need art,” she said casually.
Max grimaced. “Toto already tried to send me a curated portfolio. I think one of the pieces was just… a yellow square?”
“That one is twenty-two million euros.”
“WHY.”
She tapped the blueprint.
“It’s conceptual.”
“It’s stupid,” Max countered.
Ana smiled — small, quiet, impossibly fond.
“We don’t have to buy anything. Papa has storage units full of art.”
“Oh good,” Max muttered. “So we’re borrowing the world’s most expensive library book.”
“He’d love it,” she said. “Displaying the art is the point. Otherwise it’s just… numbers.”
Max thought about that.
About his own trophies sitting in boxes for years because he’d never had a place he wanted to anchor them. Of finally just putting them on a mini fridge next to his sim rig.
About this house — theirs — being different.
More personal.
Less temporary.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Then we display things. Not because they’re expensive. But because they mean something.”
Ana looked up then.
Really looked.
And something in her expression loosened — the tension behind precision.
The guardedness behind control.
She reached for his hand, thumb grazing his knuckles.
“We’re building something real,” she said quietly.
Max squeezed her hand back.
“We are.”
And neither of them said the rest—
But they both felt it:
A life.
A home.
A future with cats, possibly chaotic art, furniture that wasn’t from Ikea, and one very lucky dog.
Together.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 13 September 2025
The blueprints were spread across Max’s kitchen island, weighted down by whatever was closest: a mug, the salt grinder, Jimmy the cat (who had chosen to sit on the structural notes of the basement like he was contributing).
The house was still theoretical — walls not yet built, rooms not yet filled — but it already lived in her head with startling clarity.
She had two browser tabs open:
Work email.
Pinterest.
She refused to acknowledge how often she switched between them.
Max wandered past to grab water and paused when he saw the intensity on her face.
“…is that a spreadsheet for lamps?” he asked.
“Yes.”
She didn’t look up.
“And are those… mood boards?”
“Yes.”
“And is that—” he squinted, “—a colour palette specifically labeled ‘acceptable whites’?”
Ana finally glanced at him. “It’s very easy to accidentally end up with yellow undertones.”
Max raised both hands, backing away like she was handling explosives. “Right. Carry on.”
When he was gone, she pushed her glasses up her nose and opened her notes app.
Max reappeared, now holding a stroopwafel, and looked over her shoulder again.
“You’re making a map,” he murmured, amused.
“No,” she replied calmly. “I’m making a plan.”
“Looks like a war strategy.”
“It is. Interior design is diplomacy with soft furnishings.”
He blinked.
“Right. Yes. Obviously.”
She kept writing.
Basement Room 1C — Office.
— Acoustic treatment (meetings + design sessions).
— Dual desk setup for Max when he insists on sitting near me.
— No fluorescent lighting (absolutely not).
Ground Floor Room 2D — Sim Racing Room (Max).
— Soundproofing. Ventilation.
— Reinforced flooring for pedal pressure variation.
— LED underlighting (he will request RGB, deny gently).
Max pointed at the last line.
“Hey.”
“You’ll thank me eventually.”
He muttered something about sabotage but kissed her head before wandering away again.
She clicked over to Pinterest.
Her feed was absurdly specific now:
“Monaco neutrals”
“Modern Mediterranean library”
“Moon phase lighting”
“Scandinavian minimalist but cosy”
She pinned a Victorian star map, a velvet midnight blue armchair, and a brass orrery that cost more than a first car.
Good.
Perfect.
The living room needed balance — minimalist architecture, yes, but warmth. Texture. A space where Sunday mornings and late-night coding sessions could both exist.
She leaned back, finally letting herself exhale.
For years, rooms had felt temporary — dorms, boardrooms, hotels, shared spaces she occupied but never claimed.
This was different.
This time, she was choosing softness. Space. Permanence.
A house with a library under stars.
A room for work she loved.
A room for the man she loved to crash cars virtually and mutter at imaginary race stewards.
A place where she wasn’t visiting or performing or earning.
A place to stay.
Max leaned against the counter beside her, watching her expression soften in real time.
“You like planning this,” he said quietly.
She didn’t deny it.
“It feels… safe,” she admitted. “Like building a future with structure.”
He bumped her shoulder gently.
“We’re good at building things.”
She nodded.
“Yes,” she said softly. “We are.”
Jimmy meowed loudly, stepping directly on the pencil and the part of the blueprint labeled guest suite.
Ana stared at him.
“…perhaps we also need a pet room.”
***
Text Messages: Dr. Henry Portman & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Henry: Anastasia, my dear, I’m about to grovel.
Ana: Go on.
Henry: One of my guest lecturers for Monday has just pulled out due to “unforeseen commitments.”
And now I’m left with forty bright-eyed engineering students and no one to convince them that the corporate world won’t eat their souls.
Ana: It will.
Henry: Yes, but I’d like them to believe otherwise for ninety minutes.
Ana: Why are you telling me this?
Henry: Because, my terrifyingly competent ex-girlfriend, you are my trump card.
Mercedes. Head of Systems.
Cambridge’s most famous export since Stephen bloody Hawking.
You’re the only person I know who can make feedback loops sound sexy and still terrify undergraduates into rethinking their life choices.
Ana: Flattery. Unbecoming.
Henry: Desperation, actually.
Would you come in? Monday, 11 a.m. Guest slot for my “Applied Systems Integration” seminar.
Talk about hybrid efficiency, simulation feedback, maybe how you tamed the monster that is the W15’s control architecture?
Ana: You’re asking me to lecture your students.
Henry: Yes.
Pretty please. With a cherry on top.
And possibly a lifetime of debt and eternal gratitude.
Ana: I don’t do guest lectures. You know this.
Henry: Yes, but you owe me.
Ana: For what?
Henry: For introducing you to Cambridge’s only decent coffee shop in 2016.
For letting you escape that supervision group that smelled of despair and damp tweed.
For giving you the six best weeks of my romantic life with a woman.
Ana: You dumped me because you realized you were gay, Henry.
Henry: Yes, but I did it politely. Ana, I’m desperate. I will owe you something big. Dinner. Favors. Access to our prototype test rigs. Anything.
Ana: You’ve said that before. It always ends with you hiding behind a ficus in the Faculty lounge. You’re lucky I like you.
And that I can’t stand incompetent guest lecturers.
Henry: Is that a yes?
Ana: It’s a conditional yes.
I’ll come. But you’re buying lunch, and I am not dumbing down the content.
Henry:
Wouldn’t dream of it.
Ana:
And your husband will be there.
Henry:
Edward will be delighted to see you.
Ana:
Tell your students to bring functioning brains.
Henry: Consider it done.
Oh—and congratulations, by the way. The Altair package made the BBC.
Ana: It worked as intended. Antonelli executed perfectly.
Henry: You say that like you didn’t just win Italy in front of 200,000 tifosi foaming at the mouth.
Ana: The data was sound. The crowd was irrelevant.
Henry: God, I missed you. You’re like a caffeine IV in human form.
Altair was a masterpiece.
Even from an outsider’s perspective, the modulation curve was a work of art.
Antonelli drove it like a surgeon—no wasted motion, no hysteresis. I could see your fingerprints all over it.
Ana: He executed perfectly.
The new control package worked even better than predicted.
Four milliseconds smoother than the simulator run.
Henry: You sound almost proud.
Ana: I am proud.
Kimi earned that win.
And so did my system.
Henry: You always did have a soft spot for brilliant prodigies.
Ana: You’re confusing me with you.
Henry: Touché.
I’ll see you Monday, my terrifying muse.
Try not to poach any of my students before the lecture begins.
Ana: No promises.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 13 September 2025
Ana tossed her phone onto the sofa with the dramatic exhaustion of someone who had just agreed to do something fundamentally against her nature.
Max, lying lengthwise with Sassy asleep on his stomach, raised an eyebrow.
“That looked like a sigh of suffering.”
“It was suffering,” Ana muttered, flopping beside him. “Henry Portman has convinced me—against my better judgment—to guest lecture on Monday.”
Max blinked.
“Guest lecture? Like… stand at the front of the room and teach? On purpose?”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “Like some kind of academic clown.”
Max tried not to smile. Failed.
“You hate guest lecturing.”
“I loathe guest lecturing,” Ana corrected. “It is performative, unpredictable, full of questions that make me want to set fire to the building—”
“But you said yes?”
Ana groaned into a pillow. “I said yes because Henry was groveling. And because he’s hopeless. And because if I don’t step in, his students will be subjected to whichever incompetent warm body he panics and drags in at the last minute.”
Max poked her shoulder gently.
“You like him.”
Ana lifted her head just enough to glare at him. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m admitting affection.”
Max grinned because that was exactly what she was doing.
And then—because his brain was a horrible place—he asked, casually as he could manage:
“So… Henry. That’s the one you dated for a bit?”
Ana blinked.
There it was.
The tiny, subtle flare of jealousy he hadn’t meant to let escape.
Her lips twitched.
“Oh my god,” she said slowly. “You’re jealous.”
Max went rigid. “I’m not jealous.”
“You are,” she said, delighted. “You’re jealous of Henry Portman.”
“I am not. I just—he sends you very long messages. With… adjectives.”
Ana sat up on her knees, studying him like he’d grown a second head.
“You are jealous of a man who dumped me because he realized he was gay.”
Max opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“He still dated you.”
Ana actually laughed—bright, surprised, amused.
“Max.”
“I’m not jealous,” he insisted, crossing his arms even though Sassy slid off in protest. “I just… don’t like thinking about other versions of your life.”
Ana softened at that.
The fondness seeped in like warmth.
“Henry and I were a disaster,” she said simply. “Six weeks. That’s it. We argued about the thermodynamics of espresso machines.”
“That sounds exactly like something you’d enjoy arguing about.”
“I did enjoy it,” she admitted. “But he realized he was gay, and I realized I hated sharing my workspace. It ended amicably.”
Max huffed. “Still dated you.”
“And then he married Edward,” Ana added. “Who is significantly prettier than you.”
Max gasped. “Excuse me?”
Ana smirked. “I’m joking. Mostly.”
Max pulled her into his lap in one smooth motion, trapping her with his arms while she laughed against his chest.
“You’re mine,” he muttered into her hair, only half teasing, the possessiveness so soft it was almost tender.
Ana rested her cheek against him, fingers curling lightly at his collar.
“Yes,” she said simply. “I am.”
Max leaned back, satisfied, smug, ridiculously so.
Ana flicked his forehead.
“Now stop being dramatic. I’m doing the lecture because I like him, not because I’m reliving the romantic tragedies of my youth.”
“That was a tragedy,” Max muttered. “He dumped you by discovering he was gay.”
“It was very efficient,” Ana said. “I appreciated the clarity.”
Max shook his head, still bemused, still warm, still holding her like he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.
“So you’re lecturing Monday,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You’ll be brilliant.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll terrify those students.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll come home and complain about it.”
“Absolutely.”
Max smiled.
“Okay,” he said. “Then I support it.”
Ana squeezed his hand once, quick and precise—the way she expressed affection without thinking.
He felt it everywhere.
And when she settled against him again, Max only thought one thing:
Henry Portman could have her past. He had her future.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Toto Wolff
Ana: You guest lectured at Harvard once, didn’t you?
Toto: Twice.
Once for their MBA program, once for their engineering school.
Why?
Ana: Henry Portman begged me to fill in for his guest lecturer on Monday.
Applied Systems Integration.
Forty Cambridge students.
Toto: Henry Portman? The one who confessed he was gay over pastries?
Ana: Yes, that one.
He’s still very gay, very dramatic, and very persuasive when desperate.
Toto: And you said yes?
Ana: Conditionally.
He’s buying lunch, and I told him I’m not dumbing anything down.
Toto: Of course you did.
What do you want to know?
Ana: What did you do for your Harvard lecture?
Toto: Talked about leadership models and corporate psychology.
Half of them spent the first twenty minutes trying to figure out if my accent was real.
Ana: Not helpful.
Toto: I also brought slides. Pictures of the factory, data graphs, some telemetry visuals.
They liked seeing things move.
Students are like cats — you have to wave something shiny.
Ana: If I use animation in my slides, Henry will accuse me of selling out.
Toto: Do it anyway.
You terrify enough people as it is. It won’t hurt your reputation.
Ana: I was planning on explaining the Altair control loop.
Simulation fidelity versus real-time feedback, adaptive torque blending, regenerative thresholds.
Toto: You’re going to make them cry.
Ana: Good. It builds character.
Toto: Maybe balance it with something inspiring.
Tell them about Antonelli. Monza. The work you did.
Make it sound human.
Ana: The data was human.
Kimi adapted faster than any simulator model predicted. He trusted the calibration.
Toto: Exactly. That’s the point.
The best systems are the ones that trust people back.
Ana: That’s sentimental.
Toto: It’s also true.
Harvard loved that line. Write it down if you want.
Ana: I’ll quote you. Without credit.
Toto: Naturally.
And wear something that says “I can rebuild your car but won’t.”
Ana: So, what I always wear.
Toto: Exactly.
Ana: Thank you.
Toto: You’ll do fine, Anastasia.
You always do.
Ana: I know.
But I’ll still make them cry.
Toto: That’s my girl.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 14 September 2025
Toto Wolff did not really believe in “days of rest.”
Weekends were simply weekdays without office lighting.
But this Sunday — for once — he had hoped for quiet.
He woke before sunrise, the soft Mediterranean light barely touching the edge of the curtains. Susie was still asleep beside him, steady, warm, breathing in a way that always anchored him.
He reached for his phone.
A familiar habit.
A terrible mistake.
His inbox showed one new email, time-stamped 05:11, flagged urgent by the firm.
Subject: Re: Russell v. Wolff – Proposed Settlement Terms
His stomach tightened.
He opened it.
And the calm of the morning evaporated like it had never existed.
Dear Mr Wolff, We write to update you regarding the ongoing settlement discussions with the legal counsel representing Mr George Russell.
After considerable delay, his team has provided a formal counterproposal…
Toto skimmed the rest, jaw clenching harder with each sentence.
“Complete confidentiality regarding all allegations…” “Non-disparagement obligations binding your daughter indefinitely…” “Waiver of future claims…” “Settlement amount reflective of ‘minimal provable harm’…”
He stopped.
Went back.
Read it again.
“Minimal provable harm.”
He felt something inside him shift.
A cold, sharp, ancient thing.
Money?
He could have predicted they’d lowball. That was a tactic. Insulting, yes. Expected, also yes.
But the phrasing—
That was not strategy. That was dehumanization.
A denial of pain they did not witness. A statement written by men who thought silence was a reasonable exchange.
His fingers curled around the phone as if he meant to crush it.
He read on.
“…in exchange, Ms Wolff would agree never to speak publicly, privately, or in any capacity regarding alleged events…” “…and acknowledge that misunderstandings can occur during emotionally heightened circumstances.” “…reflecting the interests of all parties in moving forward without reputational damage.”
He felt his breath leave him.
“Misunderstandings.”
“Moving forward without reputational damage.”
He shut his eyes.
It was worse than the numbers. Worse than the silence they demanded from her. Worse than the legal knots they wanted her bound in.
It was the insinuation:
That what happened to Ana was an inconvenience.
Not a violation.
Not a trauma.
Not something a young woman fought desperately to survive.
That their priority was not justice — only optics.
He stayed still, phone in hand, letting the words settle — heavy, poisonous, familiar.
He had dealt with every kind of negotiation in his life.
Corporate warfare.
Contract disputes.
High-stakes regulatory chess matches.
But this?
This was personal.
This was blood.
He reopened the email, reading the final paragraph:
“Please advise how Dr. Wolff would like to proceed. We recommend considering the confidentiality clause to mitigate future complications.”
Future complications.
His daughter’s pain was now categorized as a complication.
A quiet fury rose — slow, lethal, controlled.
He whispered to himself, barely audible:
“Over my dead body.”
Susie stirred, eyes blinking open.
“Toto…?” she murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
He didn’t look away from the phone.
“Russell’s lawyers sent a settlement offer.”
Susie pushed herself upright. “And?”
He handed her the phone.
She read.
Her face changed minute by minute — soft concern, then disgust, then a cold, vicious anger that matched his own.
“This is… vile,” she whispered. “They want her gagged. Forever.”
Toto nodded, jaw locked.
Toto swallowed — a harsh, painful motion.
“They think we care about the money,” he said. “They think this is about convenience. Optics. A PR issue.”
He exhaled, slow and shaking.
“They don’t understand—” He stopped. Corrected himself.
“They have never understood who she is. And I will not let them decide the narrative of what happened to her.”
Susie squeezed his hand.
“You’re protecting her,” she murmured.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I’m standing beside her. That’s what I failed to do when she was a child. I won’t fail again.”
Susie leaned against his shoulder.
“What will you tell the lawyers?”
Toto stood.
His voice was steel.
“That my daughter’s dignity is not for sale. That she will speak if she wants to speak. That any attempt to silence her is an attack on her — and on us. And that we will take this as far as the law allows.”
A pause.
“And if Russell wants to avoid reputational damage, then he should have behaved differently.”
Susie looked up at him.
“War?”
Toto’s eyes were cold.
“No,” he said. “Just consequences.”
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Toto Wolff
Toto:
Good morning.
I’ve received an update from Russell’s lawyers.
It’s… not something I want to explain over text.
When you are awake, please let me know when we can speak in person.
I would prefer to tell you directly.
Ana:
You’re being ominous.
And I don’t like ominous.
Ana:
Is it bad?
Toto:
I will tell you when you’re here.
I don’t want you reading it alone.
Ana:
Okay.
Do you want me to come alone or should Max come too?
Toto:
You never have to face any of this alone again, Ana.
Bring him.
Ana:
Should we come annoy you and Susie over breakfast again?
We can bring pastries.
(And Max promises not to steal all the pain au chocolat this time.)
Toto:
You never annoy us.
Pastries are optional.
…But please bring pastries.
Ana:
We’ll be there in 30.
Put the kettle on.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 14 September 2025
The kitchen smelled like Earl Grey, toasted brioche, and the particular brand of tension that meant something unpleasant was waiting in Toto’s inbox.
Ana knew it the moment she stepped inside with Max at her shoulder.
Toto wasn’t pacing — which was worse. He was standing perfectly still, hands braced on the table, jaw locked in that austere Austrian way that meant whatever he was holding back was sharper than anger.
Susie was the one who crossed the room first, pulling Ana into a hug that stalled her thoughts for half a second.
“You look tired,” Susie murmured.
“I woke up to Papa sending me omnious texts,” Ana replied dryly. “So yes.”
Susie huffed a small laugh, but the warmth didn’t reach her eyes.
Max hovered behind her, warm hand on her waist, but so rigidly controlled that Ana could practically feel the fury radiating through his palm. He wasn’t even trying to hide that something had gotten under his skin.
Toto didn’t waste time.
He slid his phone toward her.
“There’s been communication from Russell’s legal team,” he said quietly. “I want you to read the offer.”
Offer.
The word alone was insulting.
Ana picked up the phone. Scrolled. Read.
Her face didn’t move. Not once. Not across the entire page of manipulative legal framing. Not at the phrase minimal provable harm. Not at the demand for “complete and indefinite confidentiality.” Not at the insistence that “misunderstandings occur in emotionally heightened circumstances.”
Max nearly exploded beside her.
“Minimal harm?” he snapped, voice low and lethal. “He BROKE YOUR WRIST! He—”
Ana touched his arm lightly.
He shut his mouth instantly.
Because she wasn’t surprised.
Not even remotely.
“They’re predictable,” she said, setting the phone down neatly. “I expected this angle.”
Toto blinked at her like she had casually announced she was making toast.
“You expected—?” he sputtered. “They are implying you misunderstood being assaulted.”
“Yes,” Ana said evenly. “That’s what people like this do.”
Susie winced.
Max looked like he might punch a lawyer through a wall.
But Ana?
Ana was composed. Clinical. Sharp as the inside of a gearbox.
“I’m not accepting it,” Toto said immediately. “This will not be your burden to navigate alone. We will fight it. Publicly if necessary.”
Ana nodded, calm.
“I know.”
Max stared at her — searching her expression, looking for cracks she wasn’t showing.
Then Ana added, almost lazily:
“Also, the settlement number is too low.”
Three heads snapped toward her.
Max choked. “Too—? Ana, that’s not—how are you thinking about numbers right now?”
Ana shrugged.
Because she could. Because she compartmentalized like she breathed.
“They insulted me,” she said. “So logically, I want them to suffer financially for being that stupid.”
Toto made a strangled Austrian noise that might have meant pride, horror, or both.
Susie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sweetheart… you don’t need to think about the money part.”
“Oh, I’m not keeping it,” Ana said flatly.
Max blinked.
Toto froze.
Susie lifted her head slowly.
“Come again?” Susie asked.
Ana folded her arms across her chest.
“That money isn’t for me. I don’t want anything from him. I don’t want a single cent that acknowledges his existence in my life.”
Max’s jaw flexed.
“If they want to buy silence, fine. They will never get it — but if they want to try?”
She tapped the folded settlement letter.
“Then they can pay for the lives of girls who come after me to be easier than mine.”
Max looked at her like she had cracked the world open.
“Ana,” he whispered, voice thick, “that’s—”
“Strategic,” she said simply.
“No,” Max corrected softly, “that’s extraordinary.”
She looked away.
“I don’t want revenge,” she said. “I don’t want a statement war. I don’t want to retraumatize myself in a courtroom. I just want something useful to come out of this.”
She exhaled, long and steady.
“Men like him don’t get consequences. But they can fund change. Even unwillingly.”
Silence hung for a moment.
Then Toto stepped forward and — carefully, like asking permission — put a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly. “And I will get you whatever number you want. Whatever is necessary.”
Ana nodded once.
Max slid a hand over hers under the table — strong, warm, grounding — but didn’t interrupt.
He knew better.
Finally, she looked up.
“No confidentiality clauses,” she said. “No statements. No apologies written by PR interns.”
She folded her hands.
“Just money. Enough to build something that outlasts him.”
Toto nodded — steel returning to his spine.
“Done.”
Max exhaled, looking at her with awe and a fierce, quiet admiration that would have embarrassed her if she hadn’t been running on purpose alone.
Susie smiled — soft, but with teeth.
“That,” she said, “is how you win.”
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Toto Wolff
Toto: Anastasia.
Send me your Cambridge arrival time.
Ana: Why?
Toto: Because I’m scheduling security.
Ana: No.
Toto: Yes.
Ana: No.
I’m going to teach a two-hour seminar to mildly sleep-deprived engineering students, not infiltrating a hostile compound.
Toto: Have you SEEN the internet?
Ana: Unfortunately.
Toto: Then you understand why I’m sending a bodyguard.
Ana: I don’t need one.
Toto: You absolutely do.
Ana:Papa.
I have been at Cambridge since I was eighteen.
I have walked those hallways at 3am in winter because I forgot time existed.
I have survived the PhD lab equipment storage cupboard that smelled like formaldehyde and despair.
I will survive this lecture.
Toto: That was before half of F1 Twitter began performing forensic genealogy on your life.
Ana: I am not afraid of gossip.
Toto: I’m not worried about gossip.
I’m worried about people who believe gossip.
Ana:
I don’t want to show up with security like I’m a head of state.
Toto: You’re a Wolff.
That’s close enough.
Ana: …absolutely not.
Toto: Take a bodyguard.
Ana: No.
Toto: Anastasia.
Ana: Papa.
Toto: This isn’t optional.
George’s lawyers are escalating.
He has fans.
He has very angry fans.
And I am not sending you onto a campus without protection the same weekend they tried to gag you with a settlement offer.
Absolutely not.
Ana: …oh.
So this is about that.
Toto: It is about everything.
The messages online.
Stephanie’s nonsense.
Your sister’s meltdown.
George’s legal team behaving like feral raccoons with law degrees.
I refuse to gamble with your safety.
Ana: I understand that, but I don’t want to show up looking like I’m staging a coup.
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. Questionable family dynamics. Questionable Engineering Science...also Questionable work ethic. Questionable Media Ethics. I feel like I owe Toto's kids an apology after this. I bet they are lovely in real life, they just suck in my fictional version! Discussion of death and the dangers of Formula 1 Racing...Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
(Also this is split in two parts but is one chapter on AO3 and Wattpad. I have no clue why Tumblr keeps eating it otherwise...)
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 12 September 2025
Bradley Lord had a system.
If the email subject line contained the words “CRISIS,” “STATEMENT NEEDED,” or “Christian Horner,” he made coffee first and opened it second.
Today, he’d barely taken the first sip when his laptop pinged with a new message from Toto, flagged HIGH PRIORITY.
The subject line was not promising.
Fwd: This is getting out of hand.
He opened it.
Three attachments.
Screenshots of Toto’s ex wife’s,Stephanie, WhatsApp statuses.
Screenshots of the anonymous DMs to @/PaddockPulse.
A single line from Toto, at the top of the email:
This is unacceptable. Call me when you’ve seen it.
Bradley clicked the first image.
Stephanie’s WhatsApp status in soft pink with a cursive font:
Some people think a last name makes them family. But blood doesn’t lie. Enjoy the rented love while it lasts.
He stared at it.
Very slowly, he put his coffee down.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered.
Next screenshot.
Funny how some outsiders always get what they didn’t earn.
Next.
Being pitied isn’t the same as being loved.
He sat back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He had dealt with:
A world champion announcing his retirement with zero warning.
“Crashgate” references every time strategy did anything even slightly spicy.
A sponsor meltdown over whether Lewis wearing vegan leather counted as “on-brand.”
But his boss’s ex-wife subtweeting their head of systems via WhatsApp status in 48-point inspirational font?
This was new.
He clicked the second attachment.
The @/PaddockPulse Instagram Stories screenshots.
Black background, block text, anxious admin voice.
“I just run a fandom page and now I’m in a soap opera.”
Bradley winced in sympathy. Same, he thought. Same.
Then the DMs.
She’s not part of their family. She never belonged. She’s a problem he couldn’t get rid of. Susie only wants to adopt her because of pity. If George hadn’t broken her wrist no one would be pretending she belongs.
Bradley felt his jaw tighten.
This wasn’t fan mess. This wasn’t your standard “we hate Team X” nonsense. This was vicious. Personal.
Family.
He went back, reread the admin notes.
I don’t know who this person is but they DO NOT sound like a random fan… If this is real, someone in Ana’s circle needs to know.
“Well,” Bradley said to his empty office, “mission accomplished, Instagram goblin. You’ve alerted the adults.”
He sat back, staring at the ceiling.
Because here was the thing:
Ana Wolff never caused him problems.
Ever.
In eight years, the Ana column in his mental ledger read:
Sent three suggested edits to a technical press release because “the phrasing is thermodynamically imprecise.”
Once refused to smile for an official shoot because the photographer said “give me something sexy” and she walked out, then emailed him a perfectly polite complaint citing workplace professionalism guidelines.
