Hi! I was wondering if you are open for a request? There’s an idea I came across and it has been living rent free in my head and I know you can bring it to life with your writing!
Hi Anon!
For now, requests are closed. I still have quite a few older requests that I’m trying to write and catch up with.
I’ll open requests again at some point, but if anyone has an interesting idea, you can always drop it into my inbox. Who knows, maybe inspiration will hit and I’ll write it sooner than expected.
Unfortunately, my writing capacity is limited, but I promise my imagination is still working, and I’m genuinely happy about all your requests and ideas ❤️
Hi.. I would totally understand if you don’t want to answer this sort of thing, but you and a couple other Toto fan pages are all I interact with on Tumblr so I thought I should just bring this up, and also because as one of the few writers in this community, I thought you would have an opinion. I found out about this user a couple of days ago, CressidaGrey. She writes Max Verstappen fanfic and she has said very, very disgusting things about people she knows absolutely nothing about. Someone made a post about it yesterday and I thought okay that’s clearly and exaggeration, I went to check, and it was clearly NOT. The things she has written about and said were so deeply DISTURBING.. I can’t even put them into words. George was apparently sexual a**aulting someone. Like WHAT???? There’s a fucking line. IT’S RPF, but they’re still real people. That is so not okay???? And Toto’s family. The things they’ve said about Rosa. She and her followers have a complete break down every time Toto’s kids show up with him on races. Toto’s ex-wife, there’s no public information available on her, other than her name and she might have kept that information private on purpose. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE should respect that. In CG’s story (and on her Tumblr) she was apparently hitting a girl. Believe me I’m not making that up. She even dragged up Toto’s mother. I didn’t even know her name, but CressidaGrey apparently found it from somewhere????
I don’t even know what to think at this point. It’s insane. Someone called her parasocial and I think that makes sense, but again, it’s real fucking people.
Hi Anon,
Well… this is going to be long, but okay. Since you asked — here we go.
I’ll be honest: I’m not really in the loop here, so I don’t think I’m the best person to comment on the wider situation. I don’t know CressidaGrey, I haven’t read her work, and I don’t know exactly what has been written or said, so I don’t want to speak about another writer directly or make claims about content I haven’t personally seen.
Since you asked for my opinion, though, and since I do write about Toto, I can only answer from my own perspective as someone who writes RPF.
For me, the important thing is remembering that, even when we write fiction, we are still using real people’s names, public images, families, and lives as inspiration. We don’t actually know these people. We see interviews, paddock moments, photos, public appearances, and then our brains create a version of them. That version is still fictional. My Toto is not the real Toto. He is my interpretation, probably idealised in some ways, with traits added or softened because that is how fiction works.
And yes, someone could probably say, “well, you sexualise Toto in your spicy stories,” and honestly… fair enough. I do write romantic and erotic fiction about him, so I’m not going to pretend I sit on some moral throne with a tiny judge wig on. The imagination does what the imagination does, unfortunately. But even there, I try to write with respect, with some awareness that he is still a real person, and within boundaries I personally feel comfortable with.
Also, Toto, if by some cursed miracle you ever see this: I am sorry. I know you probably won’t, but still. Sorry, Toto 🤭 Although, let’s be real, he probably knows the fanfics and the thirst trap side of the internet exist, which is exactly why my little joke series The Fanfic Problem Series was born.
But coming back to the actual topic — the same goes even more strongly for his family. When I include Susie, Jack, Rosa, Ben, or anyone connected to him, I try to do it with respect. They are part of Toto’s public and private world, yes, but they are still real people. Even if I use them occasionally in stories, I try not to write them in a way that feels cruel, invasive, or disrespectful. In Wolf Pack Chaos, for example, I ended up really liking Rosa as a character and gave her a bigger role, but I still try to shape that with care and keep her portrayed positively.
That is just my personal line.
I’m not here to decide where everyone else’s line should be. Every writer has their own conscience, their own moral compass, and their own comfort zone. One writer may write something very soft and romantic, another may write something darker or more complicated. Fiction can explore difficult topics. People write brutal crime novels, disturbing thrillers, horror, morally grey characters, and that does not automatically mean the writer supports those things in real life.
But RPF is tricky, because the people are real. That makes the question of boundaries more complicated. At what point does fiction become disrespectful? At what point does it feel like slander, harassment, or using “it’s just fiction” as a shield? I honestly don’t have one perfect answer.
I only know where my own boundary is.
I try to write in a way that I feel comfortable with, that doesn’t go against my own values, and that keeps in mind that these are real people with real families and private lives. I also think readers have a choice. If someone’s writing makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to read it. You can block, mute, unfollow, report if platform rules are being broken, and move on.
So no, I don’t think I’m the right person to judge another writer. But as someone who writes RPF, I do think we should always remember that behind the names we use, there are real human beings.
And that should matter.
That said, that’s really all I have to say on this topic. I genuinely don’t want to be dragged into any drama, wars, callouts, or endless discourse about who writes what and where the exact line is.
I prefer to keep my little corner of the internet positive, creative, and peaceful. So please take care, be kind to each other, and let’s move on. 🖤
🐺 main masterlist | The TW Survival Program Series
part1 | part2 | part3 | part4
Toto Wolff x assistant!reader
Summary: Your job is simple: keep Toto Wolff alive, fed, hydrated, on schedule, and away from all electric scooters. Unfortunately, the universe decides to throw in a locked storage room, your claustrophobia, a sponsor banquet, one slightly tipsy team principal, and one kiss that absolutely, definitely, catastrophically was not in your job description.
By now, The Toto Wolff Survival Program has become an unofficial Mercedes department.
There is no logo. Yet. There is no budget. Sadly. There is no official team email. Although Bradley has suggested one twice.
But there is you. Armed with a tablet, two phones, a calendar that looks like a war map, and the haunted expression of a woman who once watched Toto Wolff attempt to cross the paddock on an electric scooter while holding coffee.
Never again.
Your duties are clear. Keep him fed. Keep him hydrated. Keep him punctual. Keep him away from caffeine after his fourth espresso. Keep him away from the scooter. Keep him away from making decisions while hungry, tired, or mildly irritated by journalists.
Which, frankly, is most of the time.
“Water,” you say, walking beside him through the hospitality corridor.
Toto does not even look at you. He simply takes the bottle you hold out.
Progress. You almost feel emotional.
“Protein bar,” you continue.
“I had breakfast.”
“You had toast.”
“Toast is breakfast.”
“One slice of toast is a rumor.”
He glances down at you. “A rumor?”
“A whisper of nutrition.”
His mouth twitches. “You are very poetic when you are annoying.”
“And you are very alive when you listen to me.”
He takes the protein bar. Victory.
You mentally add another point to your internal scoreboard.
You: 47.
Toto’s self-destructive work habits: 3.
Electric scooter: banned from the building under direct threat of calling his mother.
*
The day is busy even by Mercedes standards. Sponsor meeting, technical briefing, media prep, FIA call, internal review, another sponsor meeting because apparently money enjoys repetition.
You are moving so quickly between rooms that your feet barely touch the floor. Toto, of course, walks like time itself works for him. Tall. Calm. Controlled. And very annoying.
“Left,” you say, checking the room number.
He turns right.
You grab his sleeve. “Other left.”
He stops, looks down at your hand on his arm, then at you.
“I knew that.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I was testing you.”
“You are not allowed to test survival management before lunch.”
He hums, amused, and follows you.
The corridor is crowded. Mechanics. PR people. Guests. Someone holding three laptops and looking close to tears. Classic race weekend energy.
You squeeze past a group of sponsor representatives and turn into a side corridor that should lead to the smaller meeting room.
Should.
But the paddock hospitality buildings are secretly designed by people who hate joy and clear signage.
You open a door, glance inside, see shelves, stacked boxes, cleaning supplies, and what might be spare sponsor banners.
“Wrong room,” you say immediately.
But before you can step back, someone outside calls something loudly, another person rushes past, and the door swings shut behind you.
Click.
You freeze. Toto turns. You both stare at the door. He reaches for the handle. Pulls. Nothing.
You blink. “No.”
He tries again. The handle moves, but the door does not open.
“Oh, you have got to be joking.”
Toto looks at the lock, then at the narrow room around you.
It is small. Too small. Shelves on both sides. Boxes stacked high. Barely enough room for both of you to stand without brushing against each other.
The air feels thin immediately. Which is stupid. You know it is stupid. There is air. There is space. There is Toto.
It is fine. Except your chest tightens. Your fingers go cold. The walls seem closer than they were a second ago.
You swallow.
“Okay,” you say, too quickly. “Fine. Great. Lovely. Love this. Very practical. Very Mercedes.”
Toto looks at you. His expression changes at once. The amusement disappears.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
Your voice is too high. Fantastic. Very professional. Very survival-management of you.
You reach for your phone. No signal. Of course. Because why have signal in a tiny locked storage room when you can have emotional damage instead?
You raise the phone higher. Nothing.
“Toto, do you have signal?”
He checks. “No.”
“Wonderful.”
Your breathing gets faster. You try to step back, but your shoulder hits a shelf. A box shifts. You flinch.
Toto notices. He always notices too much.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You are not.”
“I am.”
“You are pale.”
“I am always pale. It’s called existing indoors.”
Your joke lands badly because your voice shakes.
Toto steps closer carefully, not crowding you, not touching you yet. “Are you claustrophobic?”
You do not answer fast enough. That answers for you.
His face softens. “Oh, Schatz…”
The endearment hits somewhere dangerous, but you are too busy trying not to panic to react properly.
“I’m okay,” you whisper. “It’s just small.”
“Yes,” he says calmly. “But we are safe.”
You laugh once, short and breathless.
“Locked in a supply cupboard is not exactly on my list of safe workplace environments.”
“I know.”
“I have a meeting to get you to.”
“That can wait.”
“You don’t do waiting.”
“I do now.”
Your eyes sting. Annoying. Deeply annoying.
Your chest pulls tighter. You try to inhale, but the breath catches halfway.
Toto’s hand lifts slowly. “Can I touch you?”
You nod, barely. He takes your hand. Warm. Large. Steady. His fingers wrap around yours, grounding you before you even realize you need it.
“There,” he murmurs. “Breathe with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I really don’t think—”
“You can.” His voice is firm now, but gentle. The voice he uses when a room is about to fall apart and he refuses to let it. “In through your nose.”
You stare at his chest because looking at the walls is a terrible idea.
He inhales slowly. You try to follow. Your breath stutters.
“That’s it,” he says. “Again.”
“This is stupid,” you whisper.
“No.”
“I’m being ridiculous.”
“No.”
“I’m supposed to be the one keeping you alive.”
“And you are.” His thumb moves over your knuckles. “Now let me return the favor.”
That nearly breaks you. Which is unfair. He should not be allowed to say things like that in a locked storage room while holding your hand like you matter beyond calendar invites and coffee limits.
You close your eyes. Bad idea. The darkness makes the room smaller.
Your eyes snap open. Toto catches it instantly.
“Look at me.”
You do. Brown eyes. Warm. Focused. Unshaken.
“There you are,” he says quietly. “Good.”
Your heart thumps hard. Not just from panic now. Terrible development.
“Name five things you can see,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“Five things you can see. Slowly.”
You breathe in again. It still feels tight, but less impossible.
“Boxes,” you say.
“Good.”
“Cleaning spray.”
“Yes.”
“A Mercedes banner.”
He glances sideways.
“Of course. Branding survives everything.”
A tiny laugh slips out of you. His mouth softens.
“Two more.”
You look around, forcing yourself not to focus on how close the shelves are.
“Your watch.”
His thumb pauses for half a second against your hand.
“And?”
You look up. Your mouth opens before your brain can stop it.
“Your eyes.”
Silence. Very soft. Very dangerous.
Toto does not move. You realize what you said. Heat rushes into your face so fast it almost knocks the panic out by force.
“I mean— because they’re there. Obviously. On your face. Very visible. Hard to miss, really.”
His lips part slightly. Then curve. Not smug. Not teasing. Something warmer.
“You are doing very well,” he says.
You look away. “Please don’t be kind. It makes this worse.”
“I am not being kind.”
“You are.”
“I am being honest.”
Before you can answer, footsteps pound outside. A voice calls, “Hello? Toto?”
Bradley.
Another voice follows, younger, slightly panicked. “Are they dead?”
Kimi.
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Perfect. Wonderful. We have an audience.”
Toto lifts his voice. “We are inside.”
Bradley rattles the handle. “Oh, thank God.”
Kimi says, “Why are you in the cupboard?”
You glare at the door.
“Because we wanted privacy with the mops, Kimi.”
There is a pause. Then Kimi says, “Understandable.”
Toto laughs softly. Bradley mutters something about keys. A moment later, the door opens.
Fresh air spills in. Space. Light. Noise.
You step out too quickly and nearly stumble. Toto’s hand tightens around yours, steadying you.
You feel it. Bradley sees it. Kimi sees it. Everyone sees it.
Fantastic.
You gently pull your hand free. Too gently. Like you are trying not to admit you liked it there.
Bradley looks between you and Toto, instantly reading the room with terrifying PR instincts.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes,” you say fast.
Toto answers at the same time, “She needs a moment.”
You shoot him a look. He ignores it.
Kimi holds out a packet of gummy worms. “For trauma?”
You stare at him.
“Were those confiscated?”
He slowly lowers the packet.
“Emotionally, yes.”
Bradley clears his throat. “The sponsor meeting started five minutes ago.”
Your brain snaps back into function. “Oh my God.”
You grab your tablet.
Toto steps in front of you slightly. “They can wait.”
“No, they cannot. You have to—”
He gives you one look. You stop. It is not the team-principal look. It is not the boss look. It is the I know you are pretending to be fine look.
And you hate it. Because he is right.
“I’m fine,” you say again, quieter.
“I know,” he says.
But he says it like he knows you are not. And somehow that is worse.
*
By evening, you have recovered. Mostly. You have aggressively pretended to recover, which is almost the same thing if nobody looks too closely.
Unfortunately, Toto looks too closely. All day. In meetings, he watches you when he thinks you are not paying attention. When someone closes a conference room door, his eyes flick toward you. When you skip coffee, he notices. When you force a smile, he notices that too.
It is infuriating. It is also… something else. Something you absolutely do not have time to examine because tonight there is a sponsor banquet, and sponsor banquets are formal, glittering endurance tests with champagne.
You change into a dress that looks elegant enough for the event and practical enough to chase Toto if necessary. Because professionalism. And possibly trauma from the scooter incident.
When you enter the ballroom, Toto is already there. Black suit. Open collar. No tie. Tall, composed, annoyingly handsome in the way that makes women around the room suddenly remember how to breathe manually.
His eyes find you immediately. You pretend not to notice. You last six seconds.
Then he walks toward you. Slowly. Of course. Because Toto Wolff does not simply cross a room. He arrives like a boardroom decision.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
Your brain briefly throws itself into the sea.
You blink at him. “Thank you. You look… not currently in danger.”
His smile appears. “High praise.”
“I’m generous.”
He looks at the glass in your hand. “Water?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
You narrow your eyes. “Do not survival-manage me.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“So I have been told.”
*
The evening begins smoothly. For about twelve minutes. Then champagne happens. Not wildly but enough that Toto becomes warmer, more relaxed, and significantly more amused by his own jokes.
Which is bad. Because tipsy Toto is funny. And charming. And far too aware of you.
You spend half the banquet making sure he alternates champagne with water. He obeys. Mostly.
Susie, who has appeared like a glamorous fairy godmother of chaos, watches from across the table with visible delight.
“He’s listening again,” she says, leaning toward Bradley.
Bradley nods. “It’s becoming concerning.”
Toto looks at them. “I can hear you.”
Susie smiles. “Good. Drink your water.”
Toto sighs, but drinks.
You stare. Susie winks at you. Kimi appears beside you with a tiny plate piled high with desserts.
“Kimi.”
He freezes. “This is for sharing.”
“With whom?”
He looks at the plate. Then at George.
George, loyal and afraid, immediately says, “Not me.”
Kimi looks betrayed. You take half the desserts off his plate and replace them with actual food from a passing tray.
“There.”
He looks down at the plate. “This is vegetables.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I care.”
“That is a cruel form of care.”
George nods wisely. “Just accept it. Resistance makes it worse.”
Toto, who has absolutely no right to speak, murmurs, “True.”
You point at him without turning.
“Water.”
He lifts his glass.
Bradley whispers to Susie, “It’s like watching a miracle with a dress code.”
*
The night blurs into speeches, polite applause, sponsor smiles, and Toto leaning slightly closer whenever you speak to him. Not enough to be obvious. Enough for you to notice.
Unfortunately, you are very good at noticing him.
By the time the formal part ends, the ballroom begins to empty. George disappears after saying goodnight like the well-trained man he is. Kimi vanishes with dessert, probably into a vent. Susie leaves with Bradley, but not before giving you a look so knowing you consider moving countries.
Then it is just you and Toto near the balcony doors, the city lights beyond the glass, the room soft and quiet behind you.
He is not drunk-drunk. Just tipsy enough that his guard is lower. His eyes are softer. His smile slower. Very dangerous.
“You did well today,” he says.
You exhale.
“You already said that in the storage cupboard.”
“No. I said you were doing well.” He looks at you. “This is different.”
You fold your arms, suddenly self-conscious.
“I panicked in a cupboard.”
“You had a panic attack in a locked small room. That is not the same as failing.”
You look away. “I felt stupid.”
“You were not.”
“I’m supposed to handle things.”
“You do.”
“I’m supposed to take care of you.”
“You do that too.”
His voice is gentle now. Too gentle. You can feel the words before he says them. They are going to hurt. Not badly. Just softly. The kind of hurt that comes from being seen when you were trying very hard to hide.
“You take care of me all the time,” he says. “Too much, maybe.”
“You require supervision.”
“I know.” A small smile. “But today… when you were scared, you still tried to think about my meeting.”
You cringe.
“That sounds pathetic.”
“No.” He steps closer. “It sounds like you.”
Your throat tightens. “Toto…”
He looks down at the glass in his hand, then sets it on a nearby table.
“I know this is your job,” he says slowly. “I know you are paid to manage my calendar, my meetings, my travel, my chaos.”
“And your water intake.”
“And my water intake,” he agrees, a little smile there and gone. “But sometimes I forget what it feels like when someone notices the small things. Whether I have eaten. Whether I am tired. Whether I am trying to pretend I am fine.”
You go very still. He looks at you then. Directly. Honestly.
“Thank you.”
Your chest aches. You could make a joke. You should make a joke. Something about danger management. Or scooters. Or hydration-based emotional support.
But he is looking at you like that, and your mouth does something incredibly stupid.
“I’d do it anyway.”
Toto blinks. You swallow.
“I mean… even if it wasn’t my job.” Your voice is quieter now. “I’d still care if you ate. Or slept. Or drank water. Or didn’t kill yourself on that stupid scooter.”
His face changes. Barely. But you see it. The soft surprise. The way his breath catches just slightly. The way the room seems to shrink, but not like the cupboard.
This time, it feels like the world stepping back. Leaving only you and him.
“You would?” he asks.
You laugh nervously.
“Unfortunately, yes. Deep character flaw.”
His eyes drop to your mouth. Only for a second. But you notice.
You should step back. You should say goodnight. You should remember the obvious, enormous, flashing warning sign hanging over this entire situation.
He is your boss. You are his assistant. This is a sponsor banquet. He is slightly tipsy. You are emotionally fragile after a storage-room panic spiral.
This is a terrible idea. Naturally, neither of you moves.
“Toto,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says.
But he steps closer anyway. Not fast. He gives you every chance to move away.
You do not.
His hand lifts slowly, fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that wrecks every defensive wall you have built out of sarcasm and calendar alerts.
Your eyes flutter. Just for a second. That is all he needs.
The kiss is soft. Barely there at first. A question more than a decision. His lips touch yours gently, almost carefully, like he is afraid of frightening you or breaking something neither of you has admitted exists.
You should stop. You do not. Instead, you kiss him back. Just once. Small. Shy. Devastating.
His hand slides to your jaw, warm and steady, and the familiarity of it hits you hard. The storage room. His hand around yours. His voice telling you to breathe. His eyes being the fifth thing you saw when the walls were closing in.
Your heart races. Not from panic. From him. And that is what snaps you back. You pull away suddenly.
Toto’s hand drops at once. His eyes open, soft and startled.
You take one step back. Then another.
“I can’t,” you whisper.
His face shifts. Pain. Understanding. Sobriety cutting through champagne haze in one brutal second.
“I’m your assistant,” you say, as if reminding yourself more than him.
He says your name quietly. You shake your head.
“No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have— We shouldn’t have—”
“It was not only you.”
“I need to go.”
You turn before he can stop you. Before he can be kind. Before he can say something that makes staying easier.
You walk quickly through the ballroom, past empty glasses, folded napkins, soft golden lights, and flowers that smell too sweet.
Your heels click too loudly. Your pulse pounds in your ears. You make it to the lift. Then to the corridor. Then to your room.
Only when the door closes behind you do you finally breathe. Once. Twice. Badly.
You press your back against the door and close your eyes.
Your lips still feel warm. Your hand still remembers his. Your chest hurts. You slide down slowly until you are sitting on the floor in your expensive dress, feeling like an idiot. A complete idiot.
Because you panicked in front of him. Because he comforted you. Because he looked at you like you mattered. Because you kissed your boss. Because for one impossible second, you wanted to stay.
Your phone buzzes. You stare at it.
A message from Bradley.
Bradley: Emergency update: Kimi has stolen dessert again. Also Toto is asking where you are. Should I be worried?
You let out a shaky laugh that almost turns into a sob. Then another message arrives. This time from Toto.
Toto: You do not have to answer tonight. But please drink some water.
Toto: And breathe. Five things, remember?
Your eyes sting. You look around the room.
One: your shoes by the bed.
Two: your open suitcase.
Three: the lamp on the desk.
Four: the glass of water you forgot to drink.
Five…
Your fingers hover over your lips.
Five is not here. Five is brown eyes in a locked room. Brown eyes at a banquet. Brown eyes watching you like you are not just the woman with his calendar, his water bottle, and his emergency protein bars.
You do not reply. You can’t. Your thumb hovers over the screen, useless and trembling, while your heart behaves like it has been given DRS on the main straight.
Because the truth is horrible. The truth is sweet. The truth is standing in your chest with Toto’s voice and Toto’s hands and Toto’s mouth.
You meant it. Every stupid word.
You would take care of him even if it was not your job. You would notice when he skipped lunch. You would steal his fifth coffee. You would hide the scooter. You would drag him into sleep, into food, into being human for five minutes.
Paid or not. Assistant or not. Boss or not.
You press the phone to your chest and close your eyes.
“Damn it,” you whisper.
Then you reach for the glass of water. Because of course you do. Even now, even terrified, even dizzy from the softest kiss of your life — Toto Wolff tells you to drink water.
Could you make a toto wolff x susie x Lewis x george x reader very smut😩😩 like they are at toto place having dinner and reader is closed friend of susie. Lewis and George finds her hot so does toto and susie and like susie has made out with reader a long time ago in college or smt...
Anyways hope you have a amazing day
The Dinner Table Problem 🔥
🐺 main masterlist
Toto Wolff x fem!reader x Susie Wolff x George Russell x Lewis Hamilton
Summary: You come to dinner as Susie’s old college friend, wearing a dress that makes everyone forget how to behave. Wine, old kisses, jealous glances, and champagne turn a polite evening into a very filthy five-person mistake nobody regrets.
a/n: Okay, need to admit I waited until my ovulation to finish this request because, well… that’s when my imagination works best for scenes this intense 🔥
You know dinner at the Wolffs’ will be elegant.
You expect expensive wine, soft lighting, perfect food, Toto looking like a man who personally negotiates with time and wins, Susie smiling like she knows every secret in the room because she probably does.
You do not expect Lewis Hamilton to stare at you over the rim of his glass like you have just ruined his ability to form sentences.
You do not expect George Russell to forget what he is saying halfway through a story.
And you absolutely do not expect Susie to open the door, take one look at you, and smile in a way that throws you straight back to university.
“Oh,” she says, eyes sliding down your dress and back up again. “You wore that.”
You glance down. Black. Simple. Maybe slightly too short. Maybe a little too open at the back.
“It’s called being polite,” you say. “I dressed up for dinner.”
Susie kisses both your cheeks. Her lips linger half a second longer than necessary.
“Darling,” she murmurs, “you dressed up for trouble.”
Behind her, Toto appears in the hallway, tall, composed, sleeves rolled up, expression calm.
Then he sees you. His eyes pause. Only for a second. Still enough.
“Good evening,” he says, voice smooth.
“Good evening, Toto.”
Susie looks between you with instant, lethal amusement.
“Oh, this will be fun.”
You narrow your eyes at her. “Behave.”
“I was planning to,” she says. “Then you arrived.”
Inside, the apartment is warm and polished, all glass, dark wood, and candlelight. Monaco glitters outside the windows like someone spilled diamonds over the sea. Lewis is already there, relaxed on the sofa, dressed in black, jewelry catching the light. George stands near the drinks table, looking unfairly handsome and very pleased to see you.
“Finally,” Lewis says, smiling. “The famous college friend.”
You laugh. “That depends entirely on what Susie told you.”
“All good things,” Susie says.
You turn to her. “Liar.”
“All interesting things,” she corrects.
George’s eyebrows rise. “Now I’m invested.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Toto says, handing you a glass of wine.
His fingers brush yours. It is brief. It is nothing. It is also very much not nothing.
You take the glass. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
His eyes stay on yours for one beat too long. Susie sees it. Of course she does. Susie sees everything.
Dinner starts politely. For about six minutes. Then George asks how you and Susie met.
Susie leans back in her chair, wine glass in hand. “University.”
You take a sip. “She stole my notes.”
“I borrowed them.”
“You kept them for three months.”
“They were excellent notes.”
“You never returned them.”
Susie smiles. “I returned them with lipstick on the corner.”
Lewis coughs into his glass. George blinks. Toto slowly lowers his fork.
You stare at Susie. “You are unbelievable.”
“She loved it,” Susie says to the table.
“I did not.”
“You kissed me after.”
The silence is immediate. George looks delighted. Lewis looks deeply entertained. Toto looks at Susie, then at you, and his expression does something dangerous.
You put your wine glass down carefully.
“That was one time.”
Susie tilts her head. “Three times.”
“Two and a half.”
Lewis laughs. “How does half a kiss work?”
You point at Susie. “Ask her. She got interrupted by a fire alarm.”
“It was tragic,” Susie says. “I still think about it.”
Toto’s gaze moves to you. “You never mentioned this.”
You smile sweetly. “You never asked.”
“I am asking now.”
Your pulse trips.
Susie watches you both like she has arranged the entire evening and is enjoying excellent results.
George leans forward. “So, wait. Were you two…?”
“No,” you say.
“Yes,” Susie says at the same time.
You turn to her. “Susie.”
“What? We had tension.”
“We were nineteen.”
“And flexible.”
Lewis makes a strangled sound. George suddenly becomes very interested in his wine. Toto’s jaw tightens. Just a little but enough.
“You are enjoying this too much,” you tell Susie.
She smiles. “I haven’t even started.”
The food is incredible. Naturally. Toto serves like hosting is another form of strategy. He knows when to refill glasses, when to shift conversation, when to watch quietly.
And tonight, he watches you. Across the table.
When Lewis makes you laugh, Toto’s eyes flick to your mouth.
When George asks about your work and leans in with genuine interest, Toto’s fingers tap once against the stem of his glass.
When Susie touches your wrist while telling a story, Toto notices.
You notice him noticing. That is the problem. Well. One of them.
The second problem is Lewis. Because Lewis has charm in the way some people have oxygen. Effortless. Warm. Terrible for self-preservation.
“So,” he says, “why haven’t we met you before?”
“Because Susie hides her best friends from dangerous men.”
Lewis smiles. “Smart woman.”
George grins. “Are we the dangerous men?”
You look around the table. Lewis, relaxed and beautiful. George, polished and wickedly amused. Toto, silent and intense.
Susie, smiling like a match held too close to silk.
“Yes,” you say. “Obviously.”
Toto leans back. “And yet you came.”
“I like risk.”
His eyes darken. Susie’s smile grows.
Lewis looks between you two and mutters, “Oh, this is getting interesting.”
George lifts his glass. “To risk, then.”
You clink your glass against his. Toto’s eyes drop to your hand. Susie notices that too.
After dinner, you all move to the salon. The lights are lower there, the city brighter beyond the windows. Music plays softly, something slow and expensive-sounding. Susie kicks off her heels and curls into the corner of the sofa beside you.
“Remember Paris?” she asks.
You groan. “No.”
“You remember Paris.”
“I remember being young and stupid.”
“You remember dancing on a table.”
Lewis laughs. “Now I need this story.”
“No,” you say.
“Yes,” Susie says. “She danced on a table, looked at me like she wanted to ruin my life, then kissed me in a hallway.”
You cover your face. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Toto sits opposite you, one ankle over his knee, watching with that calm, unreadable expression.
“You kissed my wife in a hallway?” he asks.
You lower your hands. The way he says it should be casual. It is not casual.
You swallow. “Before she was your wife.”
“That was not my question.”
The room shifts.
Lewis goes still, amused but alert. George looks like he has just realized the conversation has stepped onto very thin ice wearing designer shoes.
Susie turns her head toward Toto. “Careful, darling. You sound jealous.”
“I am curious.”
“You are never just curious.”
Toto’s eyes stay on you. “Were you in love with her?”
Your breath catches. Susie’s smile softens. That, somehow, is worse.
You look at your wine. “A little.”
Susie’s fingers brush your knee. “Only a little?”
You glance at her. “Enough.”
For a second, the teasing fades. There it is. The old thing. The almost. The maybe.
The version of you that had kissed her outside a university party with cheap wine on your tongue and too much hope in your chest.
Susie squeezes your knee once.
Then George clears his throat. “Right. I suddenly feel like I’m watching a very expensive film.”
Lewis nods. “With excellent casting.”
You laugh, grateful for the rescue.
Toto does not laugh. He stands. “More wine?”
Everyone says yes too quickly.
In the kitchen, you follow him. You tell yourself it is to help. It is not to help.
Toto stands at the counter, opening a bottle with precise hands. You stop beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of him.
“You’re quiet,” you say.
“I am often quiet.”
“Tonight it feels pointed.”
He glances at you. “Does it?”
“Toto.”
He sets the bottle down.
The kitchen is dimmer than the salon. Quieter. The music reaches you like a secret through the walls.
“You are very comfortable making people react,” he says.
You laugh softly. “That sounds like an accusation.”
“It is an observation.”
“And what reaction am I getting from you?”
His eyes move over your face. Slowly. Too slowly.
“The wrong one.”
Your stomach flips. You should step back. You do not.