Occasionally glared at a journalist so hard they changed their question halfway through.
That was it.
No leaks.
No diva behavior.
No mysterious late-night club photos.
He had, in fact, built an entire internal joke around her:
“Comms Tier List of Drivers & Staff Most Likely to Cause Fire.”
Tier 1: Historical chaos monsters.
Tier 2: Occasional interview landmines.
Tier 3: People who can be trusted with live mics.
Tier 4: Ana.
Ana wasn’t even on the list half the time.
She was what he mentally classified as:
“Emotionally Armoured Warplane With 0% Scandal Risk.”
Well.
Except for the part where she was secretly dating Max Verstappen now.
He didn’t want to know details.
He had simply created a new private mental folder labelled:
“Do Not Touch Unless House Is On Fire (Max/Ana).”
But even that hadn’t caused him trouble yet.
She didn’t parade it.
Max sure as hell didn’t.
There were no leaks. No PDA. No “who is this mystery woman” drama.
Ana’s existence in the public narrative was neat, controlled, quiet.
Engineer. Systems brain. Occasional terrifying quote about feedback loops.
Comms dream.
And now?
Now she was trending because someone in her own family had decided to go full Greek tragedy on Instagram and in a gossip page’s DMs.
Utterly ridiculous.
The office door knocked, then opened a crack.
“Uh… Bradley?” one of the junior staffers asked, looking mildly haunted. “Have you… seen Twitter?”
“Yes,” Bradley said. “Unfortunately, I am literate.”
“They’re zooming in on Ana’s PhD acknowledgements.”
“Of course they are,” he sighed. “Why not. Privacy is dead. Academia is content.”
The junior lingered. “She… really did only thank Jack.”
Bradley’s expression softened.
“I know,” he said quietly. “She sent me a draft once. Asked if mentioning us would be ‘too much.’”
He remembered that email. Short. Precise. Almost clinical.
“Should I reference the team in the acknowledgements or is that inappropriate?”
He’d replied something like:
“You can do whatever you like. It’s your work and your story.”
She hadn’t mentioned them. Not directly.
Just the machines.
And one boy.
Jack.
Bradley dragged his attention back to the crisis.
He opened WhatsApp. A message from Toto was waiting.
Toto: This is what Stephanie posted. She is attacking Ana. I will not tolerate it.
Then another, seconds later.
Also: someone from the family has been sending things to gossip accounts. Anonymous “she’s not family” messages. You’ve seen those?
Bradley typed back:
Bradley: Yes. Saw the statuses. Saw the DMs. This isn’t fan chaos. This is internal. From a comms perspective: we do nothing publicly. No statement. No denial. No “clarification.” This is not about PR. It’s about your daughter being harassed.
He watched the “typing…” bubble appear, vanish, reappear.
Toto: Ana did nothing. She never makes trouble. And yet she is always the one paying the price.
Bradley exhaled slowly.
Bradley: Because the quiet ones are the easiest to scapegoat. But we’re not letting that happen. Not this time.
Another ping.
Toto: They are tearing apart her past on Twitter. Childhood. School. Family. She should never have to see this.
Bradley stared at the screen for a moment, then answered truthfully:
Bradley: She’s in F1. She will see it. What we can do is make sure she never has to walk through it alone.
He attached a short note:
– No external comms beyond “no comment on personal family matters.”
– Internally: if it leaks we’re weaponizing this, it makes it worse.
– Let people online reach their own conclusions.
They already like her. They’re defending her. No need to choreograph that.
He hesitated, then added:
Also, for what it’s worth: Ana has never given me a single headache that wasn’t about comma placement or fact-checking a technical term. She’s the least dramatic person in a 50km radius of this team. Which is saying something.
There was a pause.
Then:
Toto: Thank you. And if anything serious appears—if someone crosses a legal line— tell me.
Bradley smiled slightly.
Bradley: You’ll be the first to know.
Also, please tell Ana from me: She doesn’t need to worry about the “narrative.” The data is in her favor.
He sent it, sat back, and finally picked up his coffee again.
It was cold.
Of course it was.
He drank it anyway.
Because somewhere between the statuses and the DMs and the meltdown of an entire fandom, he could see the shape of something important:
The sport would spin it as drama.
The internet would spin it as lore.
The media would sniff around like bloodhounds.
But at the center of it?
A woman who did her job, did it brilliantly, and asked for absolutely nothing except to be allowed to exist quietly in the family she’d chosen.
Ana never caused trouble.
Other people did.
And today, Bradley decided—firmly, finally—that if the world insisted on turning her into a storyline, then fine.
They would not be the villains in it.
Not on his watch.
He opened a new internal note, titled it:
COMMS POSITION – ANA / FAMILY DRAMA – INTERNAL ONLY
And he wrote the first line:
We protect her. We don’t perform it.
Then he hit save, rolled his shoulders, and prepared for the next ping.
Because this was F1.
There was always another one coming.
***
Law Office of Baumgartner & Chevallier, Monaco - 12 September 2025
The pen felt heavier than it should.
Ridiculous, really — considering she’d held tools that could snap bone if misused, guided calibration rigs worth more than private jets, signed off on systems that determined race outcomes and millions in development paths.
But this?
This was different.
The contract sat in front of her, crisp and clinical — pages detailing land rights, architectural approval, ownership transfer, tax implications. A document that essentially meant:
You are building a life. A permanent one. With someone.
Her hand hovered.
And for a moment — just one — the noise from the morning pressed up against her ribs like a bruise.
The screenshots.
The anonymous messages that weren’t anonymous.
Rosa’s venom.
The internet dissecting her childhood like a case study.
The feeling she knew too well:
You don’t belong here. Not really. Not fully.
A lifetime of silence, borders, and being tolerable rather than wanted tried to crawl back into her throat.
Then Max’s fingers brushed hers.
Not to rush.
Not to coax.
Just there.
A grounding point.
“Hey,” he murmured, eyes steady, soft in that way he never let cameras see. “You’re allowed to want this.”
She didn’t answer — not immediately.
Her gaze shifted to the blueprint pinned to the corner of the folder.
Their blueprint.
A space for a sim rig near the office.
A kitchen large enough for cooking disasters and quiet mornings.
A spare room Susie had already tried to call a nursery — too casually to be casual.
A home big enough for a future.
A home she chose.
No one assigned it.
No one dictated it.
No one forced it into her life.
She built this one.
Piece by piece.
“I’m not,” she said finally — voice smooth, almost clinical, except for the tremor beneath it — “letting them ruin this.”
Max’s jaw softened.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because this is ours. Not theirs. Not the internet’s. Not anyone’s to dissect.”
Her fingers tightened around the pen.
Not with hesitation.
With certainty.
She signed.
One signature.
Then another.
Then the last.
The notary smiled politely — unaware of the tectonic shift occurring at the table.
“Congratulations,” they said. “The property is officially yours.”
Ours.
The word echoed in her chest.
Max squeezed her hand — warm, steady, almost reverent.
“Welcome home,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Ana let herself breathe — fully.
Not guarded.
Not braced.
Not waiting for the ground to shift beneath her.
And for the first time in her life, belonging didn’t feel conditional.
It felt earned.
Chosen.
Shared.
She closed the folder, exhaled, and straightened — the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her mouth.
“Let the internet say whatever they want,” she said calmly.
Max smirked. “They will.”
“I know.” She stood, smooth and certain. “But I’m done letting ghosts make decisions for me.”
He didn’t hide how proud he looked.
And she didn’t flinch from receiving it.
They walked out together — into sunlight, into something new, into their own story.
And as the sea glittered below and Monaco moved around them, Ana realized something:
She didn’t feel like she was intruding in someone else’s life anymore.
She felt like she was building her own.
And nothing — not resentment, not gossip, not old wounds clawing for relevance — was going to take that from her.
Not now.
Not ever.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 12 September 2025
Toto stood in the living room with his phone in his hand and his jaw tight.
Three calls.
Four.
Five.
Each went straight to voicemail—not even the ring delay, just an automated wall:
"The person you are trying to reach is not available."
Translate:
Rosa saw it and decided no.
He tried again anyway—because stubbornness ran in the Wolff bloodline whether anyone liked admitting it.
By the seventh attempt, Susie finally walked over, gently placing her hand over the screen before he could press call again.
“Toto,” she murmured, soft but immovable. “She’s not going to pick up.”
He swallowed. His shoulders were up around his ears—anger, hurt, and something that looked dangerously like guilt wrestling under his skin.
“She can’t just—” He shook his head. “She can’t decide we’re not speaking. I am her father.”
“I know.”
“She can be upset. She can be angry. She can ask questions. But ignoring me? Sabotaging Ana online?”
“Those were not the actions of someone trying to communicate,” Susie said quietly. “Those were the actions of someone trying to wound.”
He closed his eyes.
“She’s my daughter,” he whispered.
“And Ana is too.”
The silence after that wasn’t sharp—it was heavy.
Truth had weight.
He sank onto the sofa, elbows on his knees, phone dangling uselessly between his fingers.
Susie said nothing for a moment. Then—soft, but unflinching:
“One day, you’re going to have to make a choice.”
Toto froze.
“I have made a choice,” he said, voice low. “I choose all my children.”
“Rosa is choosing not to be one,” Susie replied, unafraid of the truth he kept dodging.
He exhaled, long and exhausted, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes.
“She’s throwing a tantrum,” Susie continued, unfailingly calm. “And if she wants to talk, she knows how to. But right now? She’s punishing you for loving someone she doesn’t approve of.”
“That’s not fair,” Toto said, more to himself than to Susie. “I was a terrible father when Ana arrived. I didn’t know how to—”
“You’re a wonderful father now,” she interrupted. “To Jack. To Benedict. Even to Rosa, when she lets you be. But Ana needed you too. And you’re trying to make up for that. She sees it as you taking something from her.”
Toto sat down heavily at the kitchen table.
“What do I do?” he asked, and it wasn’t the Toto Wolff voice he used at press conferences, ironclad and towering.
It was a father’s voice.
Small. Worried. Human.
Susie joined him, laying her hand over his.
“You draw boundaries for her the same way you do for everyone else.”
Toto huffed a humorless laugh.
“I already cut her card to a thousand per day.”
“Which most people would consider extremely generous,” Susie pointed out.
“Yes, well, Rosa is not ‘most people.’”
They sat in tired silence for a beat.
Then Toto said, with that particular grim determination he usually reserved for cost cap meetings:
“I’ll set up a one-time trust disbursement. A lump sum. Enough that she can choose whatever life she wants. And then…” He swallowed. “She will have to manage on her own.”
Susie looked at him—not surprised. Not angry. Just… sad.
“That’s what you did with Ana,” she said quietly.
He blinked.
His breath caught—not with regret, but with realization.
“Yes,” he murmured. “When she turned eighteen.”
“And what did she do with it?” Susie asked gently.
Toto didn’t need to think.
“She invested it,” he said. “She budgeted it. She still drives the same car. She never spent for status. She worked.”
A breath.
“She built her own life with it.”
Susie nodded.
“And what do you think Rosa will do?”
Toto hesitated.
There was a beat of silence—the kind that carried the weight of years, mistakes, and lessons finally learned.
Then:
“She will either grow up,” he said quietly, “or she won’t. But either way—the chaos ends.”
Susie stood and crossed the room, placing her hand over his.
“You’re not choosing between your daughters,” she told him softly. “You’re choosing boundaries.”
Toto’s shoulders softened—just a fraction.
“And boundaries,” she added with a small, sad smile, “are sometimes the most painful kind of love.”
Toto closed his eyes. Let the truth settle.
Then he nodded—slow, deliberate, final.
“I’ll send the paperwork to the lawyers in the morning,” he said.
Susie squeezed his hand.
“And if she calls you before that?”
Toto’s voice was low—controlled, but aching.
“Then we talk.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
He didn’t flinch.
“Then she learns.”
Susie leaned forward and kissed his temple—soft, steady, proud.
“You’re doing the right thing,” she whispered.
Toto didn’t answer out loud.
But somewhere—in the quiet part of him that still remembered the day a small, silent girl stood at his doorway with a backpack and eyes full of distrust— he hoped she was right.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco - 12 September 2025
Max noticed the shift the moment they walked through the door.
Not dramatic. Not loud.
Just… tense.
The kind of quiet that had weight.
Susie greeted them first—warm as always, pulling Ana into a hug that lasted a beat longer than usual.
Max followed, offering his usual easy, respectful smile—but his eyes were already scanning the room with the instinct of someone who’d lived through enough complicated families to recognize when fault lines were shifting.
Toto was standing near the kitchen counter with a folder in his hand and the expression of a man who’d spent half the morning wrestling with decisions that didn’t feel like victories—only necessities.
“Come, sit,” Susie said gently, ushering them toward the dining table already set for lunch.
Jack was at school, so it was just the four of them—no buffer, no distraction.
Ana took the seat beside Max. Her posture was straight, composed, but Max could see the micro-tension in her fingers—thumb rubbing a small circle against her index knuckle.
Her tell.
Toto cleared his throat softly.
“I want to talk to you about something,” he said, tone careful—not commanding, not managerial. Human.
Ana’s brows pulled together slightly. “Alright.”
Toto’s gaze flicked to Max, almost like asking silent permission to include him.
Max just gave a small nod.
Ana deserved this with someone beside her.
“I’ve spent all morning trying to reach Rosa,” Toto began. “She won’t answer. And after what happened online…” He exhaled slowly. “Something needs to change.”
Ana stilled.
Max felt his jaw tighten.
Toto continued.
“I’ve… set up a trust for Rosa,” Toto said. “A lump sum. One disbursement. The same amount I gave you when you turned eighteen.”
Ana blinked. “Why?”
Toto exhaled — slow, defeated. “Because she refuses to speak to me. And I will not continue letting her weaponize my love or my money. If she wants to be independent — then she must be independent.”
Ana sat still. Too still.
“…You don’t have to choose,” she said quietly. “I never wanted that.”
“I’m not choosing,” Toto replied — and he meant it. “You received a fund when you became an adult and built your life with it. Rosa will receive the same. And then… she will decide if she wants a relationship.”
Susie placed a hand lightly on Toto’s back. “She’ll learn, one way or another.”
Ana stared down at her plate — untouched — jaw set.
Max felt his pulse hammering.
He wanted to say good.
He wanted to say finally.
He wanted to say she has done nothing but hurt Ana, and it’s about time she faced consequences.
But he said none of it.
Because Ana was the one who had been hurt most.
And this moment belonged to her.
She swallowed hard.
Her thumb brushed against Max’s palm — a tiny grounding movement.
“I don’t want her punished because of me,” Ana murmured. “I don’t want… collateral damage.”
“She made her own choices,” Susie said softly. “You didn’t do this to her.”
Max clenched his teeth.
He thought about Rosa’s messages.
The vitriol.
The bile.
The deliberate attempts to make Ana feel small and unwanted.
He thought about how Ana had crumpled into his arms the night before — stimming so hard he’d panicked — because the world had ripped open every wound she’d spent years stitching shut.
Rosa didn’t deserve the power she’d had over her.
Ana didn’t deserve to keep bleeding for someone else’s immaturity.
So he squeezed her hand.
Just a little.
Just enough to say: I’m here. I agree. You deserve better.
Ana looked up at Toto — and there it was.
The quiet fear she hardly let anyone see:
Am I worth this?
Toto leaned forward — elbows on the table, voice rough.
“You are not the reason Rosa is angry,” he said. “You are the excuse she uses to avoid growing up.”
Ana exhaled — shaky but steadying.
“…Okay,” she whispered.
Max watched the tension in Toto’s shoulders drop a fraction.
Not relief — not yet — but hope.
Susie smiled at Ana then, soft as the afternoon light streaming through the window.
“You’re allowed to have good things, sweetheart,” she said. “Even if someone else is angry about it.”
Something flickered behind Ana’s eyes.
Belief.
Small. Fragile. But real.
Max felt his chest tighten — painfully, beautifully.
Because this — this was family.
Messy and imperfect and fought for.
Built, not inherited.
And Ana was finally learning she didn’t have to apologize for being loved.
***
Text Messages: Daniel Ricciardo & Max Verstappen
Daniel:
So.
You wanna talk about it or should I just send memes until you emotionally crack?
Max: There’s nothing to talk about.
Daniel: Max.
Someone basically wrote “burn the witch” in the DMs of a gossip page.
And Twitter has built a 47-slide PowerPoint connecting childhood trauma to Cambridge cafeteria seating charts.
I feel like there’s a conversation in there somewhere.
Max: Toto is handling it.
Daniel: …
Right.
But that wasn’t the question.
Max: I’m fine.
Daniel: You’re typing like you’re chewing through concrete so no you’re not.
Max: I just hate that she woke up excited and then had to read strangers discussing whether she deserves a family.
Daniel: Yeah.
That part sucks.
Like… deeply sucks.
Max: She finally said yes.
To them.
To belonging.
To being wanted.
And someone tried to ruin it five hours later.
Daniel: You know she’s stronger than them, right?
Max: Strength shouldn’t be a requirement for being loved.
Daniel: …okay.
That’s the most aggressively poetic thing you’ve ever texted me.
Are you dying?
Max: Shut up.
Daniel: For real though — do you need anything?
Max: No.
She’s here.
We signed the house papers.
We’re having lunch with Toto and Susie.
She’s… okay.
Angry.
But okay.
Daniel: Angry is good.
Angry means “I’m fighting,” not “I’m folding.”
Max: Yeah.
I know.
Daniel: And listen — I know you said Toto is handling it.
And he should.
It’s his mess, his family, his job to protect her too.
But just so you know:
You are allowed to be angry.
Max: I am.
Daniel: Good.
Because if someone ever sent messages like that about the woman I love?
I’d want to throw hands too.
Max: It’s not hands I’m thinking about.
Daniel: Okay that’s exactly the kind of thing you shouldn’t put in writing.
Let’s keep “murder plans” verbal.
Max: Thank you.
Daniel: Always.
And hey — Ana’s story doesn’t belong to the internet.
It belongs to her.
She’ll choose when it’s told.
Not some bitter ghost account.
Daniel: Now go kiss your terrifying genius girlfriend and remind her that the world can scream, but love gets the last word.
Max: On it.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 12 September 2025
It started small.
A shift in her posture.
A tension gathering under her skin like static.
That far-off focus she got when her brain was sprinting faster than the room around her.
Max noticed immediately—not because she made it obvious, but because he’d gotten good at reading her the way other people read weather.
Normally she paced when she was overwhelmed.
Or turned sharp, efficient, clinical.
Tonight was different.
She moved to the foot of the bed, sat for three seconds—and then suddenly threw herself backward against the pillows.
Max jumped.
“Woah—Ana—what— what are you doing?”
She didn’t answer.
She just reset, sat forward again, and threw herself back harder this time.
The mattress jolted.
A pillow hit the headboard.
Max stood, hands half-raised like he was worried she might actually be injured.
“Okay—hey—stop—are you hurt? Did something happen? Is this a seizure—?!”
She blinked up at him, hair messy, breathing uneven.
“No,” she said simply, as if that clarified anything. “I’m stimming.”
Max stared.
“…stimming as in… hitting the bed with your spine?”
She nodded. Calm. Controlled. Scientist-voice online.
“It’s a deep pressure stim. The impact helps regulate sensory overload.”
He blinked at her.
Then blinked again.
“Are you sure that’s safe?”
“Yes,” she said, already bracing to do it again.
Max gently put a hand on her shoulder—not to stop her, just to pause her.
“Can you—explain it to me? Before you concuss yourself into inner peace?”
She huffed—almost a laugh.
“It’s not dangerous. It’s just intense. Like—resetting my nervous system with force feedback.”
Max processed that.
Slowly.
He didn’t touch her immediately.
Instead, gently:
“…why didn’t you tell me?”
She stared at the blankets.
“I didn’t want to be inconvenient.”
Max actually flinched.
“Ana,” he whispered, “you are the least inconvenient thing that has ever existed in my life.”
She swallowed.
Hard.
Her next words were quieter:
“My mother used to say my needs were… dramatic. Or excessive. Or embarrassing.”
Max’s jaw locked.
“So I learned to hide them.”
He reached for her hand. Slowly. Telegraphed.
She didn’t pull away.
“What happens if you don’t stim?” he asked softly.
She exhaled—long, steady, clinical again.
“My body feels too loud. Like I can feel every heartbeat in my teeth. My brain loops. My thoughts fragment. Eventually I shut down or dissociate.”
Max nodded slowly.
Then, simply:
“Okay. Then we make space for whatever you need.”
She looked up.
Really looked.
Like she was waiting for mockery or discomfort or polite tolerance.
Instead, Max reached over, grabbed the pillow she’d nearly broken the headboard with, and placed it behind her with ridiculous gentleness.
“If throwing yourself at the mattress helps,” he murmured, “then throw yourself. I’ll sit here and make sure you don’t fall off.”
Her eyes softened—then shimmered.
But she didn’t cry.
She leaned back—controlled this time, less force.
Max stayed beside her—still, steady, grounding.
After a moment, she spoke again.
Her voice was soft. Unshielded.
“I don’t usually stim like this. Usually I play the piano. It regulates me. Repetitive motion, muscle memory, sound vibration—someone called it ‘percussion for the soul’ once.””
Max blinked.
Oh.
That explained a lot.
Her precision.
Her rhythm.
Her hands always tapping silent patterns.
Her breathing syncing to tempo when she needed calm.
But then—
Her voice cracked—barely audible:
“You don’t have one here.”
Max’s chest punched inward.
It wasn’t an accusation.
Or annoyance.
Or blame.
It sounded like grief.
Something small and old and raw.
“When I was little,” she whispered, “before everything… I had a piano. In Moscow. My grandmother taught me. It was the one place where I didn’t feel wrong.”
“I can lose hours in it,” she continued, voice softer, “and come out calm. Clear.” Then — with a sigh: “But you don’t have a piano.”
Max sat up straighter, eager to be useful. “I can buy a piano.”
Ana’s mouth twitched. “Max.”
“I can rent one. Borrow one. Steal one.”
“We are not stealing a piano.”
“If it helps, I’ll commit a small crime!”
She stared at him.
He was genuinely stressed about her safety and genuinely ready to smuggle a baby grand into their apartment.
Her expression softened — tension loosening just a fraction.
“I didn’t… want you to see this,” she said quietly.
“Why?” Max asked. “It’s you. It’s okay.”
“It doesn’t look okay.”
“It looks like you’re trying to bounce the demons out of your body,” he said honestly. “And if that works for you, I support your exorcism methods.”
That earned the smallest laugh — a breath more than a sound — but it counted.
Max shifted closer, careful not to crowd her.
“Next time, just tell me what you need,” he murmured. “Tell me how to help. Or how to not help. Just… don’t do this alone.”
Max lay beside her—not touching, just close enough.
The room was dim. The sea breeze carried the faint scent of salt and jasmine.
Ana spoke first.
“When my mother left me with Toto…” she said quietly, “I didn’t know him. He didn’t know me.
Max stayed still.
Listening.
“I spent months trying to be quiet. Normal. Useful.” Her hand pressed lightly to her sternum, like grounding.
“I thought… if I didn’t take up space, no one would regret keeping me.”
A long silence.
Then:
“Stephanie never wanted me there. She saw me as proof of betrayal. She didn’t yell. She didn’t punish.” She swallowed.
“She just ignored me. Like I was furniture someone resented but couldn’t throw away.”
Max’s chest ached in a way that felt too tight for bone.
“Benedict and Rosa were children,” Ana continued. “But children notice hierarchy. They understood early I wasn’t equal. They treated me accordingly. Children learn from adults. If their mother didn’t accept me, they decided they shouldn’t either.”
Her voice softened—not fragile, just tired.
“When Stephanie and Toto divorced, he was drowning in work. I don’t blame him. I was… difficult to understand.”
A faint laugh—not bitter, just factual.
“And sending me to boarding school was efficient. Structured. Contained.”
Max finally spoke—soft but steady.
“You deserved comfort. Not containment.”
Ana didn’t look at him—but her fingers curled toward his voice like a compass.
“I don’t blame him,” she whispered. “He didn’t know what to do with a child who didn’t behave the way children were supposed to. I was too quiet. Too intense. Too attached to rules. Too… much and not enough.”
She finally turned her head—meeting Max’s eyes.
“When I see him with Jack now—present, laughing, steady—it hurts in a place I try not to touch too often.”
Max moved closer—not to fix, not to smother—but to be there.
“And I would never resent Jack,” she continued. “He deserves everything. He healed something in Toto. And in me. But sometimes… I wish someone had fought for me the way they fight for him.”
“He’s such a present father to Jack,” she said — no bitterness, just quiet ache. “He reads with him, plays with him, teaches him things. And I love that. I love Jack more than anything.”
Her voice cracked — barely.
“But sometimes,” she whispered, “I wish I’d had that version of him too.”
Max gently shifted closer — until their foreheads touched.
“You deserved it,” he said — steady, certain, no hesitation. “Every bit of it.”
Ana blinked — slow, heavy — tears there but not falling.
“And now—” she exhaled, voice softer. “Now everything is good. Finally good. And it feels like someone is clawing old wounds open just to make sure I remember where they are.”
Max tightened his grip on her hand — grounding her the way stimming grounded her body.
“You’re not alone in it,” he murmured. “Not anymore.”
Max reached out—slow, deliberate—and took her hand.
Not squeezing.
Just holding.
Joining.
“You deserved that then,” he said quietly. “You deserve it now.”
Ana blinked—once, slow.
“And you’re not alone anymore,” he added. “Not with me. Not with Susie. Not with Jack. Not with Toto—not the man he was. The man he is now.”
Silence settled—not tense, not unresolved—just full.
Then Max leaned his forehead to hers.
“If throwing yourself into pillows helps,” he murmured, “do it for as long as you need.”
She let out the smallest breath—a laugh and a sigh and a thank you all at once.
“Stay?” she asked.
“Always.”
She settled into him—head on his shoulder, hand against his chest.
And for the first time that day—
Ana didn’t feel like she was balancing on the edge of someone else’s world.
She felt held.
Chosen.
Safe.
***
Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Max Verstappen
Victoria:
Twitter is having a full Greek tragedy meltdown and some gossip page admin is being harassed by someone who sounds like they’ve been chain-smoking resentment for 20 years.
So.
Question:
Is this total bullshit
or are we actually living in a soap opera?
Max: Not bullshit.
Victoria: …
What do you mean
not bullshit.
Max.
What.
Do.
You.
Mean.
Max: We’re pretty sure the person messaging that account was Ana’s sister.
Victoria: HER SISTER???
HER ACTUAL SISTER??
Like DNA and childhood trauma level sibling??
Max: Yes.
Victoria: Oh my god.
Victoria: HER SISTER SUCKS.
Max: Yes.
Victoria: Like she doesn’t just suck, she’s Olympic-level petty.
She has trained for this.
She has practice notebooks.
Max: Probably.
Victoria: I cannot believe you’ve been with this girl almost TEN YEARS and at NO POINT did you mention:
“oh by the way her family dynamic is held together with duct tape and inherited spite.”
Max: It wasn’t relevant.
Victoria: MAX.
Her sister just tried to leak a PRIVATE ADOPTION and tell the world Ana doesn’t belong.
That is relevant.
Max: I know.
Victoria: How’s Ana?
Max: Tired.
Mostly angry.
She’s pretending she doesn’t care but she does.
Victoria: Of course she does.
Anyone would.
It’s one thing when strangers talk.
It’s another when it’s someone who’s supposed to love you.
(Max doesn’t reply immediately.)
Victoria: Hey.
You’re doing right by her.
And I’m really glad she has you.
***
Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Victoria: Just caught up.
Twitter. The screenshots. The meltdown. All of it.
And I have to say:
NOW I fully understand what you meant when you said
“that was not my experience with sisters.”
Holy. Shit. Ana. 😳
Ana: …yep.
Victoria: Like I knew there was history. But this is not normal sister stuff.
This is “villain origin story” energy.
“She’s not family”
“She’s manipulating them”
“Replaceable”
That’s not jealousy.
That’s unhinged.
Ana: Try having it said to you directly when you’re sixteen.
Victoria: …
Okay that made me want to throw my phone into the sun.
Ana: It was a long time ago.
Victoria: But the hurt isn’t gone.
I can see that.
And she’s ripping open wounds she created.
Ana: I guess I hoped we’d moved past it.
Or at least…
Grown up.
Victoria: SHE hasn’t.
YOU have.
You’re out here building a life, getting adopted by the world’s coolest mom™, signing house contracts, and being loved.
She’s doomscrolling and shitposting like a medieval court cousin who didn’t inherit the castle.
Ana: That’s an image.
Victoria: I’m serious though:
You deserved better sisters.
You deserved a better start.
But you are getting a better future.
And that’s what matters now.
Ana: Thank you.
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
JadeQueen: Evening, Annie.
Just logged onto Twitter and…
Sweetheart.
Do I need to burn the internet down?
Andromeda: No fire.
Please.
JadeQueen: Okay but hear me out:
I have a very organized “destroy someone’s online identity” protocol ready for deployment.
Two keystrokes and Rosa becomes a digital myth like Atlantis.
Andromeda: Xia.
No.
JadeQueen: I can scrub her LinkedIn, un-anchor her SEO results, and bury her under 14 pages of Pinterest recipes and MLM skincare articles.
Andromeda: Stop.
JadeQueen: I could also make sure that when someone Googles her name the first suggestion becomes:
“Rosa Wolff—what did she do?”
Andromeda: Definitely not.
JadeQueen: What about mild public humiliation?
Nothing criminal.
Just…
A well-placed meme.
A tasteful takedown.
Andromeda: Xia.
JadeQueen: Fine.
New approach:
Would you like me to hack that gossip account and delete the screenshots?
Or replace them with pictures of bunnies?
Or Lewis Hamilton holding a sign that says “touch grass”?
Andromeda: Absolutely not.
And you know I love Lewis memes.
JadeQueen: So you’re saying…
There is a chance.
Andromeda: …no.
JadeQueen: Okay.
Then I will reluctantly be normal.
(But I want it on the record:
I could fix this very dramatically.)
Andromeda: I know.
And I appreciate you.
JadeQueen: How are you?
Really.
Ana: Angry.
Tired.
Embarrassed that strangers know things I haven’t said out loud.
And… weirdly sad.
JadeQueen: None of this is your fault.
And it doesn’t make you weak.
You kept your story private because it was yours — that isn’t secrecy.
It’s self-respect.
Andromeda: I just…
Wanted one thing in my life that wasn’t analyzed or debated or picked apart.
Just one.
JadeQueen: You still have it.
You still have control over the truth — because gossip isn’t truth.
They know fragments, not the story.
Andromeda: I hate that she did this.
JadeQueen: I know.
And if you change your mind —
If one day you say “fine, release the chaos” —
I will gladly ruin her Apple ID, her email history, and every embarrassing teenage forum post she ever made about One Direction.
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. Questionable Engineering Science...also Questionable work ethic. Difficult Family relationships. Questionable Media Ethics. Also definitely NSFW. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
(Also apparently I need to add this following disclaimer: There's this magical thing in a fic called character development and plot. If there was neither of those there wouldn't be much of a fic. So yes, characters will make stupid decisions and act in a way that is not very smart.)
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
lorelai.pa: The press release is out. George is officially gone.
kayleigh.powerunit: 🎉 FINALLY 🎉
sam.transmission: No but actually. The sigh of relief I just heard through the corridor was like a wave.
lucy.comms: I just walked through the atrium. People are actually cheering.
tom.sim:between altair working, kimi podiuming, and george gone…
this week is basically christmas in august 🎄
liam.engine: Not gonna lie, I thought it would drag on until Abu Dhabi. Never thought the board would move this fast.
fatima.pr:my inbox is already 30% quieter.
this is the best day of the year.
tom.sim: Took long enough. Can’t believe we had to sit through those articles before this happened.
liam.engine: Altair runs better without him anyway.
leo.mechanic: Not gonna lie, half of Brackley has been waiting for this announcement since Budapest.
kayleigh.powerunit: Okay but… who covered the sponsor fallout? 👀
fatima.pr: Unofficially… Toto. Out of pocket.
leo.mechanic: WAIT WHAT.
fatima.pr: Yeah. Straight up. He told Legal to cut the deal, then said he’d pay it himself if that’s what it took.
lorelai.pa: PAPA WOLFF ISN’T PLAYING 😳
kayleigh.powerunit: Imagine being so done with someone that you personally pay millions just to get rid of them.
lucy.comms: Tbh? That’s a mood.
fatima.pr: Also a power move. The message is clear:
Mess with Ana = out of F1.
liam.engine: Say what you want about Toto but he protects his own.
tom.sim: Respect. Peak Austrian energy.
leo.mechanic: No, peak Dad energy. “Smear my daughter in the press? Enjoy unemployment.”
lorelai.pa: Honestly iconic.
lucy.comms: If Toto ever gives me side eye I’m handing in my badge and keycard immediately.
kayleigh.powerunit: George’s camp really thought they could drag Ana in the press and keep their seat 💀
lorelai.pa: Not in this lifetime.
liam.engine: Anyway, back to work. Kimi’s debrief tomorrow is going to be fun.
lorelai.pa: Fun = Ana with coffee and no George on the driver list. Brackley paradise.
fatima.pr: Someone make stickers.
***
Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Susie Wolff
Toto: He’s out.
The board signed off. Statement already live.
Susie: Finally.
How much did it cost us?
Toto: More than I care to admit.
The sponsors wanted their money. I shouldered it.
Susie: Of course you did.
Because that’s what a father does.
Toto: I don’t regret it. Not one cent.
He tried to destroy her. Now he’s gone.
Susie: Good.
And don’t say her, Toto. Say it properly.
Toto: …for our daughter.
Susie: Exactly.
For our daughter.
Toto: Always.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England – 5 August 2025
The office was still warm with late afternoon light, shadows of the blinds striping across the papers stacked on her desk. She had been buried in Altair debrief notes when the knock came. Not even a knock, really—just the firm tap of her father’s knuckles before he pushed the door open.
Toto looked composed in the way only he could manage after a week of chaos, his shirt sleeve pushed up but his posture still immaculate. He had a folder in one hand, his phone in the other.
“It’s done,” he said without preamble. His voice carried the weight of finality. “The press release is out. George is no longer with Mercedes.”
Ana’s pen stilled against the margin of her notebook. She lifted her gaze, searching his face. He didn’t look triumphant. Just tired. Resolved.
She nodded once. “Good.”
The word tasted flat in her mouth, but it was all she had. She should have felt relief. Maybe she did. It sat beneath her ribs, knotted and unsteady.
Her fingers traced the edge of the notebook absently. “The sponsors,” she said carefully, eyes fixed on the page. “They would not have gone quietly. Not with contracts like his. Who paid them off?”
Toto didn’t answer immediately. He moved to the window, set the folder down on the sill. His reflection in the glass looked broader somehow, shoulders carrying weight she knew she couldn’t see.
“They were… managed,” he said finally. Smooth, practiced. A man who had spent his life fending off questions he didn’t want to answer.
Ana stilled. She could read evasions as fluently as data streams. She knew that pause, the slight drag in his words, the deflection into abstraction. She knew what it meant.
He had paid them. Personally.
She didn’t ask again. She didn’t press. The numbers danced in her mind anyway—millions, gone like water poured into sand. For her. For the mess that had crashed into her life like a fire she hadn’t lit.
Her throat tightened, but she said nothing. She only nodded, as though satisfied, and returned her eyes to the neat rows of figures in her notebook.
Toto lingered by the window, watching her longer than necessary. She felt the weight of it but didn’t look up. If she met his eyes, she wasn’t sure she could keep the silence intact.
So she wrote instead, the pen scratching over paper, a steady mask of concentration. She didn’t thank him. She didn’t expose what she had pieced together.
But silently, beneath the practiced calm, Ana understood.
***
Somewhere Above Europe, Max Verstappen’s Private Jet – 5 August 2025
The hum of the engines filled the cabin, steady and low. Max sat slouched against the leather seat, laptop open, though he hadn’t touched the telemetry he was supposed to review. The Red Bull meeting had left a sour taste in his mouth—same as every week lately. Strategy contradictions, people glaring at him like he’d betrayed them, a garage that already felt hollow without GP.
The Red Bull meeting had been a disaster—another round of politics, exits, chaos—but Max’s mind wasn’t on Milton Keynes anymore. He couldn’t shake Ana out of his head. Not after the last few days, not after the headlines, not after she’d texted him, if this changes things for you, I’d understand.
He pulled out his iPad, typing the word slowly into the search bar.
Autism.
The articles filled his screen. Clinical definitions. Lists. Forums. Blogs.
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe long walls of text he wouldn’t understand, like her thesis. Maybe something clinical and cold. Instead, what he found were bullet points, plain descriptions. Sensory sensitivities. Routines. Special interests. Social fatigue.
Because it all… made sense.
“Many autistic adults prefer wearing the same clothes every day. It reduces decision fatigue and provides comfort.”
Max glanced down at his shirt. He’d been doing that with team kit for years—throw on the Red Bull shirt, don’t think about it. No fuss. He had two dozen identical ones lined up at home. He didn’t see the problem. Why waste energy choosing?
“Repetitive meals are common. It ensures predictability, lowers stress.”
Max had been eating tomato soup before every race for over two decades. Why change what worked?
“Restaurants can be difficult because of unknown menus, textures, sensory environments.”
Yeah. Exactly. He hated being dragged somewhere new. Give him the same steakhouse in Graz, the same sushi spot in Monaco, and he was fine. Anything else was unnecessary stress. Why risk a menu that didn’t work when you already knew what was safe?
He scrolled further. Sensory sensitivities. Noise. Crowds. Light. Max’s brow furrowed. He thought about how much he hated media pens, how the buzzing lights in hospitality suites sometimes made him want to snap. How often he chewed the inside of his cheek to get through it.
He’d never thought twice about his own habits. He liked what he liked. He didn’t like surprises. He hated small talk, hated lights that buzzed, hated textures that felt wrong. But he’d never called it anything.
He rubbed his jaw, unsettled but oddly calm. It was like someone had been following him with a notebook his whole life.
But this wasn’t about him. Not now.
His cursor hovered again. Sensory needs. Textures. Environments.
And that—that he could do something about.
By the time the plane banked toward Monaco, he’d ordered three different sets of sensory-friendly sheets—soft, breathable, no irritating seams. Noise-reducing curtains. Weighted blankets. A dozen little things he hadn’t even known existed, but if they made Ana’s life easier, they were worth every cent.
Even a set of dimmable lamps, because he remembered the way Ana sometimes squinted at the harsh hotel lights.
By the time the jet started its descent, the receipts were lined up in his inbox. He leaned back and stared out at the clouds.
He didn’t understand everything yet. Maybe he never fully would. But he could make her life easier, quieter, softer, in the ways that mattered.
And that was enough.
He didn’t tell himself it was grand or romantic. He didn’t need to. It was just… necessary.
If she was going to sleep in his apartment, she was going to feel safe there.
He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d just learned—about Ana, about himself—but one thing settled in his chest, firm and certain.
If she carried the world differently than others did, then he’d learn how to carry it with her.
***
Group Chat: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Yuki Tsunoda, Liam Lawson, Isack Hadjar, Oliver Bearman, Esteban Ocon, Gabriel Bortoleto, Nico Hulkenberg, Kimi Antonelli, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly, Franco Colapinto, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Alex Albon, Carlos Sainz, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso)
Lando: GEORGE IS GONE
LIKE. OFFICIALLY.
Oscar: Good riddance. 🚮
Pierre: About time, honestly.
Max: About time.
Yuki: He can stay gone.
Lewis: That’s one less problem in the paddock. Now let’s focus on making sure this doesn’t happen again.
Carlos: …wait. does this mean we need a new GPDA director now??
Valtteri: Oh yeah. George was one of the directors.
Carlos: Don’t even look at me.
Lance: Too late. CARLOS.
Isack: Yes. Carlos. Easy.
Oliver: El Presidente 🇪🇸
Carlos: I AM NOT DOING THAT ALONE.
Charles: You’d be good though… very responsible…
Carlos: NO. I SAID NO.
Nico H: We should vote.
Gabriel: I vote Carlos.
Kimi A: Carlos.
Franco: Carlos x2.
Carlos: STOP.
Oscar: congratulations Carlos 🎉 you’re the new director.
Carlos: NO. no no no. I am NOT doing that alone.
Lando: I nominate Charles 🫡
Charles: non. leave me out of this.
Yuki: Pierre then.
Pierre: excuse me?? absolutely not.
Isack: Valtteri. he’s chill.
Valtteri:Not happening. next.
Esteban:
Ok then who?
Nico H.:
It should be someone old and wise.
Pierre: FERNANDO.
Yuki: YES. FERNANDO.
Fernando: why me????
Lando: because you’re the oldest. 👴
Fernando: rude.
Charles: accurate.
Lewis: ngl it does make sense. you’ve seen more politics than all of us combined. Oldest. Veteran. Experienced.
Fernando: I have two championships. Lewis has seven. Give it to him.
Lewis: Absolutely not.
Oscar: Great. So FIA can get ready for the Spanish Inquisition.
Fernando: Oscar, why don’t YOU do it? Hm? Mark was GPDA director. Aussie tradition.
Oscar: Absolutely not.
Fernando: Coward.
Valtteri: Honestly, Fernando as director would be hilarious. FIA wouldn’t survive.
Fernando: This is ageism.
Yuki: This is justice.
Max: This is entertainment.
Carlos: This is the best decision we’ve ever made.
Fernando: This is a disaster.
Lewis: This is Formula 1.
***
Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber
Fernando: Oscar says no.
Flat out. No interest.
So now apparently it’s me.
Mark: 😂 what’s this about?
Fernando: GDPA director.
The drivers voted.
Nobody wanted it.
So now I’m stuck.
Mark: Ahhh. Dusting off an old skill set, mate?
Fernando: Not funny.
Last time I did this, I spent more hours in FIA meetings than in the car.
I don’t need another job.
Mark: You do realise you’ve been here before. You know the ropes.
You’ll be fine.
Fernando: I don’t want to be fine.
I want Oscar to suffer. He’s young. He should do the politics.
Mark: And yet… here you are. Again.
History repeating itself.
Fernando: I will kill him.
And then Lewis. For not taking it.
Mark: Careful. Being GDPA director doesn’t come with diplomatic immunity 😉
Fernando: Remind me why I didn’t retire?
Mark: Because you love this circus.
Now stop whining and go write your opening speech, Mr. Director.
***
Text Messages: Dr Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Gianpiero Lambiase
GP:Do me a favour, Doctor.
Go pat Max’s feelings for a bit.
Red Bull is a mess, and he’s in the middle of it.
Ana: …pat his feelings? What does that mean?
GP: It means he’s spiralling.
Whole team’s crumbling, everyone’s resigning, and he thinks it’s his fault.
You’re the only one he listens to.
Ana: I see.
So you’re outsourcing emotional support now.
GP: Correct.
I did ten years of radio therapy, my shift is currently over.
Tag, you’re it.
Ana:
He didn’t say anything to me.
GP: He won’t.
He’ll just sulk quietly and then overtake someone three-wide into Turn 1.
Go text him.
Ana: …
How are you enjoying your gardening leave?
GP: I hate it so much.
I started renovating the house just to keep busy.
My wife threw me out twice already.
Ana: …twice?
GP: Apparently knocking down walls at 11pm isn’t “coping.”
Neither is trying to rewire the kitchen “just to see if I could improve the system.”
Ana: You sound like you’re thriving.
GP: I’m a man built for telemetry, not DIY.
Now go text Max before he starts trying to fix the Milton Keynes canteen schedule himself.
Ana: Fine.
But if he starts crying on me, I’m forwarding him back to you.
GP: Deal.
***
Text Messages: Dr Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Max Verstappen
Ana: Don’t sulk.
Red Bull’s implosion isn’t your fault.
You’re not responsible for everyone else quitting.
Max: …
Are you trying to comfort me?
Ana: Yes.
Consider your feelings patted.
Max: It’s working.
…a little.
Ana: Good.
Max:
… How do you even know that Red Bull is a mess??
Ana: Because someone told me.
Max: Who??
Ana: …GP.
Max: GP texted you??
Ana: Yes.
Max: GP. My GP. Texted YOU.
Ana: Yes.
Apparently he thought you needed “your feelings patted”
So he outsourced.
Max: 😂
That’s…
wow.
Weirdly sweet.
And also insulting.
Ana: I thought so too.
(The sweet part, not the insulting.)
Max: No, it’s both.
But I’ll take it.
Tell GP he can outsource my feelings to you anytime.
Ana:
Also — I’ll be back in Monaco tomorrow evening.
Max: …you really are coming back?
Ana: Yes, Max.
Tomorrow evening.
Max: Okay.
Then I can survive today.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England – 6 August 2025
The campus was still quiet when Ana pulled into Brackley, the faint mist clinging to the fields and only a handful of cars scattered in the staff lot. She liked it this way — the stillness before the hum of the day began, the corridors filled with the muffled shuffle of engineers carrying coffee and laptops.
Her office lights flickered on, and for a moment she stood with her hand on the doorframe, breathing in the familiar low hum of servers and faint ozone from the rigs. Here, everything made sense. Circuits, algorithms, systems — the kind of truth you couldn’t bend or smear in the press.
She slid her bag onto her desk, opened her laptop, and began scrolling through the morning reports — system logs, simulation outputs, sponsor updates. She shouldn’t have clicked into finance. That wasn’t her remit. But something in Toto’s voice the night before lingered in her head.
He had sidestepped her question. He was good at that. Most people never noticed. Ana always did.
It didn’t take long. The figure was buried, obscured behind sponsor settlements and PR line items, but she found it.
Seven digits.
Ana sat back, pulse steady, eyes cool. So she had been right. He’d paid. Personally. To excise George Russell from their lives. To stop the bleeding.
It hadn’t taken much to piece it together last night after Toto’s clipped answer about George’s sponsors. The numbers didn’t add up otherwise. Sponsor contracts of that size didn’t just evaporate — someone had absorbed the cost. And there was only one person stubborn enough to do it without blinking.
Her father.
Ana’s jaw tightened. He shouldn’t have had to. He’d already carried enough weight for her, enough battles fought in boardrooms and back corridors.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard, logging into her own accounts. The investment portfolio stared back at her — stocks, dividends, a neat web of returns accumulated over a decade of careful choices. Cold numbers, all of them, but they told her one thing clearly: she could afford this.
She moved numbers, converted currencies, authorized a transfer. The numbers aligned. Her father’s sacrifice translated into a very specific line of zeroes.
So she moved. Liquidated just enough to cover it — no more, no less. Quiet, efficient, the way she approached everything. A wire transfer request drafted, her signature input. And then, with the same meticulous care, she drafted a simple check.
The amount matched exactly.
She sat for a long moment, staring at it on her desk. The black ink on white paper looked absurdly small for what it meant.
Ana pressed her fingers to the edge of the check, steadying herself. This wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t pride. It was balance. He had fought for her, protected her when the world wanted to break her. But she was not helpless. She could carry her own weight.
It wasn’t about whether Toto could afford it — he could, easily. It was about fairness. About not letting the balance tip so far that she felt like a weight on his shoulders. She hated that feeling, hated owing.
Ana Wolff had no intention of being anyone’s liability — not to Mercedes, not to Russell, and not even to her father.
She slipped the check into an envelope, scrawled her father’s name across the front in her sharp, mechanical hand. Then she tucked it into her bag, ready for later.
Ana opened the Altair logs from Hungary. Numbers. Code. Ratios. Clean, objective things.
Machines didn’t argue about love or loyalty.
Machines just ran.
***
Lambiase Residence, Milton Keynes, England – 6 August 2025
It wasn’t unusual for Gianpiero Lambiase to receive things by post— the occasional sponsor-branded gadget, once even a tea set from Japan. But this one was different. There was no branding, no courier slip, no indication of origin. Just his name, written in an angular, neat hand.
He set it down on the kitchen island with the wary reverence of someone who'd seen too many things for one lifetime.
“Love?” Eloisa called from the hallway. “You didn’t order another set of drill bits, did you?”
“No,” GP said slowly. “And for the record, that was one time.”
“That’s one time too many,” she replied cheerfully, stepping into the kitchen and eyeing the box like it might explode into IKEA parts. “Because if you drill a hole in the ceiling again, I’m filing for divorce.”
“I didn’t order anything,” GP muttered, crouching down to inspect the box. “It doesn’t even say who it’s from.”
Francesca was perched on a stool, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in hand despite the fact that it was nearly noon. “Did Red Bull send you a goodbye present?”
GP rolled his eyes. “It’s not from Red Bull.”
“Open it, Dad,” she urged, voice immediately sharp with teenage curiosity. “What if it’s like... fan mail? Or a trophy. Or one of those weird paddock art things.”
“God forbid,” Eloisa muttered, crossing her arms.
GP peeled the tape back and lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled between folds of dark grey tissue paper, was a laptop. Sleek. New. Slimline. Familiar in make.
There was a small envelope on top.
He opened it.
The handwriting was unmistakable: precise, clean, a little spiky.
GP,
Assuming this arrives without incident, enclosed is a temporary distraction. Consider it a peace offering—or a pressure valve—depending on how well you’re handling enforced stillness.
Enclosed are 2026 system files and baseline models. Consider this… a lifeline, should the DIY projects get too dire. The password is your driver's best wet weather track.
You’re not obligated to look at any of it. I just thought you might want to know what the future looks like. The gardening leave clause in your contract says nothing about reading things.
Warmly, —A.Y.W.
P.S. The hardware specs on the laptop are tailored to run the simulation models. You’re welcome.
He laughed. A sharp, startled sound that drew Eloisa from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
“What’s that?” she asked, eyebrow arched.
He turned the laptop around like a magician revealing his trick. “A lifeline. From Dr. Wolff.”
Eloisa blinked, then dissolved into helpless laughter. “Oh thank God. Finally. No more ‘experimental shelving’ projects in the garage. No more rewiring light fixtures until the neighbours complain. She’s saved us, GP!”
GP tried not to look sheepish. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was that bad,” Eloisa said firmly, kissing his cheek before sweeping the letter from his hand and reading it with delighted amusement.
“Wait—Dr. Wolff?” Francesca’s voice hitched higher, and she practically snatched the note out of Eloisa’s hands. “She sent you a laptop? With— with projects on it?!”
GP smirked at her awe. “Yes, Francesca. Projects. For me. Not for you to break.”
“Cool,” Francesca said, beaming. “Can I watch you open it?”
“No.”
“Please? I won’t touch anything, I swear. I just want to look. Like a museum.”
GP gave her the side-eye.
“Let the girl dream,” Eloisa said with a shrug. “At least she doesn’t want to be an influencer.”
But his daughter was already starry-eyed, clutching the letter to her chest like it was sacred. “She’s so cool. I mean, Bosworth was already insane, but now this? She’s like—she’s basically Iron Man. But with better hair.”
Eloisa snorted, shaking her head. “And she saved my husband from ruining the house. Definitely better hair than Iron Man.”
Francesca wasn’t listening anymore, she was practically glowing. “Do you think she’d let me intern at Brackley one day? Do you think I could—”
“She’s not a miracle worker,” GP cut in, though he couldn’t quite hide his grin. His daughter had been walking on air since that Bosworth acceptance letter, and Ana had been the one who’d quietly tipped the scales. “Though apparently, she’s got you under her spell too.”
“Oh, please,” Francesca said dreamily. “She’s amazing. Did you see what she did with Altair? Kimi Antonelli doesn’t even blink on the radio anymore. It’s like she rewrote physics.”
GP rolled his eyes, but his wife gave him a look that said: don’t ruin this. “See? She’s already inspiring the next generation. Meanwhile, you nearly lost a thumb trying to install a bird feeder last week.”
“That feeder was faulty,” GP muttered.
“Sure it was.”
Francesca leaned forward, eyes still glued to the glowing screen. “Can I watch you go through the files? Just to, like, observe. For educational purposes.”
“Absolutely not,” GP said. “This is highly confidential.”
Francesca set the letter down carefully, eyes still wide. Then her expression shifted, sly. “Wait. If she trusts you with this, does that mean the rumors are true?”
“What rumors?” GP asked warily.
Francesca grinned like a cat. “Twitter thinks she and Max are a thing.”
Eloisa blinked. “Dr. Wolff and Max?”
“Yes!” Francesca said, delighted. “Everyone’s been whispering about it. And it makes so much sense, doesn’t it?”
Eloisa tilted her head, clearly intrigued. “Actually… yes. It does.”
GP groaned, pressing his face into his hands. “For god’s sake. They’re adults, it’s their business. And no, I’m not confirming anything.”
Francesca ignored him completely, starry-eyed. “Dr. Wolff and Max. That’s… iconic.”
Eloisa leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, an amused smile tugging her lips. “Well. At least she has good taste.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “And I think I might just survive the rest of gardening leave.”
“Wonderful,” Eloisa said sweetly, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Now tell your daughter to stop emailing Mercedes HR about internships she can’t legally apply for yet.”
“I’m building my portfolio!” Francesca called back.
GP shook his head, laughing as he opened the laptop and typed in Interlagos.
The screen flickered to life.
Ana hadn’t just sent him a distraction.
She’d sent him the future.
Just to peek at what Ana Wolff had left behind for him in neatly written code and circuit diagrams.