“Toto…”
He leans one hand on the counter beside you, not touching, still somehow surrounding you.
“You come into my home,” he says quietly, “in that dress. You flirt with my guests. You remind my wife she once kissed you in dark hallways.”
Your mouth goes dry. “You make that sound like a crime.”
“No.” His voice drops. “A problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
His gaze lowers to your mouth. “The kind I should be old enough to avoid.”
You almost laugh, but it gets trapped somewhere in your throat.
Behind you, Susie’s voice floats from the doorway. “Oh, good. You found the wine.”
You turn. She stands there, barefoot, beautiful, completely unsurprised.
Her eyes move from Toto’s hand beside you to your face. Then she smiles. “Am I interrupting?”
“Yes,” Toto says.
“No,” you say at the same time.
Susie’s smile becomes lethal. “My favorite kind of answer.”
Toto exhales through his nose. “Susie.”
She steps into the kitchen and takes the wine bottle from him. “Don’t use that voice with me. I invented half your bad ideas.”
“I doubt that.”
“I improved them, then.”
You look between them. “Should I go back to the salon?”
Susie steps closer to you. “No.”
One word. Soft. Confident.
Your heart forgets its job.
She reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers gentle against your skin.
“You still blush the same way,” she says.
“I do not blush.”
“You do.”
Toto’s voice is low. “You do.”
You look at him.
Mistake. Huge mistake. Because he is watching you like restraint is now an active negotiation and he is losing patience with the terms.
From the salon, George calls, “Everything okay in there?”
Lewis adds, “Should we be concerned?”
Susie does not look away from you. “No,” she calls back. “We’re being excellent hosts.”
You laugh nervously. “That is one way to describe it.”
Susie’s thumb brushes your cheek. “What would you call it?”
“Dangerous.”
Toto steps closer. “Accurate.”
The air tightens.
Susie looks at Toto, then at you. There is no jealousy in her face. Only heat. And permission.
That terrifies you more than anything.
“Toto,” she says softly, “stop looking like you’re about to start a board meeting with your conscience.”
His mouth twitches. “My conscience is losing.”
“Good.”
Your breath catches.
Susie leans in first. Her kiss is familiar and completely new. Soft at the start, then warmer, deeper, like she has been waiting years to finish what a fire alarm interrupted. You make a small sound against her mouth, and her hand slides to your waist, steadying you.
Behind you, Toto inhales. That sound alone nearly ruins you.
Susie pulls back just enough to whisper, “Still two and a half?”
You blink at her, dazed. “Definitely three now.”
She laughs.
Then Toto’s hand touches your back. Large. Warm. Careful. A question.
You look up at him.
His expression is controlled, but his eyes are not. “You can tell me to stop,” he says.
You should say something clever. You have nothing. So you say the truth.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
His hand presses a little firmer against your back.
Susie watches your face as Toto leans down. He pauses close enough that your breath catches against his mouth.
“Last chance,” he murmurs.
You smile, because apparently you still have enough self-respect to be difficult.
“You always negotiate this much?”
His eyes flash. “Only when I want something badly.”
Then he kisses you.
Toto kisses like he does everything else: with control, with intent, with the terrifying confidence of a man who knows exactly when to be patient and when to stop pretending patience is useful.
Your hand grips his shirt.
Susie makes a pleased sound beside you.
From the salon, George says, “They are taking a very long time with that wine.”
Lewis replies, dryly, “I think the wine is no longer the priority.”
You break the kiss with a laugh against Toto’s mouth.
Susie takes your hand. “Come on,” she says. “Before they start writing theories.”
You return to the salon looking guilty, flushed, and absolutely terrible at pretending nothing happened.
Lewis takes one look at you and smiles slowly.
George looks at Toto. Then at Susie. Then at you.
“Oh,” George says.
You sit down and reach for your wine. “Nobody say anything.”
Lewis lifts both hands. “I would never.”
George nods solemnly. “Same.”
Toto sits beside you this time. Very close. Susie sits on your other side. Also very close.
Lewis watches the seating arrangement with open amusement. “Subtle.”
Toto gives him one calm look. “Do you have a problem?”
Lewis grins. “Not at all.”
George mutters, “I’m having several realizations.”
Susie laughs and rests her hand on your thigh beneath the edge of your dress.
Your spine straightens.
Toto notices. His hand settles at the back of the sofa behind you, fingers brushing your bare shoulder.
Lewis leans forward, eyes sparkling. “So, are we finishing dessert?”
You look at the abandoned plates on the table. Then at Susie. Then at Toto. Then at George and Lewis, both looking far too entertained and far too interested.
Susie smiles against your ear. “Dessert can wait.”
Toto’s fingers trail lightly over your shoulder. “Some things should not.”
George exhales. “Right. Well. That escalated.”
Lewis stands, smooth and amused, offering you his hand. “Only if everyone wants it to.”
For a moment, nobody jokes. Nobody teases. The room becomes soft around the edges.
You look at Susie first. She squeezes your hand. Then Toto. His gaze is steady. Then Lewis, open and patient. Then George, flushed but smiling, his confidence mixed with something surprisingly sweet.
You take Lewis’s hand. Susie stands with you. Toto rises behind you. George sets his glass down with a quiet laugh.
“Well,” he says, “this is officially the most interesting dinner I’ve ever attended.”
You glance over your shoulder at him. “Still hungry?”
George smiles. “Starving.”
Susie laughs, Toto mutters something in German. Lewis leads you down the hallway with the kind of calm confidence that should be illegal in at least twelve countries.
Susie’s hand stays warm around yours.
Toto follows behind you, close enough that you can feel him before he touches you. George comes last, muttering under his breath.
“I came here for dinner,” he says.
Lewis glances back, smiling. “You stayed for dessert.”
George exhales. “That sounded smoother in your head, didn’t it?”
“Everything sounds smooth in my head.”
Susie laughs softly. “He’s not wrong.”
You look at her. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“Oh, darling.” She squeezes your hand. “I have waited years to finish that kiss. I am being very reasonable.”
Toto makes a low sound behind you.
Susie turns her head. “Problem?”
“No,” he says.
That is a lie. A beautiful, expensive, Austrian lie.
You reach the bedroom. Of course it is elegant. Of course it smells faintly of clean linen, amber, and something darkly masculine. Of course Monaco glows beyond the windows like the city has agreed to mind its own business for once.
Lewis lets go of your hand first. He steps back, giving you space. That almost makes it worse. The patience. The care. The fact that everyone suddenly becomes quieter.
Toto closes the door. The click is soft.
Your pulse is not.
Susie turns to face you, still smiling, but her eyes are softer now.
“Still okay?” she asks.
You nod. Your voice comes out smaller than expected. “Yes.”
Toto’s gaze sharpens instantly. He steps closer, his hand finding your chin, tilting your face up with unbearable gentleness.
“Words,” he says.
Of course. Of course he would be the one to demand precision now.
You swallow. “Yes,” you say again, clearer this time. “I want this.”
His thumb brushes once over your lower lip. “Good.”
George makes a quiet, strangled sound from somewhere near the door.
Lewis glances at him. “You alive?”
“Debatable.”
You laugh, and the tension cracks just enough for air to come back into the room.
Susie uses that moment to step behind you. Her fingers find the zipper of your dress, slow and teasing.
“You know,” she murmurs near your ear, “I knew this dress would cause problems.”
“You caused problems.”
“I opened the door. You did the rest.”
The zipper slides down.
Toto watches. That is the first real undoing.
His eyes move over you with such controlled hunger that your knees feel briefly unemployed. He does not rush forward. He does not grab. He simply watches Susie peel the fabric from your shoulders like he is memorizing the exact second his self-control becomes a historical concept.
Lewis comes closer then, standing at your side.
“You’re very quiet now,” he says softly.
You look up at him. “I’m processing.”
George lets out a laugh. “That makes two of us.”
Lewis smiles, brushing his knuckles lightly over your arm. “Take your time.”
Toto’s jaw flexes. Susie notices immediately.
“Toto,” she says, amused. “Share nicely.”
“I am being exceptionally nice.”
“You look like you’re negotiating with God.”
“He is being difficult.”
You laugh again, breathless this time. Then Susie’s lips touch your shoulder.
The laugh dies instantly.
“Oh,” George says faintly.
Lewis’s smile turns slow.
Toto steps closer. His hand settles at your waist. Large. Warm. Certain.
“Still processing?” he asks.
You look at him, then at Susie, then at Lewis, then at George, whose cheeks are flushed but whose eyes have gone dark in a way that makes your stomach flip.
“No,” you whisper.
Susie kisses your shoulder again. “Good.”
After that, the room turns into hands and warmth and low voices.
Susie kisses you first. Her mouth is soft and confident, and you lean into her with a small sound you will deny later under oath.
Lewis catches that sound with a smile.
Toto does not smile. Toto looks like a man being tested by several international committees. Then he kisses you too. Deep. Controlled. Possessive enough to make Susie laugh against your neck.
“There he is,” she murmurs.
Toto pulls back only enough to look at her. “Do not start.”
“I started twenty years ago.”
“Clearly.”
George, from behind Lewis, says, “I feel like I walked into season three of something.”
You turn your head toward him, lips swollen, dress slipping dangerously.
“Are you complaining?”
He blinks. “No.”
“Good.”
His smile appears slowly then. Younger than Toto’s. Less controlled than Lewis’s. Nervous around the edges, but hungry.
“Come here, George,” Susie says, like she is inviting him to join a board game and not rearrange the moral structure of the evening.
He obeys. Smart man. The next kiss is his — hesitant for half a second, then sharper when you pull him closer by his shirt. George makes a sound that gets Lewis laughing quietly beside you.
“Easy,” Lewis says.
George breaks the kiss just enough to mutter, “I am very calm.”
“You are absolutely not.”
“I am choosing optimism.”
You smile against George’s mouth, and then Toto’s hand slides up your back.
The reminder of him sends heat through your whole body.
You turn. He is right there. Composed, eyes burning.
“You,” you whisper, “are too calm.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
He leans down until his lips brush your ear. “That is because someone has to remain responsible.”
Susie snorts. “You? Responsible? In this room?”
Lewis laughs. “I’d like that written down for evidence.”
Toto ignores them both, his hand tightening slightly at your waist. “But,” he adds, voice dropping lower, “I am willing to be persuaded.”
Your breath catches.
Toto closes the remaining distance between you and pulls you against him. The kiss is immediate. Deep. Certain. The kind that makes your knees feel unreliable.
Your hand grips his shirt instinctively as he kisses you again, slower this time, his hand firm at your waist, keeping you close. The room blurs around the edges for a second, leaving only the warmth of him and the steady confidence that seems to follow Toto everywhere.
When you finally pull back for air, Lewis is smiling.
“Right,” he says softly.
Then he crosses the room toward Susie. She looks up at him, amused.
“Finally,” she murmurs.
Lewis laughs before kissing her.
George watches for approximately three seconds before deciding patience is no longer required.
“George,” Susie warns.
“I'm being very respectful.”
“You are absolutely not.”
He grins and steps closer anyway, his hands settling lightly on her shoulders before pressing a slow kiss to one shoulder.
Susie lets out a laugh and leans back into Lewis, who wraps an arm around her waist.
The sight would be distracting if Toto wasn't currently occupied with distracting you.
His lips brush your jaw. Your neck. The curve of your shoulder. Each kiss slower than the last.
“You are impossible,” you whisper.
“I've heard that before.”
“Today?”
“Several times.”
You laugh softly.
Across the room, Susie turns her head and kisses George.
George immediately forgets how language works. Lewis looks delighted by this development.
“You're blushing,” he tells George.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Shut up.”
Susie laughs against George's mouth. The sound fills the room.
Lewis starts removing his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair.
“Comfortable now?” Susie asks.
“Much.”
“Good.”
Toto’s arm tightens around your waist, pulling you firmly back against his chest. He is warm, solid, still annoyingly composed, and the low sound that leaves him when his mouth finds your neck tells you he is not nearly as calm as he wants everyone to believe.
“Look at you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Standing in my home dressed like this and pretending you did not know what you were doing.”
You tilt your head back against his shoulder, already losing the ability to be smug.
“I came for dinner.”
Susie laughs softly from in front of you. “Darling, dinner surrendered twenty minutes ago.”
George stands behind her, one hand on her waist, his eyes dark and wide, like he has finally stopped trying to be polite and has accepted that politeness is no longer invited.
Lewis steps closer with a champagne bottle in hand, his gaze moving over you with slow appreciation.
Toto’s fingers find the clasp of your bra. He does not ask. He knows.
Still, his lips brush your ear. “Still yes?”
Your pulse jumps. “Yes.”
The clasp opens. Slowly. Too slowly.
You make a frustrated sound and Toto smiles into your neck. “Impatient.”
“You are enjoying this too much.”
“I am enjoying it exactly enough.”
His hand slides over your stomach, holding you there while his mouth trails lower along your throat. Your bra slips from your shoulders, and Toto helps it down inch by inch, kissing every place he uncovers like he is undressing you with his mouth as much as his hands.
Across from you, George moves.
He turns Susie toward him, his fingers careful at first on the back of her dress. Susie watches him from under lowered lashes, amused and heated at once.
“You can touch me properly, George,” she says.
His breath catches. “Yes. Right. Properly.”
Lewis chuckles. “That man is fighting for his life.”
George gives him a look. “You try undressing Susie Wolff and sounding normal.”
Susie smiles. “He has a point.”
George’s hands grow bolder then, sliding her dress from her shoulders as he kisses her, slower now, less nervous, his confidence building when she melts into him with a soft hum.
Your bra falls away.
Toto turns you in his arms, his eyes moving over your body, lingering on the lingerie still low on your hips, the flush already spreading across your skin, the way your breathing has changed.
His jaw flexes. “Beautiful,” he says, voice low.
His hands move to your panties next, thumbs hooking into the delicate fabric.
He watches your face as he drags them down slowly, his touch grazing your hips, your thighs, making your breath catch all over again.
When they slip to the floor, you step out of them.
And then you are standing naked in front of him. Completely bare. Completely watched.
Toto’s gaze darkens, and for one second, he says nothing at all. That is somehow worse.
Then his hand returns to your waist, warm and possessive. “Perfect,” he murmurs.
Lewis steps behind you, his hand brushing your bare shoulder. “Very beautiful.”
The praise lands low in your stomach.
Toto notices. His thumb brushes beneath your chin, tipping your face up. “You like being praised, don’t you?”
Your lips part.
Susie answers for you, smiling. “She always did.”
You glare at her weakly. “Traitor.”
“Honest woman.”
Toto’s mouth curves. “Good to know.”
Then he kisses you again. Deep. Possessive. The kind of kiss that makes your hands grip his shirt instantly, that makes your body forget there are other people in the room until Lewis presses closer behind you and kisses the bare line of your shoulder.
You gasp into Toto’s mouth.
Lewis smiles against your skin. “Sensitive.”
Toto pulls back just enough to look at him. “Careful, Lewis.”
Lewis’s grin is pure trouble. “Always.”
“No,” Susie says, now standing in nothing but lace while George kisses her neck. “None of you are careful. That is why this is fun.”
Lewis lifts the champagne bottle.
You look at it. Then at him. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” he says, far too pleased.
Susie’s eyes brighten. “Do it.”
Toto’s hand tightens around your waist, holding you steady as Lewis tips the bottle.
Cold champagne spills over your chest.
You gasp sharply, arching back against Lewis, and Toto immediately lowers his mouth to your skin.
The first touch of his tongue makes your knees weaken.
“Toto—”
He hums, licking the champagne from you slowly, deliberately, following the cold trail down your breast with hot, open-mouthed kisses. Your nipple hardens under his attention, and when he wraps his lips around it, you let out a sound that makes George pause mid-kiss across the room.
“Bloody hell,” George mutters.
Susie laughs breathlessly. “Eyes on me, George.”
“I am trying.”
“No, you are staring.”
“You would stare too.”
“I am staring.”
You barely process their banter because Toto is still working his mouth over you, his tongue slow, his hand firm at your ribs, while Lewis kisses the back of your neck and lets his palms slide down your waist to your hips.
“Still okay?” Lewis murmurs near your ear.
You nod quickly.
Toto lifts his head. “Words.”
You shiver. “Yes. I’m okay.”
“Good girl.”
The words go through you like heat.
Susie sees your reaction and makes a delighted little sound. “Oh, she likes that.”
Lewis smiles against your shoulder. “She really does.”
You would complain, but Toto chooses that moment to kneel in front of you. And every word dies.
He looks up at you from his knees, still in his shirt, his sleeves rolled up, mouth wet with champagne from your skin, eyes dark and focused.
“Hold onto Lewis,” he says.
Your fingers find Lewis’s arms behind you immediately.
“Good.”
Toto’s hands slide up your thighs, spreading them just enough. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, slow and maddening, while Lewis steadies you from behind, his mouth moving over your shoulder blades, his hands smoothing over your hips and ass with growing confidence.
You breathe in sharply when Toto’s mouth moves higher.
He does not rush. Of course he does not rush. He teases first, lips and tongue barely giving you enough, making you tremble, making you try to shift closer.
“Toto,” you whisper, needy already.
He looks up at you, smug and beautiful. “Yes?”
“You know what I want.”
“I do.” His thumb strokes slowly over your thigh. “I like hearing you ask.”
Lewis gives a low laugh behind you. “Cruel man.”
“Efficient man,” Toto corrects.
Susie moves closer then, leaving George flushed and slightly stunned behind her. She comes to stand beside you, completely unashamed, champagne shining on her own skin where Lewis had poured some moments before.
She catches your face in her hands. “Ask him,” she whispers.
Your breath shakes.
Toto’s fingers tighten on your thighs.
Lewis kisses the back of your neck. George, behind Susie, watches you like he cannot decide where to look first and has given up trying to be subtle.
You swallow. “Please,” you whisper.
Toto’s gaze sharpens. “Please what?”
You close your eyes for half a second.
Susie smiles against your mouth. “Use your words.”
You open your eyes and look down at Toto. “Please touch me.”
His smile turns dark. “There she is.”
Toto doesn’t tease anymore. His tongue slides through your wetness with slow, filthy precision, tasting you properly now, licking you open while his hands keep your thighs spread for him. Your head falls back against Lewis with a broken moan, and Susie kisses you at the same time, swallowing the sound with a pleased hum.
You try to move your hips, chasing his mouth, and he hums against your pussy like he enjoys how desperate you already are.
The vibration of it makes you jerk.
“Toto—”
He answers by sucking your clit into his mouth.
Your moan breaks louder, messier, right into Susie’s kiss. She smiles against your lips, one hand sliding into your hair as if she’s holding you together while Toto very deliberately takes you apart.
One of his hands holds your thigh open. Firm. Possessive. Unforgiving in the best way. The other slides up your body, over your stomach, to your breast, squeezing and teasing your nipple between his fingers until your whole body feels lit from the inside.
Lewis groans softly behind you. “You sound incredible.”
You moan into Susie’s mouth. She smiles.
You feel Toto’s tongue working over your clit in slow, devastating strokes, and it is too much and not enough all at once. The sight of him on his knees, the feel of Lewis behind you, Susie’s tongue against yours, George’s hands now on Susie’s waist as he kisses her shoulder — it all becomes too much and still not enough.
Toto pulls back for half a second, just enough to look up at you from between your thighs.
“You’re dripping for me,” he murmurs, voice rough and pleased. “So pretty.”
Your breath catches. Then he lowers his mouth again and licks you harder.
Your whole body arches. You grip Lewis harder.
He holds you easily. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
Toto pulls back again for one second, his mouth shining, eyes locked on yours.
“Look at me when you come.”
Your stomach flips. “Toto—”
“Look at me.”
Susie’s thumb strokes your cheek. “Do it, darling.”
George’s mouth is at Susie’s neck again, his hands sliding over her stomach, bolder now, while she watches you with parted lips and dark eyes.
Toto lowers his mouth again. The pleasure spikes. Your thighs tremble.
Lewis’s hands tighten on your hips, keeping you upright, keeping you open, keeping you exactly where Toto wants you.
“Oh God,” you gasp.
Toto hums against you, and the vibration of it makes your whole body jerk.
Susie kisses you harder. “That’s it,” she whispers against your lips. “Let go.”
And you do.
The orgasm hits sharp and hot, your body arching, your moan breaking into Susie’s mouth while Toto keeps you there, working you through it with ruthless patience. Lewis holds you through every tremor, his lips at your shoulder, murmuring praise you can barely understand. George exhales a curse against Susie’s skin, and she smiles like she has just watched something beautiful unfold.
Toto slows only when your body starts to soften. Then he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh and stands.
You stare at him, breathless, dizzy, completely ruined.
He wipes his mouth with his thumb, eyes on yours.
Lewis laughs softly behind you. “That should be illegal.”
George nods. “I support criminal charges.”
Susie reaches for Toto’s shirt, pulling him closer by the collar. “You are smug.”
“I am satisfied,” Toto says.
You manage a weak laugh. “I’m the one who came.”
His gaze drops to your mouth. “For now.”
The room goes very quiet. Then Susie laughs, low and delighted. “Oh,” she says. “Dinner is definitely over.”
Lewis takes the champagne bottle from the table and sets it aside. “Good. I was hoping dessert would continue.”
George looks at Susie, then at you, then at Toto. “I may need a moment.”
Susie turns in his arms and kisses him slowly. “You’ll keep up.”
He breathes out. “Yes, ma’am.”
You laugh, still shaking slightly, and Toto catches your chin, drawing your attention back to him.
“Still with us?” he asks, softer now, checking beneath the heat.
You nod. “Yes.”
His thumb brushes your lower lip. “Good.”
Then he kisses you again — deep, slow, tasting of champagne and you — while Lewis’s hands slide around your waist from behind, Susie presses closer at your side, and George finally stops pretending he is not starving too.
The bed waits behind you.
Toto moves first. His hands settle on your hips, warm and certain, and he guides you backward until your legs touch the edge of the mattress. He looks down at you for one slow second, eyes dark, mouth still wet from kissing you, and the sight alone makes your stomach pull tight.
“Lie down,” he says quietly.
It is not loud. It does not need to be.
Your body obeys before your pride can argue. You fall back onto the sheets, naked and flushed, your hair spreading over the pillow, your skin still sticky-sweet with champagne. Toto’s gaze follows every inch of you like he is memorizing the view.
Beside you, George does the same with Susie. He lowers her onto the bed with less control and more hunger, his mouth never leaving hers, one hand braced beside her head while the other slides over her waist. Susie laughs into the kiss, pleased and breathless, then reaches for you.
Your bodies turn toward each other naturally.
Her hand cups your jaw. “Hi,” she whispers.
You smile, dazed. “Hi.”
Then she kisses you. Soft at first, then deeper, wetter, hungrier. Your hand slides over her stomach, up her ribs, over the curve of her breast, and she makes a low sound against your mouth. Her lips leave yours and trail down to your neck, biting gently enough to make you gasp.
Across the room, clothes begin to fall.
Lewis undresses with smooth confidence, jacket already gone, shirt following quickly, dark eyes fixed on you and Susie tangled together on the bed. George is already naked beside Susie, flushed and hard, staring at both of you like he has forgotten every polite thought he has ever had.
Toto takes his time. Cruel man.
His eyes never leave you as he unbuttons his shirt. One button. Then another. Then another.
You are lying there with Susie’s mouth at your neck, your hand moving over her body, and still you cannot stop looking at him.
Susie notices. Her smile curves against your skin.
“Oh,” she murmurs, just loud enough for him to hear. “My husband wants to fuck you.”
Your breath catches. Toto pauses with his shirt open, his chest bare, his belt still fastened.
His eyes sharpen. “Susie.”
“What?” she says sweetly, kissing your jaw. “She’s staring at you like she wants to be eaten alive.”
Lewis laughs, low and amused, stepping closer to the bed. “She has a point.”
George, completely naked now and shameless about it, grips Susie’s thigh and leans over her. “For the record,” he says, voice rough, “I’ll fuck both of you.”
Susie turns her head toward him, eyes bright with heat. “Ambitious.”
George kisses her hard. “Motivated.”
Lewis’s laugh turns darker as he climbs onto the bed beside you. “Careful, George. Big promises.”
George’s mouth moves down Susie’s neck. “I intend to keep them.”
You barely have time to breathe before Lewis is kissing you. He is warm, naked, confident, his body pressing close to yours as his mouth opens against yours. One of his hands slides up your side and cups your breast, thumb teasing your nipple slowly, and you moan into his mouth before you can stop yourself.
Toto hears it. You know he does. Because his belt opens with a sharp metallic sound.
Your eyes fly to him. His shirt drops to the floor. Then his trousers.
He undresses like he knows you are watching and wants to make it worse. Slow, precise, controlled, until he stands fully naked at the foot of the bed, hard and heavy, his gaze locked on your mouth.
A sound slips from you. Completely involuntary.
Toto smiles. “There she is,” he murmurs.
Lewis kisses down your throat, his hand still working your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until you arch into him. His other hand slides between your thighs, teasing, testing, feeling how wet you already are.
“Fuck,” Lewis breathes against your skin. “You’re soaked.”
You moan, but your eyes are still on Toto. Always on Toto.
Beside you, George pushes Susie’s thighs apart and moves over her. She grips his shoulders, breath already uneven, lips parted, her eyes flicking between him and you like she wants to watch everything at once.
Then George enters her.
Susie cries out, head falling back against the pillow. “Oh— George— yes.”
The sound makes your whole body clench.
George groans into her neck, his hips starting slow, then harder when she drags her nails down his back and pulls him closer.
“Yes,” Susie gasps, breasts moving with each thrust, her voice rough and beautiful. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
George does not stop. He moves faster, rougher, losing his nerves and finding hunger, and Susie’s moans fill the room while Lewis’s fingers slide through your wetness and press exactly where you need him.
Your hips jerk. “Toto,” you breathe without meaning to.
Toto steps closer. His hand wraps around his cock, stroking once, slow and deliberate, eyes fixed on your face.
“You want something?” he asks.
Your mouth goes dry.
Lewis laughs softly, fingers still teasing you. “I think she does.”
Toto comes to the side of the bed, towering over you, naked and devastating, the control in his face hanging by a thread. He reaches down and catches your chin, forcing your gaze up to his.
“If you’re going to stare,” he murmurs, “make yourself useful.”
Heat punches through you. You sit up immediately, Lewis’s body still pressed behind yours, his hand between your thighs, his mouth at your shoulder.
Toto guides your face closer. “Open.”
You do.
You take his cock into your mouth slowly, eyes lifting to his, and Toto’s composure cracks at the first slide of your lips around him. His hand tightens in your hair, not forcing, just holding, grounding, while a low groan slips from his throat.
“Mein Gott,” he breathes. “Good girl.”
The praise goes straight through you.
At the same moment, Lewis shifts behind you. His hands grip your hips, spreading you, and then he pushes into you from behind in one slow, deep motion.
You moan around Toto’s cock.
Toto’s jaw tightens, his eyes darkening as he feels the sound vibrate through him.
Lewis groans against your back. “Fuck, she feels incredible.”
Toto’s hand slides from your hair to your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin as you take him deeper.
“Look at me,” he says, voice rough.
You do.
Your eyes stay locked on his as Lewis starts moving behind you, slow at first, then building a rhythm that makes your whole body rock forward onto Toto. Every thrust pushes you deeper onto him, and Toto watches you with a kind of dark, possessive hunger that makes you wetter around Lewis.
Beside you, Susie is falling apart beautifully.
George fucks her harder now, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangled in the sheets beside her head. Susie clings to him, moaning his name, her eyes half-open and fixed on you taking Toto while Lewis takes you from behind.
“Oh, she looks perfect like that,” Susie breathes.
Toto groans.
Lewis laughs, breathless and low. “She feels perfect too.”
You whimper around Toto, overwhelmed by all of it — his weight on your tongue, Lewis filling you from behind, Susie’s moans beside you, George’s rough curses as he drives into her.
Toto’s thumb strokes your cheek. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it. Let him fuck you while you keep your mouth on me.”
Your body trembles.
Lewis’s hand slides to your stomach, holding you against him as he thrusts deeper.
“You like that?” he murmurs near your ear. “Being between us?”
You cannot answer. Your mouth is full of Toto. So you moan.
Toto smiles. “She likes it.”
George curses under his breath, looking at you and Susie like the sight is pushing him closer to the edge.
Susie reaches for your hand.
You find hers blindly on the sheets, fingers tangling together while both of you are taken, watched, adored. She squeezes your hand, and when George changes his angle, she cries out, body arching, nails digging into his back.
“Yes— George— fuck, yes—”
Her pleasure drags yours higher.
Lewis feels it. His hand slips between your thighs, fingers finding your clit, circling with maddening precision while he keeps fucking you from behind.
Your moan turns broken around Toto.
Toto’s eyes narrow. “There,” he says softly. “That’s my girl.”
Your thighs shake.
Lewis groans, hips snapping harder. “She’s close.”
Toto’s hand tightens in your hair.
“Are you?” he asks. “Are you going to come with my cock in your mouth and Lewis inside you?”
Your eyes water. You nod as much as you can.
“Good,” Toto says, voice wrecked now. “Then do it.”
Lewis rubs your clit harder.
Your body snaps.
The orgasm tears through you, hot and overwhelming, your cunt clenching around Lewis as you moan helplessly around Toto’s cock. Your whole body shakes between them, Susie’s hand squeezing yours as she cries out beside you, coming under George with a broken, beautiful sound.
George groans loudly and follows her, hips stuttering, face buried against her neck.
Lewis swears behind you, still moving, dragging your orgasm out until you are trembling and oversensitive.
Toto pulls back just enough to let you breathe, his hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing over your wet lower lip.
“You look ruined,” he murmurs.
You gasp for air, flushed and shaking.
“Good.”
Lewis laughs against your shoulder. “Very good.”
Susie turns her head toward you, hair messy, cheeks flushed, mouth curved in a lazy, satisfied smile.
“Still hungry?” she asks.
You laugh weakly.
Toto’s eyes drop to your mouth again.
“Oh, Schatz” he says, voice low and dangerous. “We are nowhere near finished.”
Lewis presses a kiss between your shoulder blades.
George lifts his head from Susie’s neck, breathless and grinning. “Thank God.”
Susie laughs.
Toto’s hand slides back into your hair.
Lewis’s grip tightens on your hips. And then Lewis loses the last piece of control he had been pretending to own.
His rhythm turns rougher for a few seconds, his forehead dropping against the back of your shoulder, a low groan tearing out of him as he comes inside you. His hands hold you firmly against him, fingers pressing into your hips while his body shudders through it.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You’re dangerous.”
You are still trembling, still trying to breathe, still feeling the aftershocks of your own orgasm rolling through you when Toto’s fingers tighten gently in your hair.
He pulls his cock from your mouth slowly, his eyes locked on your face.
For one second, he just looks at you. Your lips wet. Your cheeks flushed. Your body still held by Lewis from behind.
His expression turns darker. Hungrier. “That was very pretty,” Toto murmurs.
Your breath catches.
Lewis laughs softly behind you, still inside you, still catching his breath. “Only pretty?”
Toto’s gaze flicks to him. “Careful.”
Lewis grins and eases out of you slowly, his hands rubbing over your hips in soothing strokes when you shiver. He presses one kiss between your shoulder blades, warm and satisfied, then shifts aside.
“Please,” Lewis says, amused, breathless, and far too pleased with himself. “Be my guest.”
Toto smiles. It is not kind. It is not polite. It is devastating.
“Time for me,” he says.
Your whole body reacts.
Lewis laughs under his breath and reaches for Susie, pulling her gently toward him where she lies flushed and breathing heavily beside you. She goes willingly, still soft and loose from George, her hair a mess, her lips swollen, her smile wicked.
George, stretched nearby and still shamelessly pleased with himself, watches with dark eyes while his hand moves lazily over his own cock, slow and unhurried now, like he has every intention of enjoying the show before taking part again.
Susie settles against Lewis’s chest, her eyes drifting to you as Toto moves between your thighs.
“Oh,” she murmurs, voice silky. “There he is.”
Toto leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding along your thigh, opening you for him with maddening confidence.
You look up at him, breathless.
He is fully naked above you. Tall, broad, flushed with restraint, his cock hard and heavy between his thighs. His eyes are fixed on you like nothing else in the room exists.
And somehow, despite Lewis still kissing Susie beside you, despite George stroking himself while he watches, despite the ruined sheets and champagne on your skin — Toto makes the room feel smaller. Owned. Centered around the space between your bodies.
He lowers his mouth to yours. The kiss is slow at first. Too slow. Cruel.
Your hands fly to his shoulders, nails dragging lightly over his skin as he settles his weight between your thighs. His body presses against yours, warm and solid, and when his cock drags through the mess of you — Lewis still inside you, your own wetness, the heat left behind by every touch — you moan into Toto’s mouth.
He groans back. Deep. Controlled only by force.
“Mein Gott,” he mutters against your lips. “Look at you.”
Your hips lift toward him. “Toto…”
His hand catches your thigh and pushes it higher around his waist.
“Already needy again?”
You nod, shameless now. “Yes.”
Lewis laughs softly from beside you. “She barely got a minute.”
Susie, curled against Lewis, watches with heavy-lidded eyes. “She does not need a minute. Look at her.”
George exhales, his hand tightening around himself. “I am looking.”
Toto’s eyes do not leave yours. “Good,” he says. “Then watch properly.”
He lines himself up.
Your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.
Toto sees it and kisses you once, softer now, a quick, grounding touch. “Still with me?” he asks.
You nod. “Yes.”
“Words.”
“Yes,” you whisper. “I want you.”
His control slips for one beautiful second.
Then he pushes into you. Slow. Deep. Possessive.
You cry out, hands gripping his shoulders, your body stretching around him while he fills you with agonizing patience. He does not rush. He gives you every inch like he wants you to feel the difference, like he wants everyone in the room to see exactly what happens to you when it is him.
Your head falls back. “Toto—”
“I know,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I know, Schatz.”
He bottoms out and stills. Just for a moment. Enough to make you feel him everywhere. Enough to make your thighs tremble around his hips.
Enough to make Susie’s breath catch beside you.
Lewis murmurs, “Fuck, that’s a sight.”
George groans. “You’re telling me.”
Toto turns his head just slightly, his mouth near your ear. “They’re watching you,” he says quietly. “All of them.”
Your body clenches around him.
He feels it. His laugh is low and dark. “Oh, you liked that.”
You whimper. “Toto— please—”
His hips draw back. Slowly. Then he thrusts forward. Hard enough to knock the breath from you.
The moan that leaves you is loud, helpless, completely ruined.
Susie smiles from beside Lewis, her hand sliding over his chest while she watches you fall apart beneath her husband.
“There,” she whispers. “That is what she wanted.”
Toto starts moving. Deep. Measured. Relentless.
His hands hold your thighs apart, keeping you open beneath him while he fucks you with that devastating precision that makes your entire body feel like it belongs to him. Every thrust is controlled at first, each one pushing a sound from your throat, each one making the bed shift beneath you.
You can feel Lewis’s come inside you mixing with your own wetness, making every stroke slicker, filthier, hotter.
Toto feels it too. His jaw tightens.
“Fuck,” he breathes, rare and rough. “You feel so good like this.”
Your nails scrape down his back.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Toto, yes—”
He lowers himself closer, his chest pressing to yours, his mouth catching yours in a kiss that turns messy almost instantly. You taste champagne, heat, him. Your legs lock around his waist, pulling him deeper, and his rhythm falters for half a second before he growls softly against your mouth.
“Greedy girl.”
You nod against him, beyond shame.
“Yes.”
George laughs breathlessly from the side. “At least she’s honest.”
Susie reaches out and brushes her fingers over your cheek, her eyes soft and wicked at once.
“She always was.”
Lewis kisses Susie’s shoulder, one hand sliding between her thighs as she hums and arches lightly against him, still watching you.
Toto lifts his head. His eyes are darker now. Less controlled.
“Look at me.”
You force your eyes open.
He thrusts deeper. Your mouth falls open.
“That’s it,” he says. “Keep looking at me while I fuck you.”
A broken moan leaves you.
George curses softly. Lewis goes quiet, focused now, his fingers moving against Susie as she starts breathing harder again.
But Toto keeps your attention. He owns it. Every time your eyes threaten to drift shut, his hand catches your jaw.
“Eyes open.”
You obey.
Your body is oversensitive, used, adored, pushed close to the edge again far too quickly. His cock hits deep, each thrust harder than the last, and you can barely form words anymore.
“Toto— oh God—”
He smiles, but it is strained now, his own breath turning rough.
“There she is. My pretty girl.”
Your body tightens. The praise ruins you.
He feels it instantly. “You’re close again.”
You nod frantically.
“Say it.”
“I’m close,” you gasp. “Toto, I’m so close—”
Susie moans beside you, Lewis’s fingers working her steadily while she watches you. “Come for him.”
George’s hand moves faster over himself. “Fuck, yes, come for him.”
Toto’s mouth drops to your ear. “Come on my cock,” he murmurs. “Let them see.”
That breaks you.
Your orgasm crashes through you with brutal force, your back arching off the bed, your thighs shaking around his waist as you come around him. You cry out his name, loud and shameless, fingers digging into his shoulders while pleasure tears through your body.
Toto groans, his rhythm turning rougher as you clench around him.
“Mein Gott— yes— just like that.”
He fucks you through it, not letting up, drawing every last tremor out of you until you are sobbing his name into the heated air.
Lewis groans beside you as Susie comes under his hand, her body curling against him, her eyes locked on you and Toto.
George curses and spills over his own hand, his gaze fixed on the way Toto keeps moving inside you.
The room falls apart all at once.
Toto is the last to break. His thrusts grow deeper, less precise, his forehead dropping to yours as his hand grips your thigh hard enough to anchor both of you.
“Where?” he breathes, voice wrecked.
“Inside,” you gasp without hesitation. “Please— inside.”
His control snaps.
He drives into you one last time and comes deep, a low, broken groan tearing from his chest as his body tenses over yours. You feel him fill you, hot and pulsing, his breath shaking against your mouth as he rides it out with small, heavy movements.
For a few seconds, nobody speaks. Only breathing. Skin. Heat. The quiet ruin of all of you.
Toto stays inside you, his weight carefully held above you, one hand stroking your thigh now, softer, gentler.
Then he kisses you. Slow. Tender. A complete betrayal of the way he just took you apart.
“You okay?” he whispers.
You nod, dazed. “Yes.”
His thumb brushes your cheek. “Good girl.”
You laugh weakly. “Do not say that again unless you want me to combust.”
Susie laughs from beside you, still tucked against Lewis. “Too late.”
Lewis kisses her temple. “She combusted beautifully.”
George flops back against the pillows, ruined and grinning. “I need another dinner invitation.”
Toto turns his head slowly. “Absolutely not.”
You all laugh.
And somehow, with Toto still close, Susie’s hand finding yours again, Lewis warm at her back, and George looking like he has just survived the best disaster of his life, the room softens.
The filth fades into warmth. The chaos becomes closeness.
Toto presses another kiss to your forehead. “You are staying right here,” he murmurs.
You smile, exhausted and glowing. “Bossy.”
His mouth curves. “Accurate.”
Outside, Monaco glittered on.
Inside, dinner had been forgotten, dessert had become a scandal, and nobody looked even slightly sorry.
hi!! i was wondering if you could do a Toto Wolff x Wife!TeamPrincipalFerrari!Reader story on how they met! love ur writing as always <333 reallyyyyy fluffy if you can, thanks!!
The Beginning of Everything
🐺 main masterlist | Enemies on Track, Lovers at Home
Toto Wolff x Wife!TeamPrincipalFerrari!Reader
Summary: Before you were his wife, before Ferrari, before the chaos became family tradition, you were the new Mercedes strategy engineer who dared to argue with Toto Wolff in your first week. Toto was divorced, dating a Miss Austria type, and very sure he had his life under control. Then you walked into Brackley, challenged his call in front of Niki Lauda, and ruined his peace forever.
Warnings: pre-relationship, workplace tension, age gap (10 years), Toto dating someone else at the beginning, witty banter, Niki Lauda matchmaking, slow-burn, no cheating.
Word count: 2.6k
a/n: This is a universe where Toto was never with Susie — he’s divorced from his first wife, has Ben and Rosa, and around the time he becomes Mercedes team principal, he’s dating a model and Miss Austria. So yes, I’m bending reality a little… but hey, it’s my universe, so I can 😉 and Niki Lauda is there too!
The first time you met Toto Wolff, you told him he was wrong.
In your defense, he was.
It was your fourth day at Mercedes, your second strategy meeting, and the first time anyone had let you sit close enough to the main table to do more than quietly absorb information and pretend your pulse was not trying to escape through your throat.
You were young, new, and very aware that this room contained people who had forgotten more about Formula 1 than most people ever learned.
And then there was Toto. Sharp-eyed, three years into running Mercedes, already with that terrifying calm authority that made grown men suddenly remember they had urgent emails to check.
Beside him sat Niki Lauda, cap on, face unreadable, eyes very much not unreadable.
He had noticed you the second you walked in. Of course he had. Niki noticed everything.
The discussion was about tyre strategy for the upcoming race, and someone had just presented a model that looked neat, logical, polished, and in your opinion, painfully optimistic.
Toto leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
“So we commit to Plan A unless degradation exceeds threshold by lap eighteen.”
Several heads nodded. You looked at the data. Then at the weather model. Then at the track evolution estimates. Then back at Toto.
Your mouth opened before your survival instincts could stop you. “That’s too late.”
Silence. Beautiful, career-ending silence.
Every person at the table turned toward you.
Toto’s eyes landed on you slowly. “I’m sorry?”
You sat up a little straighter.
“That threshold should trigger by lap fourteen, not eighteen.”
Someone coughed. Niki’s eyebrow lifted.
Toto didn’t move.
“And you are basing that on?”
You clicked to the next slide before anyone could confiscate your laptop.
“Track temperature variance, rear-left wear from last year, and the fact that our sim assumes clean air for too many laps. If we wait until lap eighteen, we’ll be reacting, not controlling.”
Another silence. Different this time.
Toto stared at the screen. Then at you.
“You’ve been here four days.”
“Yes.”
“And you already want to rewrite the strategy model.”
“Only the wrong part.”
Somebody at the end of the table made a tiny sound that was either horror or admiration. Niki leaned back, mouth twitching.
Toto’s gaze sharpened.
“You think it is that simple?”
“No,” you said. “I think pretending it isn’t obvious makes it complicated.”
That was when Niki laughed. Enough to ruin the tension completely.
Toto turned his head. “Something funny?”
Niki pointed at you with his pen. “I like her.”
You tried not to look too pleased. Failed.
Toto looked back at you, expression carefully controlled. “Noted.”
It sounded like a warning. It felt like a beginning.
*
For the next three weeks, you and Toto disagreed professionally. Aggressively professionally.
You disagreed about pit windows. You disagreed about risk tolerance. You disagreed about whether “marginally possible” meant “worth attempting” or “absolutely not unless you wanted everyone in the garage to age ten years.”
Niki loved it. He loved it far too much. Every time Toto walked into a strategy briefing and found you already prepared with a counterargument, Niki’s entire mood improved.
“Good,” he said once, watching you challenge Toto over undercut probability. “Now he has someone who does not nod like a donkey.”
Toto shot him a look. Niki ignored it. You, unfortunately, laughed.
Toto turned that look on you. You stopped laughing. Mostly.
“You find this amusing?” he asked.
“A little.”
“Dangerous answer.”
“I work in strategy. I like danger.”
“No,” he said dryly. “You like giving me headaches.”
Niki pointed between you two. “This,” he said, “is better than television.”
At first, you told yourself Toto irritated you.
That was safe.
He was older than you by ten years. Your boss. Divorced. Father of two. Recently photographed with a woman who looked like she had been assembled by a luxury skincare brand and crowned Miss Austria just to prove a point.
He was not someone you were supposed to notice.
So you noticed practical things. His handwriting on printed reports. The way he went quiet before making a decision. The way people listened when he spoke. The way he never raised his voice unless he had already run out of patience with stupidity. The way he said your name when you annoyed him. Especially that.
You hated that. You liked that. Which was worse.
Toto, for his part, seemed determined to treat you like a professional inconvenience. A smart one. A useful one. An attractive one.
No.
You refused that thought immediately. You were not doing this. Except sometimes you caught him watching you after meetings when he thought you were focused on your laptop.
Sometimes his eyes stayed on you half a second too long. Sometimes your arguments became less about the car and more about whether either of you could get the last word.
“You are impossible,” he told you after one particularly brutal debrief.
You gathered your papers.
“You say that like it’s a flaw.”
“It is a workplace hazard.”
“You hired me.”
“I am reconsidering.”
“You’d be bored.”
He looked at you then. And for one brief second, the room seemed to shrink around the two of you.
Then Niki’s voice came from the doorway. “He would.”
You and Toto both turned.
Niki stood there, unimpressed and delighted. “He was boring before you came,” he added.
Toto sighed. “Niki.”
“What? It is true.”
You pressed your lips together, fighting a smile.
Toto noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Back to work,” he said.
“Yes, boss.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. Niki laughed all the way down the corridor.
*
The Miss Austria girlfriend appeared at a Monaco event in a gold dress and perfect hair.
You knew this because you were there with Mercedes, wearing a black jumpsuit, heels that were beginning to feel like a personal betrayal, and the expression of a woman trying to network while secretly wishing she could be back in the data room.
She was beautiful. Obviously. Elegant. Polished. Camera-ready.
She touched Toto’s arm while he spoke to sponsors, smiled up at him, laughed at the right moments.
You watched for exactly three seconds too long. Then looked away.
Niki appeared beside you with champagne.
“No,” you said immediately.
He held the glass out. “You need it.”
“I’m working.”
“You are staring.”
“I am observing.”
“Same thing when stupid.”
You took the champagne.
“I’m not stupid.”
“No,” Niki said. “That is the problem.”
You frowned at him.
He nodded toward Toto across the room.
“He watches you too.”
Your heart did something very unprofessional. “He does not.”
Niki snorted. “I have eyes. Also, I am not dead.”
“Niki.”
“What?”
“He has a girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“And I work for him.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s ten years older.”
Niki waved a hand. “Ten years is nothing. In Formula 1 that is one bad regulation cycle.”
You nearly choked on your champagne. “Niki.”
He looked pleased with himself.
Across the room, Toto glanced over. His eyes found you. Then Niki. Then the champagne in your hand. His expression shifted. Not much but enough.
You looked away first. Which annoyed you for the rest of the evening.
*
The thing with Toto did not happen all at once. That would have been too easy.
It happened in pieces. Small ones. A coffee left on your desk after a brutal late-night sim session. No note. Just your exact order. You knew it was him anyway.
A message at 1:13 a.m.
Toto: Your tyre model was correct. Don’t look too pleased tomorrow.
You replied:
You: No promises.
He sent back:
Toto: Unfortunately expected.
Then there was Silverstone. Rain threatened all weekend, the pit wall was tense, and your call during the race saved Mercedes from losing track position.
Afterward, the garage exploded. People clapped your shoulder. Someone hugged you. An engineer shouted your name.
You turned, breathless, and found Toto standing a few feet away. He didn’t cheer. He didn’t need to. He just looked at you with quiet pride so direct it made your chest tighten.
“Well done,” he said.
Two words. Ridiculous.
You thought about them all night.
After that, something changed. Not publicly. Never publicly. But in the margins. His hand at your lower back when guiding you through a crowded paddock. Your shoulder brushing his in narrow corridors. His eyes finding yours across the garage after a risky call landed perfectly. Your voice softer when you said his name after midnight in strategy rooms empty enough to feel dangerous.
And Niki, always watching. Always smirking.
One evening in Brackley, after Toto left the room to take a call, Niki looked at you over his glasses.
“You know he ended it.”
You froze. “With who?”
He gave you a flat look. “With the Queen of Austria. Who do you think?”
You nearly dropped your pen. “That’s none of my business.”
“Everything is your business. You are strategy.”
You stared at your notes. “I’m not discussing Toto’s private life.”
“Good. Then discuss yours.”
“My private life is boring.”
“Not for long.”
You looked up at him sharply.
Niki smiled like a menace. “I am old. I can say these things.”
“You’re impossible.”
“No. I am right.”
Unfortunately, Niki Lauda often was. Terrible habit.
*
Toto confessed after a race you lost.
That was the funny part. Not after a victory. Not after champagne. Not under fireworks or podium lights. After a messy race where Mercedes finished lower than expected, half the pit wall wanted to murder the weather radar, and you had spent twenty minutes in a debrief arguing with Toto so intensely that one of the junior engineers looked like he wanted to crawl under the table.
When the room finally emptied, you stayed behind to gather your things. Toto stayed too.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then you said, “You were wrong about the second stop.”
He exhaled slowly. “Are we really doing this now?”
“Yes.”
He turned toward you. “You also pushed too hard on the first stint estimate.”
“Because the data supported it.”
“The data was incomplete.”
“The decision window was closing.”
“And your ego was driving.”
You looked up.“My ego?”
“Yes.”
You stepped closer. “That is very interesting coming from you.”
His eyes darkened slightly. “Careful.”
“Or what?”
The silence that followed had nothing to do with strategy.
Your pulse changed. So did his.
He looked at you for a long moment, the argument fading into something heavier, something both of you had been walking around for months.
Then he said, very quietly, “I cannot keep doing this.”
Your stomach dropped. You straightened. “Doing what?”
“This.”
His hand moved once between you, sharp with frustration.
“The arguments that are not only arguments. The looks. The late nights. The way I think about what you will say before you say it. The way I look for you in every room before I remember I should not.”
Your breath caught. “Toto…”
“No,” he said, voice low, controlled, but not cold. Never cold. “Let me say it once, properly, before one of us hides behind work again.”
You went still. He stepped closer.
“I ended my relationship because it was not fair to her. Or to me.” His jaw tightened. “And because somewhere between you telling me I was wrong in your first meeting and proving it repeatedly afterward, I started wanting a life that made no practical sense.”
You swallowed. “That sounds inefficient.”
His mouth twitched despite everything. “Very.”
You tried to smile. It came out shaky.
He saw it. His expression softened.
“I know this is complicated,” he said. “I know I am your boss. I know I am older. I know people would talk. I know all the reasons we should be careful.”
“And yet?”
“And yet,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “I am in love with you.”
The world went very quiet.
You had imagined many things. Arguing with him. Beating him in strategy meetings. Making him laugh when he tried not to. Maybe, stupidly, hearing him say something almost like this one day.
But actually hearing it? That was different. That knocked all the air from your lungs.
“You are?” you whispered.
His brow lifted faintly, that familiar dry humor returning just enough to steady you both.
“That was generally the meaning of the sentence, yes.”
You laughed. Softly. Helplessly. Then your eyes stung, which was deeply inconvenient.
“Toto.”
“I don’t expect an answer now.”
“Good, because my brain has briefly left the building.”
His smile was small. Tender. The kind you had only ever seen by accident.
“I only needed you to know.”
You looked at him then. At the man who annoyed you. Challenged you. Protected the team like it was an extension of his own body. Stayed too late. Noticed too much. Made you furious. Made you better. Made you feel seen in a way that was almost unbearable.
“I’m in love with you too,” you said.
He went still. Completely. For once, Toto Wolff had no immediate response.
And you liked that very much.
Then he stepped closer, slow enough to give you space, close enough to make your heart pound.
“Say that again.”
You smiled. “No.”
His eyes narrowed. “No?”
“You heard me.”
“I did,” he said, voice lower now. “I want to hear it again.”
You tilted your head.“Bossy.”
“Always.”
You should have said something clever. You really should have. Instead, you rose onto your toes and kissed him.
For half a second, he didn’t move. Then his hand came to your waist, careful but firm, and he kissed you back like a man who had been holding his breath for months and finally remembered how to breathe.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“This will be difficult,” he murmured.
You smiled.
“You run Mercedes. I rewrite your strategies. We’ll survive.”
He let out a quiet laugh.
From the doorway, a voice said, “Finally.”
You both froze. Niki stood there, arms crossed, looking deeply satisfied and not even slightly apologetic.
You closed your eyes. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.”
Toto sighed. “Niki.”
“What?” Niki said. “You were both taking too long. I am old. I don’t have time.”
You hid your face against Toto’s chest because laughing openly at your boss after kissing him seemed like a questionable career move.
Toto’s hand stayed at your waist. That told you everything.
Niki pointed at him. “You. Don’t be stupid.”
Then at you. “You. Keep telling him when he is wrong.”
You looked up, smiling despite yourself.
“I can do that.”
“I know,” Niki said. “That is why I like you.”
Then he turned and walked away as if he had personally solved the greatest operational challenge in Mercedes history.
Maybe he had.
Toto looked down at you. “You realize he will be unbearable now.”
“He already was.”
“True.”
You smoothed one hand over his shirt, suddenly shy again in the aftermath.
“So… what now?”
His expression softened.
“Now,” he said, brushing his thumb gently along your waist, “we do this properly. Slowly. Carefully.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Carefully?”
He gave you a look.
“I am capable of being careful.”
“Debatable.”
“You are impossible.”
You smiled.
“You keep saying that.”
“And yet,” he murmured, leaning closer, “I seem to like impossible things.”
This time, when he kissed you, you smiled against his mouth.
Outside the room, Mercedes carried on.
The season continued. The paddock would talk eventually. Life would become complicated, because of course it would.
But for that one moment, before the headlines, before the marriage, before Ferrari red ever entered the story... there was only you, Toto, and the beginning of everything.
And somewhere down the corridor, Niki was probably already telling someone he had seen it coming.
Summary: When you become part of the Artemis II crew and fly around the Moon, Toto discovers that Formula 1 is actually a very relaxing sport compared to watching his wife leave Earth on top of a rocket.
Warnings: age gap (35/54), space mission anxiety, emotional husband Toto, happy ending, Susie as reader’s best friend, Mercedes family chaos.
Music theme: I Don't Want To Miss A Thing – Aerosmith (fun fact: Armageddon, the movie this song comes from, is Toto's fav movie)
Word count: 5k
a/n: based on request.
I could stay awake just to hear you breathingWatch you smile while you are sleepingWhile you're far away and dreaming
I could spend my life in this sweet surrenderI could stay lost in this moment foreverWell, every moment spend with youIs a moment I treasure
I don't wanna close my eyesI don't wanna fall asleep'Cause I'd miss you, babyAnd I don't want to miss a thing
I Don't Want To Miss A Thing - Aerosmith
You tell Toto over dinner.
Which, in hindsight, is brave. Possibly reckless. Definitely the kind of decision that makes Susie later say, “You told him while he was holding a steak knife?”
To be fair, he is only cutting asparagus when you say it.
“Toto?”
He looks up from his plate. “Hm?”
You sit across from him at the kitchen table, your foot brushing his under it. Outside, Vienna is slipping into evening. Inside, everything is warm, quiet, safe. For about twelve more seconds.
You take a breath. “I got selected.”
His fork stops halfway to his mouth. His eyes sharpen at once. “For what?”
You smile, but your stomach flips. “For Artemis II.”
Silence. A very Toto kind of silence. Heavy. Controlled. Terrifyingly intelligent.
He puts the fork down. Slowly.
“You mean,” he says, voice careful, “the Artemis II mission.”
“Yes.”
“The NASA mission.”
“Yes.”
“The mission around the Moon.”
You nod. “That one.”
He stares at you.
You try to look calm. You are an astronaut. You have trained for emergencies, simulations, water survival, pressure failures, public speaking, and sitting through government briefings without losing the will to live.
Still, Toto Wolff, your husband, staring at you across a dinner table is a separate survival category.
“You are going to the Moon,” he says.
“Around the Moon,” you correct gently. “We’re not landing.”
His expression does not change.
“Oh, excellent,” he says dryly. “That makes leaving Earth on top of a rocket much more relaxing.”
You bite your lip. That is dangerous, because you are trying very hard not to laugh.
“Toto.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No as in I heard you. No as in I am processing. No as in my soul has left my body and is requesting a lawyer.”
You reach across the table and take his hand. His fingers close around yours at once.
“I wanted to tell you before the official announcement.”
His eyes drop to your joined hands. For a moment, the humor fades.
“When?” he asks.
“Training ramps up next month. Launch window is still being finalized.”
He nods once. Practical. Automatic. Then his gaze comes back to yours. “You accepted?”
You squeeze his hand.
“I said yes.”
His jaw works. You see it then. The flash under the surface. Pride. Fear. Love. All fighting for space in a man who prefers his emotions organized into spreadsheets.
“You said yes,” he repeats.
“I’ve trained for this my whole life.”
“I know.”
“This is history.”
“I know.”
“I’m thirty-five, Toto. I know what I’m doing.”
His eyes soften. “I know that too.”
The words are quiet. Honest. Worse than if he had shouted.
You stand, walk around the table, and sit on his lap because some conversations are too large to have across dinner plates.
He accepts you immediately. One arm goes around your waist, the other hand rising to your face.
“I’m proud of you,” he says.
Your throat tightens. “Already?”
“Always.”
You smile through sudden tears. “You’re very sweet for a man who looked like he wanted to arrest me two minutes ago.”
“I still might.”
“You can’t arrest your wife.”
“I have lawyers.”
“You are not suing NASA.”
“I have not ruled it out.”
You laugh, and he presses his forehead to yours. Then his hand tightens slightly at your waist.
“Challenger,” he says.
Your chest aches. You knew that name would come. You nod. “I know.”
“And Columbia.”
“I know.”
His eyes close for a second. “I watched those reports. I remember what happened. Everyone remembers.”
You touch his cheek.
“This isn’t the same.”
“No,” he says. “But risk does not care how much time has passed.”
There he is. Your Toto. The man who understands machines, danger, systems, pressure. The man who lives in a world where one wrong angle, one wrong call, one failed part can change everything.
In Formula 1, he can react. In space, he can only watch. That is what will hurt him most.
“I’ll come back,” you whisper.
He opens his eyes. “You do not get to say that like it is simple.”
“It isn’t simple.”
“Good.”
“But I’ll come back.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he kisses your hand. “You better.”
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“You know, for a man who spends race weekends watching people drive at three hundred kilometers per hour, you’re taking this very personally.”
“Cars stay on the ground.”
“Usually.”
His stare goes flat.
You grin. “Sorry.”
“No, you are not.”
“No, I’m not.”
He sighs, pulling you closer.
“My wife is going around the Moon,” he says, as if testing the sentence.
You smile. “Yes.”
“One of the first women to do it.”
“Yes.”
He looks at you with something bright and helpless in his eyes. “My wife.”
Your heart melts. You lean in and kiss him softly.
“Yes,” you whisper against his mouth. “Your wife.”
*
The months before launch turn Toto into a man with a NASA folder. A physical one. Black. Labeled. Organized.
You find it in his office one evening and stare at it for ten full seconds before calling Susie.
“He has a NASA folder.”
Susie laughs so hard she has to put the phone down. When she finally comes back, she says, “Of course he has a NASA folder.”
“It has tabs.”
“Darling, he probably has backup tabs.”
“He has a section called ‘Questions.’”
“Oh no.”
“There are thirty-seven.”
“Oh God.”
You open the folder. The first question is: Who defines acceptable risk and can they be contacted directly?
You close the folder.
“I’m hiding this,” you say.
Susie is still laughing. “No, don’t. This is love in Toto language.”
“It’s mild international harassment.”
“It can be both.”
Toto finds you twenty minutes later, standing in his office with the folder under your arm.
His eyes narrow. “You found it.”
“Yes.”
“It is private.”
“It says NASA on the front in capital letters.”
“It is organized.”
“It is unhinged.”
“It is research.”
“You asked if the heat shield had ‘sufficient emotional intelligence.’”
“That was a joke.”
“You wrote it in blue ink.”
“I joke professionally.”
You walk to him and tap the folder against his chest. “You trust me?”
His face changes. “Completely.”
“You trust my crew?”
“Yes.”
“You trust the engineers?”
His pause is tiny. You lift your brows.
He exhales. “Yes.”
“Good. Then no more threatening NASA.”
“I have not threatened NASA.”
“Toto.”
“I asked questions.”
“You asked whether you could attend a technical review.”
“That is a normal question.”
“You are not an aerospace engineer.”
“I understand performance systems.”
“You run a Formula 1 team.”
“Exactly.”
You stare at him. He stares back. Then you both start laughing.
It is easy to laugh like this before launch. Before the countdown. Before the silence. Before the sky takes you from him.
*
Launch day arrives too quickly.
Kennedy Space Center feels unreal. Too bright. Too historic. Too full of people trying to act normal while standing near a rocket powerful enough to shake the bones of the Earth.
You stand in your flight suit with the rest of the crew, smiling for pictures, answering questions, breathing through the weight of it all.
Then you see Toto. He stands with Susie near the family area, tall, composed, perfectly dressed. Terrified.
Nobody else would notice. You do.
Susie notices too. She leans toward him and says something. He answers without looking away from you.
You excuse yourself and walk over.
“Well,” you say, stopping in front of him, “you look like you’re enjoying space exploration.”
His eyes move over your face. “You look too calm.”
“I am calm.”
“That is what worries me.”
Susie smiles. “I told him not to start a diplomatic incident.”
“Thank you,” you say.
“I made no promises,” Toto says.
You reach for his hands. They are warm. His grip is controlled, but only barely.
“Toto.”
He looks down at your joined hands.
“I am fine.”
“You are absolutely not fine.”