Just to see if Mercedes 2026 really was as insane—and brilliant—as the rumors said.
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco– 6 August 2025
The apartment door clicked open, and the familiar scent of lemon polish and Susie’s perfume wrapped around Ana like something grounding. Jack’s footsteps thundered down the hall before she even set her bag down.
“You’re back!” he exclaimed, skidding to a stop in socked feet. He latched onto Toto’s waist first — a fierce, protective hug — before circling back to Ana. His small arms wrapped tight around her, and she bent down to kiss the crown of his head.
“Yes, we’re back,” Ana murmured. She smoothed his hair automatically, her eyes flicking past him to where Susie was leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen. She had a glass of wine in hand, smile faint but warm.
“Welcome home,” Susie said, stepping forward to kiss Toto’s cheek, then Ana’s. Her eyes lingered just a beat longer on Ana, like she was quietly scanning for cracks. “And you, darling? Long day?”
Ana smoothed a strand of pale hair back from her face. “Brackley. Meetings. Debrief. It was fine.” She shrugged off the weight of the word fine; she wasn’t about to tell them she’d already mapped her evening in her head.
Because the truth was simple: she was going to see Max.
The thought hummed like static under her skin, both anticipation and an ache. The cats would be there, twining around her ankles like they always did. Max would look at her the way he did after Hungary, protective and stupidly steady. The idea pulled at her like gravity.
Jack tugged at her sleeve, dragging her back into the doorway light. “You’ll eat dinner with us?” he asked, almost accusing.
Ana crouched to his level, brushing her knuckles gently against his cheek. “Dinner, yes. Bedtime, no.”
His brows furrowed, already suspicious. “Why not?”
“Because,” Ana said softly, “I’ve got someone I need to see.”
Susie caught the flicker in her eyes, and when Ana stood, she didn’t comment — just gave her the faintest, knowing smile. Toto, preoccupied with Jack clinging to his arm, didn’t notice.
Ana exhaled, shoulders loosening as she stepped into the house. For now, she would share dinner, let the warmth of family settle her after Brackley. But later, when the dishes were washed and the house was quiet, she’d slip out into Monaco’s night.
Toward Max.
***
Text Messages: Dr Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Max Verstappen
Ana: I’m coming over.
Max: I’m mid-stream. Keys under the mat.
Ana: Don’t worry.
Finish your race.
Max: You sure?
Ana: Yes.
I’ll let myself in.
Max: Ok.
You’ll hear Jimmy yelling at the food bowl before you even close the door.
Ana: I’ll feed him.
Go race.
Max: ❤️
***
Stream Transcript: Team Redline
[Stream opens mid-race stint. Max is on camera, headset on, fully focused. At one point, he glances down at his phone, clearly distracted. He types quickly, smirks faintly, then tosses the phone aside.]
Gianni: (laughing) Max, what’s that? Qualifying setup on WhatsApp?
Max: (shaking his head, grinning) Something like that.
[Twenty minutes later, faint sounds in the background — the click of a door, shoes on the floor. Max’s head jerks up, eyes flicking off-screen. His whole face softens in a way chat immediately notices.]
Chat:GIRLFRIEND?????? 😳WHO SAID MAX HAD A GIRLFRIEND?? No way. No way. bro just soft dropped that like it’s nothing nah rewind what did he SAY
[Camera picks up faint movement behind Max. Not fully visible — just a figure slipping quietly into the apartment. Max keeps trying to concentrate but keeps glancing sideways.]
Gianni: Mate, you’re gonna miss your braking point if you keep staring.
Max: Shut up. I’m fine.
[Soft noise of cats meowing. Max groans under his breath, pulling his headset slightly off one ear.]
Max: Sassy. Jimmy. Behave.
[Camera catches, just barely, the cats trotting straight toward the newcomer. Then… silence. The faint sound of brushing. Max freezes, then swivels fully around in his chair.]
Max: …What the fuck.
Luke: (laughing) What now?
Max: They… they never let me brush them. Ever. And now they’re just— (gestures helplessly) —purring like maniacs.
Chris: (laughs so hard he nearly clips the mic) Bro, they like her more than you.
Chat:CATS CHOOSING HER OVER MAX I’M SCREAMING Sassy & Jimmy: loyalty who???she’s the chosen one 🐱👑drop her @ we need to see who tamed the beastsimagine being jealous of your own cats 😭
[Max keeps glancing off-screen, dazed, then shakes his head and chuckles quietly. His whole focus on the race is gone.]
Luke: So… are you going to finish the stint or what?
Max: (grinning like an idiot) I’m… yeah, I’m gonna stop here.
Gianni: Oi, mid-stint quit? Professional, mate.
Max: (laughing, leaning back in chair) I’m gonna go. Maybe she’ll pet me too.
[The Team Redline guys absolutely lose it in the comms.]
Chris: GET OUT. Did you just say that on stream?
Gianni: Clip it, clip it, CLIP IT.
Chat:MAX VERSTAPPEN SAID WHAT 💀 “maybe she’ll pet me too” SOMEONE SEDATE HIM this man is GONE cats stole his thunder and he’s begging for scraps 😂 bro didn’t just leak gf, he leaked he’s down bad too i have never seen max like this in my life omg
[Stream abruptly ends to the sound of the Team Redline boys cackling.]
***
Twitter Thread: The Poor Girlfriend
@/f1memes4days:
MAX VERSTAPPEN ON STREAM JUST SAID “MAYBE SHE’LL PET ME TOO” ABOUT HIS GIRLFRIEND???? 😭😭😭
cats = betrayed
chat = unhinged
me = deceased
@/paddockbanter:
okay forget the championship. forget altair. forget merc v rb.
the real drama is sassy & jimmy abandoning max for his girlfriend LIVE on twitch
@/f1tea:
bro didn’t just leak the gf he leaked that he is DOWN BAD max verstappen: world champion, menace on track, begging for pets at home 💀
@/lilypadwithwifi:
whoever max is dating… imagine being so powerful that BOTH his cats love you immediately. that’s wifey behaviour.
@/gridsillyseason:
📢 OFFICIAL: sassy & jimmy have changed constructors
new allegiance: max’s gf
@/enginefailurepod:
so max verstappen does have a girlfriend.
and apparently the cats chose her.
and he’s jealous.
2025 is insane.
@/mercinsidertea: ngl, if max’s gf ISN’T ana wolff, then she’s the most patient woman alive because wow he basically recited her cv in that interview
@/tifosi_tweets:
can we talk about how CASUAL he was??? like “yeah my girlfriend’s here” — sir that’s not information you can just DROP like that 😳
@/mercinsidertea:
me: investigating brackley gossip
also me: immediately distracted bc max said he wants to be petted by his gf
priorities: scrambled
@/f1femmes:
stream chat was so feral i thought twitch would crash. girlfriend reveal + cats betraying him + down bad pillow talk teaser = cultural reset
@/wheelnutwarrior:
no one:
literally no one:
max verstappen: “maybe she’ll pet me too”
👁️👄👁️
@/f1lawyerlady:
cats choosing the gf over max instantly is legally binding. sorry, verstappen, custody has been awarded.
@/gridsillyseason:
i want to know what max’s gf thought when he said “she’s the reason i signed with mercedes” (about ana) on live tv 😭😭😭
@/gridconspiracies:
lads lads lads. lando is gonna LOSE HIS SHIT when he sees this.
@/maxieluvbot:
i have waited YEARS for max to accidentally admit he’s in love. thank you sassy. thank you jimmy.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco– 6 August 2025
The headset was barely off his head before Max found himself watching her again. Ana was still on the couch, curled up with Jimmy draped across her lap like a king and Sassy stretched beside her, shamelessly offering her belly for strokes. Both cats were purring so loudly it sounded like a motorboat.
Max couldn’t believe it. His cats didn’t do that. They tolerated people. At best. But Ana? They had surrendered completely, brushing privileges and belly rubs included.
He flopped down beside her, sulking. “Traitors,” he muttered in Dutch.
Ana glanced at him, eyebrow lifted. “What?”
“Nothing.” He reached out, trying to poke Jimmy’s paw off her lap. Jimmy didn’t move. Max huffed. “They love you more than me.”
Her mouth twitched into the smallest smile. “Clearly they have good taste.”
Max couldn’t even argue. He leaned back, head resting against the couch, and let the silence stretch until it was soft and easy. He didn’t want to think about Red Bull, about the cemetery-quiet campus, about Milton Keynes falling apart one resignation at a time. He just wanted this — her, the cats, the quiet.
“So,” Ana said eventually, “summer break.”
He hummed. “Ja. Two weeks. My family’s going to Sardinia.”
Her head turned, cautious. “Sardinia.”
“Yes.” He hesitated, then pushed forward, because this mattered. “I want you to come. Meet them.”
She stilled, eyes flicking to his. “Max…”
“It’s not a big thing,” he rushed. “We’ll just be on the boat. Relaxing. Eating. It would mean a lot to me.”
Ana bit her lip, thumb stroking Jimmy’s fur in precise little motions. “I don’t know if that’s… wise.”
“Because of…?”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but he knew. The articles, the way people stared, the autism everyone suddenly thought was public property. He leaned in, voice softer. “They’ll love you. I promise.”
Her eyes searched his, wary, like she wanted to believe him but didn’t trust herself to. Finally she nodded, small but steady. “Okay. If it’s important to you.”
Max’s chest unclenched. “It is. Thank you, Nastya.”
Ana tilted her head, considering. “The second week of the break, I could stay with you. Rosa and Benedict are coming to stay with Papa. That way… I wouldn’t be in the way.”
Max froze. Rosa and Benedict. The names sat oddly heavy in the air. She never mentioned her half-siblings, other than Jack. Never. He wanted to ask, wanted to press, but the way her voice tightened told him not to. Not tonight.
“Then stay,” he said instead, brushing his thumb along her knuckles. “I want that.”
She gave the faintest smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes.”
Jimmy purred louder. Sassy rolled onto her back, shameless. Max scowled at both of them. “Unbelievable.”
Ana glanced over, amused. “Are you actually jealous of your cats?”
“Yes,” Max said flatly. “Because they get to sit on you whenever they want.”
Ana laughed — a small, startled thing — and Max felt like he’d won a championship.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco– 6 August 2025
The cats had finally been coaxed into their usual nighttime perches in the living room, Jimmy circling the sofa twice before collapsing in a dramatic heap, Sassy curling into the chair by the window as if she owned it.
Ana peeled back the duvet of Max’s bed—and paused. The sheets were different. Softer. Smoother.
Not the scratchy cotton blends she’d tolerated in too many hotel rooms, not the over-starched kind she usually tugged at with restless fingers. These felt… right. The kind she didn’t have to fight to ignore.
She ran her hand across them, fingertips sliding easily, and realized. Sensory sheets. Her gaze flicked around the room. Weighted throw folded at the edge of the bed. Noise-canceling earbuds in a small box on the nightstand.
Even the faint glow of a low-lumen lamp instead of the usual harsh overhead. It clicked all at once.
He’d done this. For her.
Max came in a moment later, tugging his shirt over his head. He caught her still standing by the bed, hand on the sheets. His expression faltered. “Too much?”
She blinked. “You did this… for me?”
He shrugged, awkward. “I read some things. I thought—maybe it would help. If it doesn’t, I’ll take it all away.”
Ana sat slowly, running her palm across the sheet again. The softness held. “It helps,” she said quietly. Something unknotted in his shoulders. “You didn’t have to,” she added.
“I wanted to,” he said simply. “If there’s a way to make you more comfortable, why wouldn’t I?” Her throat tightened.
She’d spent her life being told she was too much, too difficult, too rigid. And now here was Max Verstappen, stubborn and blunt, quietly reshaping his space around her needs without complaint.
Ana laid back, the sheets cool and even under her skin. Max slid in beside her, close but not crowding, his hand brushing hers under the duvet.
Ana turned her head toward him, blinking up at the ceiling for a long moment before shifting slightly to face him. “Thank you,” she said at last, voice so quiet it barely reached the space between them.
Max glanced over. “For what?” She smiled softly.
“For… this. For thinking about the lighting and the weight and the fabric. For trying. ” He didn’t respond right away—just reached for her hand beneath the duvet and laced their fingers together.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I just… I want you to be okay here. With me.” Her eyes stung.
She leaned in slowly and kissed him, gentle and tentative at first, like she was still figuring out how to be soft with him, how to be held without apologizing for it.
Max responded in kind, thumb stroking the side of her hand, his lips warm and patient. It was all feeling and no pressure, just steady reassurance and unspoken safety. When she pulled back, her forehead stayed pressed to his for a breath. And then— Max’s gaze dropped to the oversized shirt she was wearing and he squinted.
“Wait. Is that—” Ana flinched a little.
“Don’t.”
“That’s a Lewis Hamilton shirt.”
She groaned. “It’s not—it’s a Mercedes shirt! Technically. And it’s old, okay? It’s, like, ten years old and so stretched out it barely counts as a shirt anymore.”
“You’re wearing it to bed with me.”
“It’s comfortable,” she argued. “It’s soft, it doesn’t cling, and I like how big it is. I don’t even think you were in F1 yet when this thing was printed.”
Max gave her a flat look.
“And for the record,” Ana added, sitting up slightly, “it has nothing to do with Lewis. It’s just the softest shirt I own. It’s survived more laundry cycles than I have breakdowns.”
“Impressive,” Max muttered.
“Exactly.”
He reached over without another word and tugged the hem of the shirt. “Max,” Ana warned, but he just kept pulling until the oversized fabric slipped over her head entirely. She let out a startled laugh, hair mussed, hands going to cover herself instinctively before she realized the duvet was still there.
“Better,” Max said, tossing the crumpled shirt somewhere in the direction of the floor.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You can borrow one of mine. Or—” he paused, a slow grin spreading— “should I start printing Verstappen shirts with your sensory needs in mind?”
Ana arched a brow. “As long as they don’t say Mad Max across the chest, I’ll consider it.”
Max reached for her again, settling her against him, his voice low in her ear. “I’ll have my manager get started on prototypes tomorrow.”
Ana shifted under the duvet, the warmth of Max’s body so close now that she could feel every slow, steady breath he took. His arm slipped around her waist, fingers curling loosely against her hip, not demanding—just there, present, grounding.
“You’re serious about the shirts?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Completely,” he murmured, brushing his nose against the shell of her ear. “Tagless. Seamless. Stretchy in the right places. Sensory-friendly Verstappen merch line. You’ll be the test subject.”
“I’ll need to approve all prototypes personally,” Ana said, teasing now.
Max hummed. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”
His hand moved slowly, fingertips tracing a gentle line up her side, barely there. Not rushed. Not insistent. Just attentive. Reverent.
Ana’s breath caught.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low, lips brushing her temple.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
He leaned in again, this time slower, the kiss deeper—more deliberate. There was still nothing frantic about it. No heat for the sake of heat. Just him, mapping her with care. His mouth coaxing hers open with a patience that made her knees weak even though she was lying down.
She shifted closer, curling into him, and he took the hint, letting his hand skim under the duvet to her bare back, palm spreading wide across her spine.
The contact lit something up inside her. Not the usual anxious buzz of too much too fast—but something softer. Hungrier. Safer.
“You’re sure?” he asked against her lips, his voice low and rough now, the kind of careful that betrayed just how much he wanted.
Ana nodded, her voice barely a breath. “I want you.”
“Tell me what you need.”
She lifted one of his hands to her mouth, kissed his knuckles, then placed it gently against her breast. Her breath hitched. “Start here.”
Max’s eyes darkened, and he nodded once—understood.
His thumb brushed across her nipple, featherlight, and she shivered under his touch. Each movement—cautious, then braver, then almost greedy—built on the last, a stack of trust and gentle wanting. She let herself arch into his palm, let the sensation break over her in small, manageable waves.
She arched into his touch, shifting slightly, turning on her side. Max immediately picked up on what she was offering, slotting into place behind her, as he slipped her panties off.
One leg slipped back over his, opening her up to his wandering hands and Ana sigheded softly as she let herself relax against him. They had been doing this for nearly a decade. There was nobody else in this world that knew her body as well as Max did.
She felt the way he moved behind her, the measured way he brushed her hair off her neck before leaving a line of slow kisses there, every nerve ending tuning itself to the wavelength of his touch.
He knew, unerringly, that the seams of sensation needed to be coaxed open, not ripped. His hand slid down her front, warm and heavy, cupping her with a gentleness that made her feel like everything inside her might dissolve and re-form.
Her head turned toward him, a half-formed sound catching in her throat. He pressed a kiss just behind her ear. That spot—he always remembered. Her hips rocked back against him, and he responded with a small, satisfied hum. His fingers traced down, following the shape of her, lazy and methodical, like he had all night.
He made it feel like they did.
She was already wound tight, nerves sparking under her skin, and when his hand finally slipped between her thighs, she shivered, a small helpless sound that would have embarrassed her with anyone else. But here—here was the one place she didn’t have to apologize for hunger or noise or anything that spilled out of her body with wanting.
“Just like that?” Max whispered, his voice gone ragged with restraint. She could tell he was holding back, always checking, always making sure she still wanted him. It twisted something under her ribs—a sharp, aching gratitude that nearly toppled her.
She reached behind her, groped blindly until she found the back of his neck, pulled him closer. He went with it, mouth dragging along her shoulder, his breath hot on her skin. His hand moved, gentle but insistent, the rhythm perfectly matching the frantic pulse in her throat. Every motion cranked the dial on her nerves higher, until it felt like she might shake to pieces.
She pressed her face into the pillow and moaned softly, the noise muffled but still carrying.
He clucked his tongue. “No, Nastya. I want to hear you.”
Suddenly he was moving. She managed one little questioning sound, and then his grip on her thighs was tightening and she was flipped back over onto her back, her thighs shouldered apart, and his mouth was on her with no preamble.
The world condensed to a narrow, burning point: the exact place where Max’s mouth found her and did not let go. Everything outside the four corners of his bedsheets fell away—her meticulous routines, the throb of old embarrassments, the endless checklist of rules she carried around like ballast. All she could sense was the sweep of his tongue, the way his stubble left a raw, electric stripe up her thigh, the steady, terrifying bliss of being known in increments so slow they bordered on cruel.
The pressure built in her slow but relentless, every flick of his tongue a data point, every shift in his rhythm a measured test. She found herself trying to catalog the sensations—hot, cold, featherlight, bladed—but at a certain point, the categories collapsed and language went with them. Her hips jerked, an involuntary spasm, and instead of flinching back he doubled down, mouth sealing over her with unexpected tenderness. She whimpered, the sound raw and unfamiliar, and gripped his hair tight enough to make her fingers ache. Part of her was mortified by the urgency in her own voice, but Max just hummed—a wordless note of encouragement, like he was proud of her for losing control.
She came apart in pieces, a chain reaction of heat and pulse and wild, shaking need. It wasn’t a neat crescendo; it was a series of overlapping shocks, each one sharper than the last, building and breaking until she forgot how to breathe. Max kept going, unhurried, until her entire body locked up in a single, shattering convulsion. She heard herself cry out, too loud, too raw, but the only thing that answered was the deep, satisfied rumble of Max’s approval. Her thighs quivered around his head, and he didn’t let up until the last aftershock wrung itself out of her, leaving her limp and boneless and utterly undone.
She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, panting, body fizzing with the afterglow. The room seemed impossibly still by comparison, the sheets cool where they didn’t cling to her sweat-damp skin. Max’s hands skimmed the backs of her thighs, soothing and steady. He eased up slowly, pressing a kiss to the tender spot at the crease of her hip, then another, higher, more reverent. She blinked at the ceiling, blinking dumbly as the edges of her vision wobbled and reformed. She wanted to say something clever, something that would cut the velvet hush and prove she was still present in her body, but her tongue wouldn’t cooperate. All she could manage was a shaky laugh and a breathless, “You’re kind of a menace, you know that?”
Max didn’t answer right away. He was methodical as he moved up the bed, one hand braced at her hip, the other tracing idle circles on her stomach, grounding her. She realized—belatedly, with a rush of gratitude that made her throat tight all over again—that he was waiting for her to come back to herself before doing anything else. No pressure, no expectation. Just the patient, stubborn warmth of a man who wanted her entire and unafraid.
He ducked his head, nuzzling her collarbone, as if he could burrow inside her and live there. He caught one breast in his palm and grazed her nipple with his teeth, not enough to hurt—just enough to spark a fresh surge of wanting down her body. Her hands crept up his back, seeking purchase, nails digging fleeting half-moons as he pressed them skin to skin.
He kissed her again, soft this time, as if to say he was sorry for overwhelming her, but she didn’t want him to hold back. Not anymore. She hooked her leg around his hip and tugged, hard, until his body spilled over hers like molten steel. Max sucked in a breath, chest flexing under her palms. She loved the physicality of him—the way his skin stretched tight over muscle and sinew, engineered for performance and precision, yet somehow still incredibly gentle when she needed that most.
“Condom?” she managed to somehow get out questioningly.
Max grinned against her throat. “In the drawer,” he said, voice sandpapery with need but somehow amused too, like he’d been lying in wait for that exact question. He rolled off her, one arm stretching blindly toward the nightstand. He fumbled for a moment—knocking something over, muttering a soft Dutch curse—and came up victorious: small foil packet clamped between his fingers, as if he was trying to prove some point about preparedness.
Ana snorted and took it from him, tearing the foil herself. Her fingers trembled—less from nerves, more from the aftershocks still quivering in her legs. Max watched her, his expression unreadable in the low warm light. Maybe a little proud, maybe a little reverent, definitely a lot hungry.
She rolled the condom on for him, careful, deliberate, the heat of his skin making the latex almost slippery as she stroked once—twice—for the pleasure of watching his lips part. Max tipped his head back and groaned, a rough velvet sound that tumbled through her in a direct line to the pulse between her legs. He steadied himself, bracing his hand on the mattress by her hip, and then sank down, fitting himself to the curve of her like they were two halves of the same problem, finally lining up to a solution neither of them had ever managed alone.
The first thrust was slow. Careful, almost ceremonial. Ana closed her eyes, letting herself feel it all—the drag, the stretch, the way he paused partway in, as though to give her body time to register every possible pixel of sensation. He kissed her then, open-mouthed and breathing hard, and she kissed him back, pouring all the tangle and ache and nearly a shouted lifetime’s worth of wanting into her mouth.
He set his forehead against hers, breath staggering between them. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice shredded and uneven.
“It’s perfect,” Ana breathed, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders, pulling him impossibly close.
The rhythm set itself, not the hard and fast of desperate strangers but the careful, greedy rolling of people who’d been waiting for this exact moment in every year they’d known each other. He fit her so well she wanted to combust with the relief of it, every push and retreat a wordless promise she’d never have to make herself smaller for him. Max moved with the patience of somebody determined to memorize every gasp, every shiver, every soft, reverent noise that tumbled out between clenched teeth, as if each one was a secret he’d been dying to collect.
She slid her hands up the strong lines of his back, gripping at the base of his neck, and dug her nails in, savoring the sharp edge of sensation. Max’s rhythm faltered, just a little, when she did it, and the sound he made—half laughter, half something rawer—edged her right up to the brink. She wanted to burn herself into his memory, every stuttering gasp, every flinch, every greedy press of skin on skin.
She came with a soft, startled cry, hand fisting in the sheets he’d chosen just for her.
And afterward, when she lay curled into his chest, her legs tangled with his, the air still warm with everything they hadn’t said, Max pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered—
“You’re mine, Ana Wolff. Mercedes shirt or not.”
She laughed, breathless and wrecked and entirely his. “Fine. But next time, I want the Verstappen prototype.”
“Oh, there’ll be a next time,” he promised, lips brushing her bare shoulder.
“And the time after that,” she whispered, curling into him. “And the time after that.”
Max pulled the duvet higher over both of them. “Forever, then.”
***
Wolff Residence, Monaco– 6 August 2025
Toto walked into his study with the intention of finishing a few final emails before bed. The desk lamp was still on, throwing pale light across the polished surface. He frowned the moment he noticed it wasn’t how he had left it.
There, tucked neatly beneath the edge of his laptop, was an envelope. His name written in Ana’s small, precise handwriting.
He didn’t need to open it to know what it was. But he did anyway.
Inside: a check. Exact to the cent. The amount he had wired just days earlier to silence George’s departing sponsors.
Toto’s jaw clenched. “Verdammt.”
He sat heavily in his chair, staring at it as if sheer force of will could erase her careful signature at the bottom. His daughter, cutting into her own investments to repay him, as though this were some business transaction between strangers instead of a father moving heaven and earth for his child.
“Ana,” he muttered under his breath, equal parts fury and grief. “You think everything has to be accounted for, balanced, paid back.”
The sound of footsteps in the hall drew his head up. Susie leaned in, dressed for bed, eyes narrowing when she saw the paper in his hand. “What’s that?”
Toto wordlessly held it out.
She read it once, her expression darkening, and then read it again as if the second pass might soften the blow. “She really…” Susie’s voice trailed off, sharp with disbelief. “She really left you a check?”
“Yes.” His tone was flat, but anger coiled under every syllable. “For the sponsors. For George bloody Russell. As if I would ever—” He broke off, pressing a hand to his temple.
Susie set the check down sharply on the desk. “This is what happens when you grow up believing you’re a burden. She thinks she has to pay her way to deserve protection.”
Toto leaned back, eyes shutting for a long moment. “It’s not right. She is my daughter. I don’t need repayment. I don’t want repayment.” His hands curled into fists. “She thinks she has to earn even this.”
“She doesn’t know how not to,” Susie said softly, though her own anger simmered under the words. “Her mother taught her she was too much, too costly, too difficult. And now this is how she tries to keep control — balancing ledgers instead of believing she’s worth it.”
He opened his eyes, staring at the check again. The cold, impersonal neatness of it. His daughter’s attempt to draw boundaries where there never should have been any.
“I won’t cash it,” he said, voice like steel.
“Of course you won’t.” Susie reached over, plucked it up, and tore it cleanly down the middle before he could stop her. “She doesn’t need it hanging over her head.” She ripped it again, and again, until the pieces scattered like confetti across his desk.
Toto let out a sharp breath — half relief, half fury still. “She’ll notice.”
“Then we’ll tell her the truth,” Susie said, calm but unyielding. “That fathers don’t take checks from daughters. Not for protection. Not for love. Not for family.”
Toto nodded once, jaw tight, emotion caught in his throat. “Ja. Tomorrow, we tell her.”
He let out a long, rough breath, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “It makes me sick that she thinks like this.”
“Then tell her,” Susie urged quietly. “Tell her the same way you tell Jack when he makes a mistake. Patiently. Over and over, until it sticks. She listens. Even when she pretends she doesn’t.”
summary you live a turbulent life in the public eye as an unruly heiress from a controlling family. you thought you had your future all planned out, until you learn that your trust fund hinges on marrying a stranger.