“No,” Susie says pleasantly. “He has had three coffees and one sip of water.”
You turn your head slowly.
He looks betrayed. “Susie.”
“She’s my best friend. I report crimes.”
You look back at him. “One sip?”
“It was a large sip.”
“You are impossible.”
“You are going to space.”
“That is not an excuse for dehydration.”
“It is today.”
You want to laugh. You also want to cry. Instead, you step closer and smooth your hands over his chest.
“I love you,” you say.
His expression softens at once. “I love you more than anything in this world.”
You smile. “Good thing I’m leaving it.”
His face goes blank.
Susie mutters, “Bad joke.”
“I panicked,” you say.
Toto pulls you into his arms. Hard. The world disappears into him. His cologne, his warmth, his mouth against your temple, his arms around you like he can hold you on Earth by force.
For one second, you let yourself be his wife before you become history.
“You will come back to me,” he says quietly.
It sounds like an order. It sounds like a prayer.
You close your eyes. “I will.”
A coordinator calls your name.
Toto’s arms tighten once. Then he lets you go. Because he loves you. Because he knows this is yours. Because he would never clip your wings, even when they are attached to a rocket.
You kiss him once. Soft. Quick. Full of everything you cannot say.
Then you hug Susie.
“If he spirals,” you whisper, “water. Food. No NASA lawsuits.”
Susie squeezes you. “I’ve got him.”
“I heard that,” Toto says.
“You were meant to.”
You step back. You look at him one last time. Then you walk toward the crew.
Right before the doors close, you turn and blow him a kiss. He catches it against his chest.
Susie sees. Of course Susie sees. She smiles like she has just witnessed blackmail material from heaven.
Toto looks at her. “Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“You smiled.”
“I am allowed to smile.”
“You are storing this for later.”
“Yes.”
*
The launch is worse than any race.
Toto watches from the viewing area with Susie beside him, George and Kimi on his other side, and half the Mercedes family gathered around screens back in Brackley.
George has been unusually quiet. This worries Toto.
“Are you ill?” he asks.
George blinks. “What?”
“You are silent.”
“Your wife is on a rocket, Toto. I’m trying to be respectful.”
Toto studies him. “Strange.”
George sighs. “I can never win with you.”
Kimi says nothing. That worries Toto more. He turns his head slightly and finds Kimi staring at the rocket with a pale face and both hands pushed deep into the pockets of his Mercedes hoodie.
“Kimi?”
Kimi does not look away from the launchpad. “I’m fine.”
“You look unwell.”
“I’m thinking.”
George glances at him. “That sounds dangerous.”
Kimi ignores him. His voice is quieter than usual when he says, “She is really in there.”
Toto’s jaw tightens. “Yes.”
Kimi swallows, still watching the rocket. “That is… a lot.”
For once, nobody makes a joke. Susie reaches across Toto and gently squeezes Kimi’s arm.
“She knows what she’s doing.”
Kimi nods once, serious and pale. “I know.”
Then, after a second, he adds, “Still terrifying.”
Toto looks back at the rocket, his heart beating hard against his ribs. “Yes,” he says quietly. “It is.”
The countdown begins.
Ten.
Nine.
Toto’s hands close into fists.
Eight.
Seven.
Susie stands close enough that her shoulder brushes his arm.
Six.
Five.
He thinks of Challenger.
That bright sky.
That terrible fire.
Four.
Three.
He thinks of every person who has ever trusted a machine with their life.
Two.
One.
Ignition.
The rocket roars alive. The ground trembles. Fire swallows the launchpad.
And then Artemis II rises. Slowly. Massively. Impossibly.
You leave Earth on a tower of flame.
Toto does not breathe. Not once.
The rocket climbs higher and higher, bright against the sky, carrying you toward the dark.
People cheer around him.
George whispers, “Bloody hell.”
Susie has one hand pressed over her mouth. And Kimi, forgets completely that he was trying to look calm.
“Wow,” he breathes, eyes wide. “Your wife is cool.”
George still does not look away from the sky. “And slightly insane.”
Usually, Toto would answer. Usually, he would give them one dry look and say something sharp enough to make George regret speaking near him.
But he says nothing. He cannot. His heart is beating too hard. His hands are curled into fists at his sides, his whole body locked in place as if one wrong movement could disturb the sky itself.
Toto waits. Through every callout. Every stage. Every second. He waits until NASA confirms Orion is safely on its path.
Only then does he exhale. It is not elegant. It is the sound of a man rejoining his own body.
George looks at him. “You just aged ten years.”
“Fifteen,” Toto says.
Kimi nods very seriously. “Same.”
Susie wipes her eyes. “She’s on her way.”
Toto keeps looking at the sky long after the rocket disappears.
“Yes,” he says.
His voice is rough.
“She is.”
*
For the next several days, Toto watches every NASA update with the focus of a man reviewing race strategy and his own heart at the same time.
He watches in his office. In the garage. In the Mercedes motorhome.
Once during a meeting, where Bradley says, “We should discuss sponsor commitments,” and Toto replies, “Is the sponsor currently around the Moon?”
“No.”
“Then wait.”
The updates become a ritual. The whole team starts following them.
George sends messages like:
George: NASA posted.
Toto: I know.
George: Obviously.
Toto: Do you need something?
George: Emotional support.
Toto: For whom?
George: Honestly? Me.
On day four, a video from Orion drops.
Toto watches it in the Mercedes hospitality with Susie, George, Kimi, Bradley, and a few engineers who pretend they are there by accident.
You appear on screen weightless, hair floating slightly, smiling like you are having the time of your life.
Toto leans forward.
“There she is,” Susie says softly.
On screen, you wave.
“Hello from Orion. Toto, if you’re watching this, drink water. I know you haven’t.”
The entire hospitality turns to look at him. He stares at the screen. “This is harassment from space.”
Susie hands him a bottle of water. He takes it without arguing.
George whispers, “Powerful woman.”
Then Christina appears beside you, laughing, and someone starts playing Pink Pony Club in the cabin.
You and Christina begin doing the smallest, most ridiculous microgravity dance known to humankind.
Kimi smiles. “This is cool.”
Toto’s face softens. He misses you so badly he can feel it in his bones.
Then, just before the chorus, the video cuts. The room goes quiet.
Toto blinks. “They cut it.”
Bradley presses his lips together.
George looks horrified. “Before the chorus?”
“Yes.”
“That’s criminal.”
“Exactly,” Toto says.
Susie laughs. “Your wife is orbiting the Moon and this is the thing that offends you?”
“It was a good moment.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“NASA knows what they did.”
Kimi checks his phone. “The internet agrees.”
Toto turns. “It does?”
Kimi shows him the comments.
NASA DROP THE CHORUS.
MRS WOLFF DANCING IN SPACE???
TOTO WOLFF WATCHING PINK PONY CLUB IS MY ROMAN EMPIRE.
Toto stares at the screen. Then he says, “For once, the internet has standards.”
*
The day Orion loops around the Moon, Brackley stops. Work still exists, technically. Nobody cares. The live update fills the main screen. The Moon appears in silver and shadow, ancient and silent, close enough to feel unreal.
Toto sits in the front row because Susie made him.
“You standing like a haunted statue will not help her,” she had said.
“I do not stand like a haunted statue.”
George, passing behind them, had muttered, “You absolutely do.”
Toto had looked at him. George had walked faster.
Now Toto watches as the crew’s message plays.
Your voice fills the room. “Hello, Earth.”
The room goes completely quiet.
“We’re coming around the Moon now. It’s hard to explain what it looks like. Beautiful is too small a word.”
Toto’s hand rests against his mouth.
You continue, voice warm and slightly crackly.
“Earth looks tiny from here. Fragile. Blue. Very far away. Also, Toto, before you ask, no, you cannot improve the Moon’s operational structure.”
The room erupts in laughter. Toto closes his eyes.
Susie pats his arm. “She knows you.”
“Unfortunately.”
Your voice softens. “I wish you could all see this. And Toto?”
He opens his eyes again. “I love you. I’ll be home soon.”
The room goes quiet once more. Toto does not move. His eyes are wet, though anyone who values their career pretends not to notice.
Susie leans closer. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
“My wife went around the Moon,” he says.
“Yes.”
“One of the first women.”
“Yes.”
“Around the Moon.”
Susie smiles gently. “Yes, Toto.”
He looks at the screen, and his voice drops.
“She is extraordinary.”
Nobody teases him for that. Because nobody sees the worst part.
The nights.
During the day, Toto can survive on updates, briefings, phone calls, meetings, anything that gives his hands something to do and his mind somewhere to go.
But at night, there is only the sky.
Sometimes he sits alone on the terrace of your home, long after the world has gone quiet, with a blanket beside him he never uses and a coffee gone cold between his hands. Sometimes, when work keeps him late in Brackley, he stands in his office with the lights off, staring through the glass at the Moon above the factory roof.
And every time, the same thought nearly breaks him.
You are there.
Somewhere beyond that pale light.
Too far away for his hands to reach. Too far away for his voice to calm you. Too far away for him to protect you.
He closes his eyes because looking hurts too much.
And for a few seconds, he lets himself have you.
You are beside him again. Your shoulder pressed against his. Your laugh warm in the dark. Your fingers stealing his coffee even though you always say it is too bitter. Your face turned up to his, waiting for a kiss like it is the easiest thing in the world.
He imagines pulling you into his arms. He imagines your weight against his chest. He imagines saying your name and hearing you answer.
Then he opens his eyes.
The terrace is empty. The office is silent. The Moon is still there. And you are still gone.
So Toto breathes through the ache in his chest and tells himself the only thing he can.
Wait. Just wait.
Because when you come back, when the sky finally gives you back to him, he will hold you so close you will feel every second he spent missing you.
And this time, he will not let go so easily.
*
Return day is the longest day of his life.
Toto has known pressure. Championship pressure. Board pressure. Public pressure. The kind of pressure that makes other people crack and makes him sharper.
This is different. This is helplessness.
The Mercedes family gathers again in Brackley. George, Kimi, Susie, Bradley, Bono, engineers, mechanics, assistants, people from departments Toto has never personally met but who all seem deeply invested in your survival.
The broadcast explains the re-entry sequence. Toto already knows it. Entry interface. Heating. Communications blackout. Parachutes. Splashdown.
He hates every word. Because Columbia lives in that part of history. Not launch. Return. Coming home.
That is what makes it worse.
Susie sits beside him, but this time he stands again. She lets him.
NASA’s voice fills the room.
“Communications blackout expected.”
Toto’s jaw locks.
On screen, Orion becomes a tiny graphic cutting into Earth’s atmosphere.
You are inside that capsule. Coming home through fire.
The signal cuts. Silence falls. It is terrible. No radio. No voice. No proof.
George stands very still. Kimi has stopped blinking. Bradley has both hands clasped in front of his mouth.
Toto stares at the screen. He thinks of your hand in his. Your kiss before launch. Your voice from the Moon.
I’ll be home soon.
Seconds pass. Too many. His heart beats hard enough to hurt. He can do nothing. Nothing. He hates the universe for asking that of him.
Then the NASA commentator says, “We have signal.”
The room inhales.
“Orion is through blackout. Tracking is good.”
Someone cries. Toto does not move. Not yet.
The parachutes deploy. Drogues. Mains. Orange and white against the sky. The capsule falls toward the ocean.
Then—
“Splashdown confirmed.”
For one second, the room freezes.
Then Brackley explodes. People cheer, clap, hug, cry. George grabs Kimi. Kimi looks confused but allows it. Bradley openly sobs and stops pretending he has allergies.
Susie covers her face with both hands.
Toto sits down hard. His knees simply decide they are done.
George appears in front of him, eyes bright. “She’s safe,” he says.
Toto looks up. For once, he does not have a clever answer. He just nods.
“She is safe,” Susie whispers beside him.
Toto closes his eyes. And breathes.
*
When he finally sees you again, he forgets every speech he prepared. There were several. One about pride. One about fear. One about acceptable risk. One very serious lecture about water intake, because yes, he is aware of the irony.
All of them disappear the second you step into the room.
You look tired. Pale. A little unsteady. Wrapped in a NASA jacket, hair loose, eyes bright.
Alive. Home. His.
You see him and smile. “Missed me?”
He crosses the room in three steps.
You barely have time to laugh before he pulls you into his arms. Hard.
Your face presses into his neck. His hand cups the back of your head. His other arm wraps around your waist like gravity has personally betrayed him and he no longer trusts it.
“You came back,” he says into your hair.
“I promised.”
“You also make bad jokes when nervous. Forgive me for worrying.”
You laugh, but your eyes burn.
You cling to him. “I missed you.”
His arms tighten. “I missed you more.”
“You didn’t even go anywhere.”
“My heart did.”
That ruins you a little.
You pull back enough to look at him. His eyes are red. His face is tired. He looks like he has aged, survived, and personally negotiated with God.
“You cried,” you whisper.
“No.”
“Toto.”
“Internally.”
You smile. “Liar.”
He touches your face with both hands, careful now.
“You are okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Hungry?”
“Very.”
“Tired?”
“Very.”
“Planning another space mission?”
You pause. His eyes narrow.
“Toto—”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I heard enough.”
Susie appears behind him. “Give him forty-eight hours before mentioning future missions.”
You gasp. “Susie.”
She comes forward and hugs you tightly. “You absolute nightmare. I’m so proud of you.”
You squeeze her back. “Did he behave?”
“No.”
Toto sighs. “I am standing here.”
Susie looks at you with the calm expression of a woman who has survived months of this.
“He updated the NASA folder three times while you were in orbit.”
You slowly turn to Toto. “You updated it?”
“It required updates.”
“With tabs?” you ask.
Susie nods. “New tabs.”
Your mouth falls open. “There were new tabs?”
“One was called ‘Re-entry Concerns,’” Susie says.
Toto lifts his chin. “A relevant category.”
“And one was called ‘Questions For Later,’” she adds.
You stare at him. “For later?”
“I was not going to disturb NASA during the mission.”
“How considerate of you.”
“I am a reasonable man.”
Susie snorts. “You tried to ask whether the recovery team had enough boats.”
“They were retrieving my wife from the ocean.”
“They had boats, Toto.”
“I wanted confirmation.”
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh.
“And,” Susie continues, far too pleased with herself, “he drank water only when you bullied him from orbit.”
You look at him. “Good.”
He lifts his chin. “I responded to leadership.”
“You responded to your wife.”
“Yes,” he says. “That is what I said.”
Later, after medical checks and official congratulations and too many people saying too many things, Toto finally gets you alone outside.
The air smells like ocean and Earth. Gravity feels strange under your feet. Toto keeps one arm around your waist like he does not trust you to remain planet-bound.
You let him. You look up at the pale sky.
The Moon is invisible in daylight, but you know where it is. You have been there. Almost. Around it. Past it. Close enough to understand how small home is.
Toto watches you. “Do you miss it already?”
You think about the black sky. The curve of Earth. The silence.
Then you look at him. “A little.”
His arm tightens.
“But I missed this more.”
His eyes soften.
You place your hand over his chest. “You.”
He covers your hand with his. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he says quietly, “When the signal cut, I thought of Columbia.”
Your chest aches. “I know.”
“And during launch, Challenger.”
“I know.”
“I hated that I could not do anything.”
You step closer. “You did something.”
His brow furrows.
“You waited for me,” you say. “You watched. You loved me. You kept believing I’d come back.”
His voice drops. “That did not feel like enough.”
“It was enough for me.”
He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, the fear is still there, but the worst of it has loosened.
“You took my heart with you,” he says.
You smile softly. “I think it was already mine.”
His mouth curves. “Yes,” he says. “That was the problem.”
You kiss him. Slowly. No cameras. No countdown. No mission control. No radio silence.
Just him. Just you. Just Earth under your feet and his arms around you.
When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours. “I am proud of you,” he says.
“I know.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You do not. You think you know. But you do not understand the scale.”
You laugh. “Are you about to explain my own achievement to me?”
“Yes.”
“Bold.”
“My wife went around the Moon.”
“Oh God.”
“One of the first women.”
“Toto.”
“Around. The. Moon.”
You stare at him. He stares back, completely serious. Then you burst out laughing and hide your face against his chest.
He holds you, smiling into your hair.
Behind you, Susie calls, “Toto, have you told the recovery team yet?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Once?”
He pauses.
You lift your head. “Toto.”
“They were very interested.”
“They recovered the capsule.”
“They still deserved accurate information.”
Susie laughs. “NASA should give him his own press conference.”
“No,” you and Toto say at the same time.
You look at him. He looks at you.
Then you both laugh. He takes your hand and lifts it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles.
“Home?” he asks.
You lean into him. “Home.”
He starts guiding you toward the car. “And then you sleep for twelve hours.”
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“And food?”
“Already arranged.”
“Water?”
“For both of us, before you start.”
You smile. “Good husband.”
His eyes warm. “Good astronaut.”
You squeeze his hand. “Your astronaut.”
He stops walking for half a second.
Then he smiles, soft and proud and still a little broken from loving you through ten days of sky and fire.
“Yes,” he says. “My astronaut.”
And for the rest of the day, he tells every single person who comes within three meters of him the same thing.
“My wife went around the Moon.”
Honestly?
You let him. He earned it.
*
Three weeks later, you return to the paddock in Miami.
Toto has spent the last weeks taking care of you with the intensity of a man who believes recovery is a military operation. He made sure you slept, ate, drank water, attended every medical check, and did not “accidentally” start training too early.
He also showed you, very thoroughly, how much he had missed you.
With quiet mornings. Long kisses in the kitchen. His hands holding you a little tighter than before. His body curling around yours at night as if he still needed proof you were there.
Sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, he pressed his face into your hair and breathed you in.
You never told him you noticed. You just reached back and held his hand.
Now, in Miami, the Mercedes garage reacts to your arrival like you have returned from a war, won a championship, and personally stolen the Moon.
Mechanics cheer. Engineers clap. Bradley looks emotional again, which is becoming his main personality trait.
George appears first, grinning. “Look who decided Earth was good enough after all.”
You smile. “Barely.”
Kimi walks up beside him, serious as ever, then offers you a tiny smile.
“You are still cool,” he says.
George nods. “And still slightly insane.”
“Thank you,” you say. “That means a lot from two racing drivers.”
They both accept this insult with dignity.
Around you, people from other teams stop to congratulate you. Journalists call your name. Cameras flash. Someone from Ferrari shouts, “NASA superstar!” and you nearly hide behind Toto.
Toto, meanwhile, is useless. Completely useless.
He walks beside you with one arm around your waist, looking proud enough to need his own gravitational field.
“My wife went around the Moon,” he tells a journalist.
“They know,” you whisper.
“One of the first women.”
“Toto.”
“In Artemis II.”
The journalist beams. “Incredible.”
Toto nods seriously. “Yes. She is.”
Your heart goes soft.
You lean into him. “You’re showing off.”
He kisses your temple.
“Yes,” he says. “And I am not finished.”
Because after ten days of sky, fire, silence, and fear, Toto Wolff finally has his whole universe back under one arm — and this time, he has no intention of letting you drift too far again.
Summary: Austria leaves Mercedes tense and fractured, but Spa becomes your moment to prove yourself in the current car. Between pressure, media attention, Toto’s pride, and feelings neither of you can keep under control anymore, the line between careful and impossible finally starts to disappear.
Warnings: 18+, smut scene, age gap, boss/driver dynamic, secret relationship, complicated marriage, emotional cheating, jealousy, angst with humor, hidden romance, vaginal sex, creampie, oral sex (f & m reciving), protective and soft!Toto.
Music theme: Physical – Dua Lipa
Word count: 10k
The Spa Effect
Austrian GP does not go the way anyone expects. Which, honestly, by this point in the season should probably be expected.
Max wins. Lando finishes second. Kimi third. George does not finish at all. Mechanical failure. DNF. A cruel little abbreviation for a whole mountain of rage.
The second George climbs out of the car, you know. Everyone knows. The cameras catch his face for half a second before he pulls his helmet off completely, and even through the visor you can see it. Anger. Hurt. Exhaustion. That very specific kind of helpless fury drivers feel when the car takes the result out of their hands and leaves them standing there with nothing but questions.
The garage goes quiet around his side. Too quiet.
Kimi brings home points. A podium. Damage limitation. But George? George is gone into Toto’s office within minutes. And he stays there for almost an hour.
Nobody says much. Nobody needs to.
You sit near the back of the garage, arms crossed, watching engineers move around carefully, like everyone is afraid to make the wrong sound.
Paul, for once, keeps the camera lower. That alone tells you everything.
Later, when the paddock has started to empty and the worst of the post-race noise has faded, you find Toto alone.
Or maybe he finds you. It is hard to tell anymore.
You are in his office, door closed, the air heavy with exhaustion and old frustration. Toto stands by the window for a while, one hand on his hip, the other rubbing slowly over his jaw.
He looks tired. You stay quiet.
Eventually, he speaks. “George thinks we are putting him second.”
Your chest tightens. You knew it was coming. Still, hearing it hurts.
“That you and the team favor Kimi?” you ask carefully.
Toto nods once. The silence after that feels sharp. You look down at your hands. Then, because you have never been good at choosing easy questions, you ask softly, “Are you?”
Toto turns. Slowly. His eyes lock on yours. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, very quietly, “Do you think that?”
You swallow. “Toto—”
“No,” he says, not harshly, but firmly. “Do you think I would do that? Do you think I would sacrifice a driver I have known for years? Someone who came to me as a boy and became part of this team, part of this family? Do you think I am that cold?”
Your stomach twists.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But it is what you asked.”
You stand there, feeling suddenly small. Then you breathe in and answer honestly.
“You are Toto Wolff,” you say softly. “You are the team principal. You have to think about Mercedes first. About the championship. About points. About the future.”
His face changes. Not anger now. Something worse. Pain.
He exhales, deeper this time, then steps toward you and rests his forehead briefly against yours.
“I am also a human,” he murmurs. “And I have feelings.”
Your throat tightens immediately. He wraps his arms around you, and you go to him without thinking.
“I know,” you whisper.
“George matters to me,” he says into your hair. “Not only as a driver. As a person. I want to help him. I want him to stop breaking himself against this pressure.” His arms tighten slightly. “But he is making mistakes now. And we have to address that too.”
You close your eyes. “Today was a failure.”
“Yes.”
“And people are already saying the team sabotaged him.”
Toto goes still. You feel it. The way his body locks around yours.
“They always say something,” he says, but his voice is too flat.
You lift your head and look at him. He tries to hide it. Of course he does. Publicly, Toto wears criticism like armor. He lets people think it rolls off him. Lets them call him ruthless. Calculating. Political. Cold.
But you know better now. You know that he attaches himself to his drivers. That he protects them. That when they suffer, he carries more than he admits.
And those accusations? They cut. Even if he pretends they don’t.
You touch his face gently. “They don’t know you.”
His eyes soften. “No,” he says quietly. “But sometimes I wonder if they are easier to believe.”
You hate that. You hate all of it. So you kiss him. Softly. Not to solve anything. Not to make the championship less brutal or George less hurt or the internet less stupid. Just to remind him he is not alone in the room.
He exhales against your mouth like that matters more than he wants to admit.
You change the subject later, when you are both lying half-curled together on the narrow sofa in his office, the paddock almost empty around you.
“Spa is next,” you say quietly.
His fingers pause where they have been tracing slow lines over your arm. “Yes.”
Your stomach flips. “My official test session.”
“Yes.”
“In the current car.”
“Yes.”
You turn your face into his shirt. “I hate that you’re calm.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “I am not calm.”
“You sound calm.”
“I am Austrian. We hide panic under structure.”
That makes you laugh despite the nerves.
He tips your chin up. “Are you nervous?”
You stare at him. “Toto.”
His mouth twitches. “That nervous?”
“I am terrified.”
His face softens immediately.
“I don’t want to disappoint the team,” you say. “Or the fans. Or…” You pause.
“Me?” he asks.
You look away. He turns your face back gently.
“You could not disappoint me by trying.”
“That sounds sweet and completely useless.”
“It is true.”
You breathe out, shaky. “I want to be fast. Not ‘good for a woman.’ Not ‘nice story.’ Not ‘symbolic.’ I want to put in a real time. I want people to look at the screen and shut up.”
Toto smiles slowly. There it is. That pride already forming. “I heard from the engineers,” he says. “You are destroying Spa in the simulator.”
You narrow your eyes. “Destroying?”
“Killing it.”
“Very technical.”
“They said you have become impossible.”
You grin faintly. “I have a strong work ethic.”
“You have workaholic tendencies.”
“Says the man who reads strategy documents at two in the morning.”
His eyes warm. “My little she-wolf...”
Your chest does the stupid soft thing. Again.
He kisses you then, slow and gentle. And for a while, Spa feels less like a threat. More like a promise.
*
Then Spa arrives. And suddenly the promise has teeth.
The paddock feels different that morning. Sharper. Hungrier. The media already knows what is happening. After Silverstone, after the posts, after the comments, after your name started appearing in conversations it had never appeared in before, this session is no longer just a test.
It is a statement. A woman in a current Formula 1 car. Official session. Mercedes. Spa. No pressure.
Naturally, you are fine. Absolutely fine. If by fine, one means your heart is currently trying to qualify independently.
You stand inside the Mercedes garage in your fireproofs, race suit tied halfway, helmet sitting on the table beside you. Around you, the whole team moves with focused energy.
But you feel the eyes. Cameras. Media. Engineers. Mechanics. Everyone knows. Everyone is watching.
You glance toward the timing screens Your name is there. Empty. Waiting.
In one hour, there will be a time beside it. Your time.
Your stomach twists.
“Hey.”
Kimi appears beside you first. He is already half-dressed in team gear, because today it is his car you are taking.
He gives you a small nod. “You will be good.”
You blink. “That’s it?”
He shrugs. “Yes.”
“Very emotional pep talk.”
“I am not Paul.”
“Thank God.”
His mouth twitches. Then George appears too, still carrying the edge of recent frustration but putting it aside for you. That means more than he knows.
He claps your shoulder lightly. “Don’t bin it,” he says.
You stare at him. “Beautiful. Supportive. Inspirational.”
He smiles faintly. “Fine. You’ll be great. But also don’t bin it.”
“There he is.”
Kimi nods. “Yes. Very George.”
You laugh, and some of the tension loosens. Then Paul arrives. Camera up. Of course.
“Historic moment,” he announces. “Say something iconic.”
You look straight into the lens.
“If I crash, delete this.”
Paul lowers the camera slowly. “Dark. I like it.”
“Paul.”
“Fine, fine. Try again.”
Before you can insult him properly, Rosa appears and pulls you into a hug. Tight. Warm.
You blink, caught off guard.
When she pulls back, her eyes are a little shiny, though she would absolutely deny it under oath.
“I’m proud of you,” she says.
Your throat tightens. “Rosa…”
“No, I mean it.” She squeezes your hands. “A woman is getting into an F1 car today. And it’s you. That’s huge.”
For one terrifying second, you think you might cry. “Don’t make me emotional before I drive.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
She smiles, then leans closer. “Papa is basically vibrating with pride, by the way.”
You glance instinctively across the garage. Toto is there. Watching. His face is professional. Calm. Team principal. But his eyes? His eyes are yours. Soft. Steady. Certain.
A few minutes later, you get one stolen moment with him in his office. Barely a minute. Maybe less.
He closes the door, steps toward you, and pulls you into his arms. Holding you tightly, one hand at the back of your head, the other pressed between your shoulder blades.
“You can do this,” he says quietly. “Bono will guide you. Follow the plan. Trust the car. Trust yourself.”
You nod against him. “I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to say don’t be.”
“No,” he murmurs. “Fear is useful. Panic is not.”
You lift your head. “That is so annoyingly you.”
He smiles softly. Then he kisses you. Hard. Deep. Sudden enough that your knees actually weaken.
You grip his shirt instantly, and he catches you closer, one arm around your waist. The kiss steals every nervous thought from your head and replaces it with heat, breath, him.
When he pulls back, you are blinking. “What was that?”
His thumb brushes your cheek. “For luck.”
“That was extremely unprofessional.”
“Yes.”
“Do it again?”
His eyes darken briefly. Then he steps back. “No.”
You groan. “Cruel.”
“Drive first,” he says, voice low. “Tonight I will come to you.”
Your pulse jumps. “You promise?”
His gaze holds yours. “Yes.”
Oh. Great. Wonderful. Now you are nervous and emotionally compromised.
Perfect conditions for Formula 1.
*
The garage feels enormous when you walk back in. And too small. Both.
You see your face on one of the screens. Your name on the timing tower. Cameras pointing. People watching.
You pull on the balaclava. Helmet next.
Bono approaches, calm and warm. “All right,” he says. “We stick to the plan.”
You nod.
“First laps are system checks. Track familiarization. Build gently. No heroics.”
“Copy.”
“Then we bring you in, make adjustments. Final fifteen minutes, soft tire, qualifying-style laps.”
You breathe slowly.
“In and out,” Bono says. “We do this step by step.”
You look at the car. Kimi’s car. Current Mercedes. Not a historic machine. Not a private test. Not closed doors and selected staff. This is official. This is real.
Your hands flex inside the gloves. “Okay,” you whisper.
Then you climb in. The cockpit closes around you. Belts tighten. Steering wheel clicks into place. Engine fires. And the world disappears.
The first laps are not perfect. Good. That matters. You are too tense on the opening lap. You feel it immediately. Too careful through Eau Rouge. Braking slightly early. The car feels sharper than expected, more immediate, less forgiving than the W11 in Silverstone.
Bono’s voice stays calm in your ear. “Good. Keep building.”
You breathe.
The second lap is better. The third, better again. Then, coming out of a corner with a little too much throttle, the rear steps away. For half a second, the car snaps. Your heart jumps into your throat. But your hands react. Fast. Correct. Hold. Recover. The car straightens. You exhale hard into the helmet.
A small laugh comes through the radio. From the garage, you imagine Toto watching. You do not imagine his face. You cannot.
Focus.
Lap by lap, the fear becomes information. The car stops feeling like something you are surviving and starts becoming something you can speak to. You learn where it bites. Where it trusts you. Where it asks for precision. Your times drop. Slowly at first. Then faster. Sector by sector, the screen begins to tell the story your body already knows. You are finding it.
The garage watches. Bono talks you through adjustments. You come in. Engineers check. Tires change. Feedback. Brake balance. Entry stability. Confidence.
Then the final run. Soft tires. Low fuel. Qualifying simulation.
Your breathing slows before you leave the garage again. This is the moment. You roll out. Warm the tires. Find space. Then push.
Spa opens in front of you — fast, dangerous, beautiful. The car screams beneath you. The speed through the first sector hits like a punch. Your hands are steady. Your inputs cleaner now. You trust the car more, and it rewards you.
Purple first mini-sector. You do not think about it. You just drive. The lap builds. Eau Rouge. Raidillon. The long drag. Braking. Turn-in. Apex.
The car holds. Your heart is nothing now. Your body is nothing. Only the lap. Only the line. Only the sound.
You cross the line. For a second, silence.
Then Bono. “P5.”
You blink. “What?”
“P5,” he repeats, and now you can hear it in his voice. Pride. “Very good lap. Very, very good.”
Your breath catches. The timing tower updates. There it is. Your name. P5. Ahead of Red Bull. Ahead of Ferrari. In a Mercedes. In an official Formula 1 session.
You laugh. Just one broken, unbelieving laugh inside your helmet. “Holy shit,” you whisper.
Bono laughs too. “Language.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
*
In the garage, Toto does not move for a second. He simply stares at the screen. P5. Your name. Your time.
Then his expression changes. Small. Controlled. But anyone who knows him would see it. Pride. Not only team-principal pride. Not only professional satisfaction. Something deeper. A man watching the woman he loves prove to the world what he already knew.
You belong here.
When you bring the car back in, the garage erupts. Not like a win. Different. Warmer.
People crowd around as you climb out, hands clapping your helmet, shoulders, arms. Mechanics grinning. Engineers smiling wide. Kimi waiting near the side with a proud little nod like he personally approved your existence.
George steps forward too. “P5,” he says. “Not bad.”
You pull off your helmet. “That’s all I get?”
He smiles properly now. “Fine. Very good.”
“I’ll take it.”
Then you see Toto standing a little farther back. Still. Watching you.
Your eyes fill before you can stop them. Damn it. You blink quickly. Not here. Not in front of cameras.
Paul appears, camera up, but for once, even he looks emotional. “Oh,” he says quietly. “That was… actually beautiful.”
You glare weakly. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m Paul. I can’t promise that.”
The media storm hits immediately after. Interviews. Quick reactions. Cameras. Microphones. Questions about pressure, representation, women in F1, the lap, the car, the team, the future.
You answer as well as you can. Somehow. Your brain is still half on the track, half in Toto’s eyes. Dangerous split. Very poor media strategy.
When it finally ends, the adrenaline starts to crash. Hard.
You make it to your small driver room and close the door behind you. For one second, you just stand there. Then you press both hands to your face. You did it. You actually did it. P5. Spa. Current car. Official F1 session.
Your breath shakes.
Knock.
Your head lifts. You already know.
You open the door. Toto stands there. And the moment you see his face, the last of your self-control goes straight out the window.
He looks proud. So proud it nearly breaks you.
“You were phenomenal,” he says, voice rough.
You do not think. You jump into him.
He catches you instantly, arms strong around you as he lifts you slightly off the floor. Your legs wrap around him before you can stop them, and then your mouth is on his. The kiss is not careful. Not gentle. It is relief. Joy. Adrenaline. Weeks of restraint and longing set on fire.
Toto steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him, then presses you back against the wall with a sound low in his throat.
Your hands bury in his hair. His mouth moves from yours to your jaw, then down to your neck, and you gasp before you can stop it.
“Toto…”
His name comes out broken. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady, and the heat of him against you makes your whole body go weak.
You can feel how much he wants you. Even through his trousers and your race suit, you can feel his hard cock against you, and the realization sends another wave of heat through your already trembling body.
He can feel how much you want him too. The knowledge makes everything sharper.
You moan quietly into his mouth, unable to stop yourself, and your hips move against him on instinct, slow and desperate, chasing the pressure of his cock through the layers between you.
Toto’s breath breaks.
“Liebling…” he murmurs against your lips, voice strained.
But you move again, and his grip tightens on your thighs. You arch closer, breathless, overwhelmed, still full of the engine, the speed, the lap, him.
“Please,” you whisper, barely recognizing your own voice
His mouth pauses against your throat. You feel him breathe. Hard.
“Toto, please.”
For one second, he does not move. Then he lifts his head. His eyes are dark. His breathing uneven. But he is still him. Still the man who stops himself when you cannot.
“No,” he says, and it sounds like it costs him.
Your eyes sting instantly. “Please,” you whisper. “I need you.”
His face softens with pain.
“I know.” His forehead touches yours. “I know, Liebling.”
You grip his face in both hands.
“I’m not ashamed. I’m not scared. I just— I need you so much.”
His eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, his control is barely holding.
“It is adrenaline,” he says. “You need to come down first.”
“I know what I want.” Your voice shakes, but your hands stay on his face, your body still pressed against his. “Besides… I can feel that you want it too.”
Your hips move against him again, slow and deliberate, rubbing against the hard proof of it through his trousers and your race suit.
Toto sucks in a sharp breath. “Liebling…”
“You can’t say it’s only me,” you whisper, breathless. “I can feel you.”
His jaw tightens. His hands flex on your thighs, like holding you still is taking every bit of control he has left.
“Yes,” he says, voice low and strained. “I believe you.”
His forehead rests against yours for one second, his breathing uneven.
“I believe you,” he repeats, gentler now, but still firm. “But not here. Not like this. Not in a driver room, with cameras outside and your body still shaking from the car.”
You let out a frustrated little sound, half a laugh, half a desperate breath.
“Well,” you whisper, looking straight into his eyes, “maybe it’s not just the car.”
His gaze darkens.
“Toto,” you continue, fingers tightening slightly in his hair, “it’s you. You do this to me. And I’m not going to pretend you don’t.” Your eyes drop briefly over him, the Mercedes gear, the tension in his shoulders, the barely controlled hunger in his face. “Also, you look unfairly sexy in that team outfit, especially after watching me drive like that.”
For one second, he just stares at you. Then he lets out a rough, disbelieving laugh, low and almost broken.
“You are impossible.”
“You keep saying that like you don’t like it.”
His mouth brushes yours, not quite a kiss, not quite restraint.
“I like it too much,” he murmurs. “That is exactly the problem.”
Your hips shift again, and his breath catches hard this time.
“Toto…”
“No,” he says, though his voice is wrecked now. “If I take you now, it won’t be because I couldn’t stop myself in a room where anyone could knock.”
You swallow, trembling against him.
He kisses you once. Deep. Slow. Almost cruel in how much control he forces back into it.
“When I have you properly,” he whispers against your mouth, “it will be because we both choose it. With time. With a locked door. Without Paul outside trying to turn your afterglow into content.”
Despite everything, a breathless laugh breaks out of you.
“Paul would call it cinema.”
“He would be wrong,” Toto says dryly. “And dead.”
You laugh again, and it helps. A little.
He lowers you carefully back to the floor, though his hands stay at your waist until he is sure your legs work. They barely do.
His thumb brushes your cheek.
“I will come tonight,” he says quietly. “I promise.”
You look at him, still flushed, still aching, still wanting him so badly it almost hurts.
“Promise?”
His eyes soften. “Yes, Liebling.” He kisses your forehead. “I promise.”
You rest your head against his chest and try to calm yourself down, breathing him in while his arms stay around you for one more stolen second. He quiets too, breathing slowly, his lips brushing your hair while his hand gently strokes your back.
“Second practice starts soon,” he says, his voice still rough. “And you, apparently, have media.”
You stare at him. “Media?”
The little spark returns to his eyes. “Yes. Duties call.”
You blink. “You are evil.”
“I am team principal.”
“Same thing.”
He smiles then. Proud. Warm. And then, because he is a menace, he leans closer and whispers, “Try not to tell them you were begging your boss to fuck you in the driver room.”
Your face goes nuclear. “Toto!”
He actually laughs. Quietly, but fully. Then he kisses your forehead and steps back before you can either kiss him again or murder him.
“Go,” he says. “Be brilliant.”
He opens the door and leaves. Just like that.
You stand there for a full ten seconds. Hair slightly ruined. Lips warm. Heart still trying to escape. Body still full of the car. And him. Always him.
You look at yourself in the small mirror. Your cheeks are flushed. Your eyes are bright. Your brain? Gone. Completely gone.
“Wonderful,” you whisper.
Because now you have to walk in front of cameras and speak coherent sentences after driving P5 at Spa and almost begging Toto Wolff to take you against a wall.
Perfect. Your life has become a PR crisis with feelings.
You take one deep breath. Then another. Straighten your suit. Fix your hair badly. Open the door.
Paul is waiting outside with a camera. He takes one look at you. Then slowly grins.
You point at him immediately. “Do not.”
He lifts both hands. “I said nothing.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I am always thinking many things.”
“Paul.”
He leans closer, eyes glittering. “You look very… post-performance.”
You close your eyes. “I hate this sport.”
“No, you don’t,” he says, passing you the microphone. “You just went P5.”
Despite everything, despite the heat still under your skin and Toto’s mouth still ghosting over your neck, you smile. A real one. Bright. Unstoppable.
“No,” you say softly.
Then you look toward the cameras waiting at the end of the corridor.
“I really don’t.”
*
When you finally escape the media pen, your brain is still only half-functional. The other half is somewhere around Eau Rouge, screaming.
You have said the same three sentences in twelve different ways. You have smiled at cameras. You have talked about pressure, representation, the car balance, the team, the lap, Bono, the final soft run, and what it means for women in motorsport.
You are proud. You are exhausted. You are also still thinking about Toto pressing you against the wall in your driver room, which is deeply unhelpful when a journalist asks you about tire degradation.
Somehow, you survive. Barely.
You step out of the media pen, already reaching for the bottle of water someone hands you, when an orange shape appears in your peripheral vision.
“Mercedes Star.”
You turn slowly. Lando is leaning against the barrier, race suit tied around his waist, hair messy from the helmet, grin bright and easy.
“You know,” he says, “you were pretty good out there.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Pretty good?”
“Fine,” he says, pushing off the barrier. “Very good. Annoyingly good. Your lap was not that far off mine, which is…” He tilts his head, eyes sparkling. “Impressive.”
“Careful,” you say. “That almost sounded like respect.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe.”
He smiles, softer now. “You free tonight?”
Your brain stops. Not because of Lando. Because of tonight. Because Toto promised.
You clear your throat. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. Drink? Something light to eat? You earned it.”
Oh. He is being nice. Actually nice. Which is frankly rude, because it makes rejecting him harder.
You open your mouth, searching for the gentlest escape route available, when salvation arrives in the form of a chaotic German photographer with a camera and no sense of personal boundaries. Paul.
For once, you nearly hug him. You do not, because that would encourage him.
“Oh no,” you say quickly, turning toward him with the desperation of a woman using PR as a shield. “Paul has content planned.”
Paul stops mid-step. “I do?”
You look at him. A look. A very clear look.
His eyes flick from you to Lando, then back. And then he gets it.
“Oh,” Paul says, straightening. “Yes. Yes, I do. Very important content. I basically forced her into it. Sorry, Papaya Prince.”
You snort. You actually snort.
“Papaya Prince?” Lando repeats, looking betrayed.
Paul shrugs. “Branding.”
Lando looks at you. “You’re laughing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m recovering emotionally from the phrase.”
Paul lifts one hand dramatically. “Unfortunately, our Mercedes diamond is fully booked for the evening.”
You choke slightly. “Mercedes diamond?”
“Yes,” he says proudly. “You went P5. You’ve been upgraded from content weapon.” He pauses, then adds with a grin, “Besides, those are Toto’s words from Miami. Sadly, I didn’t come up with them myself.”
Lando laughs, hands raised in surrender.
“Fine. I know when I’m beaten.” His eyes return to you, warm and playful. “Another time?”
You smile, softer now. “Maybe.”
He nods, then points at Paul. “Don’t overwork her.”
Paul places a hand on his chest. “I would never.”
You stare at him.
Paul sighs. “Fine. I would. But artistically.”
Lando laughs and walks off toward McLaren, still shaking his head.
The moment he’s gone, Paul turns to you with a slow, delighted smile. “Well.”
“No.”
“I helped you.”
“You did.”
“And I hope,” he says, leaning closer, voice dropping with wicked amusement, “that your evening will be very successful.”
Your face heats instantly. “Paul.”
He winks. Actually winks. “You’re welcome.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“You’re blushing.”
You walk away. Fast. Behind you, Paul calls, “Hydrate!”
You do not turn around. Absolutely not.
*
There is still another practice session after that. Because Formula 1 has no respect for emotional processing.
Kimi returns to the car, and you stand in the garage with the leftover adrenaline still buzzing under your skin like a second heartbeat. You watch the screens, headset on, trying to focus as Bono and the engineers work through the run plan with him.
You should be fully present. You are… mostly present. Sort of. Rosa appears beside you halfway through the session and hooks her arm through yours.
“You were insane today,” she says quietly.
You glance at her. “In the car or generally?”
“Yes.”
You smile despite yourself.
She squeezes your arm. “I mean it. I’m proud.”
Your throat tightens again. “People need to stop saying emotional things to me today.”
“No.”
“Rosa.”
“You deserve it.” Then her tone brightens. “Drink tonight? We should celebrate.”
You immediately feel guilty. Because you want to say yes. You love Rosa. You love her chaos, her sharp eyes, her absolute inability to mind her business. But tonight… Tonight belongs to someone else.
“I’d love to,” you say carefully, “but I’m destroyed. Really. I think if I sit somewhere too long, I’ll just shut down.”
Rosa studies you. For one second too long. Then she smiles. “Sure.”
That one word is far too knowing.
You narrow your eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Rosa.”
“I said nothing.”
“You said nothing suspiciously.”
She pats your arm. “Rest, superstar.”
Then she walks away, looking far too pleased with herself.
You close your eyes briefly. Fantastic. Everyone knows everything. This paddock is a nightmare with hospitality passes.
By the time you reach your hotel room that evening, the adrenaline has softened into exhaustion. You shower, change into a soft shirt and shorts, and sit on the edge of the bed for exactly thirty seconds before standing again because waiting is apparently impossible.
You check your phone. No message. You put it down. Pick it up. Still nothing.
“Normal,” you mutter. “Very normal behavior.”
Then there is a knock. Soft. Three times.
Your whole body reacts before your brain does.
You open the door. Toto stands there. No jacket. White shirt open at the collar. Tired eyes. Soft smile.
And suddenly the whole day catches up with you. The car. The lap. The cameras. The pressure. The way he looked at you from the garage. The promise.
You step into the room before either of you says anything and wrap your arms around him.
He closes the door behind him with one hand and holds you immediately. Strong. Warm. Familiar.
For a while, neither of you speaks. You just stand there in the quiet, your face pressed against his chest, his arms locked around you like he has been waiting all day to breathe properly.
His lips brush your hair. His hand moves slowly over your back. “You did so well today,” he murmurs into your hair.
You close your eyes. “If you say that again, I might cry.”
“Then I’ll say it quietly.”
You laugh against his chest.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His fingers brush your cheek. “You are exhausted.”
“You are very observant.”
“You are still shaking a little.”
“Adrenaline.”
His eyes soften. “And everything else.”
You don’t deny it.
The room becomes quiet. Safe. Yours. For a few minutes, you only talk. About the session. About Bono’s calm voice in your ear. About the first moment the car snapped and your soul briefly tried to exit your body. About the qualifying lap. About the timing screen. About Kimi pretending to be casual and absolutely failing. About George telling you “not bad” like that wasn’t basically an emotional speech.
Toto listens. Sitting beside you on the sofa, one arm along the backrest, his body turned toward yours. Every now and then his fingers touch your wrist or your knee or the edge of your shirt, small points of contact that make your thoughts go soft around the edges.
Then the conversation slows. Your eyes meet. And this time, neither of you makes a joke fast enough to save yourselves.
You lean in first.
The kiss begins gently. A soft press of lips, warm and slow, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face. You sigh into it, and he answers with a deeper kiss, pulling you closer until you are half in his lap, your hands sliding to his shoulders.
It builds quickly. Too quickly. Or maybe it has been building for weeks. Miami. Canada. Monaco. Spain. Austria. Spa.
Every call. Every “Schatz.” Every goodnight you didn’t want to end. Every time he stopped himself. Every moment you wished he wouldn’t.
Your fingers find the buttons of his shirt.
He catches your hand. For one second, your heart drops. Then he looks at you. Not stopping you. Asking.
“Are you sure?”
Your breath catches. You nod. He does not move.
“Say it.”
Your throat tightens, but your voice is steady. “I’m sure.”
His eyes search yours.
“You are tired. Full of adrenaline. Emotional after today—”
“I know.” You touch his face. “And I still want you.”
His jaw tightens.
You smile, small and shaky. “I love you,” you whisper. “And I want you so much I can barely breathe.”
Something breaks in his expression. Softly. Completely. “Liebling…”
You kiss him before he can make another noble argument. This time, he does not pull away. Not like before.
Your hands move to his shirt, fingers fumbling slightly as you start undoing the buttons, and Toto kisses your neck slowly, deeply, like he wants to memorize every sound you make. Your blouse disappears first, then your bra, his hands warm against your skin as your hips move instinctively against him, making him inhale sharply when he feels exactly what he does to you.
“Toto…”
He groans softly against your throat, then lowers his mouth to your breasts, kissing them slowly before taking one nipple into his mouth. You gasp immediately, fingers tangling in his hair as he sucks gently, then harder, his tongue circling the sensitive skin until your quiet moans turn shaky.
“God…” you whisper breathlessly.
Toto lifts you easily then, standing with you wrapped around him, your thighs tightening around his hips while he carries you toward the bed. His mouth never really leaves your skin for long. Your neck. Your collarbone. Your chest. Little kisses everywhere that make your entire body feel hot and weak at the same time.
When he lays you down on the bed, he pauses for a second just to look at you. And the way he looks at you nearly ruins you already.
“You’re so beautiful,” Toto murmurs, his voice low. “So beautiful, Liebling.”
His hands slide slowly over your thighs while your palms move over his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath your fingertips, and you let out another soft sound because, honestly, Toto is unfairly beautiful.
“God,” you whisper, your fingers pressing lightly into his chest. “You’re perfect.”
Toto stills for half a second. Then his eyes lift to yours, darker now, softer too, like the words hit him somewhere deeper than you expected.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice rough. “If you keep saying things like that, I may start believing you.”
You smile breathlessly, your thumb brushing over his skin.
“Good,” you whisper. “You should.”
Something warm flickers across his face, something almost vulnerable, before he leans down and kisses you again, slow and deep.
Then he kisses your breasts again, slower now, licking and sucking at your nipples until your back arches off the mattress.
“Toto…” you breathe, fingers tightening in his hair as heat rushes through your whole body. “God, don’t stop.”
You feel him smile against your skin, far too pleased with himself.
“Demanding,” he murmurs.
“You love it.”
His mouth closes around your nipple again, harder this time, and your answer breaks into a soft moan.
Then he moves lower. Kisses across your stomach.
Your hips twitch when he hooks his fingers into your trousers and pulls them down together with your panties, his eyes briefly lifting to yours before he presses soft kisses against the inside of your thighs.
“Toto…”
His name comes out desperate already.
He smiles faintly against your skin before kissing higher. Closer. Closer...
“So impatient,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “You were so brave in the car today… and now you fall apart just because I kiss you here?”
Your breath catches hard.
“Maybe,” you whisper, your fingers twisting in the sheets. “Maybe it’s because it’s you.”
Toto goes still for one second. Then he looks up at you, eyes dark and impossibly soft. “Liebling,” he says quietly.
Your thighs tremble around him.
“Please,” you breathe. “Don’t tease me.”
His mouth curves against your skin.
“No?” he murmurs.
“No.”
He kisses higher again, slower this time, making your whole body tighten with anticipation.
“Then look at me,” he says.
You barely manage to lift your head. And then finally his mouth reaches you and your whole body jolts.
A broken moan leaves your lips instantly as his tongue moves over your clit, slow at first, making your fingers clutch the sheets before he groans softly against you like he enjoys hearing you fall apart.
“You taste wonderful,” Toto murmurs against you, his voice low, rough, almost ruined. “So sweet, Liebling.”
You try to answer. Really, you do. But your brain is gone. Completely gone. Somewhere between his mouth, his voice, and the way his hands hold your thighs open like he has all the time in the world.
All that comes out is another broken sound.
Toto notices. You feel him smile against you and then he kisses you there harder, his mouth moving with more confidence on your clit, more hunger, and your moan turns louder immediately. Your hips lift on instinct, pressing closer to him, chasing the heat of his mouth because apparently dignity has left the room and locked the door behind itself.
“Toto—” you gasp, fingers tightening in the sheets.
He groans again, like hearing his name like that does something dangerous to him too.
Meanwhile he quickly pushes his own trousers and boxers down, his voice rough when he looks up at you.
“You’re so beautiful, my little she-wolf.”
The praise alone almost makes you shake. Then his mouth returns to you and suddenly coherent thought becomes impossible.
Your moans grow louder, your thighs trembling around him as he keeps licking and sucking at your clit until stars burst behind your eyes.
“Toto…” you whimper helplessly. “Please… take me. I want to feel you inside me.”
Toto lifts his head slowly, his mouth wet, his breathing heavier than before. His eyes are dark when they meet yours, control hanging by a thread.
“Liebling…” he murmurs, voice rough. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to stop myself right now?”
Your chest rises quickly, your whole body still trembling.
“Then don’t.”
His jaw tightens. For a second, he only looks at you, like he is trying to hold on to the last piece of reason he has left. But then your hand reaches for him, your fingers brushing his jaw, and something in him finally gives.
“Tell me you’re sure,” he says, low and strained. “Tell me again.”
“I’m sure,” you whisper. “I want you.”
His eyes close briefly, like the words almost ruin him.
“God,” he breathes. “You will be the end of me.”
Toto moves slowly over your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, while your hand slips between your bodies and finds his cock already fully hard for you. Big. Hot. You start stroking him slowly and Toto kisses your mouth deeply, a quiet sound leaving him when you guide the head of his cock against your wet entrance and your clit.
Both of you gasp at the feeling.
He lowers his forehead against yours and whispers softly, almost wrecked, “What are you doing to me…”
You spread your legs wider and guide him toward you.
Toto looks straight into your eyes. “Look at me.”
There is a question in his gaze. A final chance to stop. But you only whisper shakily, “Take me. Here. Now. I’m yours.”
And then Toto pushes inside you slowly. Centimeter by centimeter.
You both lose your breath at the same time as he fills you completely, your foreheads pressed together, broken breaths mixing while he sinks deeper and deeper until he is fully inside you.
You feel all of him. God.
Your hips lift instinctively toward him, your hands sliding across his back while Toto looks at you with so much tenderness it almost hurts.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “And all mine.”
Then he starts moving.
His hands grip your hips firmly while your bodies begin finding the same rhythm naturally, perfectly, every thrust pulling another moan from your lips while his kisses keep falling against your neck, your mouth, your jaw.
The movement grows faster. Deeper.
“Oh God— yes… exactly like that…” you gasp.
“Mein Gott,” Toto groans against your lips. “You feel so good.”
The pressure inside you builds rapidly, overwhelming and hot.
Toto finds the rhythm slowly, carefully, his thrusts deep and sensual rather than rushed, each one filling you so completely that your thoughts scatter with every movement of his hips. His hands hold you steady, guiding you, feeling every little reaction your body gives him.
“Is this okay?” he asks, voice rough but still gentle. “Liebling, look at me. Is this okay?”
You try to answer. You really do. But your mind is completely gone, lost somewhere between the weight of him above you, the heat of his body, and the way he fills you so perfectly with every slow, deep thrust.
“Yes,” you finally manage, barely more than a breath. “Yes… God, Toto…”
He feels the way you tighten around him. Feels how your hips lift to meet him. Feels how close you are before you can even say it.
“That’s it,” he whispers against your neck, adjusting the rhythm just slightly, hitting deeper, exactly where you need him. “Just like that.”
Your fingers dig into his back as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter inside you.
“Toto…”
His mouth moves along your throat, hot and slow, and then his voice drops right beside your ear.
“Yes, my little she-wolf,” he murmurs. “Come for me. I want to feel you come around me.”
That breaks you.
Your orgasm crashes through your entire body, sudden and overwhelming, and you pull him closer with both arms, clinging to him as your body shakes beneath his.
“Toto!” you moan, your voice breaking on his name.
Your pussy pulses tightly around him, and Toto breaks right after you, burying himself deep inside while he whispers your name against your ear, his voice rough and shaking as he comes inside you.
For a long moment neither of you moves.
He stays inside you while both of you slowly catch your breath, your bodies still joined together. Then Toto lifts his head and kisses you softly, deeply, before pulling you fully into his arms.
For a while, you only breathe against each other.
Your cheek rests against his shoulder, your fingers tracing lazy lines over his chest while his hand moves slowly up and down your spine. Everything feels warm. Heavy. Perfect. Too perfect.
Toto presses a kiss to your temple. “Are you all right?”
You huff a soft laugh against his skin. “You ask that now?”
His chest moves with a quiet chuckle. “I am trying to be responsible.”
“You just ruined my ability to think.”
“Then I did well.”
You lift your head and look at him. “Very humble.”
His eyes soften, but there’s that little spark in them again. “I learned from you.”
You narrow your eyes. “Careful, boss.”
His hand slides to your waist, holding you closer. “I love when you threaten me after I make you come.”
Your face heats immediately. “Toto.”
He smiles, slow and unfair. “What?”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet…” His thumb brushes your hip. “You are still here.”
You look at him for a second, your whole body still glowing, still sensitive, still aching in that wonderful, dangerous way.
“Yes,” you whisper. “I am.”
His expression shifts into something softer. But even after that perfect orgasm, even after all of it, you still feel it.
That hunger. That need. The one that has been building for weeks. Months, maybe. Every stolen kiss, every late-night call, every time he pulled away because he was trying to be good.
And now that you’ve had him once, your body has apparently decided that once is a joke. A warm, breathless, ridiculous joke.
You are sprawled half over his body, skin still warm and flushed, your breathing only just steady again when your hand slips lower and wraps around his cock again, starting to stroke him slowly.
Toto lets out a quiet laugh, deep and rough from exhaustion.
“Liebling,” he murmurs, one eyebrow lifting. “You really don’t get tired?”
“No.”
His mouth twitches. “That is becoming concerning.”
Instead of answering, you lean down slowly and take him into your mouth.
Toto inhales sharply. His hand immediately slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands while you move your lips around him slowly, tasting him and yourself together, the intimacy of it making heat curl low in your stomach all over again.
“Oh…” he groans quietly. “My little she-wolf… you are absolutely insatiable.”
You only answer by moving faster.
Your tongue circles his tip, teasing gently until you feel him hardening more under your mouth, his grip in your hair tightening slightly while he watches you with dark, stunned eyes.
“Fuck…” Toto breathes quietly.
The sound makes you smile against him.
Slowly, you lift yourself back up, straddling him again, your thighs settling on either side of his hips. You move slowly at first, dragging your wet heat over his hard cock, letting your clit brush against him as you grind down.
Both of you moan at the same time. Toto’s hands fly to your hips, fingers pressing into your skin as his jaw tightens.
“Liebling…” he warns, but his voice is already ruined.
You only roll your hips again, slower this time, using the head of his cock to tease your clit. The sensation makes your whole body shiver.
“Oh God,” you whisper, breathless. “Toto…”
His eyes are locked on you, dark and hungry, his chest rising harder beneath you.
“You are going to kill me,” he mutters.
You smile, already too far gone to behave. “That would be a very dramatic way to go.”
Even now, even like this, he lets out a rough little laugh.
“Brat.”
“Yours.”
That wipes the amusement from his face instantly.
His grip tightens. You guide him lower, positioning him at your entrance, your cunt already so wet from your last orgasm that there is no resistance when you start sinking down onto him inch by inch.
Toto’s head falls back against the pillow for a second as he sucks in a sharp breath the second you take him fully inside you.
“You are dangerous,” he says hoarsely.
You lean over him, your lips brushing his.
“I’m yours,” you whisper. “All yours.”
Then you kiss him properly while fully seated on him, your bodies pressed together so closely it almost feels impossible to tell where one of you ends and the other begins.
Toto’s hands grip your hips harder. One slides lower, squeezing your ass firmly enough to pull a gasp from you that melts straight into the kiss.
“Oh, you like that,” he murmurs, far too pleased with himself.
“Shut up,” you breathe, already moving your hips again.
He laughs softly against your mouth, but the sound dies quickly when you start riding him properly.
Toto watches you like he cannot believe you are real, his eyes dragging over your body, over the movement of your breasts, over every little expression on your face. The look alone nearly destroys you.
Then he leans forward suddenly and takes one of your nipples into his mouth. You cry out immediately.
At first his tongue moves slowly, teasing, but then he sucks harder and your entire body tightens around him.
“Toto—”
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Good girl…”
Your hips stutter.
He changes the angle with one deeper thrust upward and suddenly the pleasure hits so hard your vision almost whites out.
“Oh my God— Toto!”
Your orgasm crashes through you violently, your body trembling while he keeps holding your hips through it, guiding you through every pulse around him.
The feeling drags his own release out right after yours. Toto groans your name deeply against your chest as he thrusts up once more and comes inside you again, holding you tightly against him while both of you shake from it.
Afterward, you collapse against his broad chest, exhausted, boneless, completely ruined in the best possible way.
Toto’s arms wrap around you instantly. His lips press softly against your hair while his fingers trace slow lines up and down your spine.
Your head rests on his chest, your fingers drawing lazy, absent patterns over his skin. Both of you are still breathing far too fast.
For a few seconds, the only sound in the room is that — your uneven breaths, his heartbeat under your ear, the soft rustle of sheets when he pulls you a little closer.
Then, suddenly, you let out a breathless little laugh.
Toto looks down at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly, though his own mouth is already curving.
“What?” he asks, voice still rough.
You lift your head just enough to look at him. “Are you keeping up?”
For half a second, he only stares at you. Then he laughs. A real laugh. Low, tired, warm.
“Barely,” he admits.
That makes you laugh harder, and he pulls you fully against him, his arms locking around you while his mouth starts pressing soft kisses across your face. Your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. Your nose, which makes you wrinkle it immediately.
“Toto.”
“That was…” He exhales, looking at you with such open tenderness that your laughter softens into something quieter. “That was something.”
You smile against his chest. “Well,” you murmur, “I think we were both… repressed.”
He pauses. Then his face breaks into another laugh, louder this time, and God, you love that sound. You love it so much it almost hurts.
“Repressed?” he repeats.
“Yes.” You nod seriously, though you are still smiling. “Deeply. Tragically. Professionally.”
“Professionally?”
“We work in Formula 1. Everything is professional.”
“That is one way to describe it.”
You both laugh then, tired and happy and a little stunned by yourselves.
Toto’s hand slides up your back again, slower now, soothing. His eyes stay on you, soft in a way that makes your chest ache.
Your body feels heavy in the best possible way. Safe. Warm. His. The thought should scare you. It doesn’t. Not tonight.
For a long time, neither of you speaks.
Your breathing slowly begins to calm, matching his, your body still heavy and warm against him while his arms hold you close.