» masterlist
You can’t have heard your father right. Ice creeps through your ribs, wrapping around your heart, locking you in place.
“What are you talking about?” Rafe’s terse tone runs through you. It’s like he’s in a different room, instead of right beside you. You can’t grasp what’s happening.
“We made it clear that the public needs to believe you’ve matured,” Kal says, his gaze fixed on you. “Everything you do reflects on this family. The attention you’ve drawn in the last six months hasn’t been favorable. The contract spelled out that anything that damages our reputation has consequences.”
“Mom won.” You look at Celeste, her face pinched in something you’ve never seen in her before. She averts her eyes. “We got married. People bought it. Tell him. I did what you told me to do.”
“There’s proof of every single time you didn’t,” your father says, motioning to the lawyer. Your stomach twists when you spot the printout of paparazzi shots capturing the mistakes you’ve made, all the moments that looked worse than they were in the last six months.
“They’re always going to find things to twist and criticize,” you say. “You can’t use that against me.”
“Let’s just end this the way we planned to, Kal,” Rafe says tightly.
It’s all so clear how he orchestrated this, every move calculated to make it seem like he tried. But he didn’t. He wanted you to teach you a lesson in the cruelest way.
“I don’t blame you,” he responds to Rafe, voice calm but cutting. “You held up your side of the deal. You kept me informed on her like I instructed you to. You can walk away now. This doesn’t preclude the possibility of working with you and your father down the line. It’s my daughter who ruined this. Not you.”
His words are another attempt to isolate you. To hurt you. He included Rafe in this conversation to give him an out, and to make you watch him take it.
“You meant for this to fail,” you say. You shoot a glance at Celeste, confirming to her that what you suspected was the truth. “You didn’t expect me to make it this far, did you? And now you’re grasping at straws so you don’t have to follow through. Because you never were going to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffs.
“Follow through, then,” Rafe says.
“You think you can give me orders?” Kal smirks. “I already told you, you’re not liable here. I’ll leave a good word with Ward. I insist you leave now. Your job is done.”
You look over at Rafe, meeting his eyes. He doesn’t budge. It’s a silent show of loyalty, proof that you’re more important to him. It’s undeniable that you’re the one he’s choosing. Your stomach turns, your throat tightening.
“What could’ve I done differently?” you say quietly, brokenhearted, looking at your father.
Rafe feels it burning inside him, the protectiveness, the rage, the disgust at the way the woman he loves is being treated. Your life is on the line, and this man is still committed to punishing you.
“I have it right here,” he scoffs, finger pressed on the stack of proof. Hot tears start to build in your eyes, and you’ve lost all your pride now. You don’t care who sees. In fact, you’re glad they do. You’re glad they’re witnessing the damage they’ve done.
“No,” you say, voice breaking. “What could’ve I done for you to love me?”
Kal shakes his head and huffs like you just told a joke.
You know the answer. You shouldn't have complicated their lives. You should’ve been healthy. You should’ve shut up and obeyed like your brothers did. You should’ve taken the abuse and never questioned or challenged it. Or really, if he got what he wanted, you should’ve never been born.
“It’s not all negative press,” Celeste chimes in, voice tight, clearly unused to challenging her boss. “That interview went very well. And the public likes them together. Perhaps we should extend the contract? Leverage the positive press?”
You meet her eyes, touched by her small act of defiance.
“Don’t let her tears fool you,” Kal says with a passive wave, and finally, Rafe snaps. He stands and slams a fist on his desk with a sharp crack, sending a few of Kal’s items to spill over in a chaotic scatter.
“You’re done fucking with her,” Rafe says, leaning over the desk. “She did every damned thing you told her to. You’re not scamming her out of her money.”
“Her money?” he laughs. “I earned every dollar in that account. She’s not entitled to it.”
“Yes, she is,” Rafe states. He looks down at you, at how small and scared you look, and his love for you burns through him, consuming him. “This isn’t over.”
“Did you forget who I am?” Kal mutters. “I’ll ruin you.”
“It’s nothing compared to what I’ll do to you.”
“You’re threatening me?” he says.
Rafe cocks his head to you in a soft gesture towards the door, to leave with him. Your legs barely hold you as you stand. Being defended and protected like this is still a shock to your system, like your body doesn’t know how to process it.
“I am,” he replies clearly. “And I don’t give a fuck that you’re blackmailing us. Whatever you did for my dad, it’s not worth this.”
“Blackmailing?” Kal says, confusion etched into his tone. Shock floods through Rafe. He glances at you, then at Kal again. The certainty in him falters. He’s unwilling to accept it, sure that this is another manipulation tactic.
“I don’t have anything against your father,” Kal says. “Whatever she convinced you of was a lie. This was meant to be a clean and mutually beneficial agreement.”
Rafe doesn’t correct him, doesn’t say that the claim came from his own father, not you. He’s too shaken up.
You’re in a trance, the news that Ward lied to his own son adding to the shock. Kal rises slowly, deliberately.
“Listen very clearly,” he says to Rafe. “Cameron Development will be blacklisted. I will make it my personal mission to destroy you and your family, unless you leave this alone. This is your last warning.”
This is the moment that could define everything. His future, his family, his integrity. And Rafe doesn’t even have to think twice. He inches forward, eyes locked on Kal.
“I’ll see you again,” he says firmly. “Soon.”
You don’t look back as you walk out. Rafe stays solid beside you, his steady presence enough to keep your legs moving. The door shuts behind you.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
You sit in the passenger seat and hold your purse against your stomach, your trembling fingers at the opening just in case you need your inhaler, just in case your lungs give out.
“Fucking asshole,” Rafe mutters under his breath, his grip on the steering wheel tight, knuckles pale. “What a piece of shit. He’s not going to get his way, alright?”
You stare at him, his eyes narrowed as he eases the car down the winding driveway. There was a time you judged him for how deeply he cared about his father’s approval, his career. But then you understood why it’s everything to him, and he just gave it up. And you can’t accept that. You don’t know how to be worth that.
“Pull over,” you half-whisper. His gaze snaps to you, confusion tied with anxiety, and he slows the car to a stop, tires crunching against gravel just past the gate.
“It’s not too late to go back,” you say. “I’ll find a way to cover my treatment. You can… even help me if you want to until then and I’ll pay you back.”
The last part catches in your throat. You’ve never been good at asking for help, but this isn’t about you anymore. You’re desperate to give him something, anything, that feels like a way out.
And you realize that instead of looking out for your survival, just like you always have, you’re looking out for his.
“I always knew there was a chance he wouldn’t give me my inheritance,” you say. “I’ll be fine.”
He knows you’re lying. If it were really that simple, you wouldn’t be clawing so desperately for your trust fund. You wouldn’t be fighting like your life depends on it. You need to get your money and you need to escape these people.
And he’s convinced, terrified, that if you don’t get the help you need, if you’re denied even a fraction of it, your condition will get worse, just like it did when you were a child, when they ignored you.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says.
“Just tell him you take it all back, okay?” you say, tears building again. Rafe’s expression fractures with something that looks like betrayal. You can’t just surrender like this. This isn’t the woman he knows.
“No.”
“Rafe, you heard him,” you say. “He’ll ruin you.”
You’re thinking about him. Your world just collapsed, a promise shattered, but you’re thinking about him. It cracks his heart open. He inches closer, his hand settling gently over yours.
“Baby, you’re shaking,” he realizes. “Are you breathing okay?"
Your face crumples, his care, his loyalty, his sacrifice heavy on you. It’s too much. You look down, ashamed, unsure how you could ever deserve this kind of devotion.
“You can’t do this,” you repeat.
His hands rise to cup your cheeks, warm and firm. He guides you to meet his gaze again. His lips part, his eyes search yours.
“Look at me,” he says, low and steady. “I love you. You can’t make me take any of it back.”
Despite the pain wringing you out, softness breaks through after hearing him say those words, like sunlight warming your skin after a night that you thought was your last. You’ve imagined a moment like this a thousand times, but none of those daydreams came close to the reality of being chosen like this.
You nod slightly. Your vision is blurry with tears of sorrow and pain, of happiness and shock, and you know in your heart that no matter how hard you try, Rafe won’t take back his choice. The depth in those blue eyes, the sincerity in his deep voice, are proof. He means every word.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
Rafe gets you home first. He helps you into bed, brushes your hair back gently, and assures you he’s got everything handled. Then he slips out, confident he’ll catch his father at work after the lunch hour, having already told him he had a meeting with Kal this morning.
His head aches as he approaches his dad’s office, thoughts colliding. There’s so much he wants to say. He doesn’t knock. He walks straight in. Ward looks up, eyes blazing with fury.
“Kal just called me,” he says. “What the hell are you thinking?”
Rafe shuts the door and sinks into the chair across from the desk. Anger burns in him. His father lied to him and he still can’t wrap his head around it.
“He said he’s not holding anything over you,” Rafe says evenly. “That true?”
Ward’s somber expression says it all. Rafe feels the last thread of hope snap. He’d wanted to believe his father respected him enough to be honest. He’d wished Kal was playing some twisted trick.
“You were spiraling,” Ward explains. “You wouldn’t have done it. But now I know I should’ve never trusted you. You threatened him, Rafe?”
He scoffs in bitter disbelief. Of course his dad is twisting it, justifying it, like he always does. Beneath the anger, fear creeps in. Kal is powerful. Who knows what he could do to them? Still, going back on his word isn’t an option. He can’t leave you to the wolves. He won’t.
Because through the noise, all he can hear is your voice, reminding him he doesn’t deserve the pain his father puts him through. That he never did.
“You lied to my face,” Rafe says. “You spewed bullshit about how you don’t trust me, and you lied.”
“I had to,” he says. “We need this partnership. He just called me to tell me he’d make us regret this. How could you do this?”
“He’s backing out and screwing her out of her money,” he says evenly.
“It is not your place to intervene,” he says. “You do this. You get emotional and you make a mess of things because you can’t get a handle on yourself.”
The sting of dismissal is familiar. It’s an ache of being brushed aside, like his feelings are inconvenient.
“I told him I’ll get this settled,” his father tells him. “You need to apologize, cut ties with that girl, and be done with it.”
Rafe shakes his head and mutters, “I’m not doing that.”
“For God’s sake,” he mutters. “Who are you? I thought you said she was impossible.”
“I was wrong.”
Ward leans back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him as he shifts his weight. The room is still, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the distant ticking of the clock.
“You know what this sounds like?” he says. “It sounds like you care more about some spoiled princess than you do about our family.”
Rafe’s fists clench as his nails dig into his palms. Heat floods his chest, a slow burn of rage and pain.
“Do you care about our family?” he says. “I’m your son. You won’t even listen to me or - or hear me out. You took his side over mine before you even let me explain. You pushed me into this. You lied to me. You got us involved with that asshole, and now that I’m fighting for something important, you want me to back down.”
“Do you hear yourself?” he says. “Our business is important. How did you lose sight of this?”
He didn’t lose sight. He just found something worth more. You.
“You made me sign that contract,” he says, voice low but firm, eyes burning as he stands up, “and I’m seeing it through.”
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
Your body eases when you hear the front door open. You shift the cutting tray from the edge of the kitchen counter and turn to find Rafe standing there. His shoulders are drawn up, tense.
“What happened?” you ask, voice soft but urgent, closing the distance.
“He lied,” Rafe says, eyes dark and distant. “I wanted out, so he lied to convince me to go through with it.”
“That’s so messed up,” you say. “I’m sorry.”
You see it in his face, the betrayal, the disbelief, the ache.
“I’m going to find a lawyer,” he says. “And I’m getting you out of this.”
“Rafe, you don’t have to,” you say, stepping even closer. “I’ve been thinking about it. You can walk away. I’ll fight him on this. I can do it. There’s no reason for you to lose everything for me.”
His eyes soften, like he’s remembering where he is. Who he’s with now. He loves you and he doesn’t have to say it again, and he doesn’t have to hear you say it back. It’s just a fact. A fact he sees no point in hiding.
“I’m not leaving you to do this alone,” he says. “Do you trust me?”
You want to argue, but you know him. You know that look in his eyes. He’s already decided. Even if it breaks him, he’s going to do this. Resigned but also relieved, you nod, settling the disagreement.
“Are you cooking?” he asks, trying to soften the tension between you, having caught the sound of chopping when he walked in.
“You did it for me,” you say, offering a small smile, “so I’m doing it for you.”
You stare at each other for a long moment. There’s no future in this, not with your illness hanging between you like a shadow neither of you can outrun. But for now, there’s enough keeping you together.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
Rafe goes into the meeting with one thing in mind: your father will either make this clean, or Rafe will make it public.
He found the best lawyer money could buy, had him tear through the contract line by line, paid extra to have him prepped and ready for today. Every detail accounted for. Every loophole closed.
When he walks into Kal’s office, his breath is steady. There’s no hesitation. This is what he was meant to do. To protect you. To stand between you and the man who’s done nothing but hurt you.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
It’s nearing 11 pm. You’re sitting up in bed, legs trembling with anxiety. You’ve been like this since Rafe left earlier this evening. He got your father to agree to meet. Knowing his ego, he probably thinks Rafe is coming to beg for forgiveness. To fall back in line.
He’s doing the opposite. He told you that he loves you, and you believe him. And now, he quite literally has your future in his hands, and you trust him to carry it. He’s right. You’re too weak for this fight. The stress is carving through you, slow and merciless. Your breathing keeps catching, shallow and uneven, your lungs struggling.
And then, your phone rings. It’s him. You scramble for it, hands shaking, heart thudding against your ribs.
“Hey,” Rafe says when you pick up. His voice is tired, worn thin after the long meeting. “It’s done. You’re getting your money. There are some clauses to it, but… it was the best we could do. You’re getting all of it, okay?”
The weight on your chest vanishes, not sure you can believe it.
“You’re coming home now?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
You hear a tired chuckle on the other end, so soft and so him.
“Yeah.”
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Rafe finds you sitting up in your bed, eyes wide, fear etched into every line of your face. And like always, it hits him. Aching, relentless love. That instinct to protect you from everything.
He crosses the room, sits across from you on your bed, his hand finding yours, the other holding a clipped document.
“He had to set up a trust fund for you,” Rafe says, seeing in your expression that you’re desperate for answers. “Your great-grandfather wrote in his will that every heir in the family gets one. Your dad had no choice.”
You blink, trying to process. Your great-grandfather, a man you never met, who built this empire you were born into, made that rule, and your father had no choice but to honor it.
It’s disorienting, considering how much you thought you hated your family. You never spent much time wondering about the ones who came before your dad. You assumed they were all the same.
“Kal didn’t want you to have it,” Rafe says. “He came up with this stunt to fuck it up for you. He didn’t expect you to actually do it.”
“And he didn’t expect you to be on my side,” you say in awestruck realization. You weren’t entirely wrong; your father did want to punish you, but if it weren't for this rule, he would have just written you out completely, with no need for this scheme.
You look down at the crisp, official stack of papers in Rafe’s hand, Trust Distribution Authorization stamped across the top.
“What are the clauses?” you ask.
“I fought him on them,” Rafe says, flipping through pages. “But my threats only got so far. He was saying some insane shit, like he gets to decide what you do with the money and that you have to send reports of your spending. We got him to back down on that, but not everything.”
He stops on a page, with Conditions of Release in bold. You lean closer, eyes travelling over the words. To preserve public standing, the Beneficiary shall adhere to the following behavioral conditions. You read on.
Mandatory attendance. You need to show up when you’re told to attend family events, public appearances, and anything your father deems important, to a limit of one event a month.
Speech restrictions. You can’t air out family drama. You’re not allowed to speak negatively about your father or the family in public, on the internet, anywhere.
“Their argument was that your family’s value is tied to their reputation, and you play a part in that,” he mutters bitterly. “We couldn’t negotiate out of it.”
You read that if you breach this contract, you face a mandatory repayment, and that the conditions will remain in effect for a fixed period.
“Five years?” you read aloud.
“And then you’re out,” he says. “The old contract didn’t hold up because the conditions were too vague. But he can’t play any games with this one.”
Your eyes land on the bolded line at the bottom: Total amount released. The number is surreal. It’s enough commas to make your stomach turn with relief and excitement. Finally, this money is yours.
You know your father will try to sabotage you. He doesn’t believe you can do this. You can’t wait to prove him wrong.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do better,” he murmurs. “I wanted to make it a clean break for you.”
“Are you kidding?” you say. “I wouldn’t have anything without you. I can handle five years.”
You rest your hand on his chest, where his heart drums against your skin, bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“What happens to you?” you ask softly.
“I take you to the bank tomorrow,” he replies.
You let out a quiet, bittersweet laugh, eyes tender as they settle on him.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’ll deal with it later,” he says.
You give a small nod. If he’s not willing to go there right now, you won’t make him. The fight is over. He went into battle when you didn’t ask him to. Made choices that cost him. You still don’t know how to carry the burden of what he gave up. You can only hope that he finds the happiness he deserves.
“Thank you, baby,” you say in a whisper, pulling him into a tight hug. “Thank you so much.”
You pull back, and you don’t want to say it, because the vulnerability aches too much.
“Can you sleep here tonight?” you decide to say instead.
His lips tug into a smile, his eyes tired, his nod gentle. After you get ready for bed, you settle in under the duvet and Rafe folds around you, protective and warm. You shut your eyes, wrapped in calmness.
That feeling comes back, the one where you feel like you fit, like your edges align with his. But everything around you pushes back. Reality won’t bend. It won’t make room. This can’t work. But nonetheless, he deserves to know how you feel.
“I love you, too,” you say into the dark. He presses his lips on the back of your shoulder, caught between gratitude and sadness. He can’t believe he was lucky enough to meet you, to be loved by you, and so fucking unlucky to lose you. You were never supposed to stay. And he has no right to ask you to.
You fall asleep in his arms, to his tender kisses, in a melancholy peace that you’ve never known before.
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Rafe is sure that Kal is still going to do whatever he can to follow through on his threats. He only hopes that after telling him that his father forced him out of the company, that he doesn’t support anything Rafe is doing, it’d leave an impact.
Despite everything, he still feels loyalty to the man who raised him. He hasn’t officially pushed him out of the company yet, but he knows he will.
He slowly leaves your bed the next morning, walks down the hall to his room, closes the door behind him, and dials his father. He recounts the conversation with Kal and the lawyers from the night before. Then he finishes quietly, “I told him you’re against this and that you already fired me. So you don’t have to do it, alright? I know I’m out.”
The other end is silent. Rafe is glad he doesn’t have to see the disappointment in his father’s face. He knows his father banked on his undying loyalty. That he was sure even with the lie coming out, he would still choose him. But things changed.
“You do this over the phone?” Ward says. “You don’t even face me like a man?”
“For what?” Rafe scoffs. “You’d fire me anyway, wouldn’t you?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I’m sorry, dad,” he says, voice softening. “I still want to work for you. I still want to make you proud and take over the business one day. But I…”
He paces the room, words catching in his throat. He can try to force the type of relationship he always wanted, but it’s no use. Telling him the truth, that he loves you in a way he didn’t even know he could love a person, would just be used against him.
“You never cared about the business,” Ward replies. “I hope she’s worth everything we’re about to lose.”
The line goes dead.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
You wake up alone. The sheets are still warm where he lay, but the space beside you is empty. You stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the quiet settle in. This something you’ll have to get used to. Waking up without him close by.
Rafe keeps his word. He drives you to the lawyers’ office, then to the bank that morning, eyes flicking toward you every so often like he’s checking to make sure you’re still okay. When you pull into the bank parking lot, he asks if you want him to wait in the car.
You hesitate, then tell him to come with you. Having him beside you makes the whole thing feel less daunting.
Inside, you meet with an advisor. The process is clinical and efficient. You sign a few forms, answer a few questions, and just like that, the trust fund is yours. But before you leave, you pause and ask about opening a separate account.
The advisor nods and leaves the office to retrieve the paperwork. When you’re alone again, Rafe turns to you, brow furrowed. He doesn’t say anything, but the question is written all over his face.
“I’m putting some money aside for my nurse,” you say quietly. “She has a son and I want her to be able to give him whatever he wants without working herself so hard.”
Rafe’s chest twists. Underneath it all, underneath the defensiveness and anger and harshness he’s seen, you’re a sweetheart at your core. After a moment, he clears his throat.
“You want to get lunch after this?” he asks.
You laugh. It bubbles up unexpectedly, light and warm.
“Voluntarily? Not because a publicist scheduled it?”
“For once,” he says with a smile.
“Yeah,” you agree.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
You can hardly wait to walk into a public space and not feel like you’re on display, to not have eyes tracking your every move. You and Rafe settle at a table in the corner of a small restaurant, feeling gazes on you.
You worry for him. He’s gotten used to being in the public eye now, but you hate to think about him being followed once you leave, hounded with questions about your break-up.
“You okay?” he asks, eyes softened. You realize he noticed the concern written in your face.
“They’ll be even more annoying than usual after they hear we split up,” you say, your voice low. “They’ll probably be trailing you everywhere.”
“I can handle them,” he says with a smirk, touched by your worry for him.
You mirror his smile. Gratitude swells inside you, overwhelming, filled with guilt and awe. You still don’t know how to accept all that he’s done for you.
“I’ll start the process,” he says. “I can get whatever you need to sign mailed to you.”
The annulment will be a clean break, a necessary one, and yet it’s bittersweet. Somewhere along the way, Rafe became someone you love. You wanted it to end, but not like this. Not with the sadness of losing someone.
“You don’t have to,” you offer. “I can handle it.”
“I know you can,” he says. “You won’t, though.”
You roll your eyes playfully, and his dimples deepen with that familiar smile. For a moment, you let yourself study him, as if memorizing every detail in his handsome face might help you hold onto this. Then the question slips out, quiet but sincere, “Are you going to be okay?”
His brows draw together, like no one’s ever asked him that before.
“Yeah,” he answers.
“Did he let you go?”
Rafe exhales through his nose. The laugh he doesn’t bother to make is thin, edged with something like relief.
“I quit before he could,” he tells you.
Sharp guilt digs into you again. He gave his future up. What he was working towards for years. For you.
“Did you find a place yet?” he asks.
“I found a few promising apartments this morning,” you say. “Nothing too far. I don’t want to be somewhere I have to get on a plane for since I’m going to be coming back here.”
Rafe nods slowly. You admire him, every piece of him. His steady competence. His strong resolve. His care.
“How can I pay you back for everything?” you ask softly.
He takes you in, and sees that under the confident person he’s come to know is a woman who isn’t sure she’s worth another person caring this much about her.
“I was an asshole to you when we met. I went along with your dad’s plan. This is me making up for it, okay?” he says. He flashes a hint of a sad smile. “We even? You gonna stop moping now?”
You breathe a soft laugh, nudging him playfully. You’re nowhere near even, but there’s no convincing him that you weren’t worth it.
You’re glad that if it had to be anyone to be pushed into this with, it was him. You can’t imagine any other man deciding to pull this stunt, just to end up saving you from everything.
He’s not the opportunistic man you once thought, or maybe he was, but he changed. It heals something in you; that someone got to know you, and became better for it.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
Two days later, you exhale a deep breath as you pull out the suitcases from your closet. You stand in the middle of your bedroom, taking mental inventory of everything you have left to do, the room cast in the setting sun’s glow.
Your new apartment, a two and a half hour drive away, is just a listing on your screen, a few photos and a vague floor plan. You haven’t seen it in person, haven’t walked its floors, but it’s booked and rented. It’s waiting for you.
You called the nearest clinic this morning. Your treatment is scheduled, your information already sent over. It’s official now. You’re planting roots in a town where no one knows your name. It’s what you’ve always wanted. Except you never expected to have a reason to miss this place.
You start to pack, then a box topples, textbooks spilling across the floor with a heavy clatter. Rafe hears from the living room, and he rushes over, his footsteps quick and purposeful as he slips through your half-open door.
“You okay?” he asks, crouching beside the mess, eyes scanning for anything that might’ve hurt you.
“Yeah,” you say softly, collecting your things. “Thanks.”
He nods, helps you collect the books, hands skimming over glossy covers. He thinks of all the times you were locked up in your room, studying, never once expecting praise, because you never got it.
“Keep me company?” you say to him.
Rafe shifts the box across the floor once it’s full, then settles on the edge of your bed, his eyes traveling over your room like he’s keeping track of what’s left.
“When are you leaving?” he asks.
“Friday.”
He nods. Two days. You must feel it, too. The pain of knowing that you’ll miss each other. Now, with time slipping through your fingers, you both realize how hard it will be to let go.
“When are you moving out?” you ask, opening a drawer and pulling clothes out.
“Don’t know yet,” he says. His father hasn’t been answering his calls. It’s like he’s in limbo, suddenly on a different life path with no map. “I could stay here. It might be a decent place without your music blasting all the time.”
You laugh and flip him off, but your chest aches, knowing you won’t be able to joke around like this with him anymore. Then, your eyes catch on something, the flimsy top you wore on your first date. You pick it up, smoothing it out with a cocky smile.
“Remember this?” you ask, holding it up. “You wouldn’t stop staring.”
He leans back, smirking. He remembers that night too well, how you walked into the restaurant, all attitude. He’d been drawn to you instantly, and just as quickly repelled. You were chaotic and beautiful, and you still are, but not in the way he once thought.
“You were always so obvious,” you tease, folding the top.
Rafe stares at you. How can you say you love each other, and not try to make this work? The thought gnaws at him. It loops in his mind, louder than the silence between you. You’re folding clothes, teasing him like always, and he’s watching you with a desperation he doesn’t know how to voice.
He remembers every fight, every laugh, every moment that made this more than it was supposed to be. And now, with the end looming, he’s drowning in the need to know.
“What do you want?” he says, voice low.
The air thickens. Your pulse picks up. It’s a question only he’s asked. Nobody else in your life has truly cared what you want.
You know you don’t want to stay here, among your family’s toxicity. You need to escape the tabloids, with their twisted narratives. You’ve been living under a microscope and you need to get away.
You drop your clothes, legs weak as you step closer to sit next to him on your bed. He stiffens, leans forwards, interlaces his fingers.
“Being around me is hard for you, isn’t it?” you ask. You put your hand over your chest, over the part of you that will never work the way it should.
You think of the night you lost control of your breathing and the way he held you. He was what you needed, but it’s because he didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know how frequently your body gives out. Now, he’ll always be looking out for it. Always worrying. With how protective he is over you, you’re sure of it.
Rafe looks down, jaw tensing, not agreeing with you, but not disagreeing either.
“It’s a big part of my life,” you say. “My treatment is intense. Sometimes my symptoms spike. I shouldn’t have to hide it and you shouldn’t have to see it. This just… it wouldn’t work, right?”
You always wished you weren’t sick. It was a silent wish, tucked into the corners of your mind, but now, it’s the loudest it’s ever been.
Rafe swallows hard. Now that you’re asking him if you can handle this, he knows he’s too damn broken. He can’t be who you need him to be, can’t be steady, can’t be a man who doesn’t lose his mind when shit gets hard.
He’d like to think he’s stronger than the anxiety, but he’ll always be afraid of losing you the way he lost his mom. And that what happened to her could repeat itself in him.
“It’s not just you, okay?” he says, voice strained, almost cracking. “What if - what if what happened to my mom happens to me?”
You feel his words settle in your chest like stones. You thought you were the only wrench in the plan. The only one who’d bring uncertainty into the relationship. But now you see it: he’s been holding onto another type of fear, not only that he’d watch you slip away, but that you’d watch it happen to him.
“I’m used to not knowing what’s going to happen next,” you admit. “I’m okay with it. Are you?”
You watch him, your fragile words settled between you, as you wait for his answer.
“No,” he says, under his breath. It crushes your heart. You had a shred of hope that he’d prove you wrong, that his love for you would be bigger than the fear his trauma left in him. But still, you can’t blame him.
Rafe stands. It cuts to know for certain now. You always felt like a problem, and in some way, you are to him now. Someone that would be right for him, but can’t be because of the way she was born.
“Take care of yourself,” he says, keeping his eyes off of you.
“You, too,” you say to his back.
He stops at the doorway. Shakes his head to himself in self-loathing, in how badly he wishes he could just be complete. He’s always had this fear in him, and like everything else, you made him face a part of himself he’s been running away from.
“Can you let me know when you’re in town?” he asks, a quiet plea buried in the question.
Before, the idea of staying tethered to him scared you. Now, you’d take scraps if that’s all you can have. A fraction of Rafe is better than nothing at all. You almost want to ask him what for. If you can’t be together, why torture yourselves? But not having him in your life at all would be worse.
He’s still turned away. Your breath hitches with a sniffle, and you reply, “I will.”
And he leaves.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
You’re contractually obligated to be here, but you’d want to come anyway. Eira and Sam have welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world. You stand stiff in the nursery, the camera flash catching your hollow expression in the family photo, a curated moment for the public, a performance of unity.
Later, they let you hold her. She’s warm, impossibly small, and the protectiveness you felt over her only intensifies. You make a silent wish to anyone who’ll listen that your niece grows up healthy, safe from the curse that followed you.
It’s been over a month since you’ve seen Rafe. You didn’t know how much it could hurt to miss every piece of a person. He called to make sure you made it to your new place okay. It was a short, emotionless call. Then, a week ago, you received the paperwork in the mail. Your fingers traced over his inked signature, his part of the marriage signed away, before you signed, too.
Your throat is tight once you finally leave your family home. You pace towards your car and pull out your phone to see a text from Iris. You handed her a sealed envelope at your last appointment, telling her that you’d be moving away, but that you wanted to get her something to say thank you.
You left your number in case she had any trouble accessing the bank account. She called you soon after to say she couldn’t accept this, the tears thick in her tone. You told her that nothing could change your mind.
After responding to her text asking how you’ve been, you open Rafe’s contact and text him: Hi. I’m in town.
He responds minutes later: Can I see you?
You ask him if he’s still at the condo you shared. He replies he is, and to come over.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
Rafe was stupid to stay here after you left. Every corner of this place reminds him of you. The walls still echo with your voice, your laughter. He has to leave soon. He’s going to settle on a job, then move the hell out.
He walks through the condo like he’s haunted. He replays the way you silently hugged him goodbye when you walked out the door for the last time. He misses you so much it aches in places he didn’t know could hurt. When he first moved in here, he thought he’d feel relieved once the contract ended, but he feels nothing but loss.
And then, he hears a knock, and it’s like the air leaves the room.
Rafe opens the door, and you meet the face you haven’t stopped thinking about since you left. His blue eyes are tired, his sharp jaw going from tight to relaxed.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hey.” He steps aside. It feels wrong to let you in like you’re only a guest. The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly it’s just the two of you, standing in the same room again. “How are you?”
“Good,” you say. His eyes travel over you, his heart thumping, finally reunited with the woman who owns it. “I just met my niece. She’s tiny.”
He sees the endearment in your eyes. You’ve spent years building walls around you, but he’s fortunate to see this version of you, the one who still believes in love.
“Did your parents try anything?” he says, voice sharp at the edges. That protectiveness of his is still alive and burning.
“I didn’t even look at them,” you reply. “At least they can’t bother me for another month.”
“I keep thinkin’ about how I should’ve fought him harder on that.”
“Well, stop,” you order.
He puts his palms up in defense. The corner of your mouth lifts, the first smile since you arrived. His eyes flicker with relief. The air is tense, but you’re still you, acting how you used to together.
“You want something to drink?” he offers.
It’s a quiet check-in. He waits, hoping you’ll notice the care tucked into the question. He wants to ask about your health, how you’ve been, if you’re off those meds, but the words knot in his throat.
“Make it strong,” you say, and it settles him. If you can drink, you’re off those meds. You’re doing better.
Soon after, you’re on the balcony together. Far down below, the beach stretches out in golds and silvers, the tide curling in slow breaths. It’s nearing 6 pm, and the sun hangs low, casting long shadows.
The air smells like salt. The breeze is cool but not cold. Every so often, a cloud slips in front of the sun, dimming the world in gray before the light returns.
“This is so pretty,” you say, legs stretched out on the wicker recliner. “I didn’t appreciate this as much as I should’ve.”
He glances at you and takes a slow pull of his scotch before he answers. You seem so much lighter now and it brings him ease.
“You were too busy fighting with me,” he replies, lips wet from his drink.
“You started it,” you say with a laugh. He looks down, unable to laugh, too.
“I did,” he says. He did start all of it. You asked him, nearly begged him to back out of this deal, and he refused. It set off a painful chain of events, and even though he was once glad to have met you, right now, sitting next to you, feeling the warmth of your arm from mere inches away and knowing he can’t touch you, is the first time he regrets it.
It’s a bitter, tangled thing in his chest. Maybe if he didn’t go through with the publicity stunt, your father would’ve found another way to screw you out of your money, and you wouldn’t have had the help you needed to get it.
Or maybe everything would’ve been better if Rafe stepped away, and you’d have the strength to fight for your trust fund without needing to go along with a stupid scheme, and you both wouldn’t have found love in a person you can’t give it to.
You stare at his profile. His grimace is subtle, but unmistakable, regret etched into the lines of his face. You can feel it radiating off him. He’s hurting.
“What’s new with you?” you ask, gently, carefully.
Blue eyes find yours, and he almost looks caught off guard, like he didn’t expect you to be watching him. He takes a moment, then decides to tell you.
“I got an interview tomorrow,” he says. “Third one out of four at this place.”
You nod, letting the silence stretch just long enough. He’s looking for a new job. He’s not working for his dad anymore. You wonder how it ended. How badly his father cut into him after choosing your future over his.
“Four is intense,” you say. “Must be a good position.”
“It is.”
He doesn’t offer more. The sun dips behind another cloud, casting everything in soft gray. You just want to make him feel better.
“I don’t know how things are with your dad…” You look out at the distance, your lips flattening. “But I saw how hard you worked and I don’t think you ever got the recognition you deserved. I hope you can find that.”
Your words land softly, but not deeply. The ache Rafe is feeling is too worn-in. It’s a voice that’s lived in him for years, telling him that he’s not enough. Not for his father, who only ever saw the flaws. Not for you, who asked for something he couldn’t give. And not even for himself, when he looks in the mirror and sees all the ways he’s fallen short.
Whatever you think he deserves, he doesn’t know how he’d accept it without being afraid he’ll lose it.
Rafe only nods. He’s a vault, and you don’t blame him. He already bared himself to you so much, just for you to part ways. It makes your heart pinch in pain. If this is how it’s going to be, seeing him casually, keeping things surface-level, you’re not sure you can do it.
“My lawyer called me this morning,” you say, in an attempt to change the subject. “It’s official. What are you going to say to the reporters when they find out we broke up? Are you going to talk bad about me?”
You’re attempting to joke, to lighten the air that’s grown too heavy between you. And even though he’s hurting, even though the pang in his chest feels like it might never let go, he humors you.
“I’m telling them you were only in it for my last name,” he murmurs.
You chuckle, trying to keep it light, trying to pull him out of whatever dark place he’s sunk into. But his smile isn’t genuine.
You know what his real smile looks like, the way it crinkles the corners of his eyes, the way his dimples dip into his cheeks. This is him pretending for your sake. And you can’t stomach knowing all you’re doing here is hurting him.
“I should go,” you say, sitting up, the corners of your eyes burning with a sudden threat of tears.
“What?” Rafe’s voice is soft, surprised, and you’re shocked yourself that he thinks this is worth dragging out.
“It’s a long drive,” you say, avoiding eye contact. “Thanks for the drink.”
You cross into the condo, putting your glass away in the sink, unable to walk fast enough to get out of here. You rush to the front door, throat dry, but when you reach for the doorknob, his hand wraps around your wrist.
“Wait,” Rafe whispers, his thumb brushing slightly against your pulse, agony laced in the word.
You glance up at him, lips parting. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, everything is stripped bare. The pain in his gaze is unmistakable and you know he sees the same in you. Neither of you says a word, but it’s all there, suspended. The hurt, the history, the longing.
He shifts his weight, turning to face you more fully, towering over you. That familiar mix of his cologne and warm skin hits you instantly and floods your senses with memories.
“I miss you so much,” he rasps, a subtle shake of his head betraying the heaviness behind the words. He’s been carrying it for too long, and saying it aloud is both a release and a wound.
“I miss you, too,” you admit.
Your eyes drop to the floor. The silence stretches, thick and aching, until you feel his gaze on you again.
“Be with me,” he says, voice low.
Your eyes finally gloss over when you look up at him, the emotion rising before you can stop it. It’s the sting of something old tearing open again. The wound splits wide and you feel it bleed into the space between you.
“I’m sick,” you say, the simple words landing like a blow.
His sad eyes search yours.
“I could be, too,” he says.
“But you...” you say, your voice trembling. “You wouldn’t be a burden to me.”
“You think you’d be one to me?” he murmurs.
It unearths a painful fear in you that you’re a chore. Maybe you’d feel like this with any man who’d want to be with you. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Rafe, someone who carries enough pain already.
“Yes,” you admit.
“You’re wrong,” he tells you. You sigh, a wall slowly coming up as you gently twist out of his grip.
“What if it’s too much for you?” you challenge quietly, crossing your arms.
“It’s not.”
“What if you’re saying that now, but-”
“You’re not going to talk me out of loving you,” he says. “I was an idiot to walk away. I’m sorry and I’m - I’m in this if you are.”
His pulse pounds in his ears as he looks down at the woman who changed everything for him, who changed what he wanted out of life and who he wanted to be. He can’t fathom watching you walk out that door again without trying this, for real.
You’re still, staring at him, parts of you screaming that he’ll leave you. That he’ll see who you really are and decide you’re not good enough. But that’s just it. He’s already witnessed every little piece of you, good and bad, and he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing worth looking at.
“What are you thinking?” Rafe half-whispers.
You don’t have words, so you let your body take the lead, like it always has with him. And you kiss him.
Every movement is slow but hungry. You drift into his room, lie down together in his bed, your lips locking, wet smacks and soft sighs between you. He hovers over you, cupping your face, kissing you so deeply and tenderly that your skin tingles.
Eventually, his hands move lower as he peels your clothes off, yours trembling in excitement as you undo his shirt buttons. He strips you to your bra and panties, dipping to kiss your neck and your collarbones and your chest. He kisses your sternum, kisses your rising and falling chest, kisses over the part of you that you always thought was unloveable.
You rub your hands over his firm, bare chest and tug off his shirt. You push him to his back, and he lets you. You straddle him, moaning when he guides you down to sit on his thigh. He pulls your hips forward, silently encouraging you to grind against him. You moan louder this time, the friction, with only your panties and his jeans between you, good but not enough.
“I missed those sounds you make,” he mumbles, his breath hot against your mouth.
“I missed the way you touch me,” you say.
“Yeah?” he whispers. “Like this?”
His hands trail up your back as you continue to grind on him, unhooking your bra and throwing it to the floor. He grips your breasts, kneading them as you writhe, wrapping his lips around your perked nipple. You whine in pleasure, his hot tongue flicking as he flexes his leg to give you a firmer surface to get yourself off on.
You slowly sit up off of him, desperate to make him feel good. You tug his jeans down, eyes widening when you see his attraction for you tented beneath his briefs. You lustfully gaze at him through low lids as you pull down the band, his cock springing out.
Everything in him burns as he watches the way you pump him slowly, moving to hold him to your mouth. You part your lips and take the head in, swirling your tongue over him.
“Fuck,” Rafe groans. You lower, sucking harder, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. “Fuck, that’s good.”
Your core aches with need, tasting him, pleasuring him, showing him how much you love him. Your hands cover where your mouth can’t reach, stroking as you bob up and down.
He laces his fingers in the roots of your hair, gazing at you with pure love. His body tightens with the promise of an orgasm, and he realizes it’s always going to be like this; he’s always going to want to make sure that you come first, and that he can come inside you.
“Get up here,” he orders. You obey, shifting to kiss his lips, on your knees so he can peel off your panties. His hands firmly grip beneath your thighs, pulling you even higher. You realize he wants you to sit on his face, and you whimper when you lower to feel his hot mouth on you.
Your knees sink into the bed as he laps at you, gripping your ass and exploring every inch of you with his tongue. His moan against you sends a vibration through you, making you quiver. You gently writhe, panting as he laps at you, moaning when he sucks your clit. You’re so hungry for the pressure of him inside you that it hurts.
“I need you inside,” you beg. “Please.”
You shift, lips on his as he guides you onto your back, moving so your head is on his pillow. It smells like him.
Rafe guides himself inside you without wasting a second, and it feels like coming home. You wrap your legs around him, hooking your ankles, holding him tight. This is the most wanted that he’s ever felt.
Your kisses are deep as he starts to rock in and out of you, filling you perfectly. The sounds of your moans and your breaths and your wet skin smacking fills the room, clinging on to each other, sure to never let go again.
You come undone together, breaths catching as you tremble against each other. He continues to leave slow, lazy kisses on your cheek as you tighten together where your bodies meet.
He doesn’t feel any rush to pull out, and you don’t feel any rush to separate, either. He props himself up on his elbows, a hand brushing your hair back as he stares down at you.
“I love you,” you whisper.
“I love you, too.”
“Yeah?” you mumble, a tremble in your tone. Even after everything, it’s scary to be this vulnerable. To give him the power to break you.
“What is it?” he whispers, catching the way your brows furrow.
“I still don’t know why you gave up so much for me,” you say, your eyes pricking with tears. He frowns, lips swollen from how much he’s kissed you.
You have a lifetime of being broken down behind you, just like he does. You’re expecting him to hurt you, to not love you all the way, and he realizes it’s not because you think low of him, but because you think low of yourself. Because all you’ve ever been told is that you’re a problem.
“I didn’t have anything before you,” Rafe says, and he means it. “You’re everything. You’re everything I want.”
It breaks your heart, then puts it back together again. And you let go, you let him own you completely, and you stay tangled up in each other with your promise heavy between you.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
It’s been three months since you and Rafe began a real relationship. It’s been fun and passionate and fulfilling. There’ve been tough times as you’ve continued to learn to adjust to each other’s quick tempers and strong personalities, but you feel like you already have your worst fights behind you.
You open your front door to see him leaning against the frame with a coy smile in a crisp, dark blue suit. He drove over to your place straight after work, at a new firm that offered him a much more senior position than he ever had at his dad’s business. They still haven’t spoken, and you can tell it bothers Rafe, so you never bring it up, just like he never talks about your family unless you do.
“Hey, baby,” Rafe says, stepping in and kissing your forehead. Your lips twist in frustration. “What’s that look for?”
“Why don’t you ever let me visit you?” you say. He wouldn’t give into your requests to make the drive this time. He comes to see you much more frequently and it feels unfair that you hardly ever go see him.
You think he stays in town in the hopes that he’ll repair things with his dad one day. For now, you won’t push the subject. He’s still fragile, and so are you. You make appearances when you need to, and Rafe offers to come every time, but you’d rather handle your family on your own. You’d rather keep him out of the mess.
“Damn, you’re already fighting with me?” Rafe mumbles with a chuckle, wrapping his arms around your waist. The door shuts behind him.
“Don’t be so bossy and we won’t fight,” you reply.
“I’m bossy?”
You narrow your eyes adorably.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you mutter.
He chuckles, and you crack a smile, perching on the tips of your toes to kiss him.
“I like giving you a break from the drive,” you tell him.
“I like knowing you’re here, safe, waiting for me,” Rafe says. “And I don’t want those reporters botherin’ you.”
Every time you’re spotted back in the city, you’re hounded by the press. The last time you met with Rafe there, an image of you two hugging in his car made headlines, with comments like I thought they were broken up? flooding the posts.
He’s right. It’s better for you here. But that doesn’t mean you’re okay with him having to make the trip more often.
“Fine,” you give in. “Dinner will be here in five.”
“I was going to pay for it.”
“Guess you can’t always get your way, can you?” you respond with a shrug, earning a defeated laugh from him. You give him one last kiss before you part.
Rafe goes into your bedroom, changing into sweats and a t-shirt that he keeps in his drawer. Eventually, your takeout arrives, and you place it on the coffee table in front of the tv. You’re about to sit down next to him, but he leans forward to cup your hand and pull you forward. You laugh as you settle on his lap.
“Did you have a good day?” you ask, arm draped over his shoulders.
You gaze into his kind eyes, unable to believe that you once thought there was nothing but bad in this man. There’s so much good, and you know it’ll take a while to convince him of it, but it’s work you’re willing to do.
“Just got way better,” he says.
You roll your eyes and breathe a laugh, and every time he earns that pretty smile on your face, it fills him with joy. It’s all he ever wants. Making you happy is the most important thing he can do in this world.
You take a moment to sit like this together, to appreciate that there’s endless, enduring love between you now, and nothing else.
You’ve both felt homesick all your lives, and you thought that you always would, until you found comfort and love and belonging in each other. Until you found home.
summary you live a turbulent life in the public eye as an unruly heiress from a controlling family. you thought you had your future all planned out, until you learn that your trust fund hinges on marrying a stranger.
» masterlist
Rafe walks down the marble corridor, his shoulders stiff. The wedding venue is extravagant and performative, which he expected. That’s what your relationship was meant to be, after all.
Fatigue is buried into his bones. He hardly slept last night, consumed by the fact that you were so close, just on the opposite side of the condo, hating him. He’d left in the middle of the night to go for a drive, just to burn off the restless energy stirred by your fight.
It’s fucked up how it all happened. There’s something about you that makes him want to be good, and the contempt in your eyes when he told you that he knew was proof he failed.
He reaches the door. Waits for the lump in his throat to go away. Stares at his hand, knowing he’s minutes away from wearing a ring that won’t mean what it should.
You already have a headache from how tight your hair is pinned. The veil is itchy against the backs of your arms, your heels uncomfortable even though you’re seated, last night echoing in your head. You’ve been keeping your tears in today. But you couldn’t control them last night. Your pillow was drenched by the time you finally dozed off.
The warmth you thought you had with Rafe vanished. You thought you didn’t trust him, but this feeling of betrayal can only come from someone you gave a piece of yourself to.
The sound of the front door opening had partly pulled you out of your sleep. Before leaving this morning, you realized he must have stepped out at some point, so you peeked into his room just before sunrise, a stone settling in your stomach at the thought that he might’ve abandoned you. But there he was, asleep in his bed. His bare back cast in shadow, his face turned away.
You’re meant to walk down the aisle in fifteen minutes. The glass of champagne on the vanity in front of you sits untouched. In an odd way, you’re glad you can’t mix alcohol with your meds, because you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself.
Your mother, sisters-in-law, and the two college friends Celeste had suggested for your bridal party, Bea and Mara, are all gathered in the bridal suite with you.
Sam’s wife, Eira, is heavily pregnant now, and again, you think of how the baby could inherit the same illness, and possibly the same neglect that you did. The cycle could repeat and it makes the ache sitting inside you even sharper.
They’re making polite conversation, trying to include you, but you’re zoned out. You’re just nervous, is what you told them. The truth is so much heavier. And only two people in this room know that this marriage is a sham - you and your mother.
You barely register the knock at the door. It blends into the noise of a chaotic morning. Just another person working to put on this show, you figure, without giving it a second thought.
Bea opens the door, and someone lingers out of your view, concealed and tucked behind the frame. She looks at you, brows furrowed, then back at whoever is standing there.
“Are you supposed to be here?” she says with an awkward chuckle.
“I need to talk to her.”
His voice is low, familiar, buried deep in your heart. Heads turn towards you. You feel like you need to brace for impact, yet a part of you yearns to see him, even after everything he’s done to you.
“You’ll see each other soon,” your mother interjects with a forced laugh, clearly worried about what this means, about what it’ll look like.
“Let him in,” you state.
“But it’s bad luck for him to see you in your dress,” Eira chimes in.
“I don’t believe in that,” you reply impatiently.
Bea looks at you for approval, you nod, and then she swings the door open all the way. Rafe steps in, eyes landing on you. His grimace falls, a mixture of awe and disbelief, like he didn’t expect you to really be here, dressed like that, waiting to do this.
He falters. You’re stunning, but the thought is cheapened because he knows none of this is what you want. This isn’t the life you asked for, and admiring you in it feels like a messed up thing to do.
If this were a real wedding, you’d be in a different dress, one that’s more you, wearing a smile, and not glaring at him like you feel cursed that he’s the man you’re marrying.
You look miserable. The people around you don’t know about the war inside you. He didn’t either, for so long.
“Give us a minute,” you say to the room, your stare on him. You’re looking at him like you did when you met all those months ago, ambushed in your father’s office, enraged when you learned why he was there.
Everyone starts to slip out, shuffling quietly, whispering between each other, the door clicking closed. The air is heavy with everything you’ve been through together and with what you’re expected to do today.
Like always, Rafe looks devastatingly handsome. He crosses the room, the sharp lines of his charcoal black suit catching the light. He grabs the closest chair and spins it with one hand to face you, the scrape of its legs slicing through the silence, just like the day he barged into your life.
“What are you doing here?” you say, your voice thin.
He sits, and when he sees the pain in your eyes, the instinct to keep you safe burns strong. It’s why he came. To make sure you can handle all this today.
“You still okay to do this?” he murmurs. Fear coils in your chest, convincing you that he'll leave you stranded and take away your only chance to get your trust fund.
“Are you?” you accuse. “Is that why you left last night? You should’ve just backed out then instead of doing it now.”
Rafe’s brows furrow. Your words are a slap to the face. He didn’t know you heard him step out. Didn’t know you assumed the worst.
“I went for a drive,” he says, incredulity in his tone. He wants to reach for you, but can’t bear it if you do what you did last night, when you pulled away from his touch like he repulsed you. “I’m still in. I’m asking if you can handle all this today.”
You scoff, knocked off balance that he thinks he can act like he’s worried about you after you laid yourself bare and he still chose to lie.
“Why are you pretending like you care?” you ask, betrayal wringing your heart out.
After everything you’ve shared, every secret, every night tangled in each other, he didn’t expect this. He came here thinking you’d find a way back to each other, find common ground before you stand up in front of everyone. He came here for you, but you’d rather insult him.
Rafe sighs your name, laced with disbelief. It makes your blood boil. It’s like he’s trying to discipline you.
“What?” you snap.
“That’s bullshit,” he mutters. “You know it is.”
“Do I?”
He huffs and his temper flares above the pain, hot and unavoidable.
“Jesus,” he says. “Can you grow up? I came here to fix this.”
Your throat is tight, threatening tears, loathing the implication that you’re some sort of petulant child. And just like last night, spitefulness grabs a hold of you, tells you to hurt him like he hurt you.
“What’s there to fix?” you argue.
Blue eyes search yours, stunned and wounded. He traps his bottom lip behind his teeth, like he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say, but knows he has to.
“Nothing, right?” Rafe responds, silently praying you’ll prove him wrong. The pain is a bruise on his heart, aching because again, he’s being rejected. He can read it in your eyes, the way you still hold onto resentment. It’s more important to you than he is.
“Nothing,” you echo in confirmation.
He stands up. The door swings open. Celeste looks at the two of you in shock.
“What are you doing?” she chides Rafe. “You can’t be here. You need to get to the altar.”
He storms past her, knowing he needs to go back to who he was when this started, when he only wanted to square away a business deal and do right by his father.
He wishes he knew nothing about you. He wishes you stayed what he thought you were: a spoiled brat, easy to dismiss and easier to forget.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
The music begins, soft and far too beautiful for what this moment really means. Each note echoes through the enormous chapel as your father nudges you with his elbow to hold his arm. Your hand feels numb, like it’s not yours anymore.
The feeling of hundreds of eyes on you, the feeling you know too well, only brings you more ache. The ivory aisle stretches ahead of you, lined with faces you don’t know. The scent of the bouquet is too strong. Your dress is suffocating. And you step forward.
Your chest burns. The anger is familiar, all you’ve ever had. It hurts, until you look up to see Rafe waiting at the end. The man you never meant to fall for, who made you feel safe, just to break you. Your heart stirs, and you hate that beneath the pain, you feel relief seeing him in a crowded room.
You think of how he said your father seemed happy to be the one to tell him about your illness. The man walking with you wants you to suffer, and he’s getting what he came for, because this is the most heartbroken you’ve ever been.
You reach Rafe, keep your gaze low, and he takes your hand, desperate to take you from your father as soon as he can. It’s not for the crowd, not for the cameras. It’s for you, despite how badly you hurt him. You squeeze the way you always do when you’re angry, and his pain doubles knowing that he’s the reason.
The music ends, shuffles echo through the hall as guests settle in their seats, and the officiant begins to speak. You’re watching the way Rafe’s thumb brushes lightly against your hand, and finally, you gaze up at him.
And you want to hate him, but in this moment, framed by soft light, you see him for everything he is. The good and the bad.
A part of you still wants to sympathize with him, even when your heart begs it not to. He’s only standing here because he’s starved of approval. Of love. You still don’t know what exactly happened to his mother, but you know he watched her fade away, and you can’t fathom the hole it left in his heart.
There’s still so much pain buried deep in you, hurt that he had to see you suffer to realize you didn’t deserve it, hurt that he knew you were sick and kept it from you. But in this fragile moment, with so many eyes on you, you can only be anchored by him.
Despite yourself, he’s who you love. Yet, no matter how much it consumes you, you can’t force yourself to forgive him for every way he’s hurt you since you met.
When you’re repeating the vows after the officiant, your voice shakes when you have to say that you’ll trust you’ll choose each other every day, in sickness and in health.
Rafe eventually slides the ring onto your finger. He tells himself to pull back from this moment on. You only see the worst in him, and maybe that’s all that’s left to see.