Then his hand stills slightly.
“I love you,” he says.
You stop breathing. Completely. It is not the first time you have felt it from him. Not the first time his hands, his eyes, his voice have told you. But it is the first time he says the words. Plain. Clear. Unhidden.
You lift your head slowly. Toto is looking at you with a softness that almost hurts.
“I love you, my little she-wolf,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “You are everything to me.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “And today, watching you in that car… I thought I would burst with pride.”
Your eyes fill instantly. “Oh,” you whisper, because apparently your vocabulary has left the hotel.
He smiles faintly. “Very eloquent.”
“You just said you love me.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot expect eloquence after sex like that.”
“No?”
“No.”
Then you move before the tears can fall, kissing him hard enough that he lets out a quiet, surprised breath. His arms tighten around you, and for a few seconds all you can do is kiss him, because there is no sentence big enough for what is happening inside your chest.
When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.
“I love you too,” you whisper. “So much.”
His eyes close briefly. Like the words physically reach him. Like he needs a second to survive them.
Then he pulls you closer and kisses your hair.
“My little light,” he murmurs.
You laugh softly against him, emotional and ruined. “You’re getting dangerously sweet.”
“Only with you.”
“That is a terrible defense.”
“It is true.”
You tuck yourself back into his chest and breathe him in.
For a while, you talk quietly. About nothing. About everything. About the session. About your first spin. About how Bono sounded suspiciously emotional on the radio. About Paul nearly crying and pretending it was “lens irritation.” About Rosa being proud. About Lando asking you out again and Paul saving you with the phrase “Papaya Prince,” which makes Toto go very still for half a second before he mutters, “I need to have a word with Paul.”
You laugh into his chest. “No. Absolutely not.”
“He is encouraging chaos.”
“He is chaos.”
“Exactly.”
You smile, eyes closing. Then, softer, “Stay.”
Toto’s hand pauses in your hair.
You lift your head to look at him. “Please.”
His expression shifts. You know that look. Responsibility arriving. Consequences. Schedules. Risk. The whole complicated architecture of his life trying to pull him away.
But this time, you don’t let fear speak first.
“Just tonight,” you whisper. “Stay with me tonight.”
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he exhales slowly and pulls you back into him.
“All right.”
Your heart warms so suddenly it almost hurts.
“All right?”
“Yes.” His lips brush your forehead. “I’ll stay.”
You close your eyes. The relief is embarrassingly intense.
“Good,” you whisper.
He smiles against your hair. “Bossy.”
You huff a tiny laugh. “Learned from the best.”
Outside, the world keeps turning. Spa continues. The team continues. The championship continues. The questions and risks and impossible decisions still wait beyond the hotel room door.
But tonight, none of them come in. Tonight, Toto stays.
And you fall asleep in his arms, exhausted, happy, and loved. For once, completely loved. And for the first time in weeks, you do not dream of running.
*
Morning comes softly. Too softly.
For a few seconds, you don’t know where you are. There is warmth behind you. A heavy arm around your waist. Slow breathing against the back of your neck. The faint scent of expensive cologne, hotel sheets, and him. Toto.
Your eyes open.
The room is still dim, curtains half-drawn, Spa’s pale morning light slipping through the gaps. For once, the world feels quiet. Not complicated. Not full of cameras, headlines, timing screens, PR meetings, and moral disasters wearing team shirts.
Just quiet.
You shift slightly, and Toto’s arm tightens around you.
“Morning,” he murmurs into your hair, voice rough from sleep.
Your heart does something ridiculous.
“Morning.”
For one perfect moment, everything is simple. You are in bed. He is here. He stayed. His hand is warm against your stomach, his body curled around yours like leaving had never been an option.
Then his phone vibrates on the bedside table. Once. Twice. Reality, apparently, has no manners.
Toto exhales slowly behind you.
You smile faintly. “The kingdom calls.”
He groans softly, pressing his face into your hair. “The kingdom can wait.”
“That sounds very irresponsible for a team principal.”
“I am off duty for another thirty seconds.”
“Scandalous.”
His lips brush the back of your neck, soft enough to make your toes curl under the sheets.
The phone vibrates again.
He reaches for it with visible suffering, checks the screen, and you watch his face shift. Not away from you. Just back into the man who carries too much. Team. PR. Susie. Schedules. Spa. Everything waiting outside this room.
Your chest tightens. But this time, he does not pull away. He puts the phone back down, turns toward you again, and kisses your forehead.
“I know this is complicated,” he says quietly. “I know.”
You look up at him. His eyes are soft. Tired. Honest.
“But we will find a way.”
Your throat tightens. “You sound very sure.”
“I am not,” he admits. “But I am sure of you.”
Oh. Awful man. How dare he say things like that before breakfast.
You hide your face against his chest. “That was unfair.”
“I know.”
He smiles into your hair. Then, because he is still Toto Wolff and romance apparently comes with logistics, he adds, “I will order breakfast. You need to eat.”
You lift your head and stare at him. “Excuse me. This is my room.”
“Yes.”
“So I should order.”
He pauses. Then laughs quietly, face still half-buried in your hair.
“Yes,” he says. “It would be suspicious if room service was called to your room by the Mercedes team principal.”
You narrow your eyes. “You think?”
“Possibly.”
“Good thing one of us still has survival instincts.”
You reach for the room phone and point at him with the receiver. “Behave or I’m ordering only fruit.”
His expression becomes genuinely alarmed. “Don’t be cruel.”
You almost laugh into the phone.
Breakfast is ordered under your name, with enough food for “one very hungry racing driver,” which is technically not a lie. It is just missing the detail of one very tall Austrian currently occupying half your bed like he has personally annexed the mattress.
Afterward, you crawl back under the sheets, and he pulls you into him immediately.
You kiss lazily. Softly. His hand moves slowly over your back. Your fingers trace the line of his jaw. Every few minutes one of you says something stupid and ruins the tenderness.
“You snore,” you murmur.
“I do not.”
“You breathe with authority.”
“That is not snoring.”
“It is leadership snoring.”
He bites back a smile. “You talk in your sleep.”
You freeze. “I do not.”
“You muttered something about Paul and a flamingo.”
You close your eyes. “I hate this life.”
His laugh is low and warm, and you think, very suddenly, very painfully, that you could spend every morning like this. His sleepy face. His arms around you. Your legs tangled under white sheets. His terrible bossy comments about food. Your jokes landing softer because there is love underneath them now.
You could have this every day. And that thought is so beautiful it hurts.
Toto seems to feel the shift in you. His hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your skin.
“I haven’t felt this alive in years,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
He looks at you like saying it costs him something, but hiding it would cost more.
“Even with everything happening in the team, the pressure, George, Kimi, the championship…” He exhales softly. “You give me strength for it.”
“Toto…”
“I mean it.” His forehead touches yours. “This is not something passing for me. Not a distraction. Not comfort because I am lonely.”
You swallow hard.
“But we have to be careful,” he continues.
You nod. “I know.”
“I hate that.”
A small smile pulls at your mouth. “Me too.”
“We both have too much to lose.”
“Mostly me,” you say lightly, because humor is still your emergency exit.
His eyes soften with something almost painful. “Yes,” he says. “Mostly you. And that is why I have to be careful with you.”
Your chest aches. You kiss him again, softer this time.
“I know.”
The knock comes two minutes later. You both freeze. Then you sit up. “Breakfast.”
Toto relaxes immediately. “Good. I am starving.”
You give him a look. “You are always starving.”
“I was busy last night,” he says, pressing a slow kiss to your shoulder. “Trying to keep up with you.”
Your face burns instantly. “Toto.”
His mouth curves against your skin. “What?”
“You cannot just say things like that before breakfast.”
“I can.”
“You shouldn’t.”
He kisses your shoulder again, slower this time, far too pleased with himself.
“You wore me out, Liebling.”
You stare at him, scandalized and warm all over. “I hate you.”
“No,” he murmurs. “You don’t.”
Your expression softens before you can stop it. Because no, you don’t. Not even close.
“No,” you whisper, lifting your hand to his face and brushing your thumb gently along his cheek. “I really don’t.”
His eyes soften too, that smug little spark fading into something warmer, quieter. You lean in and kiss him briefly. Just a soft press of your lips against his, sweet and fleeting, but enough to make his hand tighten slightly at your waist.
When you pull back, he looks far too pleased with himself.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “If you keep kissing me like that, breakfast will become a very distant plan.”
You roll your eyes, even though your cheeks are burning. “Food first, love.”
“Bossy.”
“Learned from the best.”
He smiles, and God, there it is again — that sleepy, happy, unguarded version of him that makes your chest ache.
The knocking comes again, louder this time.
You grab the first thing you find from the floor — his white shirt — and pull it on quickly. It is huge on you. Ridiculously huge. The sleeves fall past your wrists, the hem brushes your thighs, and the collar smells like him.
You look down at yourself. Then at Toto.
He is watching you from the bed with an expression that is doing absolutely nothing for your ability to behave.
“What?” you ask.
His smile turns softer. “Nothing,” he says quietly. “You look beautiful.”
Your face warms all over again. “Dangerous words before coffee.”
“I meant them.”
You pause for half a second. Then point at him. “Stay there.”
“Yes, boss.”
“That is my line.”
He laughs quietly as you head toward the door, still trying to button his shirt properly and failing with dignity.
You open the door. “Finally, I’m starving—”
You stop.
Rosa stands in the doorway. She does not look at you at first. She is already walking in, phone in one hand, sunglasses on her head, talking at full speed.
“Okay, so Paul is being unbearable, which I know is his natural state, but today it’s worse because he found the footage of you in the car and now he’s calling it cinema, and also Papa disappeared last night so if you saw him—”
She turns. She sees you. Her eyes drop to the white shirt. The very large white shirt. The very obviously male white shirt.
Her mouth opens. No sound comes out. For one glorious, horrifying second, time stops.
Then, from the bedroom, Toto’s voice appears. “Schatz, is the food here? I am starving. You really wore me out last night, although I’m not going to complain and—”
He steps into the room. In black boxers. Hair messy. Chest bare. Sleepy. Satisfied.
And then he sees Rosa. Rosa sees him.
You stop breathing. Toto stops moving. The silence is so complete you can hear your own soul leaving your body.
Rosa blinks. Once. Twice. Then slowly lowers her phone.
You are frozen in the doorway wearing her father’s shirt. Toto is frozen near the bedroom wearing almost nothing.
Nobody speaks. Then Rosa’s face changes. Shock melts into realization. Realization melts into delight. Delight becomes full, uncontrollable laughter.
She bends slightly, one hand over her mouth, laughing so hard she has to lean against the wall.
“Oh my God,” she wheezes. “Oh my God.”
You cover your face with both hands. “I want to die.”
Toto clears his throat. It does not help. At all.
Rosa points at him, still laughing. “Papa.”
“Rosa.”
Then she points at you. “You.”
“No,” you say immediately. “No words.”
She laughs harder.
Toto, for once in his entire life, looks completely lost. It is beautiful. Terrible. Historic. Paul would have called it premium content.
Rosa wipes under one eye, still grinning like Christmas arrived early.
“Well,” she says finally, breathless, “good morning.”
You groan into your hands. Toto exhales slowly. And somewhere in the hallway, the room service trolley finally appears.
Rosa looks at the trolley. Then at you. Then at Toto.
Her grin turns wicked. “Breakfast for one very hungry racing driver?”
You close your eyes. Rosa beams.
Outside, Spa is slowly waking up under pale morning light. Inside your hotel room, breakfast arrives at the worst possible moment, Toto stands in his boxers looking like his entire strategic brain has finally crashed, and you are frozen wearing his shirt while his daughter laughs like this is the best day of her life.
You close your eyes. “Fantastic,” you whisper.
Toto mutters something in German behind you. Rosa grins wider. And in that exact moment, you realize the universe has absolutely no intention of letting your secret romance stay elegant.
Have you seen ladyvictory's post? She gave some examples of the harassment Toto is receiving, and 63s got into a fight with her in the comments. They're not visible anymore, probably because Lady blocked her, or vice versa.
But it was a passive-aggressive comment. If I remember correctly, 63s was saying the typical things about Toto being a Zionist and making the Epstein joke. And saying that sabotage or not, Mercedes deserved the hate.
Lady responded quite well to her comment and respectfully, telling her that 63s was part of the problem and asking what she was doing arguing in the Toto Wolff tags here on Tumblr.
And I don't know if the fight continued or who blocked whom, because I don't see the comments anymore.
Now this 63s is saying that Toto fans are creepy and that they fight with you if you disagree, when she arrived with a passive-aggressive attitude at Lady's blog, which she always posts about when Toto is being harassed, it's not the first time.
Yes, I do see that quite a few George fans are actively spinning the narrative against Toto right now. And I get it — when emotions are high, people often look for someone to blame, someone to turn into the punching bag. This time, it seems to be Toto.
But honestly, this is nothing new. When Lewis was struggling, some of his fans were also accusing Toto and the team of sabotaging Lewis in favor of George. Did George’s fans say anything about that back then? Not really.
That’s why I find this whole situation a bit frustrating. The moment one driver has a difficult weekend, suddenly the team is “sabotaging” him, Toto is the villain, and every technical issue becomes part of some huge conspiracy.
And as for the accusations that Toto fans are the ones constantly arguing — where, exactly? Who, exactly? Because I don’t really see Toto fans throwing accusations at George.
Just look at how Ferrari have treated Charles for years. If Mercedes treated George even half like that, the whole internet would be on fire.
I just saw the comments under Mercedes latest Instagram post about Toto and the amount of people wishing him death is absolutely insane. WTF? What is wrong with some of you?
I get that there has been a lot of hate toward Toto lately, but death wishes? Seriously? You call yourselves F1 fans?
And this isn’t only about George fans, Lewis fans, Max fans, or any other driver’s fanbase. This kind of behavior is disgusting and should never be normalized under any circumstances. It only takes one unhinged person to take things too far.
And just to be clear — I like George, and I genuinely feel sorry for him. I hope he manages to rebuild himself this season.
But wishing death on someone over Formula 1 drama? That’s not fandom. That’s sick.
Sorry for the rant, but I saw those comments and it genuinely made my blood boil.
Hi, I hope you're doing well. Could you please, please, please write more about the Toto Wolff x assistant!reader topic? It's honestly my favorite 🙏🏻
Thank you, anon! In fact, I was thinking about doing a short, light series with assistant!reader. So here is part 2.
Part2: Scooter Crimes & Snack Theft
🐺 main masterlist | The TW Survival Program Series
part1 | part2 | part3 |
Toto Wolff x assistant!reader
Summary: After confiscating Toto’s electric scooter, you foolishly believe the paddock has entered a peaceful era. Unfortunately, Toto Wolff has contacts, Kimi has vending-machine instincts, George has self-preservation, Susie is entertained beyond reason, and Bradley thinks your unofficial job title should come with hazard pay.
Warnings: humor, fluff, assistant!reader, boss!Toto, ex-wife!Susie in friendly chaos mode, George being obedient, Kimi stealing snacks, Bradley being very supportive, Toto being a menace on wheels.
Word count: 2.4k
You arrive at the paddock with a coffee in one hand, a tablet in the other, and the fragile hope that today will be normal.
This is your first mistake. Your second mistake is believing Toto Wolff has learned anything from yesterday.
You step into the Mercedes hospitality area, glance at the schedule, check your messages, and allow yourself one small breath of peace.
Then you hear it. A soft, electrical whirr.
Your eye twitches. No. Absolutely not.
You turn slowly, like a woman in a horror movie who already knows the killer is behind her.
And there he is. Toto Wolff. 196 cm. Team principal. Billionaire. Businessman and former racing driver. Fully grown adult man. Gliding past the Mercedes garage on the electric scooter you had personally confiscated yesterday.
He is wearing sunglasses. He is wearing a black Mercedes shirt. He looks disgustingly pleased with himself.
You stand frozen.
He spots you. His smile widens. “Good morning.”
You point at him. “You.”
He stops the scooter beside you, one foot on the ground, like this is a perfectly reasonable business interaction.
“Me?”
“That scooter was confiscated.”
“Yes.”
“By me.”
“Yes.”
“And yet.”
He looks down at it with fake surprise. “Interesting.”
“Toto.”
“I also find it strange.”
“You stole back your death scooter.”
“I retrieved private property.”
“You bribed logistics again.”
“I have a good relationship with logistics.”
“You gave them paddock passes.”
“I invested in morale.”
You stare at him. He stares back, calm and smug and very much alive only because you have worked tirelessly to keep him that way.
Behind you, Bradley appears with a tablet. He sees Toto. He sees the scooter. He sees your face.
“Oh no,” he says.
Toto looks offended. “Good morning to you too, Bradley.”
Bradley ignores him and turns to you. “I fully support whatever you are about to do.”
“Thank you.”
Toto scoffs. “This is becoming hostile.”
“This is becoming necessary,” you snap.
Bradley nods. “Honestly, I’ve drafted a risk assessment.”
You turn to him. “For the scooter?”
“For Toto generally.”
Toto removes his sunglasses slowly. “Bradley.”
Bradley smiles politely. “Boss.”
Before Toto can respond, Susie walks into the hospitality area.
And because the universe is dramatic, she arrives at the exact moment Toto is standing proudly on the forbidden scooter while you look like you’re one coffee away from committing a felony.
Susie pauses. Looks at Toto. Looks at the scooter. Looks at you. Then she bursts out laughing.
“Oh, this is excellent.”
You point at Toto without looking away from Susie.
“Your ex-husband is a danger to himself.”
Susie folds her arms, amused. “I know.”
Toto turns to her. “You are supposed to be on my side.”
“I was married to you,” Susie says. “I know better.”
Bradley makes a small choking sound. You hide your smile badly. Toto looks betrayed by everyone and everything.
Susie steps closer, still grinning. “So this is the famous Survival Program?”
You straighten a little. “Yes. Unofficial but essential.”
“She takes it too seriously,” Toto mutters.
“He tried to replace breakfast with espresso yesterday.”
Susie’s smile drops. She turns to him. “Toto.”
His face changes instantly. Not fear exactly, but something close.
You blink. “Oh my God.”
Susie looks at you. “What?”
“He listens to you too.”
Susie laughs. “Sometimes.”
You stare at Toto with deep fascination.
Toto puts both hands on the scooter handlebar like it might protect him. “This is not a courtroom.”
“No,” you say. “This is worse. This is paddock accountability.”
Susie looks delighted. “I have to say, I’m impressed.”
“With him?”
“With you.” She nods toward Toto. “Getting him to eat, drink water, and get off a scooter? That is not assistant work. That is a diplomatic achievement.”
Bradley nods gravely. “We are considering a plaque.”
Toto sighs. “Nobody is making a plaque.”
“I already have wording,” Bradley says.
You turn to him. “Show me later.”
“Gladly.”
Toto looks between all three of you. “This team has lost respect for authority.”
“No,” you say. “This team has gained survival instincts.”
At that exact moment, George walks by with a smoothie, sees you, and immediately straightens his posture.
“Morning.”
You point at the smoothie. “Is that breakfast or just vibes?”
George holds it up. “Protein, oats, banana, almond butter.”
You nod approvingly. “Good. Hydrated?”
He lifts a water bottle from his other hand.
“Excellent.”
George beams slightly, like a schoolboy who has received a gold star.
Toto looks disgusted. “Why does he listen to you?”
George looks at Toto, then at you, then very carefully says, “Because she is usually right.”
Bradley whispers, “Smart answer.”
Susie’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. Toto narrows his eyes at George. George takes a strategic step behind you.
You pat his arm. “Well done. Self-preservation.”
“Thank you.”
Then your eyes catch movement near the vending machine. A dark Mercedes hoodie. A suspiciously quick hand. A packet of crisps disappearing.
You turn your head slowly. “Kimi.”
Kimi freezes. One hand is inside the vending machine opening. The other is holding two chocolate bars, one packet of gummy worms, and what appears to be a third snack hidden under his hoodie.
His eyes widen. “I paid.”
“You had breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“What did you have?”
Silence. You stare. He stares. George quietly takes a sip of his smoothie. Toto, still on the scooter, watches with the expression of a man happy someone else is finally in trouble.
Kimi clears his throat. “Food.”
“What food?”
“Normal food.”
“Kimi.”
He sighs. “A croissant.”
You lift one eyebrow. “And?”
“Half a croissant.”
“And?”
He looks at the floor. “George’s croissant.”
George turns to him. “That was mine?”
Kimi looks pained. “It was abandoned.”
“It was on my plate.”
“Emotionally abandoned.”
You hold out your hand. Kimi reluctantly places the chocolate bars in your palm. “And the gummies.”
He gasps. “You saw?”
“I see everything.”
He hands them over.
You point toward hospitality. “Proper breakfast. Now.”
“But—”
“Kimi.”
He immediately walks toward hospitality.
Susie leans closer to Bradley. “Does she do this all day?”
Bradley nods. “Yes. It’s inspiring.”
Toto mutters, “It is tyranny.”
You whip around. “And you. Off the scooter.”
He looks at you. Then at Susie. Then at Bradley. Then at George, who is trying to become invisible behind his smoothie.
“No.”
Everyone goes still. You smile. Susie’s eyes brighten.
Bradley whispers, “Oh, he’s chosen death.”
You step closer to Toto. “Torger Christian Wolff.”
He lifts his chin. “Yes?”
“You have a strategy meeting in eight minutes, a sponsor call after that, and an FIA meeting where I need you alive, fed, and not concussed.”
“I am not going to be concussed.”
“You nearly hit a hospitality sign yesterday.”
“It was badly positioned.”
“It was attached to the ground.”
He opens his mouth.
You raise one finger. “No.”
He closes it.
Susie makes a delighted noise. “Oh, this is beautiful.”
Toto turns to her. “Do not encourage her.”
“I’m not encouraging her. I’m admiring her.”
You fold your arms. “Get. Off.”
For a second, Toto looks like he might argue. Then he sighs. Steps off the scooter. Hands it to you.
George whispers, “Wow.”
Susie whispers back, “I know.”
You take the scooter with the dignity of a warrior accepting a surrendered weapon. “Thank you.”
Toto leans slightly closer as he passes you. “You enjoy this too much.”
You smile sweetly. “Only because you make it so easy.”
His mouth twitches. “Bossy.”
“Alive.”
“Annoying.”
“Hydrated.”
He pauses. Then, with great suffering, takes the water bottle you hold out to him.
Susie actually claps. Toto gives her a look.
She grins. “Sorry. I’ve just never seen this level of control before. It’s refreshing.”
Bradley nods. “Hydrating, even.”
You point at Bradley. “That was terrible.”
“I stand by it.”
*
The morning continues exactly like that. Which means badly. Toto tries to skip the sponsor prep. You block the doorway.
Kimi tries to sneak a chocolate bar from behind a stack of hospitality menus. You confiscate it without even turning around.
George asks if he should bring his notes to the engineering briefing. You nearly tear up. “Yes, George. Thank you for being the least stressful man here.”
George smiles.
Toto looks offended again. “I run this team.”
“And yet George brought a pen.”
Toto looks at George. George lifts the pen, apologetic but proud.
Susie spends most of the day watching this unfold like she has paid for front-row seats. At lunch, she sits beside you while Toto is across the table, eating because you have placed food in front of him and stared until he accepted his fate.
“I really am impressed,” Susie says softly.
You glance at her. “That he’s eating?”
“That he lets you fuss.”
Toto looks up. “She does not fuss.”
You and Susie both look at him.
He pauses. “She manages aggressively.”
“Thank you,” you say.
“That was not a compliment.”
“I took it as one.”
Susie smiles into her tea. “He needs it.”
Toto exhales. “I am sitting right here.”
“We know,” Susie says. “That’s the point. She has kept you sitting, eating, and not flying into a wall on a scooter. Frankly, I’m emotional.”
Bradley appears behind you. “I have another emergency.”
You close your eyes. “What now?”
He holds up a phone. “Logistics says someone requested the scooter be moved to the back entrance.”
Slowly, every head turns toward Toto.
Toto calmly drinks water. Too calmly.
You stare at him.
He sets the bottle down. “I know nothing.”
“You are lying with your whole face.”
“My face is neutral.”
“Your face is committing fraud.”
Kimi, now eating actual pasta under supervision, whispers to George, “He is very bad at this.”
George nods. “Terrible.”
Toto points at them. “I can hear you.”
You stand. “No scooter. No secret logistics requests. No vehicular rebellion.”
Toto leans back. “And what happens if I disobey?”
The table goes silent. Even Susie stills, but her smile is huge.
You place both hands on the table and lean forward. “Then I call your mother.”
Toto freezes. Bradley inhales sharply. George looks at the ceiling.
Kimi whispers, “Brutal.”
Susie presses a hand to her mouth, absolutely losing it.
Toto stares at you. “You wouldn’t.”
“I speak enough German to sound concerned.”
“That is blackmail.”
“That is management.”
He studies you for a long second. Then, quietly, almost respectfully, says, “You are dangerous.”
You smile. “And you are eating your vegetables.”
He looks down at the plate. Then picks up his fork.
Victory.
By the time evening arrives, your feet hurt, your head feels full of calendar alerts, and your soul has left your body at least twice.
You have prevented Toto from reclaiming the scooter three more times.
You have stopped Kimi from eating gummy worms before a media appearance. You have praised George so much he started asking if you needed help carrying folders. You have received a thumbs-up from Bradley that felt disturbingly like military approval.
And now, finally, you sit alone in a quiet corner of the hospitality area, staring blankly at your tablet.
Your coffee is cold. Your lunch was three bites of salad and half a bread roll. Your water bottle is still full.
Which is embarrassing, considering your entire personality today has been hydration enforcement.
You rub your forehead.
Then someone places a plate in front of you. Pasta. Warm bread. A small salad. A bottle of water. And, beside it, a fresh coffee.
You blink. Slowly, you look up.
Toto stands there. No scooter. No sunglasses. No smug smile.
Just Toto, tall and quiet, watching you with that softer expression that always makes your brain trip over itself.
“What is this?” you ask.
“Food.”
“I can see that.”
“And water.”
“I can see that too.”
“And coffee.”
“You’re listing objects now.”
His mouth curves. “You did not eat properly today.”
You blink again. “I was busy.”
“Yes,” he says. “Keeping everyone alive.”
You look down at the plate. Then back at him. Something warm and ridiculous squeezes in your chest.
“Toto…”
He sits across from you.
“You take care of all of us,” he says, voice lower now. “Kimi. George. Bradley. Me, most aggressively.”
“You require the most work.”
“I know.”
That makes you pause. Because he says it easily. Softly. Like he is not offended at all. Like maybe he even likes it.
He pushes the water bottle closer. “So now you eat.”
You stare at him. “You are ordering me to eat?”
“Yes.”
“That is my thing.”
“I learned from the best.”
You try very hard not to smile. You fail. He smiles too. Small. Warm. Devastating. Then he adds, “Come on, boss.”
Your heart does something stupid. Absolutely stupid.
“You cannot call me that when you’re bringing me pasta.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes it weirdly charming.”
His eyes flicker with amusement. “Weirdly?”
“Don’t push it.”
He leans back, pleased with himself.
You pick up the fork. He watches until you take a bite.
“Happy?” you ask, mouth half-full.
“Very.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Only because you make it so easy.”
You point the fork at him. “That was my line.”
“I know.”
“You’re stealing now?”
“First the scooter,” he says, “now your lines.”
You groan. He laughs softly.
Across the room, Susie walks past with Bradley. She sees you eating. Sees Toto sitting opposite you. Sees the water bottle.
Her smile turns knowing. Bradley gives you a silent thumbs-up.
Susie mouths, Impressive.
You shake your head, embarrassed.
Toto notices, of course. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are blushing.”
“I am overheated from managing idiots.”
“I am idiots?”
“You are the department head.”
He laughs again, low and warm. And somehow, after a day of scooter crimes, snack theft, calendar warfare, and hydration threats, you sit there with Toto Wolff quietly making sure you eat.
Like it is simple. Like it is obvious. Like someone should look after you too.
You take another bite.
He nods approvingly. “Good.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Careful, boss. I might get used to this.”
His gaze softens. “Good.”
And honestly?
That is a problem for future you. Present you has pasta, fresh coffee, and a team principal who is still alive.
For now. Because when your phone buzzes a moment later, you glance down and see a message from Bradley.
Bradley: Logistics found another scooter request.
You slowly lift your eyes to Toto. He is suddenly very interested in his water.
You set your fork down. “Toto.”
He looks up. Innocent. Far too innocent.
“Yes, boss?”
You smile. And somewhere in the paddock, an electric scooter quietly begins to fear for its life.
Hi!! I really love your work! I was wondering if you can do a Toto x reader!Astronaut where she’s part of the Artemis II crew. Like I want to see moments where Toto was so worried during the launch because of the previous times (please mention Challenger, Columbia, etc cause they were all so tragic 😭😭) and he keeps watching the updates from NASA about the reader and the crew (love to see the mention of the video of Christina and her jamming to Pink pony club but was devastated and outraged when NASA cut it off before the chorus). And when it was the day when the Artemis II prepare to return to Earth, Toto and the entire Mercedes family were watching nervously like it was one of the races because anything could happen (like what with Columbia) but they were cheering as the Artemis II manage to re-enter the atmosphere and return to earth safely while everyone on Earth celebrated. Love to see Toto reuniting with his wife and bragging to everyone that his wife is one of the first women to go around the moon! Thank you!! I love your work
Thank you so much for this request! ❤️ It took me a little while and the story sat in my drafts for some time, but it’ll be posted this week and I really hope it lives up to your expectations 😉
You are Ferrari. Toto is Mercedes. On track, you are rivals, trading strategy blows, sharp comments, and enough competitive tension to power the paddock. At home, you are husband and wife — raising twins, stealing kisses between race weekends, surviving scandals, secrets, jealousy, and chaos, while proving that love can wear both red and silver.
Series warnings: married couple, age gap (10y), family fluff, romantic fluff, workplace rivalry, competitive banter, jealousy, marriage conflict, twins chaos, Lewis and Charles being menaces, smut content in some parts – read the part warnings.
Summary: You come from a world where money always meant worry, counting, choosing, surviving. Then your face gets you into luxury fashion, into silk dresses and champagne rooms, and finally into the orbit of Toto Wolff — older, powerful, separated from his wife, and looking at you like you are something he should not want.
Warnings: age gap, power imbalance, luxury romance, class difference, separated-but-still-married!Toto, secret relationship, no smut / only emotions, emotionally unavailable man, heartbreak, angst, sad ending, no happy ending.