Every effort of his doesn’t matter to you. What a masochist he’s been, letting himself fall for you. You just told him there’s nothing to fix, and he needs to accept that whatever you two shared means nothing to you.
You’ve lived moments like these together so many times before. You’re angry. He’s angry. But you both know how to bury it just deep enough to make it through the spectacle.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
Following the ceremony, you, Rafe, and your wedding party are directed outside the venue for photos. As you pose under the cloudless sky, you think of how much money is being wasted on this. How a month from now, you’ll quietly separate, and it will all dissolve into silence.
What you hate most about taking these photos is having to stand anywhere near his father. Just being close to the man who hurt Rafe, who laid hands on him, makes your skin crawl.
At the end of the session, the photographer asks for final shots: close-ups of the rings. As you and Rafe stiffly hold hands, your mother crosses her arms and sighs to herself.
“Why didn’t you get your nails done?” she mumbles to you, then looks to Celeste. “How did that get missed?”
“She was supposed to,” Celeste says stiffly, shooting you a death glare.
You recall that morning, when you smiled politely at the woman in the salon, mentioning you were getting your nails done later. Plans had changed, you said. She seemed confused, but didn’t question it.
“We ran out of time,” you lie, biting the inside of your cheek, guilty that you didn’t follow Celeste’s instructions when you said you would. “Sorry.”
“Ridiculous,” your mother sighs, as if it even matters.
Rafe is surprised to see you actually seem hurt. There’s pain in your expression, not anger. It unsettles him. Even now, he still wants to fix it, to soften your pain. He doesn’t understand why. Maybe he never will.
When you’re done, you make your way to the banquet hall, the weight of your gown tugging at your hips with every step. Rafe stays at your pace as the fabric swishes around your legs, brushing against the cobblestones. You lift the hem, fingers curled into the lace.
“Don’t let her get to you,” Rafe says under his breath.
You follow his gaze downward, puzzled until your eyes land on your bare nails. He must have seen it, the sadness that passed over your face at your mother’s comment.
Of course he saw it. He sees more in you than anyone has ever seen. You make sure nobody is in earshot before you respond.
“It’s not that I…” You sigh. “I can’t wear nail polish right now. It messes with the sensor that measures my oxygen levels. What she said bothered me because she doesn’t know anything about my treatment and she never cared to know.”
It’s an unfamiliar relief to say out loud. You’ve never had this, someone to openly talk about the considerations you’ve kept private all your life.
It cuts into him, how many things you have to worry about, and how you’ve always had to worry about them alone.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
“Managing,” you reply. “I’ll tell you if…”
If I need you. You don’t say it out loud. You don’t have to. Despite the tension between you two, you still might need his help. And he’s willing to give it.
“I’m fine,” you say. “I’m just glad I don’t have to smile next to your dad anymore.”
His brows knit, stuffing his hands in his pockets, visibly confused.
“After hearing what he did,” you explain, “I can’t stand being anywhere near that man.”
Rafe’s eyes flick to you, then away. His sense of loyalty to his father rings through him, but the feeling of unexpected relief is louder.
He’s never had someone stand between him and his dad. Right now, your anger is for him. A small part of you cares. And it makes the gnawing sense of inadequacy that he always feels a little quieter.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
The banquet hall glitters, cameras flashing as chatter roars. It looks like a wedding reception, but only a few people in the room know the truth. You’re just a prop for your mother’s campaign, a symbol of unity and tradition your parents can parade around.
You settle into the chair at the head table, the train of your dress spilling around you. Soon after, you notice Celeste cutting through the crowd towards you with a tight scowl.
Rafe notices, too, and sees worry dimming your eyes. Seeing you scared messes with him. Without a word, he places his hand at the small of your back, subtle and steady. The publicist reaches you and leans in, voice low but sharp, a reprimand disguised as a whisper.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but have some champagne, will you?” she says. “Unless you’re holding back for some reason.”
Her gaze drops, lingering just a moment too long on your stomach. The implication that you’re pregnant hangs in the air.
“What?” you snap. “No. I’m just… I stopped.”
“People will notice,” she says. “They’ll talk. We don’t want them thinking all this was rushed because of that.”
You remember what your doctor said, how alcohol and your new medication don’t mix, potentially causing strain on your body, even risking heart complications. It’s a line you can’t cross.
“I know I said I’d do whatever you tell me to,” you say to Celeste quietly, an inch from pleading, “but please don’t make me drink.”
“Just do it,” Rafe says, already rising. “I’ll get you a glass.”
His words sting. He’s siding with her, willing to play his part, even if it means pushing past your boundaries. But something about it doesn’t sit right.
Minutes later, he’s back, handing you a glass filled with something golden and fizzing, sitting down next to you again.
“Rafe, I can’t,” you whisper. “I can’t drink on these meds.”
He leans in, breath warm against your ear, sharp cologne and aftershave floating over you.
“I asked the guy to give me something that looks like champagne,” he says. “No booze. You’re good.”
The sense of safety, the one you thought he’d stolen from you, comes rushing back. He cares about you. You were cruel to suggest he didn’t. What he kept from you still hurts, but the pain refuses to rewrite him entirely. It won’t let you forget the man beneath the mistake.
He wants to protect you, and maybe it’s because he’s lived through the pain that comes when someone who should’ve kept him safe, didn’t.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
Plates are being collected as the last toast fades into applause and the lights dim. It’s time for the first dance.
You step onto the dance floor, your hand in Rafe’s. Every eye is on you. The slow, delicate music begins and he pulls you close, one hand firm at your waist, the other still cupping yours.
Your bodies move in sync as you slow-dance beneath the spotlight, and you wonder how many people can tell that you really do love this man, and that you wish you didn’t.
He dips his head, his jaw against your temple, breathing you in, finding a shred of comfort in all the chaos. Last night plays in his mind again. You looked so worried when you told him you might need to get away from the crowd today.
“Tell me if you need to sit down,” he murmurs, voice low and careful. His words are so kind that it almost hurts.
You shift closer, pressing your cheek against his chest, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat lull you. He’s vowing to keep you safe, even after everything you’ve done and said to him, and guilt swirls through you. The words rise in your throat and you crane your neck, eyes meeting his.
“I don’t hate you,” you say. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Rafe’s lips flatten. Your words are soft, but they’re not what he wants. It’s not what he’s been aching for. It’s not I love you.
You wait for him to say something, to at least smile in that coy way he does sometimes, but all you see in his expression is pain. Maybe even regret. It hurts you too much to look at. You press your cheek against his chest again, continuing to sway.
There’s a hole in Rafe’s heart. It’s ridiculous, but he lets himself imagine that this is real. That he met you normally, not through a contract. That he took you to places he chose, not ones already planned out. That he got to know you slowly, the way people are supposed to.
He can’t think about it too long. He swallows the ache, blinks hard.
“How long is this song?” he complains after a minute.
You wish his words didn’t burn you. You were enjoying the dance. The closeness.
“I know,” you say, meeting his eyes again. “Maybe the next time I get married, I’ll get to pick the music.”
It’s only a soft offer of humor, but he doesn’t play along. His expression stays firm and the gap between you feels wider than it did before. Your lips twitch into a small frown.
He almost wants to say that next time, you’ll get to pick the guy, too. He hates what the thought of you with another man does to him. Hates how clear you’re making it that you’d never really want him.
He holds you while the reminder that this isn’t real, that you’ll be out of his life within weeks, tugs at him.
At his core, all Rafe has ever longed for was to be chosen. To be first. Without hesitation or contingency or the need to prove himself. So he’s not going to beg you to want him. He has enough dignity to let you go.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
You step out of the taxi, the heat wrapping around you, the ocean humming in the distance. The villa rises ahead, big and luxurious. The flight was short and your breathing only got tight a few times. You counted the seconds between inhales, glad Rafe couldn’t see you from where he sat.
Celeste had reminded you multiple times that there would be eyes on you on your honeymoon, no matter how private it seemed. And it does seem private. The bungalow is on a white-sand beach, wrapped in glass that frames the deep blue ocean.
Beneath the beauty, there’s tension. The silence between you and Rafe is loud. He’s been cold since your dance at the wedding. You’d hoped after you tried to bridge things, he’d warm up again. But you’re just mirroring how you were at the beginning of this arrangement – curt and ignoring each other.
Your muscles ache from how taxing the wedding was yesterday, from the journey this morning. You head to the bedroom, dropping on one side of the bed, both happy and sad that you’ll be sharing it with him. And then you drift off, letting exhaustion consume you.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
You haven’t spoken. It’s been three days in supposed paradise and you haven’t shared a single moment with the man who’s legally your husband.
He’s even been sleeping on the couch instead of in bed with you. And he hasn’t checked in on you. He did his duty of taking care of you at the wedding, and now he’s done.
You feel like a task he’s eager to cross off. A new suspicion creeps in, that he was performing, counting down until the wedding was over so he could drop the act that you mean something to him. After all, the wedding was what all of this was leading up to. You have just shy of a month left before the contract is up. Maybe he sees no reason to try anymore.
It’s your last night before you head back home. Branches have been rattling against the windows for the last hour, threatening a storm. Dinner was delivered to you, and after a quiet meal, Rafe went out to the terrace, looking out at the sun setting over the sea, leaving you to sit at the dining table with your thoughts.
This ended up hurting you so much more than you could have ever anticipated. Rafe has somehow been your healing and your undoing. You told yourself not to fall for him, that you were leaving anyway, but your heart did what it wanted to.
You consider how to spend the final night, deciding that a bubble bath might be what you need. You try to find comfort in the idea, but you’re so angry, so lonely, that your patience wears out.
It used to be him who broke tension, who reached out first, but this time, he’s stayed quiet. And it makes you realize just how often he was the one who tried.
You step onto the terrace, heart thudding to the point of pain. You settle next to him and rest your forearms on the railing. Rafe keeps his gaze fixed on the darkening horizon, his shirt clinging to his frame in the breeze, collar slightly undone like he got dressed in a hurry.
This is unbearable. He’s been telling himself that he can get over you, that the way his chest tightens whenever he thinks of your smile and how much he enjoys being the reason for it will fade. But your mere presence fucks with him. You’re not doing anything. Just standing there. Breathing. Existing. And it’s enough to make him feel like he’s going crazy.
“You just wanted to make sure I went through with the wedding, didn’t you?” you say bitterly. “You never gave a shit.”
He looks down at you, thrown off. His jaw is set, hurt and angry that you still anticipate cruelty from him. After everything.
“Don’t give me that,” he says tensely.
“You’ve been ignoring me since. You don’t have an act to put on anymore, is that it?”
Rafe looks down and shakes his head as he mutters, “No. Quit twisting things.”
His accusatory words remind you of every time you’ve been called dramatic, sensitive, too much. Years of being told that your pain was exaggerated. You turn away to go back inside, regretful that you came out here, but he speaks.
“Stop,” he says. Your eyes are still off of him. “You said there’s nothing here. You said that.”
That’s why he’s been distant. He took your impulsive insult to heart. Nobody has ever held onto your words the way he does. You can’t look him in the eyes when you admit that what you said the morning of the wedding wasn’t true.
“I didn’t mean it,” you reply. You find the will to look at him again. His gaze has softened, his arms crossed now.
“Then why’d you say it?” he says.
You take him in, upset that you got it all wrong again, that your fear convinced you he was some sort of conman. He looks sincerely hurt. He wasn’t ignoring you; he was avoiding you after you practically told him to, after you said that what you shared was meaningless.
“I can’t control myself sometimes,” you confess. “I was mad. And when I get like that, I’m paranoid and mean. I don’t want to be this way.”
It’s like you’re reading his own thoughts out to him. He understands you, like your minds are wired into the same pattern. He has no hold over himself most of the time, either, and it turns him into someone he doesn’t like.
“I was pissed off that you lied to me,” you continue. “I still am. You should’ve told me. You have no idea how shitty it is that the one time I decided to tell someone, they already knew.”
He’s frozen as the realization that he was the only one you confided in sinks in. He lowers himself slightly, trying to hold your gaze.
"No one else knows?” he says.
“Just my family.” You look down. “I told you I don’t trust easily.”
Rafe breathes a little slower. You’ve always been so closed off, but you trusted him with the one thing you’ve kept hidden from everyone else. You see him as safe. Or you did.
“I fucked up,” he murmurs in a low, wounded tone. “I didn’t want to hurt you. Tell me you get that.”
You glance up again, instinctively trying to find deception in his gentle gaze. You consider that he meant well, but it tastes bitter. Trust isn’t natural for you. But it feels worse not to believe him. His actions were misguided, but compassionate.
“I’m not…” You sigh. “I’m not used to someone paying attention to me like you do, okay? And then I felt like even after… everything, you still lied to me and my temper just took over.”
He nods, relief rushing through him.
“Mine does that, too,” he replies.
“No kidding,” you huff, lips pulling into a small, apprehensive smile. “I don’t think anyone has ever made me as mad as you do.”
“Yeah.” He mirrors your smile, his dimples breaking your heart. “Same here.”
You share a fragile moment of quiet. Of peace.
“I’m sorry,” you say, because you regret making him think that you see no value in your complicated relationship. In him.
Rafe wanted things to be good between you again, but it feels wrong to hear you apologize to him. He’s not worthy of it after how badly he’s hurt you.
“Don’t,” he says. “I had it coming.”
Your face pinches in pain, shaking your head in disagreement.
“Don’t say that,” you murmur quietly. You let your body react to him like it always does; the physical part of your relationship always came so easy. No matter what either of you think or feel, you always have this.
You step between him and the railing, bodies brushing. You feel the sudden tension in him, then the relief, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a slow swallow. You tilt your head, perching up on your toes, and finally give into impulse with a slow kiss.
It’s an overwhelming relief when he kisses back, the railing digging into your back as he frames you between his arms. Your hands find his jaw, soft scruff rubbing against your fingers, his skin hot, his tongue hotter. You’ve missed him, his touch, his weight on you.
His body floods with urgent hunger, his craving for you swallowing him whole. He’s been telling himself to get over you, to erase you, but it’s like you’re carved into him. He’ll always fold for you.
He releases the railing, arms wrapping around you firmly. He’s holding you so tightly, kissing you so deeply, that your head starts to buzz. His hand lowers to grab your ass, and you gasp in pleasure through a kiss, feeling him start to harden against you.
He’d do this right here if he could. But he can’t.
“Baby,” he mumbles against your lips. It slipped out before he could help it. You told him not to call you that. He can’t bear to have you remind him.
“Yeah?” you say. His heart stirs with warmth hearing you answer to the name.
“They might be watching. Let’s go inside.”
You pull back a little, gazing up at him in awe.
“You’re right,” you say quietly. “I’ll be in the bath if you need me.”
You step away, the lost contact making him ache. If he needs you. He does, more than you could imagine.
Once you get to the bathroom, you fling the bathtub faucet to full blast, water roaring from the spout. You watch yourself in the mirrors that surround the tub on three sides, reflecting every ripple of water, every rise and fall of your chest as you peel your clothes off.
You fill the tub with the bottles set out for you. You pour them in, watching bubbles grow and swirl as the water rises. Then, you shut off the faucet and settle into the massive tub, heat enveloping you. The anticipation tingles all over you. Your heart thrums, your body submerged in soapy heat. It almost hurts how badly you want him.
The door, left ajar, is pushed open. You meet Rafe’s gaze. Your eyes rake down his body. It’s only been a week since you last had each other, but it feels like ages.
“You took too long,” you say. Desire burns in him, seeing you like this, knowing you’re naked, waiting for him.
He smirks, his eyes fixed on yours as he tugs his shirt off over his head, revealing his sculpted body. You’re not sure you’ve ever had a chance to watch him undress from a distance, to experience him baring himself to you.
“You ever stop complaining?” he teases.
Your pulse thunders even louder as his shorts drop to the floor, leaving him in briefs, the outline of his length a ridge beneath the fabric. He steps towards you, eyes darkened.
“You want to make me?” you challenge.
He strips off his briefs, revealing his thick arousal, making your core hot with need. The water gently sloshes as he settles into the tub, facing you. You shift to perch your legs around his hips and the moment your bodies brush together in the hot water, you sigh in pleasure.
He quietly groans when he feels your core press against him, cupping your face to kiss him. If the angle was right, he’d push into you right now. Your kisses are rushed and deep, and he feels you slowly starting to writhe, your inner thighs pressing against his ribs. He wants to see it for himself, how bad you want to be stimulated, how bad you want him.
“Turn around,” Rafe tells you. You let him guide you to lean on him as he sits against the wall of the tub. You shudder when he brings his hands up to squeeze your breasts, his heart pounding against your back.
He rubs your sensitive buds as he leaves a slow, open-mouthed kiss on your shoulder. Your moans are soft and so damn rewarding to him, echoing off the tiles, digging into his soul. He lowers a hand to find yours and guides it to press against your needy pussy.
“Show me how you want to be touched,” he rasps.
You breathe a soft huff, dipping your head back as you whisper, “You already know.”
The words coax him to press his hand against your middle. Two fingers trail up your folds and when he lands on your clit, he starts rubbing in tight, slow circles. You moan, your head still tilted back, the back of your neck resting on his shoulder, your cheek against his jaw.
He pinches and fondles your nipple, plays with your clit, and the sensation of this pleasure combined with the hot water enswathing you is utter intoxication.
“Look how pretty you are,” Rafe tells you. You find the strength to prop your head up. The mirrors have fogged just a little, but you see your reflection and his, your expressions showing boundless bliss and lust and relief.
And you look like you belong together. It’s nothing like the photo ops and the staged appearances; right now, you look like you’re meant to be here, bare and vulnerable and desperate for each other.
No matter how good his fingers feel, you need him fully. Without a word, you move forward, water splashing as you turn around. His eyes are half-lidded, cheeks flushed, and he’s looking at you like he’s been craving a high and you’re the only thing that can give it to him.
You’re slow as you perch your knees on the porcelain, your hand dipping into the bubbly water to feel for him. You hold his cock at the base, keeping eye contact as you shift to line yourself up against him, slowly sitting down.
The moan you expel when you sink onto him, wrap him in your silky heat, makes his gut curl. He grips your hips, tight and hungry as you roll against him and press your forehead on his.
“You missed this, yeah?” Rafe whispers, wishing he could ask if you missed him, unwilling to deal with the consequence of you telling him you didn’t.
“Of course,” you breathe. Your truthful answer, devoid of your usual teasing, reassures him that you want him as bad as he wants you, that you feel the same transcendental pull.
He kisses you as you ride him, then shifts to hold your breast up to his mouth and wrap his lips around your nipple, flicking and sucking, earning elated hums from you. You hold his shoulders, breathe in the smell of him, the smell of the soap woven into the water. You don’t last much longer, coming with a stuttered, breathy moan, trembling against him.
He holds your hips again, guiding you through faster thrusts, your tightness working his cock perfectly as the water sloshes around you. He kisses you through his orgasm, and you’re sure the way his fingers are digging into your hips will leave soreness, but you don’t care. You want him to feel as good as you do. It’s your only focus, your only goal, and everything else is blurred.
Rafe twitches beneath you as the last of his pleasure fills you, panting against your lips. How can this be so perfect, how can you be so perfect, and how the fuck can he accept that you won’t be around anymore?
Every piece of you fills parts of him that were empty, but he’s falling into a fantasy again, ruining his own pleasure by ruminating over how this is all fleeting.
“Sleep in the bed tonight,” you say, still panting, your nose nudging his. Your fingers stroke the back of his neck, fingernails dragging over his damp buzzed hair. You can’t fathom him sleeping a wall away from you again. Not after tonight.
He cups your face and nods, still catching his breath. The fact that you want him next to you silences his self-inflicted anguish. He’d do anything you ask of him.
You wash and towel off together and settle into bed as the tropical storm finally breaks, thundering over the bungalow, rain hammering on the roof. And you talk about the wedding like a normal couple would - joking, venting, gossiping, while ignoring the truth of what you really are.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
The plane taxies towards the runway the next morning, its cabin quiet with just you, Rafe, the pilot, and the attendant.
Rafe is next to you, instead of across the aisle, behind a divider like before. His hand is on your knee. He’s been like this since last night. Touching you, holding contact as much as he can.
You bend to pick up your bag of medical supplies, reaching for your oxygen concentrator, making sure it’s ready if you need it.
Rafe didn’t say anything when you got out of bed last night to plug it in. You kept your back to him, but you know he heard the beeping, saw a glimpse of the truth of your illness, of how much you have to think ahead.
“I need to set this up,” you say quietly, not looking up at him, motioning towards the other seat. “You can sit over there if you want.”
The offer is mostly for him. You’re painfully aware that this kind of stuff reminds him of a time in his life he’d rather forget. He wouldn’t have reacted to seeing you with a nurse if it didn’t trigger something in him. But the suggestion is for you, too. You’re worried that him witnessing you having to do this will make you look weak. That he’ll see you differently.
“I’m good here,” Rafe replies.
You go through the motions, attaching tubing, making sure things are operating correctly. Then, you put everything away and push it under your seat, clasping your hands together and looking out the window.
Rafe stares at you. It was hard for him to see that. It’s obvious that this is such a big part of your life that you keep to yourself. He’s seen the proof of your family’s neglect too many times. You were always alone.
The jet throttles forward and you take a deep breath. Rafe squeezes your knee and you look at him. He’s staring at you with a softness you’ve seen only a few times before.
“They have no idea what you gotta deal with, do they?” he murmurs. Your eyes deepen with sadness.
It’s impossible to hide anything from him, but it’s a new comfort that you can speak like this now. You can share that he’s right, that your family is oblivious to how much your illness bleeds into your everyday life. They don’t know. They don’t care.
“It always bothered them hearing about it,” you say. “I was in and out of the hospital as a kid and… I remember my parents talking about how hard it was on them.”
You look down as he gently rubs just above your knee, uncertain of how someone who was once so cruel, so cold, has this warm curiosity in him.
“Sometimes I wonder if it would’ve gotten this severe if they didn’t ignore me when I told them it hurt to breathe,” you say. “They thought it was just anxiety. That I was whining for attention. But I had infections that left permanent damage. It was really bad by the time I finally saw a doctor.”
Rafe’s skin prickles, his throat tight like he’s swallowing glass. The neglect, the cruelty you suffered... His vision blurs as his stomach twists in knots of disbelief. You were so young and yet, you remember it, the trauma settled so deep into your psyche.
“The older I got, the more I realized it’d be another thing the tabloids could use to hurt me,” you say. “That’s why I keep it private. My parents still think I’m faking how bad it is, but some days, I… I can barely get out of bed. Why would I fake that?”
You stare at each other, your eyes glossing with tears once you realize Rafe’s are, too. The jet levels above the clouds and the attendant appears behind him. You force a polite smile as she asks if there’s anything she can get you. You tell her that you’ll call. She walks away and you look down, placing your hand over Rafe’s.
“How did he tell you?” you ask. Rafe’s jaw tightens as he recalls standing in Kal’s office, listening to his passive words about how you have bad lungs. How you’re dramatic.
“It doesn’t matter,” he responds. You would normally push, but this time, you won’t. He’s hurting because you are. Nobody has ever cared this much. You never let them.
You nod. He chews on his lip.
“Why are you on new meds?” he asks the question that’s been needling him.
“My blood pressure’s high. They think it’s stress. They help, but they have a bunch of side effects. It’s why my appetite’s been so bad,” you say. “I’m seeing my nurse tomorrow for another check-up. Are you going to be home? I can go to my family’s house if it-”
“No,” he interrupts. “Don’t go over there.”
It guts him that you feel like you have to hide just because he can’t handle his own shit. And he’s sure the stress you’ve been under is because of him. Because he signed that contract and agreed to do this to you.
“This is going to be one of the last times I see her before I leave,” you explain, “and I can’t exactly tell her that yet, but… she’s been with me for a long time. I’ll miss her.”
Rafe recalls snapping at your nurse, guilt sinking into him as he realizes just how fond you are of her. He tries to ignore the pang in his heart at the reminder that you’re leaving.
“I shouldn’t have lost my shit like that.”
“I understand why you did,” you console him, aware now that the brutal coincidence of him walking into your check-up cracked open wounds he never closed. You wish it never happened.
“How old were you?” you ask, quiet and hesitant. His gaze is fixed on your hand on top of his.
“Ten when it started.”
A chill brushes over your skin as you picture him as a little boy. Worried. Scared. Way too young to lose a parent.
“That must’ve been so painful,” you offer, barely above a whisper.
“It was outta nowhere,” he says. “She started forgetting things, and one day, I heard her ask my dad where a room in our own house was. He told me they did tests. It was her brain. I didn’t believe it at first, because that shit happens when people are way older, you know?”
He doesn’t have to spell it out for you. It had to be something like dementia, early and unexpected. Your stomach sinks, the helpless thought of it dragging you down.
“How long did you have with her after that?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Two years,” he says. “She hung on as long as she could. There were always doctors and nurses and specialists around the house, but then she… she started asking my name and where my mom was. I knew that was it.”
His words hit you like strikes. You don’t want him to live in that time. You want him to find peace in what life was like before. It’s not as extreme, but your illness can turn you into somebody else at times, and you don’t want people to think of you that way. To remember you as what you aren’t.
“What was she like before?” you ask.
He scratches his jaw, a nervous tick, a way to buy time. He thinks of his mother before she began to wither away, turning into a confused and lost version of herself.
“She was full of energy,” he answers. “And steady. She held us together. She treated us all the same.”
It hits you all over again, how he implied his sisters never had to fight for their father’s love, not like he does. It breaks something in you.
“I couldn’t keep my anger in check as a kid,” he says, his gaze low and distant. “I’m still not great at it.”
You squeeze his hand. You would’ve never expected to relate to Rafe at all, especially not this deeply, when you first met. But he’s always carried anger like you have.
“When I started to lose it, she’d sit down with me and make me tell her what was happening and she fixed it and it wasn’t so hard anymore. Nobody else knew how to do that.”
It feels like your chest is caving in. He was left with an abusive father, left to figure out how to survive without warmth. You’re certain he had it worse than you, because you’d rather never have love, then get it and watch it slip away. Loss is harder than outright absence.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry you lost her and I’m so sorry you didn’t get the space to grieve.”
Rafe reflects on what happened after her death, when he didn’t have anyone through his outbursts, when his father would strike him to straighten him out. Then, he reached his teenage years, and he coped by getting drunk and high until he pleaded to his father to accept him as part of the family again, as a son who could do things right.
“My dad lost his wife,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the jet’s whirr. “He did his best.”
Your protectiveness kicks in, frustrated that his father has manipulated him so deeply that he’s convinced he treated him in an acceptable way.
“I don’t think anyone’s best is...” You inhale slowly, deciding not to tell him that his dad’s best couldn’t have possibly been violence. It’s not what he needs to hear right now. “You deserved better than he gave you. You deserve better now.”