Music theme: Lana Del Rey songs
Word count: 16k
a/n: based on request. Honestly… I don’t even know what to say, but this story absolutely wrecked me. Five days of writing, five days of Lana Del Rey in my headphones, five days of emotional chaos — and of course Toto at the center of it all, with no happy ending in sight. It felt like some weird trance… And somehow, I may have fallen even harder for Toto. Can I borrow him for a few days? 😭
Million Dollar Sadness
Flames so hot that they turn blue
Palms reflecting in your eyes, like an endless summer
That's the way I feel for you
If time stood still, I'd take this moment
Make it last forever
Your halo's full of fire
I'm rising up, rising up
My hot love's full of fire
Love's full of fire
Freak – Lana Del Rey
You were never meant to belong in rooms like this. You knew it the second you step inside. Everything around you looks expensive in a quiet, almost cruel way. Marble floors polished until they reflect the chandeliers. Tall glasses filled with champagne nobody seems desperate to drink. Women in dresses that probably cost more than your mother’s first car. Men in suits so perfectly tailored they look less dressed and more assembled.
And then there is you. Standing near a wall of white roses in a pale satin dress someone else has chosen for you, wearing earrings someone else has clipped to your ears, with your hair styled into something soft and romantic by three people who all speak French too quickly.
You look like you belong. That is the dangerous part. Because you know exactly where you come from. A small flat. Thin walls. Bills tucked under magnets on the fridge. Your mother pretending she is not tired. Your father fixing things until they break again. The kind of childhood where luxury is not a lifestyle, but a perfume sample from a magazine rubbed carefully onto your wrist.
And now you are standing at a private event in Monaco for one of the most elegant fashion houses in Europe because somebody, somewhere, has decided your face is unusual enough to sell silk to rich women.
Ethereal.
That is the word they use. You hate it a little. It makes you sound like you do not have student debt, childhood hunger, cheap shampoo trauma, and an emergency chocolate bar hidden in your hotel room because rich people serve dinner in portions designed for decorative birds.
Still, you have to admit — the dress is beautiful. Pale gold. Bare shoulders. Thin straps. Soft fabric falling over your body like liquid sunlight. You look delicate. Almost unreal. Which is hilarious, really, because twenty-four hours ago you nearly cried in an airport bathroom because your suitcase wheel broke.
Very ethereal of you.
“You look perfect,” your manager whispers beside you, adjusting a strand of your hair.
You smile because that is your job now. Smile. Turn. Float. Look expensive. Do not trip over the dress. Do not eat too much bread in front of clients. Do not look at price tags. Do not let anyone see how badly you still want to take hotel shampoo home.
“Just mingle,” she adds. “Be charming.”
“Of course,” you say.
You have no idea how to mingle. You know how to survive. Different skill set.
So you drift through the room with a glass of champagne in your hand, pretending you do this all the time. Pretending you know the names of yachts.
You observe. You watch the room with quiet curiosity, collecting details. Who smiles sincerely. Who smiles like a weapon. Who wears diamonds like armor. Who touches whom when they think no one is looking.
And then you notice him. Very tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark suit. White shirt open at the collar, no tie. He stands near the far side of the room, speaking to two men who look terribly important and terribly boring. He is listening more than talking, one hand in his pocket, his face unreadable.
You know who he is, of course.
Everyone knows who Toto Wolff is. Mercedes. Formula One. Money. Power. Austrian precision in human form.
You have seen him in interviews. On screens. In articles. Always controlled, always sharp, always looking as if he could buy the building, fire the architect, and still make it to dinner on time.
He is older than the men who usually try to flirt with you at events, and somehow that makes him more dangerous, not less. He carries himself with the ease of someone who does not need to prove anything. The kind of man who has already won rooms before entering them.
You look away quickly. Obviously. You are not insane. Well, not completely.
You turn toward the balcony instead, needing air. Monaco glitters beyond the open doors, all black sea and golden lights, like someone has dropped diamonds into the dark.
You step outside. The night is warm. For the first time that evening, you let your shoulders relax.
“You disappeared.”
You turn. He is standing in the doorway. Toto Wolff. Of course. Because apparently your nervous system has not suffered enough.
“I didn’t disappear,” you say, then immediately wonder why your mouth had decided to behave like this. “I’m still visible.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. Then he smiles. Not fully, just enough to make the corner of his mouth move. “Good to know.”
You take a sip of champagne because your hands need a job.
He steps onto the balcony, leaving a respectful distance between you. That surprises you. Most powerful men do not understand distance. They treat space like another thing they own.
Toto simply stands beside you and looks out at the water.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. It should be awkward. It isn’t.
“You don’t like these events,” he says eventually.
You laugh softly. “Is it that obvious?”
“No.” He glance at you. “That is why I noticed.”
That is worse. Much worse. You look at him, trying to decide whether he is being polite, charming, or quietly lethal. Possibly all three.
“I like parts of them,” you say.
“Which parts?”
“The flowers. The dresses. The fact that everyone pretends they’re not judging everyone else while absolutely judging everyone else.”
His smile deepens. “And the champagne?”
You look down at your glass. “It tastes like expensive anxiety.”
A quiet sound leaves him. Not a proper laugh but very close. It feels like winning something small and ridiculous.
“I will never be able to drink champagne again without thinking of that,” he says.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I’m extremely convincing when I lie. It’s part of my job.”
His eyes move over your face, not in a crude way. Not the way some men look at you, as if your beauty is a door they are entitled to open. He looks at you like he is trying to understand something. That is almost worse.
“You’re one of the models,” he says.
“Yes.”
“For the campaign?”
“Yes.”
“You’re very young.”
There it is. You tilt your head. “And you’re very observant.”
That time, he does laugh. Softly. Briefly. But enough. “I deserved that.”
“You did.”
He looks back at the sea, still smiling faintly.
You should stop there. You really should. But there is something about him that makes silence feel possible and conversation feel dangerous. And you have always had a weakness for danger when it wears a good suit.
“I’m not that young,” you add.
He glances at you again. “No?”
“I am old enough to know this champagne is wasted on me.”
“That is not the strongest argument.”
“I’m also old enough to pay taxes.”
“Very impressive.”
“And to complain about my back when I sleep wrong.”
“Practically ancient.”
You smile before you can stop yourself. For a second, you forget where you are. Forget the marble, the money, the strange floating feeling of not belonging. It is just the balcony, the sea, and this man looking at you like your jokes are somehow worth his time.
Then someone inside calls his name. “Toto.”
He does not turn immediately. His gaze stays on you for one extra second. That second does something stupid to your chest.
“I should go,” he says.
“Powerful men are always being summoned,” you reply.
“Usually by problems.”
“Am I a problem?”
You do not know why you ask that. Maybe the champagne. Maybe Monaco. Maybe him.
His expression shifts slightly. Something quieter moves behind his eyes. “No,” he says. “Not yet.”
Then he leaves. And you stand there alone with your heart behaving in a deeply unprofessional manner.
After that, you see him everywhere. At the dinner, you see him across the table from you, speaking to a sponsor with calm authority. At the after-party, you catch his eyes once through the crowd while some photographer asks you to lean against a grand piano as if women frequently rest against musical instruments in luxury hotels.
The next morning, his name appears in a caption beneath a photo from the event.
You tell yourself it is nothing. Rich men are charming. That is how they stay rich. Powerful men notice beautiful women. That is not destiny. That is biology with better tailoring.
Besides, you know things. Not many. But enough. He is separated from his wife. Susie. Everyone in those circles knows, though nobody says it too loudly. There are whispers, careful ones, wrapped in respect. Nothing vulgar. Nothing confirmed. Just that they live separate lives now. That it has been difficult. That Toto is not a man who lets personal things spill into public view.
You do not want to be personal. You do not want to be messy. You have worked too hard to get here. Your face has opened the door, yes, but you are the one learning how to walk through it. You are the one waking up early for fittings, surviving castings, smiling at clients who treat you like furniture with cheekbones. You are the one sending money home, pretending it is easy, pretending you do not still calculate everything in your head.
This world is not yours yet. But you want to make it yours. And men like Toto Wolff are exactly the sort of storm girls like you are supposed to avoid.
So naturally, three days later, you find yourself standing in a hotel elevator with him. Because the universe has a sense of humor. A bad one.
The doors slide shut. You freeze for half a second. He notices. “Good evening,” he says.
You look at him through the reflection in the mirrored wall. He is in another dark suit. Fresh from some meeting, probably. He looks tired around the eyes, but still immaculate, which you find deeply offensive. Some people become rumpled after long days. Toto Wolff apparently becomes more cinematic.
“Good evening,” you say. “Are you following me?”
His gaze meets yours in the mirror. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I live here temporarily.”
“So do I.”
“Convenient.”
“Very.”
You press your lips together to hide a smile.
The elevator moves smoothly upward. A silence settles between you. You watch the numbers climb. He watches you watching them. “You did well today,” he says.
You blink. “Today?”
“The presentation. For the new collection.”
“You saw that?”
“I was in the front row.”
You have known that. Obviously you have known that. Your body has known it before your brain does. The second you stepped onto the small runway arranged inside the hotel ballroom, you felt his attention like warmth on your skin.
Still, you pretend to be surprised. Again: very convincing liar. Professional, really.
“Oh,” you say lightly. “Then I hope I didn’t look terrified.”
“You looked untouchable.”
That shuts you up. Completely. A tragedy for everyone, really.
You look down at your hands. The elevator reaches your floor with a soft sound. The doors open. You should step out. Instead, for one foolish heartbeat, you stay where you are. Toto does not move either.
Then you lift your chin and smile, because dignity is important, especially when your heart has just thrown itself down a marble staircase. “Goodnight, Mr. Wolff.”
His eyes hold yours. “Toto.”
You pause. “Sorry?”
“Call me Toto.”
That is such a small thing. A name. Two syllables. And yet it feels like being handed something private.
You nod. “Goodnight, Toto.”
His expression softens in a way you are sure almost nobody gets to see.
“Goodnight.”
You step out. The doors close behind you. You walk to your room calmly, unlock the door calmly, enter calmly, shut it calmly.
Then you lean back against it and whisper, “Oh, this is bad.”
Very bad. Catastrophic, even. Possibly terminal.
*
He sends flowers the next day. White roses. No grand note. No excessive poetry. No declaration designed to make you feel bought. Just one small card.
For the girl who thinks champagne tastes like expensive anxiety.
No signature. As if anyone else in Monaco is sending you inside jokes wrapped in florist paper.
You stare at the bouquet for a long time. Then you do what any sensible woman would do.
You text your best friend a photo and write: I think a terrifyingly rich older man may be flirting with me.
She replies within twelve seconds: Finally. Your brand is evolving.
You hate her. A little. But not enough to stop smiling.
You should not accept the dinner invitation that comes later through your manager, phrased so elegantly it almost looks professional.
A small group. Important people. Nothing intimate. That is the lie. It is not intimate because there are twelve people at the table.
It becomes intimate because Toto sits across from you and somehow makes an entire room feel irrelevant. He does not flirt openly. That would be too easy.
Instead, he asks questions. Real ones.
Where did you grow up? How did modeling start? Do you like Monaco? Do you miss home? Are you happy?
That last one almost makes you choke on your wine.
“Happy?” you repeat.
“Yes.”
“That’s a very dangerous dinner question.”
“I know.”
“Do you ask everyone that?”
“No.”
You look at him over the candlelight. The room is warm, golden, full of soft music and quiet wealth. His face looks different like this. Less severe. More soft.
“I’m grateful,” you say carefully.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No,” you admit. “But it’s the answer I know how to give.”
Something changes in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. You wonder if powerful men also learn to give safe answers. You wonder if sadness looks different when it wears a watch worth more than your family home.
After dinner, he walks you out. The Monaco night is soft again. Apparently this city has signed an agreement to make bad decisions look romantic.
A black car waits near the curb. Yours. Or rather, one arranged for you.
Everything in this world appears before you before you even know to ask. It is unsettling. It is also addictive.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you said.
Toto looks at you. “All what?”
“The flowers. The car. The attention.”
He slips one hand into his pocket. “I know.”
“Then why?”
For a moment, he does not answer. Behind him, Monaco glitters. Behind you, your old life waits somewhere far away, probably wearing supermarket sneakers and checking bank statements at midnight.
Finally, he says, “Because I wanted to.”
Simple. Dangerous.
You swallow. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“With what?”
“Men who do things because they want to.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, not with anger. With understanding.
Then he steps closer. Not too close. Never too close unless you allow it. That, you are beginning to realize, is one of the most dangerous things about him. He makes restraint feel like intimacy.
“You say thank you,” he said quietly. “And then you decide whether you want them to continue.”
Your breath catches. “And if I do?”
His eyes drop briefly to your mouth. Briefly. But enough to ruin your life. “Then they continue.”
The driver opens the car door. Reality returns, rude and badly timed.
You smile because if you do not, you might do something stupid, like tell him that standing near him feels like stepping into a life you have no right to want.
“Thank you, Toto.”
His mouth curves. “You’re welcome.”
You get into the car. As it pulls away, you look back once. He is still standing there. Watching you leave. And for the first time in your life, you understand why girls in sad songs ignore every warning sign if the lighting is beautiful enough.
*
The weeks that follow do not feel real. Your work keeps you moving through cities: Monaco, Milan, Paris, London. Fittings, campaigns, shoots, private events, rooms where everyone smells like perfume and money.
And somehow, Toto keeps appearing at the edges of it. But not constantly — that would make it easier to call madness. Instead, he appears just enough.
A message after a show.
Toto: You looked less terrified today.
You reply:
You: That is because I imagined everyone naked. Very effective. Unfortunately also traumatic.
His answer comes five minutes later.
Toto: I hope you excluded me from this exercise.
You stare at your phone until your cheeks hurt from smiling. Then type:
You: No comment.
He calls you that evening. You tell yourself not to answer. You answer. Obviously.
His voice is lower over the phone. Warmer, somehow. He asks about your day. You tell him about a photographer who keeps calling you “mysterious” until you sneeze three times in a row and destroy the illusion.
He laughs properly. You want to bottle the sound and sell it back to the luxury industry. Limited edition. Very expensive. Emotionally catastrophic.
He tells you about meetings without saying anything confidential. You do not understand half of it, but you like listening anyway. He makes business sound like war with better coffee.
Sometimes he goes quiet. You learn not to rush those silences.
One night, you ask about Susie. You regret it immediately. The silence changes. Not cold, but careful.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly. “That was too personal.”
“It’s fine.”
“It didn’t sound fine.”
He exhales softly. “We are separated.”
“I know.”
“People talk.”
“People always talk.”
“Yes,” he said. “They do.”
You sit on the edge of your hotel bed in Paris, wearing an oversized sweater and no makeup, your hair still damp from the shower. Through the window, the city looks silver and distant.
“Does it hurt?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Another silence. Then, quietly, “Yes.”
Something in your chest softens. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
You should remember that. Later. When things become too beautiful. Too easy. Too much like a dream. You should remember that his heart is not empty when you find him. It is wounded. And wounded men can hold you like salvation one night and still choose their ruin the next morning.
But you do not know that yet. Back then, you only know that Toto Wolff calls you from other countries, sends cars when you have late events, remembers how you take your coffee, and once has dinner delivered to your hotel because you admit you skipped lunch.
The note says: Models may survive on cigarettes and sadness in songs. You will eat.
You call him immediately. “I do not smoke.”
“Good.”
“And I object to being managed.”
“You should eat anyway.”
“You are very bossy.”
“I have been told.”
“By whom?”
“Everyone.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
“I am also correct.”
You look at the ridiculously beautiful meal spread across your tiny hotel table.
Then at the dessert. Chocolate cake. Your weakness. Suspicious.
“You asked my manager what I like.”
“Yes.”
“That is manipulative.”
“That is efficient.”
“You’re impossible.”
There is a pause. Then his voice softens. “And yet you keep answering.”
You hate that your smile goes quiet. You hate that he hears it anyway.
*
The first time he kisses you, it rains in London. Because apparently the universe has decided subtlety is for cowards.
You have finished a campaign dinner that goes on too long. Too many people, too much wine, too many men who look at you like they are calculating your price.
Toto is there for business reasons. You are there because your face is currently attached to a very expensive perfume campaign.
The whole evening, he stays polite. Distant. Perfectly controlled. Almost too controlled. You hate it. Which is unfair. You know it is safer that way. Still, when another man places his hand too low on your back while complimenting your “ethereal look,” you see Toto’s expression change across the room. His eyes simply go cold.
The hand disappears within seconds. You do not know what Toto says to him later. You only know the man leaves early.
After the dinner, you step outside under the hotel awning, wrapping your coat around yourself. Rain blurs the streetlights. Your car is delayed. Your feet hurt. Your hair has started to fall from its perfect shape.
You feel suddenly tired.
“Are you alright?”
You turn. Toto stands behind you. Dark coat. Rain in his hair. Concern hidden poorly beneath composure.
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a look. You sigh. “I’m tired.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” you admitt. “It’s not.”
He steps beside you. For a while, you both watch the rain. Then you say quietly, “Sometimes I feel like everyone is waiting for me to prove I deserve to be here.”
His face turns toward you. “And do you?”
“What?”
“Feel you deserve to be here?”
You laugh, but it sounds smaller than usual. “I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s life.”
The words come out before you can make them prettier. Toto says nothing. That makes it worse. So you keep talking, because apparently emotional self-preservation has left in the delayed car.
“I know how lucky I am. I know girls would kill for this. The clothes, the hotels, the campaigns. And I’m grateful. I am. But sometimes I look around and all I can think is… if they knew where I came from, really knew, they’d see it. The cheapness. The hunger. The trying too hard.”
Your throat tightens. Stupid. Very stupid. You turn your face away.
“I’m sorry. That was dramatic.”
“No,” Toto says quietly.
You look at him. His expression is serious. Almost too serious.
“That was honest.”
You laugh weakly. “Same thing, sometimes.”
He steps closer. This time, close enough that you feel the warmth of him through the cold air. “You think they don’t see where you come from,” he says. “But I do.”
Your breath stops.
“And it does not make you less.” His voice drops. “It makes you impossible to ignore.”
You stare at him. Rain falls behind him in silver lines. London moves around you, taxis and headlights and wet pavement, but none of it seems real.
“Toto,” you whisper.
His eyes lower to your mouth. A warning. A question. A mistake waiting politely for permission. You should step back. You do not.
He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. You hate him for that. You love him for it, too.
Then his mouth touches yours. Softly at first. Careful. Almost restrained. As if he has spent weeks wanting this and has decided the only way to survive it is not to want too much at once.
Your hand lifts to his coat without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric. He inhales against your mouth. That tiny loss of control ruins you more than the kiss itself. Because Toto Wolff does not lose control. Not in rooms. Not in meetings. Not in interviews. Not in front of men who fear him and women who want him.
But there, under a hotel awning in the London rain, he kisses you like restraint has become painful. And you, poor stupid girl, kiss him back like dreams do not come with invoices.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests briefly against yours. His breathing is not calm. Good. At least you are both doomed.
“This is not simple,” he says.
You give a soft, shaky laugh. “Rich men always say that before ruining someone’s life?”
His eyes open. For a second, something like pain crosses his face. “I don’t want to ruin yours.”
You look up at him. And because you are young, and beautiful, and already half in love with the tragedy of him, you smile. “Then don’t.”
He does not answer. That should be your warning. But then his driver arrives, and Toto opens the car door for you, and before you get in, his fingers brush yours. Just once.
A secret touch. A promise. A lie.
You hold onto it anyway.
*
After London, something changes. Not in the way people imagine things changing in films, with dramatic music and someone running through the rain like they have never heard of pneumonia.
It changes quietly. In the way his name begins appearing on your phone more often. In the way you start taking your phone everywhere, even to the bathroom, like a completely normal and emotionally stable woman. In the way your heart does something humiliating every time the screen lights up. Toto.
Just four letters. A disaster in contact form. At first, the messages are careful. Polite, almost.
Toto: Have you eaten today?
You stare at it in your hotel room in Milan, wrapped in a robe, one eye half-painted with eyeliner because your makeup artist had been interrupted by a phone call.
You type back:
You: Is this concern or Austrian surveillance?
His answer comes two minutes later.
Toto: Both.
You smile so hard your makeup artist notices. “Boyfriend?” she asks in Italian.
You nearly stab yourself in the eye with mascara. “No.”
A pause. Then, because your dignity apparently enjoys throwing itself out of windows, “Not exactly.”
She gives you a look in the mirror. The kind of look women give other women when they know.
You ignore it with great maturity. Meaning you look down at your phone again.
The calls come after that. Sometimes late in the evening, when you are alone in hotel rooms too beautiful to feel real. Sometimes early in the morning, when his voice sounds rougher, lower, still touched by sleep or exhaustion.
You learn the rhythm of him through distance. His silences. His dry humor. The way he says your name when he is amused. The way he goes quiet when something hurts but he refuses to name it.
You tell him about shoots, about ridiculous shoes, about a photographer in Paris who told you to “look like heartbreak” for two hours until you asked if he wanted heartbreak or constipation because your feet were dying and you could provide both.
Toto laughs. Really laughs. You love that sound before you admit you love anything else. It is rare at first. A quiet crack in the marble. Then it happens more often. You become greedy for it. Terrible, really. A girl should not build a religion around a man’s laugh. Especially not a man like him. But you do.
One evening, you are lying on your stomach across your bed, legs bent in the air, a bowl of strawberries beside you, your phone pressed to your ear. Milan glows outside the window, warm and golden, the city humming like it knows secrets.
You are telling him about the show. Not because you planned to. It just slips out.
“There’s an important event next week,” you say, picking at the edge of your robe sleeve. “In Milan. For the autumn collection. I’m walking.”
“I know.”
You pause.
“Of course you know.”
“I read things.”
“You read fashion schedules now?”
“I am a very informed man.”
“You are a terrifying man.”
“That too.”
You smile into the pillow. There is a silence, soft and expectant. You should leave it there. You should say goodnight. You should not want things. Wanting things has always been dangerous for girls like you. But the words come out anyway.
“It would be nice,” you say carefully, “if you were there.”
On the other end, he goes quiet. Your stomach tightens. Immediately, you panic.
“But obviously if you have meetings or business or important powerful-man things, you don’t have to. It’s just a show. I mean, I’m literally walking in a straight line while pretending not to feel my feet, so—”
“Do you want me there?”
You stop. The room becomes too still. Outside, a scooter passes somewhere below. Someone laughs in the street. Your strawberries sit untouched beside you, tragic and abandoned.
You swallow. Toto waits. He is good at waiting. Too good.
You close your eyes. “Yes,” you whisper. “Very much.”
Another silence. Then his voice, low and certain, “Then I’ll be there.”
And that is the problem with Toto Wolff. He makes impossible things sound like appointments.
The night of the show, you feel nervous in a way you cannot hide. Not because of the runway. You know how to do that now. Chin up. Shoulders loose. Eyes distant. Walk like you own the light, even if five years ago you were calculating whether you could afford new winter boots.
No, the runway does not scare you. He does. Or rather, the idea of him watching.
You stand backstage in a black silk dress so delicate it feels like being dressed in smoke. Your hair is pulled away from your face. Your makeup is soft, almost angelic, all luminous skin and dark lashes. Around you, models move like ghosts in expensive fabric. Assistants run with pins. Someone swears in French. Someone else cries over a broken zipper.
Fashion, you have learned, is glamour held together by panic and double-sided tape.
You try to breathe. Then you peek through the curtain. And you see him. Second row. Dark suit. White shirt. No tie. Composed. Still. Watching the room with that quiet authority that makes everyone around him seem louder than necessary.
Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. Rude. Completely rude.
For one second, his eyes find yours through the chaos. He does not smile. But something changes in his face. A softness. A warmth meant only for you. It hits harder than applause.
You step back quickly, pressing one hand to your chest.
One of the other models looks at you. “You okay?”
“Yes,” you say. Liar. Professional, though.
When your turn comes, you walk. And it is strange, because usually you disappear a little on the runway. You become the dress, the face, the mood. You give people something to look at, but not too much of yourself.
This time, you feel present. Too present. You feel the silk move around your legs. You feel the lights on your skin. You feel his gaze like a hand between your shoulder blades.
You walk as if you are not the poor girl who learned how to look expensive. You walk as if you were born golden. And when you reach the end of the runway, when you turn beneath the lights, you let your eyes move briefly to him.
Only briefly. A second. Less. But he sees it. You know he sees it. And for that one stupid, beautiful moment, you feel chosen. Not by the room. By him. Which is much worse.
After the show, everything is noise. Photographers. Champagne. Designers kissing your cheeks. Compliments thrown at you like confetti. Someone says you looked “divine.” Someone else says “ethereal” again, because apparently nobody has found a new adjective.
You smile. You thank them. You play the part. But your eyes keep searching.
Then you find him near the far end of the hall, speaking to a man you vaguely recognize from a finance magazine. Toto looks up mid-conversation. His eyes catch yours. The conversation ends very quickly after that. Powerful men, you decide, are very efficient when they want to be.
He reaches you near a quiet corridor behind the ballroom, away from most of the crowd. For a second, neither of you speaks. You suddenly feel shy, which is offensive considering he has kissed you in the rain and heard you complain about airport sandwiches.
“Well?” you ask, because silence will kill you faster than honesty.
His gaze moves over you. Not like the photographers. Not like the men at events. He looks at you as if he sees the girl beneath the silk. As if he wants her more.
“You were incredible,” he says.
Your heart makes another bad career choice. You look down, trying to laugh it off. “Well, anyone can walk down a runway.”
“No.”
You glance up. Toto’s expression is serious. “Not anyone.”
The words are simple. They destroy you anyway. So you do what you always do when something matters too much. You joke. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It was a compliment.”
“Directly? From you? Should I alert someone?”
His mouth curves. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” you say softly, “you came.”
His smile fades into something quieter. “Yes.”
There is no joke in it now. Just truth. You feel it settle between you. The whole night shifts after that.
You talk for hours. Not all at once. Not sitting romantically under a chandelier like people in perfume commercials. It happens in pieces, between greetings, between obligations, between rooms full of people who think they know how the world works because they can afford to ignore most of it.
He asks about your childhood again. This time, you tell him more. Not everything. But more. You tell him about sharing a room for years. About wanting beautiful things and feeling ashamed of wanting them. About your mother cutting your hair in the kitchen because salons were unnecessary when scissors existed and hope did not.
He listens. Really listens. That is one of the first ways he becomes dangerous.
Not the cars. Not the flowers. Not the money. The listening. The way he makes your ordinary sadness feel worthy of attention.
In return, he tells you very little. But enough. About pressure. About control. About how people see power and assume it protects you from loneliness.
“It doesn’t?” you ask.
He looks at his glass. “No.”
It is not dramatic. That makes it worse.
Later, when the event finally thins out and Milan’s night air turns cool, he walks you back to the hotel. Not because there are no cars. But because the hotel is close, and because you both seem unwilling to let the evening end quickly.
You step outside and immediately shiver. Toto notices and before you can say anything, his jacket is around your shoulders. Warm. Heavy. Smelling like him — clean fabric, expensive cologne, something darker underneath. You pull it closer. “You’ll be cold,” you say.
“I’ll survive.”
“How brave.”
“I try.”
You glance at him, smiling. He looks almost amused.
The city glows around you. Milan at night feels different from Monaco. Less polished. More alive. Scooters, laughter, stone buildings, warm windows, the faint smell of rain on pavement.
You walk beside him in heels that should legally be considered a weapon, wrapped in his jacket like a secret.
For a few minutes, you let yourself believe this is simple. A man. A woman. A beautiful night. A jacket over your shoulders. No age gap. No separation. No wife whose name is spoken carefully. No world waiting to remind you that you are not permanent. Just this.
When you reach your hotel room door, the hallway is quiet. Too quiet.
You stop with your key card in your hand. Toto stands beside you, close enough that your shoulder nearly touches his chest.
You should thank him for walking you. You should give back his jacket. You should go inside alone. Instead, you turn to him. Your voice comes out softer than you intended. “Will you stay?”
His face stills. For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches.
Your stomach drops. You almost take it back. You almost laugh and make it a joke because that is what you do when something becomes too honest. But then Toto looks into your eyes. As if searching for hesitation. For fear. For any small sign that you are asking because you feel you should, not because you want him.
He finds none.
Because God help you, you want him. Not the idea of him. Not the money. Not the fantasy. Him. The tiredness behind his eyes. The sharpness of his mind. The rare laugh. The careful hands. The sadness he keeps buttoned beneath expensive shirts.
Finally, he nods once. “Yes.”
You open the door. And he follows you inside.
*
That night does not feel like falling. It feels like crossing a line you had both been standing beside for weeks, pretending not to see it. He is careful with you. Almost painfully careful. Not cold, never cold. But controlled, as if every touch costs him something.
He kisses you slowly at first, his hands gentle at your waist, then your face, then your hair. He gives you time. Too much time, maybe, because with every second, your heart grows louder.
You expect hunger. You get tenderness. That ruins you more. Because a man can desire you and leave no mark on your soul. But tenderness? Tenderness enters quietly and rearranges everything.
He touches you like you matter. Like there is nothing in the world more important than the way you breathe his name into the dark.
You are nervous. You try to hide it with jokes, but your voice trembles.
Toto notices. He pauses, his thumb brushing your cheek. “We don’t have to,” he says.
And that is the moment you know you are in trouble. Not because he wants you. Because he would stop. Because power is one thing. Restraint is another.
You place your hand over his. “I want to.”
His eyes search yours again. “Are you sure?”
You smile, small and nervous. “Very sure. Unfortunately for my dignity.”
His mouth softens. “There is nothing unfortunate about you.”
That is unfair. Cruel, honestly. Nobody should be allowed to say things like that in a hotel room while looking like sin in a white shirt.
So you kiss him before he can destroy you further. And he lets go. Enough that you feel the want beneath the control. Enough that you understand he has been holding himself back for longer than you realized.
The city glows beyond the curtains. The room smells faintly of roses and rain and his cologne. Your dress lies abandoned on a chair like evidence. And for one night, you are not a model, not a girl from a poor family, not some secret hidden between his obligations. You are just a woman in his arms. Wanted. Held. Chosen.
When it is over, he does not turn away. He pulls you against him, warm and solid, one hand moving slowly along your back. His breathing is uneven. Yours is worse. A small victory, really.
You rest your cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. Fast. You smile into his skin. “Toto Wolff,” you murmur, sleepy and pleased, “not composed. Historic.”
His chest moves beneath a quiet laugh. “There will be no press release.”
“Coward.”
His hand slides into your hair. “Sleep.”
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
You should not feel safe. You should not. But you do. Wrapped in his arms, in a hotel room in Milan, wearing nothing but his warmth and the reckless belief that maybe some dreams are not cruel. You fall asleep like that. As if the world cannot touch you.
In the morning, you wake slowly. There is sunlight on your face. Soft, golden, spilling through the curtains in thin lines. For a second, you do not remember where you are. Then you feel the arm around your waist. The warmth behind you. The steady rise and fall of his chest.