You wipe your eye with your sleeve. The action is almost childlike, and he sees you as a little girl for a moment, alone and scared. This conversation is hurting both of you. He can’t do it anymore. He looks away and takes in a breath.
“You should try to eat,” he murmurs. You cock your head, but he won’t look at you, too eager to move on. But you need to make sure he knows.
“Rafe.”
He meets your eyes again. There’s so much pain in this man, so much you missed.
“I wish I could take back every mean thing I’ve said to you,” you tell him.
He searches your face, taking in every feature.
“Me, too,” he says. “I had you all wrong.”
Silence settles between you. His stare digs deep, looking like he’s reminiscing, remembering every argument. You’re sure he feels it, too, this raw and honest connection you share. It’s nowhere near perfect, but it’s real.
You can’t entertain the idea that this could work. It’s like you fit, but the world around you doesn’t. Your illness has never made you feel ashamed, but with Rafe, it does. It takes him back to pain he hasn’t healed from. It’s a cruel irony that the one person you’ve told is someone who can’t handle it.
And his roots run deep here. He still wants to walk the path his father laid, to inherit that legacy. That’s something he’d never abandon.
You rest your head on his shoulder. Rafe interlaces your fingers, bringing your hand to sit on his thigh. Your hands look like they’re made to fit together. But your silence tells him everything he needs to know; this is something worth fighting for, but you’re too wounded to do it.
Your engagement ring gleams beneath your wedding band. He imagines you slipping the rings off and putting them down and never picking them up again.
“Where are you going to go?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” you say. “I was looking at an apartment in a small town up the coast, but I don’t know if it’s far away enough.”
He nods as if it doesn’t kill him to let go of something he never got to hold the way he wanted to. But loving you means letting you leave. He can’t ask you to stay, can’t complicate things for you, can’t promise to be who you need him to be.
You trace the lines of Rafe’s palm with your thumb, memorizing the feel of him. As the jet takes you back to a city that’s only ever made you feel trapped, you understand that you have no choice but to let him become a memory. And to wait until that memory doesn’t hurt anymore.
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There’s a pit in your stomach as you walk Iris to the door the next day. The appointment went well. Your blood pressure’s improving, maybe enough to take you off your meds. You hate that you can’t tell her this is one of the last times you’ll see her.
You decided long ago that the moment your trust fund clears, you’re giving your nurse enough to stop working herself to the bone, enough to give her son anything he wants. You won’t tell her yet, but it’s there in your heart, a token of appreciation for all her kindness.
You turn the corner to see Rafe by the front door, hands buried in his pockets. He’s watching you with quiet intensity.
“Hey,” he says, voice tight around the edges. His eyes flick to Iris. “I, uh, wanted to say sorry for how I acted before.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I deal with grumpy people all the time,” she says, her tone light but a little uncertain. Then she glances at you, a quick smile on her lips. “Not you.”
You laugh softly as she turns back to look at Rafe.
“Don’t worry about it. And congratulations," she tells him. “I would tell you to treat her right, but she wouldn’t be with someone who doesn’t.”
Rafe gives a knowing grin. He can’t imagine you with someone who wouldn’t know what to do with your fire, who’d try to tame you. She leaves, and he doesn’t move from the doorway, and you don’t move from where you’re standing.
“Thank you,” you say, touched that he was waiting here to say that, that he said it at all. He nods, then steps away, pulling his hands out of his pockets.
You notice how his fists clench and relax as he walks away. You wonder if he’s trying to release tension, or if something prompted a thought he didn’t want to share.
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The next morning, you scroll through your mentions on your phone, still nestled in bed. The stories about the wedding are mostly positive, with a fair amount of responses about how ridiculously lavish it was.
You don’t know how you’ll get through today. Celeste planned a photo op, a round of golf with you and Rafe and your fathers at a country club today, meant to look like newly joined families happy to spend time together. You’ve been scrolling on your phone to distract yourself until you inevitably have to get ready.
Then you pause. One image isn’t from the wedding. It’s from that art show you and Rafe attended for your second date. You realize the post is a slideshow, a timeline of your relationship.
The photo is slightly blurred. You’re staring at that painting you were captivated by, the camera capturing your concentrated expression. But Rafe is watching you.
You’re used to peering eyes and judgemental stares, but his is different. It’s curious. You thought that soft expression of his only surfaced after you’d gotten close, but now you wonder if it was always there.
You continue to swipe until you get to the last image from the honeymoon. Rafe was right; cameras were pointed at you, stealing the moment of you kissing on the terrace. You open the comments.
she’s so cute omg the hate is so forced
It won’t last
Some of you are acting like people can’t get married when they want. There are couples who wait years and still break up.
Why is this newsworthy
god i see what you’ve done for others…
That was fast lol
Raw and at the same time tbh
You chuckle in shock at that one. You take a screenshot of it and send it to Rafe, then continue reading.
How is she a whole WIFE now? The growth
You’ve developed a thick skin over the years, accustomed to the public dialogue about your dating history. It’s no surprise that people are stunned to see you settle down, and it’s reassuring that the narrative of your maturity is landing.
she finally found someone who doesn’t want to be the center of attention and i think that’s why this works so well. they seem good for each other.
This one, you read over a few times, until subtle thumps rattle your door, pulling you out of your thoughts.
“Yeah?” you call.
Rafe comes in, lingers in the doorway. With a soft smile playing on his lips, he looks impossibly handsome, and you appreciate that it’s a Saturday, that he’s not rushing away to work.
“I’m just down the hall,” he says, holding out his phone, “and you’re texting me.”
“If you want me to come to your bed, just say that.”
“Come to my bed,” he says.
You laugh and say, “Come to mine. You’re here already.”
He crosses the room, settling on his stomach on your bed, his heavy forearm resting on your lap as he looks down at his phone.
“I don’t know what half this shit means,” he says, scrolling through the same mentions you are.
“Are you sure you only have six years on me?” you tease with a soft giggle. “You sound so old sometimes.”
He smirks, staring, because this might be the most beautiful he’s ever seen you. Comfortable, unguarded, joking around like lazy mornings together are a common thing for you two.
“Since you’re having trouble,” you explain, lightheartedly mocking, “that comment I sent was calling us attractive in a very vulgar way.”
“I got that,” he says.
“They’re saying they want us. At the same time,” you continue to tease. “Do you understand?”
“I do,” he says, “and I wouldn’t share you.”
His words send a rush of heat through you.
“I wouldn’t share you, either,” you reply honestly.
You can tell he thought his boldness would catch you off guard, but you came back just as strong. A flush creeps across his cheeks as he smirks again and glances down at his phone, and there's a thrill in watching a man so imposing, so big and strong and sure of himself, blush.
Then, your phone buzzes with a text from Celeste, bursting the bubble.
The car will be there at 10:30 a.m.
You groan and toss your head back in frustration, dreading the day.
“Hey,” Rafe murmurs. “We can both keep our cool, right?”
He’s a hypocrite, because he doesn’t know how he’ll keep his cool around your father. When he reminds himself he needs to do it for your sake, it’s not as daunting.
“Right,” you say.
You stare up at the ceiling. Two weeks from now, you’ll leave all this behind. You’ll never see the inside of this condo again. It’s unsettling, though, that because of him, the thought no longer brings you the comfort it once did.
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As you touch up your lip gloss in your mirror, that comment swirls through your mind again, about how Rafe doesn’t want to be the center of attention. He’s so unknown, was once completely out of the public eye, but now, he’s all over the tabloids, and your split will be, too.
You’re sure girls will be after him. If they aren’t already. You hate the thought of him with another woman, but he deserves someone who doesn’t remind him of his pain. Someone healthy.
The thought makes your throat tighten. You dismiss it when you hear him shuffling to put his shoes on by the front door, and you let your curiosity take hold.
“Are you planning to get married for real one day?” you call, your voice travelling down the hallway.
Rafe’s brows furrow as he laces his shoes. He always dreamed about spending his life with a woman who loves him without hesitation. But here he is, thirty, wearing a wedding band that only represents a business deal.
“Yeah,” he answers simply. You take one final look in the mirror, smoothing down your pleated skirt.
“Would you make your wife play golf?” you ask.
“I wouldn’t make my wife do anything,” he says with a chuckle. He almost wants to ask why you’re asking, but he won’t risk stifling your curiosity. He likes when you want to know more about him. “You don’t like it?”
“I think I would if I didn’t associate it with my dad,” you reply as you step out of your bedroom. “I can see myself enjoying it. It’s slow. Kind of peaceful, I guess. And I wouldn’t have to worry about getting out of breath.”
He stands up, grimacing at the floor as he thinks about the battle you fight in silence, all the things you need to consider. You don’t deserve it.
“We could go one day, just us two,” he offers. “It’s not that…”
He trails off when you come into view. His eyes catch on where your skirt ends, remembering the feel of your thighs, where he’s grabbed and squeezed and kissed.
“It’s not that what?” you ask, amused by his blatant awe.
You watch the way his eyes trail up your body.
“Hard,” he finishes his sentence.
You quietly laugh at the coincidence of the word, stepping towards him, getting the same thrill you always do when you tease him.
“So, you think you can help me with my swing today?” you say, your hand resting on his shoulder.
His glare darkens.
“You know I can’t,” he says.
“Wow,” you say in mock offense, your face scrunched up. “Why not?”
He steps around you, making your stomach tighten as he presses his body against yours, firm against your back.
“What do you think happens to me,” he rasps, “when I have you like this?”
Your skin buzzes as he frames you, all warmth and hardness, his breath on the shell of your ear.
“Not a good idea to do this in public, then?” you half-whisper.
Rafe almost wants to tell you to change for his own good, but he knows you well enough by now not to give you orders.
“Do you really want help or were you messing with me?”
“Both,” you reply with a smirk.
“Feet wider apart,” he instructs. You widen your stance, revelling in the feeling of him against you.
“Stay loose,” he says, framing your arms with his, guiding you in a swing position, then placing his hands on your hips. “Turn here. And don’t hit with your arms. Hit with your whole body, you got it?”
“Yeah,” you say quietly, entranced.
“When you swing,” he says, “it’s one smooth move.”
You nod, your pulse picking up when you feel his growing hardness against you. Involuntarily, you slightly arch your back to press up against him. You want to skip out on today and push him straight back into your bed.
“What if I beat you?” you tease competitively.
His chuckle is soft in your ear.
“Then you cheated.”
You laugh.
“You’re a good teacher. I’ll try to remember your advice,” you say, “and you should probably try not to stare.”
“Sure,” he says, voice thick with sarcasm, making it clear that he considers it impossible to take his eyes off you.
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You’re glad you’re wearing sunglasses. They hide the anger you know is burning in your eyes, the kind that would ruin this photo op. The scent of freshly mown grass rises with the breeze. The cameras click from somewhere beyond. And every time your father speaks, it boils your blood.
You grip your club while Rafe stands beside you as you wait for his father to swing. This is only the first hole, but you’re already seething after trying to tune Kal and Ward out droning on with their business jargon and talk of partnerships.
Rafe glances at you. He doesn’t say anything, but his arm curls around your hips to remind you that you can endure this. You nod like you believe you can.
Ward swings his club with ease, and the sharp thwack of the metal meeting the ball cuts through the air. Then it’s Rafe’s turn. He steps up to the tee, rolling his shoulders before settling into position.
His short sleeves dig into his biceps when he flexes and you watch the way his fingers tighten around the grip. He looks good, his jaw set in focus, a faint crease between his brows.
“Aim left,” his father says. “You always veer to the right.”
Rafe nods.
“And try loosening your grip.”
You notice Rafe’s jaw tighten.
“You’re too in your head,” Ward says. “It’s throwing you off.”
“Maybe all your talking is what’s throwing him off,” you snap.
Your father says your name sternly. Rafe looks up at you.
“She’s always had an attitude problem,” your father says to his with a condescending laugh.
“No kidding,” he replies with a chuckle. “It’s fine. Rafe warned me.”
You scowl and look away. Rafe swings and you can tell by his force that it’s driven by anger. He’s furious. The ball disappears into the distance. If the stakes weren’t so high, if so much wasn’t on the line, you’re sure both of you would have lost it by now.
When it’s your turn, you try to remember his pointers, and the things you picked up on the few times you’ve golfed before. Your swing is weak, but you manage to hit the ball, and that’s good enough for you.
You settle in the two-seater cart with Rafe behind the wheel to follow your fathers as they drive ahead to the next hole. But he doesn’t put his foot on the gas.
“I said that shit when we started this,” he murmurs. “You know I don’t think that anymore, right?”
He’s still turning over his father’s words in his mind. And you realize you didn’t even expect the worst because while the comment stung, deep down, you knew Rafe doesn’t see you that way.
You’re used to passing jabs and offhand remarks at your expense, but he’s the first to give a shit about the effect they have on you. It feels like balm on old wounds.
“Baby,” he says softly, a touch urgently, worried that your silence means you’re mad at him.
“It’s okay,” you reply lightheartedly. “I do have an attitude.”
“Well…” he says with a smile and a shrug of agreement.
You playfully push him, a smile pulling on your lips. His grin widens and he cups your face to kiss your forehead.
“I know I shouldn’t snap at them,” you say, knowing full well your father’s looking for a reason to pull the plug. He’s likely surprised you’ve lasted this long. “But can’t your dad give it a rest?”
Rafe stares, eyes locked on you. You stood up for him. He’s spent his life watching people, watching himself, shrink in his father’s presence, intimidated by power and reputation.
But not you. You never back down. You’ve always fought your own battles, and now you’re fighting his, too.
“Hello?” you tease, laughter bubbling up as you catch the wonder lingering in his eyes.
He smiles, then drives ahead, as if he can outrun the way you’ve taken hold of him.
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At the next hole, as Kal lines up his shot, you stand a few paces back between Rafe and his father, your arms crossed. The soft hum of a cart breaks the silence.
“Gentlemen,” the cart girl says, her voice high and peppy. “Need anything to cool off?”
You bite back the irritation at how easily she pretends you’re not here. Your father barely glances up, waving her off with a rude, muttered “no.” Ward declines, too. Her eyes land on Rafe and stay there.
“You?” She leans slightly over the steering wheel, a flirtatious glimmer in her eyes. “Need something refreshing?”
You’ve never been one to be rude to service staff. Years of watching your father belittle them taught you better. This is the closest you’ve come. Rafe turns to you, brows lifted. You can tell he’s not amused.
“You thirsty?” he asks you.
“I’m not,” you say pointedly. You refuse to look at her as she drives off, frustration still twisting in you.
Despite your anger, despite how tangled things have become, despite the blurred lines and unanswered questions, Rafe’s loyalty to you remains steady. And that, at least, keeps you above water.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰
“That was even worse than I thought it’d be,” you mutter as you sink into the backseat, the car idling outside the country club.
Rafe slides in beside you, the quiet thud of the car door closing behind him. The partition is already shut, but you press the button again, just to be sure, as the driver pulls out of the lot.
“And that girl, the way she flirted with you?” Your voice is sharp, disbelief laced with anger. “I’m sure she knows I’m your wife. Everyone does. That was so fucked up.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Watching you claim him, hearing you call yourself his wife, makes something inside him ache in the best way. With a slow smile and a low rasp, he asks, “Is my wife jealous?”
You glare at him. He already knows the answer and is savoring every second of this. A pang of embarrassment tightens in your stomach. Jealousy over a man who isn’t even really yours is irrational and messy.
“Your wife is pissed off,” you respond, voice low, refusing to admit it.
He licks his lips, shifting a little closer to you, his body buzzing. It’s never felt this good to be wanted by a woman. There’s something about it being you that makes it feel so fucking good.
“You’re hot when you’re pissed off,” he murmurs.
You scoff, amused and a little stunned, warmth blooming in your chest.
“I must be hot all the time then.”
“You are.” Rafe leans even closer, and when his fingertips land on your bare inner thigh, goosebumps spread over you. “I’m pulling this skirt up when we get home.”
Your anger dissolves instantly. The way his eyes settle on you like you’re the only thing that matters, the way he brushed off that girl’s flirting, the way his hand drifts up your leg, like you’re sacred. He makes you feel so chosen. It’s still so disarming.
Desire coils deep inside you as his warm fingers trace over your skin, and you ask in a hushed voice, “You want me to keep it on?”
He nods, pressing his lips to your neck. His scent drifts over you softly, an intoxicating fusion of musk and cologne.
“And then what?” you say.
“I’ll bend you over,” he promises against your skin.
Your legs slowly spread apart on their own. Like always, your body reacts how it wants to him, and right now, you just want him as close to you as possible.
“You going to be rough with me?” you ask.
He smirks, his breath hot on your skin, teeth gently grazing over your neck before he plants another open-mouthed kiss.
“If you can take it,” he murmurs.
You exhale a soft chuckle, revelling in the challenge.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰
You move with each other like you’re running out of time. Technically, you are. You can only allow yourselves this pleasure until you can’t anymore, until you’re left to be memories of people who were pushed into this ridiculous arrangement.
Rafe pulls off your shirt and you tug off his, panting as you slowly cross into your bedroom together, lips locking in hungry kisses. He unhooks your bra and guides you by your hips, turning you to settle on the mattress on your knees. You look back at him as he stands and palms himself over his pants.
Your eyes are hazy with lust, perched up for him, left in just panties and that damn skirt. And that confidence of yours radiates through him, because you know you own him.
Desire tightens in you as he strips to his briefs, already fully hard, stepping closer to put his hands on your ass.
“Fuck,” he rasps, massaging your flesh. You adjust onto your elbows, feeling the throbbing between your legs. He’s no longer a want. He stopped being that long ago. He’s a need.
He pulls your panties down, letting them settle above your knees, too impatient to tug them off all the way. He spreads you apart, heart thumping, gut twisting, cock so hard that it hurts as he takes in how pretty you are, how ready you are.
You push back against him as he buries himself inside you, filling you with the best pressure. He hits so deep that you can hardly keep your eyes open. You rest your head on the bed, and when he pulls back to thrust into you, your moan is muffled and thick and heady.
“You good, baby?” he half-whispers, big hands rubbing over your back.
“Yes,” you whisper in a strangled moan. “Harder.”
He clenches his jaw, desire pounding through him, as he starts to fuck you the way that he’s been dreaming about all day. You clutch the bedsheets as he slams into you, pace quickening.
Watching your body react to his, the way the fabric of your skirt bounces on your ass with every thrust, promises his rushed climax. And he realizes this isn’t how he wants it to happen, without you reaching your pleasure first, without being able to hold you how he wants.
He pulls out and gets on the bed, knee sinking into the mattress as he presses up behind you and guides you to rest on your side.
You’re trembling as he grips under your knee, propping your leg up so he can push into you again as he draws you into his hold, lying behind you. You breathe his name in pure ecstasy when he enters, one arm under you and gripping your breast, the other trailing down your inner thigh and landing on your clit.
His body is hard and hot, cocooning you as he drives in and out of you slower than before, but making you feel just as good. He drags his fingers over your clit, pressing in circles, lightly pinching. You whimper in pleasure, sighing with every thrust, feeling his kisses on your shoulder.
“Admit you were jealous,” he rasps.
You hike your leg higher so he can reach even deeper, your skirt bunched at your waist now.
“I was,” you admit, because you see no point in lying, not when he’s making you feel this good.
“Listen to me,” Rafe murmurs, voice heavy and broken by shallow breaths. “You got nothin’ to be jealous about.”
You nod, but you don’t agree. You have the woman he ends up with to be jealous of. You squeeze your eyes shut, force yourself to only think of this moment, of how good he feels inside you, his hands playing with you so perfectly.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he groans as your hot core squeezes him tighter.
It takes seconds for the pleasure to swallow you whole, spasming through your orgasm as you melt into the strength of his arms against you. His unraveling happens at the same time, hips stuttering with uneven jerks, pushing all the way in as he grunts in ecstasy.
You’re panting and sweaty, exhausted as he keeps his arms around you, stays inside you. His fingers lazily trace over your clit as you come down together. He peppers kisses on your shoulders, in a drunken haze, because that’s what you do to him. That’s what you’ve done to him since you met.
You possessed him. Even when all you did was argue, you had a hold on him that he doesn’t want to let go of. And in mere days, you’ll be gone.
He’ll lose the way you look at him when your guard is down, the way your voice softens when you’re worried about him, the way your eyes brighten when you make a joke or laugh at one of his. You’re going to leave. And you’re going to take a piece of him with you.
You get into your shower together. You don’t say a word to each other. You don’t need to. The water drums over you as you tend to the curves and ridges of each other’s bodies with soft, gentle movements.
It’s a heavy contrast to how you used to be with each other, when you were only interested in the satisfaction you’d find in tangling together, parting afterwards.
Moments later, you’re back in your bed, both in nothing but towels. He sits up against your headrest and you nestle next to him, on your side and stretching your legs out over his. He grips your thigh, thumb rubbing over your skin the same way he did at the altar. His wedding band presses against your skin as your head rests on his shoulder.
“So, that’s what happens when I wear a skirt,” you say softly, a smile tugging on your lips. His bare chest gently bounces with his laugh.
“It’s so fucking good with you,” he says.
You mumble, “Yeah.” You wonder if by it, he just means sex, or if he means everything.
You drift into pillowtalk, tender and light and nothing too serious, eventually deciding you should both get something to eat. When Rafe stands to get some clothes on, you shift to pick up your phone out of habit.
The image of him kissing your forehead earlier today is everywhere across social media. Newlyweds in a sweet moment. It’s the first time in your life that you’re glad you’re in the public eye. This moment, captured for eternity, is one you’ll carry with you always. And you’re happy to have the proof that it happened.
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱
You enter the condo a couple of nights later, sure that you look just as dazed as you feel. You just saw Eira. She accepted your invitation to meet at a café outside the city, secluded enough to avoid being recognized, yet still under discreet security watch.
Rafe sits at the dining table, brows knit in concentration over his laptop. As you drift through the kitchen, his eyes lift to meet yours. You settle into the chair across from him.
“Hey,” he says, his voice tinged with surprise. Even with how close you’ve grown, the simple act of you wanting to sit with him feels unexpected. “How was it?”
“Decent,” you respond, still surprised your sister-in-law was actually civil towards you.
Rafe shuts his laptop, his unfinished report still looming over tomorrow’s deadline. You’d vaguely mentioned that you were meeting Sam’s wife before you left. It surprised him, but he didn’t press.
“You okay?” he asks.
“They’re having a girl,” you say. “I asked if there was a chance I could be in her life. We talked for a long time and she said yes at the end, if my brother’s okay with it.”
Your words catch him off guard. You were so certain about leaving this place behind. A fragile hope tugs at his chest, telling him that maybe you’ll stay, at least in part. But with it, dread sinks in. Keeping your family in your life will mean they’ll still have the power to hurt you.
You must be able to read the confusion in his gaze, because you take a deep breath and begin to explain.
“I feel like I need to look out for my niece,” you tell him. “Maybe because nobody…”
You look down. He knows. Because nobody looked out for you.
“I wanted to cut all ties, but I don’t know if I can do that. What if she has this, too?” You place your hand over your chest, over your lungs. “It’s scary to think that my brother could be just like my dad was.”
Rafe gaze softens. His protectiveness over you rings through him, like a reflex, like the rhythm of his own heartbeat, and he feels that familiar urge to be better, respecting your strength and sense of responsibility so much that it ignites ambition in him.
It makes him want to be the kind of man you’d be proud to be with. He used to think you brought out the worst of him, but it’s the opposite.
You still haven’t answered his question.
“Are you okay?” he repeats.
You nod and say, “Yeah. I think this was the first time she and I really talked. She even said she shouldn’t have believed everything my brother said about me. I didn’t expect that.”
You kept quiet about your illness to spare Eira the fear that her child might carry the same burden. Still, it lingers in the back of your mind.
“I don’t think she would be like my mom was, but I can’t risk it,” you explain. “My niece might need me, and I should be there even if that means having to be around my parents and my brothers.”
Rafe’s eyes are warm with admiration, moved by how fiercely you care. He hates his selfishness, the way he instantly wishes your love might reach him, too. It would thaw the pieces of his heart that have never known warmth.
He used to think you lacked loyalty and respect, but you’ve been around people who never earned it. Now he sees it clearly, that you give everything when you want to.
“If they piss you off…” he murmurs, lifting his hand slightly off the table, palm angled toward you.
You let out a soft laugh, the weight on your shoulders easing. It’s strange, remembering the first time you squeezed his hand out of frustration. Now, even that memory carries tenderness. It’s proof of how far you’ve come.
You picture it, staying in touch with Rafe, meeting up when you visit here to see your niece. But the thought of having him only in a fraction feels wrong, as something between an old friend and an ex. You’re not sure you could endure only having a piece of him.
“You’d choose to be around them?” you joke, cocking your head adorably. “Why would you want to do that to yourself?”
Because he’d do anything for you. Maybe he’d even ask to be with you for real, despite the fear of losing you. He believed it meant risking the same kind of pain that once destroyed him, but maybe he could be bigger than his anxiety. There’s a deep strength in you, and it shows him just how scared, how weak, he really is.
“Just let me know,” he says quietly.
You look at him, unreadable. The words hang between you, a vague invitation to stay in each other’s lives at some capacity. Thinking about it feels impossible. It’s too tangled to unravel right now.
“Are you working?” you ask, glancing down at his laptop.
He’s not sure if there was judgment in your voice, but would you be so wrong if there was? Here he is again, working late, chasing approval from a man who never gives it. Loyalty doesn’t feel like virtue lately. It’s more like desperation.
He nods in response, and you stand, murmuring, “I’ll stop distracting you.”
“You’re not,” he says.
“I am,” you say softly.
You leave the room, and for the first time, Rafe lets himself imagine it. Being by your side for everything, for the good days and the bad days. Something in his guard softens as he considers it.
He would do it. He would fight for you with everything he has. If only you were willing to fight, too.
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Election night was a nightmare, a storm of cameras, speeches, and forced smiles. But you did your part. You stood where you were told, said what you were coached to say. And your mother won. The campaign is finally over.
The next morning, with just over a week left before the contract expires, you step into your father’s office after he’d called a meeting with you and Rafe. Celeste is already seated beside him. The family lawyer is here too, flipping through a folder.
A bad feeling claws into your gut. Your instinct tells you that this is ending the way you always feared it would. You sit in the same chair you sat in almost half a year ago, when you were told what you were being forced to do.
“What is it?” you ask, willing your voice not to shake.
Your father looks at you with the same cold indifference that’s always cut you deep, and firmly says, “You’ve broken the contract.”
to be continued
author’s note this series was meant to be ten parts, but i have 5k+ more words that i couldn’t fit into this post lmao!! i’m almost done the story and i’m planning to post the final part in a few days <3 my update account is @xorafe-library if you want post notifications.