Your eyes open. Toto is awake. He is lying beside you, head resting against the pillow, watching you. Not with desire. With something gentler. Something that makes your throat close before you understand why.
His face is softer in the morning. Less guarded. There are lines around his eyes, shadows from too little sleep, but his expression is calm. Almost peaceful.
And then he smiles. A small smile. Private. Yours.
Your heart does not simply beat faster. It gives up. Fully resigns. “Morning,” you whisper.
His hand moves over your hair, brushing it back from your face. “Morning.”
You smile sleepily. “You’re staring.”
“I am.”
“No shame?”
“Not much.”
“That’s concerning for a man your age.”
He laughs quietly. There it is again. That rare, beautiful sound. His nose wrinkles slightly when he laughs. Just a little. Almost boyish. Almost carefree.
And oh God. Oh no. You love that too. You love the way he looks younger when he laughs, less burdened by life, less carved from pressure and responsibility. You love that for a few seconds, he is not Toto Wolff, executive, billionaire, husband-in-separation, man with a whole world attached to his name.
He is just Toto. In your bed. Smiling at you. Like you are something tender. Something worth staying for.
That is the morning something changes. Not for him, maybe. But for you.
For you, the dream stops being a dream and becomes a wish. And wishes are much more dangerous.
At first, everything is beautiful. So beautiful it feels almost offensive. There are dinners on terraces overlooking the sea, where the candles flicker in glass lanterns and Toto watches you over the rim of his wine glass like he is trying not to smile.
There are private cars with dark windows. Hotel suites bigger than the flat you grew up in. Elevators where you laugh too loudly because he says something dry and devastating under his breath about a man who has been boring him for twenty minutes. There are dresses that appear in your hotel room without warning. Not once. Several times.
The first time, you call him immediately. “Toto.”
“Yes?”
“There is a dress in my room.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I sent it.”
“I assumed it wasn’t delivered by birds.”
“You don’t like it?”
You look at the dress again. Ivory silk. Open back. Simple. Perfect. You hate that he knows exactly what would suit you.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then wear it tonight.”
“You are very presumptuous.”
“I prefer decisive.”
“You prefer expensive.”
“That too.”
You roll your eyes, smiling like an idiot. And you wear it. Of course you wear it.
When you come down the stairs that evening, he is waiting in the lobby, speaking on the phone. He turns at the sound of your heels. Then stops talking. Just for a second. But you see it. The pause. The way his eyes move over you. The way his expression shifts before he controls it. You feel powerful. No. Worse. You feel loved... That is your mistake. One of many.
He ends the call without looking away from you.
“You like the dress?” you ask, pretending you are not glowing under his attention.
His gaze lifts to your face. “Yes.”
“Very detailed review.”
“I’m being polite.”
“You? Dangerous development.”
The corner of his mouth moves. He steps closer and adjusts one thin strap on your shoulder, his fingers brushing your skin with unbearable care.
“There,” he says.
Such a small thing. It nearly destroys you.
That is how it begins. With small things. His hand on the small of your back when he leads you through a crowd. The way he orders food for you only after asking what you actually want, because he knows how much you hate being managed by men who think guessing is romance.
The way he asks, “Did you eat?” so often you begin hearing it in your sleep.
The way he pretends to be irritated by your jokes, but his mouth always betrays him.
“You are impossible,” he says one evening on a yacht in Monaco, after you tell him rich people love white furniture because they do not eat tomato soup like normal society.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
“And yet you keep inviting me.”
His eyes rest on you. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I do.”
You look away first. Because sometimes his honesty is worse than flirting. Sometimes, when you are alone, he is so gentle it frightens you. His kisses are slow when the world has been too loud. His hands are careful when your body is tired from work. When you make love, he does not make you feel young or foolish or temporary. He makes you feel important. Like every sound you make matters. Like every breath belongs to him because you gave it, not because he took it.
And after, he holds you. Always. One arm around you. One hand moving absently over your back. Sometimes he says nothing. Sometimes he presses a kiss to your hair. Sometimes, if he is tired enough to forget himself, he whispers your name against your skin like it hurts.
You fall in love with that. Not the champagne. Not the yachts. Not the private flights where you sit barefoot in cream leather seats, looking out at clouds while Toto reads documents beside you like a man personally offended by free time.
Not the hotels where the staff know his name and learn yours too quickly. Not the dinners where nobody checks the prices because doing so would be almost vulgar.
You fall in love with him. With the rare laugh that wrinkles his nose. With the sadness in him that lifts, just a little, when you say something ridiculous. With the way he looks at you when he thinks you are not watching. With the way he says your name as if it is private. As if it belongs in rooms with locked doors and morning light.
You fall completely. And that is when the problem begins. Because for you, it stops being a romance. For you, it becomes love.
For him… You start to wonder if it was ever meant to be anything more than an escape.
The cracks appear slowly. So slowly you can pretend not to see them.
At first, it is easy. Too easy. You tell yourself he is busy. He is important. His life is complicated. A man like Toto does not move through the world freely. He carries companies, teams, responsibilities, legal documents, public expectations, private grief. And Susie.
Always Susie. Not physically, most of the time. But there. In the phone calls. In the silences after. In the ring he still wears.
That is the thing you do not let yourself stare at for too long. His wedding ring. He is separated from her. Everyone knows that now, quietly, politely, in the way wealthy people know things without ever saying them directly at dinner. But separated is not divorced. Separated is not finished. Separated is not free.
Sometimes you hear him talk to her on the phone. Never in detail. Never because you mean to listen. But you are there, in hotel suites and rented villas and private spaces that feel intimate until her name appears on his screen.
He steps away. Always.
Still, you hear pieces. Jack’s schedule. A property issue. Something with lawyers. Something with the house. Something about school.
Normal things. Married things. Even broken marriages, you learn, have logistics.
And sometimes logistics sound more intimate than love. Because they are proof of a life built together. A life you did not enter. A life you only orbit.
After those calls, Toto is different. Not cruel. Never cruel. But heavier. Quiet. Withdrawn in a way that makes him feel far away even when he is standing in the same room.
You never ask. It is not your place. That phrase becomes a room you lock yourself inside.
Not your place. Not your husband. Not your family. Not your future. Not your name beside his in public. Not your right to hurt.
And yet you hurt anyway.
Once, in Paris, he ends a call and stands by the window for a long time, his phone still in his hand. The city glitters beneath him. You sit on the sofa in a black slip dress, one leg tucked beneath you, pretending to read a magazine upside down. Very convincing.
Eventually, you say lightly, “Everything okay?”
He turns. For a moment, his face is unguarded. Sad. So sad it makes you wish you had not asked.
“Yes,” he says. Liar. Professional, though.
You nod and look back at the magazine.
He crosses the room and sits beside you. Not touching at first. Then his hand covers yours.
You look down. His ring catches the lamplight. Gold. Simple. Devastating.
His thumb moves over your knuckles. “She needed to discuss something about Jack,” he says quietly.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I know.”
But he does. Almost. He explains around the real thing. He tells you their marriage has been difficult for a long time. That separation did not happen overnight. That things changed, then broke, then settled into something neither of them knew how to name.
He does not say he does not love her. That is what you notice. He says many things. He never says that. And you, young and foolish and already too deep, learn to read between the lines.
Maybe their marriage is over. Maybe the love is not. Maybe love can change shape and still remain, like a ghost living quietly in expensive houses.
You should leave then. You should return his jacket, delete the messages, stop answering late-night calls, let yourself heal before the wound becomes permanent. Instead, you lean your head on his shoulder. And he kisses your hair. And you stay. Because love is not always proud.
Sometimes love sits barefoot on the floor of a Monaco apartment in a silk dress, waiting for an older man to finish a phone call with his wife so he can look at you again like you are the only light in the room.
Pathetic? Maybe. Human? Unfortunately.
*
He never introduces you properly. That is another crack.
In private, you are his. Not in words but in the way he touches you. In the way he pulls you close when the door shuts. In the way his face softens when you enter a room where only he is waiting.
In public, you are “a friend.” Sometimes “someone from the campaign.” Sometimes nothing at all. Just a beautiful young woman near him, explained by context and ignored by politeness.
At first, you accept it. His separation is delicate. His reputation matters. Susie matters. Jack matters. The press would be disgusting. People would talk. They would make you cheap before they made him guilty.
You understand. You really do. That does not stop it from hurting.
One evening in Monaco, at a private dinner full of motorsport people and fashion clients, someone asks how you know Toto.
You open your mouth. Then stop. Because you do not know what answer is allowed. Toto steps in smoothly. “Through mutual acquaintances.”
Clean. Polite. A perfect sentence. It lands in your chest like a knife with excellent manners.
You smile. Because that is what you do.
The rest of the evening, you behave beautifully. You laugh at the right moments. You let someone compliment your dress. You do not look at Toto too often. You do not flinch when he does not touch you. But later, in the elevator, the silence between you is sharp.
He knows, of course he knows. “You’re quiet,” he says.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I’m mysterious.”
“You are many things. Quiet is not usually one of them.”
You stare at the elevator doors. He sighs softly. “I had to be careful.”
“I know.”
Your voice is too quick. Too bright.
He looks at you. “You do?”
“Yes, Toto. I understand discretion. I am young, not feral.”
A faint flash of frustration crosses his face. “That is not what I meant.”
“No. Of course not.”
The elevator doors open. You step out before he can say anything else.
He follows you to the suite. Inside, the city spreads beneath the windows, obscene with beauty. The kind of view people photograph and post with captions about gratitude while ignoring the fact that loneliness also looks excellent from a penthouse.
You take off your earrings. Your hands tremble slightly.
Toto notices. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.
You laugh once. Small. Bitter. “Well. Good news. You are doing it very elegantly.”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend this is a joke.”
You turn to him. “What is it, then?”
He says nothing. There. There it is. The silence where a promise should be.
You nod slowly. “Right.”
He steps toward you. You step back. Only once. But he stops immediately. His face changes. Softens. Hurts. And that hurts you more than the rest. Because you know he cares. That is the worst part. If he were cruel, you could hate him. If he used you carelessly, you could leave with anger and a good playlist.
But he is tender. He is careful. He looks at you sometimes like he is fighting himself. And still, somehow, you are the one bleeding.
“I can’t give you something simple,” he says quietly.
You look at him. “I never asked for simple.”
“No,” he says. “You asked for very little.”
The truth of it lands between you. You look away first. Because if he sees your face, he will know. He will know you want everything. The mornings. The public hand on your back. The future. The stupid ordinary things. The right to ask who called. The right to be hurt. The right to stand beside him and not become invisible.
You want to stop being a secret. But you do not say it. Because saying it would make it real. And if it becomes real, he might tell you no.
So instead, you let him come closer. You let his hands settle at your waist. You let him press his forehead to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
You close your eyes. “I know.”
He kisses you then. And you let him. Because love is stupid. Because you are stupid. Because his mouth is gentle and his hands are warm and for a few hours, you can pretend that apologies are enough to build a future.
You become very good at pretending. Dangerously good. You pretend not to notice the ring. You pretend not to care when he steps away to take calls. You pretend the word “friend” does not make something inside you fold in on itself. You pretend you are not waiting.
Waiting for him to choose. Waiting for him to speak. Waiting for him to one day look at you in a crowded room and refuse to hide.
And during the beautiful moments, pretending feels easy. Almost natural. Because God, there are so many beautiful moments.
A weekend in Lake Como where he rents a villa so quiet it feels like the rest of the world has been politely asked to leave.
You wear white linen and walk barefoot through the garden. Toto works in the shade with his laptop open, sunglasses low on his nose, looking far too attractive for a man answering emails.
You steal pieces of fruit from a tray beside him.
He catches your wrist gently. “You are distracting.”
“I am hydrating.”
“That is a peach.”
“Fruit has water.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I keep you young.”
He looks at you then. Something flickers in his eyes.
You wish you had not said it. The age difference is always there, even when neither of you names it. In the way waiters glance between you. In the way women your age look at him. In the way men his age look at you. In the way you still feel surprise at rooms he enters like he owns them, while he has long stopped noticing the doors that open for him.
There are years between you. Money. Power. Experience. A whole marriage. A child. A life.
Sometimes, the gap feels glamorous. Sometimes, it feels like standing at the edge of a pool too deep to see the bottom. But then he pulls you down into his lap under the shade of the lemon trees, kisses your shoulder, and murmurs, “You are sunshine with terrible manners.”
And you laugh. Because what else can you do?
You are light. He is shadow. And for a while, the shadow does not swallow you. It frames you. It lets you shine.
You tell yourself that is love. Maybe it is. Maybe that is what makes it so dangerous.
By late summer, you are completely gone. Hopeless. Embarrassingly, catastrophically gone.
You know the sound of his footsteps in hotel corridors. You know which side of the bed he sleeps on. You know he takes his coffee too seriously and his laughter too rarely. You know he dislikes pointless noise but somehow tolerates you narrating your skincare routine like a dramatic documentary. You know he sometimes wakes in the night and stares at the ceiling, carrying thoughts he does not share. You know his mouth softens before he says your name. You know he likes when you run your fingers through his hair but would rather personally fight the entire FIA than admit it aloud. You know he is still sad after some calls with Susie. You know he does not know how to stop loving things just because they are broken.
That should make you careful. Instead, it makes you love him more. Because you begin to believe that if he can love broken things, maybe he can love you too.
You start imagining things you have no right to imagine. A house. Not one of his grand properties, maybe. Something smaller. A place where your clothes are not hidden in hotel wardrobes. Where your toothbrush stands beside his because it belongs there, not because you stayed the night.
You imagine him without the ring. You imagine him saying your name in public. You imagine Susie finally letting him go, or him letting her go, or both of them releasing whatever ghost still lives between them.
You imagine that one day, the world will learn about you, and it will be ugly for a while, but then it will pass. People always find a new scandal. Maybe you could survive being one.
You imagine being brave enough for both of you. That is how young girls break their own hearts. Not by falling in love. By believing love will make cowards brave.
One night in Monaco, you sit on the balcony of his apartment while he takes another call inside.
You are wearing a silk dress the color of champagne. Expensive anxiety, you think. The joke hurts now.
The city glitters below you. Boats shift softly in the harbor. Somewhere, music plays from another terrace, low and sweet and sad.
Inside, you hear his voice. Not the words. Just the tone. Gentle. Tired. Familiar.
The voice of a man speaking to someone who has known him for years.
You look down at your hands. At your bare fingers. No ring. No claim. No proof.
When he comes out, he looks drained. He tries to hide it, but you know him too well now. That is another terrible thing. Knowing someone deeply does not mean they are yours.
He sits beside you. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then his hand finds yours.
You let him take it. Because you always do.
“She’s still part of your life,” you say quietly.
Toto goes very still.
You keep looking at the harbor. “I know that. I’m not stupid.”
“I never thought you were.”
“No. You just treat me like something too fragile to tell the truth to.”
His fingers tighten slightly around yours. The silence hurts. Finally, he says, “It’s complicated.”
You smile. Not happily. “Everything is complicated with you.”
He turns toward you. You do not look at him. Because if you do, you might cry, and crying in Monaco while wearing silk feels too much like becoming a cliché. A beautiful, tragic, very well-dressed cliché.
“I don’t ask you questions,” you say. “About Susie. About the divorce that isn’t a divorce. About what I am to you. I don’t ask because I know the answer might hurt me.”
His voice is low. “What do you want me to say?”
There it is again. Not what do you need. Not what do you feel. What do you want me to say?
As if the right sentence could be selected like wine.
You finally look at him. He looks tired. Older. But still beautiful. Yours and not yours.
“I don’t want you to say anything you don’t mean.”
Something in his expression shifts. Pain. Guilt. Maybe even love. But not enough. Never enough.
So you smile softly and lift his hand to your mouth, kissing his knuckles. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m ruining the evening.”
He looks at you as if you have just broken something inside him. “No,” he says. “You’re not.”
But you are. You both know you are. Because dreams only work when nobody turns on the light.
Still, you stay. You stay because the next morning he brings you coffee in bed and kisses your shoulder. You stay because he watches you brush your hair like it is a miracle. You stay because he tells you he has a meeting in Zurich and asks if you want to come, as if offering you a piece of his life. You stay because sometimes he looks at you with such tenderness that you almost believe he is about to say it...
That he loves you. That he wants you. That this has become more than he intended.
Sometimes you catch him watching you across rooms with a sadness so deep it feels like confession. But he never says the words. And you never ask. Because you are terrified of the answer.
Instead, you become the girl waiting inside the golden cage. Beautiful. Young. Adored in private. Invisible in public.
You tell yourself you are lucky. He is kind. He is generous. He is careful.
He has never promised what he cannot give. But that is the cruelest part. He never promised. You simply dreamed too loudly. And now the dream has teeth.
The last truly happy day is in Capri.
You do not know it then. That is how last happy days work. They are rude enough not to introduce themselves.
The weather is perfect. The sea is almost offensively blue. Toto has no meetings until evening, which feels so rare you treat it like a national holiday.
You spend the day on a boat. Not a yacht this time. A smaller boat, though still luxurious enough.
You wear a white swimsuit and one of his shirts over it. He pretends not to notice how much he likes that. Badly. Very badly.
“You’re staring,” you say, lying on a towel in the sun.
“I am not.”
“You are a terrible liar.”
“I negotiate for a living.”
“Exactly. Professional liar.”
He lowers his sunglasses slightly. “You are becoming very brave.”
“I was always brave. You were simply too distracted by my cheekbones to notice.”
His mouth twitches. Then he laughs . Full, warm, unexpected. His nose wrinkles.
And the world stops. Just for a second. He looks younger. Lighter. Almost happy.
And you think, with a sudden ache so sharp it feels like joy turning into pain: I love him.
You sit up slowly. He notices. “What?”
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
But your eyes must betray you. Because his smile fades. Not entirely. Just enough. He looks at you for a long moment, the sea bright behind him, sunlight in the lines of his face.
There is something there. Something he almost says. Something you almost hear. Then his phone rings. Of course it does, because life has terrible timing and excellent aim.
He looks at the screen. Susie. You see the name. He sees you see it.
For one second, neither of you moves. Then he stands. “I have to take this.”
You nod. “Of course.”
He steps away. And you sit there in his white shirt, the sun warm on your skin, surrounded by blue water and impossible beauty, feeling something cold open inside your chest.
You look out at the sea. You do not cry. Not yet. Instead, you smile faintly. Because now you understand. This is not a dream. This is a beautiful room with no door. And you are inside it, still hoping he will build one for you.
That night, back at the hotel, he reaches for you like he always does. Gently. Carefully. With that unbearable tenderness that makes leaving impossible.
You let him pull you close. You let him kiss you. You let yourself melt into him because your body is stupid and your heart is worse.
But later, when he sleeps beside you, one arm around your waist, you stay awake. You watch the moonlight on his face. You watch the ring on his hand.
You think of Susie. You think of Jack. You think of the woman he once chose in daylight. And of yourself. The girl he chooses in locked rooms.
A terrible thought comes then. Quiet. Clear.
Maybe he does love you. Maybe he loves you in the only way he can. Softly. Privately. Wrongly. And maybe that will never be enough.
Your throat tightens. You turn carefully in his arms, trying not to wake him.
But he wakes anyway. His eyes open, heavy with sleep.
“What is it?” he murmurs.
You look at him. For one dangerous second, you want to tell him everything. That you love him. That you are scared. That being hidden is starting to feel like being erased. That you want a future and hate yourself for wanting it from a man who never offered one.
Instead, you smile. Soft. Small. False. “Nothing.”
His hand comes up to your face. “You’re lying.”
You almost laugh. Because yes. Yes, you are. And so is he. All the time. Not with words. With tenderness. With mornings. With kisses that feel like promises. With every touch that says stay while his life says you cannot.
You press your cheek into his palm. “I’m just tired.”
He watches you for a moment. Then pulls you closer, kissing your forehead. “Sleep, Schatz.”
That word. Soft. Familiar. Dangerous.
You close your eyes. And in the dark, in his arms, with the sea outside and his ring against your skin, you finally admit the truth to yourself.
You are in love with him. Completely. Hopelessly. Like a young, foolish, beautiful girl in a sad song.
You dream that one day he will love you enough to change his life. That he will leave the ghost of his marriage behind. That he will take off the ring. That he will stop calling you a friend. That you will become his world the way he has become yours.
And because you are still young enough to confuse longing with faith, you hold onto that dream. Even as it begins, quietly, to break you.
*
The first photo appears on a Tuesday. You are in Paris, sitting on the floor of your hotel room in a robe, eating strawberries from a glass bowl, when your phone begins to vibrate.
Once. Twice. Then again.
Your manager calls first. You do not answer immediately. Mostly because seeing her name on your screen at nine in the morning usually means something has gone wrong, and you are not emotionally prepared for wrong before coffee.
Then your best friend texts you:
Please tell me this isn’t you.
Your stomach goes cold. You open the link. And there it is. A photo. Grainy. Taken from far away. Not clear enough to be undeniable, but clear enough to ruin your breathing.
You beside Toto’s car outside a private restaurant in Milan. Your silhouette unmistakable if someone knows you well. His hand at your waist. Your head slightly turned toward him. His body angled protectively near yours.
One second. One stupid second captured through a lens.
The headline is worse.
Toto Wolff spotted with young model amid separation from Susie Wolff.
You stare at it until the words stop looking like words.
Below it, another article. Then another.
By noon, the internet has done what the internet does best: taken one blurry photo, added assumptions, dipped everything in poison, and served it hot.
They talk about your age. Of course they do.
They talk about his position. They talk about his wealth. They call you beautiful in a way that does not feel like a compliment. They call you “mysterious.” They call you “young.” They call you “the model.” They call you “a distraction.” They call you “a billionaire’s latest interest.”
Someone posts a photo from one of your campaigns next to the car photo. Someone else writes that you look like exactly the kind of woman powerful men keep around during a midlife crisis.
You read that sentence three times. Then you put the phone face down on the carpet.
For a moment, you cannot move. The hotel room is silent around you. Too elegant. Too white. Too clean. A room designed for women who cry beautifully, probably. You do not cry beautifully. You sit on the floor and feel like someone has opened your chest and let strangers look inside.
When Toto calls, you answer on the second ring. “Are you alright?” he asks immediately.
You laugh once. It sounds wrong. “That is a very ambitious question.”
There is silence on the other end. Then his voice lowers. “I’m sorry.”
You close your eyes. “For the photo or for the comments?”
“Both.”
You hate that he sounds tired. You hate that part of you wants to comfort him. Ridiculous. You are the one being publicly dissected like a luxury handbag with feelings.
“It will pass,” he says.
You open your eyes. You stare at the pale ceiling. “Will it?”
“Yes.”
“And what are we doing?”
Another silence. Small. Deadly.
“Toto?”
“We don’t react,” he says carefully. “No statement. No confirmation. No denial. It gives them nothing.”
Professional. Controlled. Clean. Perfect.
Your mouth goes dry. “Right.”
“You know how this works.”
“I do.”
But you had hoped. God, you had hoped. Somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and humiliation, a tiny, shameful piece of you had thought: maybe now. Maybe now he will stop hiding you. Maybe now he will say something. Not a declaration. You are not naive enough to expect a man like Toto Wolff to hold a press conference and announce feelings like quarterly earnings.
But something. A line. A truth. A refusal to let the world make you cheap. Instead, he chooses silence.
And you understand why. His career. His family. His separation. Susie. Jack. The team. The sponsors. The optics.
There are always reasons. Rich, elegant, reasonable reasons. They sit between you like guests at dinner.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
You smile, though he cannot see it. “I’m learning from you.”
That lands. You know it does. He breathes out slowly. “I don’t want you hurt by this.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have touched my waist in front of photographers.”
It comes out sharper than you intended. Good. Maybe you are allowed one sharp thing.
He does not answer. You regret it immediately. Which makes you angrier. Because you are tired of regretting your pain just because his guilt looks sad.
“I’m sorry,” you say, because apparently your self-respect has packed a small suitcase and left.
“No,” Toto says quietly. “Don’t be.”
But neither of you says what needs to be said. Not then. Not yet.
The rumors do not disappear. They multiply. Some are ridiculous. Some are almost funny, in that terrible way where you laugh because otherwise you might walk into the sea wearing couture.
Apparently you are pregnant according to one account because you wore a loose dress in Nice. Revolutionary journalism.
Another post claims Toto bought you an apartment in Milan. He did not. Not then.
Another claims you are the reason his marriage ended. That one makes you stop breathing. Because you know it is not true. You came after the separation. After the quiet collapse. After whatever had already broken between him and Susie.
But truth is fragile online. It does not survive contact with a caption.
You and Toto become more careful. More professional. More distant in public. Less reckless. Less alive.
In private, he is still tender. That is the unbearable part. He still calls. Still asks if you have eaten. Still kisses you like the world disappears when the door closes. Still looks at you sometimes with something so close to love that you begin to hate him for not naming it.
And you? You become two people. The woman who smiles for cameras. And the girl who waits. Always waiting. Waiting for him to say this matters. Waiting for him to stop treating you like a delicate mistake. Waiting for the private tenderness to become something that can survive daylight.
Then Monaco comes. The place where beautiful things go to be admired and secrets go to become expensive.
Your agency is officially involved with several Formula One events during the Grand Prix weekend. Luxury brand activations, appearances, sponsor dinners, the usual circus dressed in diamonds.
Officially, you are there for work. Unofficially, you are there for him.
That is the truth you do not say out loud. You have not been to many races. Your work keeps you moving, and his life is a calendar written by someone who hates sleep. But Monaco feels perfect, almost poetic. You both working. You both close. You both able to pretend proximity is professional.
The first day, you see him in the paddock from a distance. Mercedes black and silver everywhere. Cameras. Staff. Guests. Sunglasses. Expensive watches. The smell of coffee and hot asphalt and panic wearing team kit.
Toto stands near the garage, speaking to someone from the team. Tall, composed, one hand in his pocket.
Your heart betrays you instantly. Still. After everything.
He looks up. Finds you. For one tiny second, the paddock disappears. His eyes soften. Not much, but enough.
You smile faintly. Then someone calls his name, and the moment is gone. Professional. You both become professional. It is almost impressive. Tragic, but impressive.
You do your appearances. Smile beside cars. Laugh with brand executives. Pose with champagne you do not drink because expensive anxiety has lost some of its charm.
You feel the eyes on you. People whisper. Not openly. No, this is Monaco. Here people whisper with excellent posture.
You catch fragments.
“Isn’t that her?”
“The model?”
“With Toto?”
“Poor Susie.”
“She’s so young.”
You keep walking. Chin high. Face soft. Ethereal, they call you. You wonder if ghosts are ethereal too.
The moment happens on Saturday. It is almost nothing. That is what makes it cruel.
You are crossing through the paddock after a brand obligation, your pass swinging against your hip, your hair pulled back, a pale dress moving around your legs. You are tired. Your feet hurt. You want water, silence, and maybe for the entire internet to be unplugged for maintenance.
Then you pass the Mercedes garage. And you see them. Toto. Susie. Jack.
The three of them stand close together near the back of the garage, partly hidden from the main flow of people. Jack is talking animatedly, hands moving as he explains something with the violent enthusiasm of a child who has discovered engines and expects adults to keep up.
Toto’s hand rests on Jack’s shoulder. His face is soft. Open. Not the careful softness he gives you in hotel rooms, guarded by locked doors.
This is different. Older. Rooted. Familiar.
Susie stands beside him. Elegant, calm, lovely in that effortless way that makes you feel suddenly too young, too decorative, too temporary. She says something to Toto and touches his arm. Just lightly. A simple touch. A wife’s touch. Or maybe not wife. Maybe something more complicated. Something that does not vanish just because papers are signed or not signed.
Toto turns to her. And smiles. Not politely. Not for cameras. Really. A quiet smile that reaches his eyes.
Your whole body goes still. Around you, the paddock continues moving. People laugh. Cameras click. Someone rushes past with a headset. A mechanic carries a tire. The world does not care that yours has just cracked open in the middle of the Monaco Grand Prix.
You watch him ruffle Jack’s hair. Jack laughs. Susie smiles. Toto looks at them both with something you recognize at once. Love. Not the bright, hungry, secret thing he gives you. This is deeper. Heavier. A whole life’s worth of love.
And suddenly you understand. His heart is with them. Maybe damaged. Maybe tired. Maybe confused. Maybe not simple. But with them.
You are not his life. You are the room he enters when his life hurts too much. Beautiful. Soft. Hidden. Temporary.
You step back before they can see you. Too late. Toto looks up.
Your eyes meet. Something changes in his face. Concern. Guilt. Fear.
Then Susie turns. She sees you too. For one suspended moment, the four of you exist in a silence that somehow survives the noise of the paddock.
Toto straightens. He says your name.
You walk toward them because there is no elegant escape route and because you refuse to look like a wounded animal in heels.
“Hi,” you say, smiling.
Your voice is perfect. You are very proud of that. Devastated, but proud.
“Toto,” Susie says, her tone calm, “aren’t you going to introduce us?”
There is no cruelty in her voice. That almost makes it worse.
Toto’s jaw shifts. “Yes. Of course.”
He says your name again, then, “This is Susie. And Jack.”
Not my wife. Not my separated wife. Not anything that clarifies the war zone you have been sleeping inside for months. Just Susie.
Susie looks at you. Not with hatred. With assessment. She knows. Of course she knows. Maybe not everything. But enough.
Her eyes move over your face, your dress, your youth, the careful smile you are holding up like a shield.
“You’re with the fashion activation this weekend, aren’t you?” she asks.
“Yes,” you say quickly. “My agency is working with one of the brands.”
“How lovely.”
“Very.”
Jack says hello politely. You smile at him because none of this is his fault. He is just a boy standing beside his father, bright and innocent and permanent in a way you will never be.
You look back at Toto once. He looks like he wants to say something. You do not let him.
“I should go,” you say. “Work.”
The word saves you. Work has saved women from worse conversations for centuries. You step back.
“It was nice meeting you.”
Susie nods. Toto says your name again. Softly. Almost warning. Almost pleading.
You do not look at him. You turn and walk away through the paddock with your head high and your heart somewhere under the polished floor.
*
He calls that night. You do not answer. Then he texts.
Toto: Please talk to me.
You stare at the message from your hotel bed. You are still wearing your dress. You have not turned on the lights.
Monaco glows outside the windows, all gold and black, still beautiful because cities have no manners.
You type:
You: Not tonight.
Then you turn off your phone. You do not sleep.
The next day, you work. You smile. You stand beside women in diamonds and men with cameras. You laugh when people make jokes. You sip water through a straw so your lipstick survives. You look expensive, untouchable, perfect.
Inside, you are a house with all the windows broken.
Toto finds you twice. Both times, you escape. Once with a photographer. Once with your manager. You are professional. Almost cruelly so.
He deserves it. Maybe. Maybe not. You no longer know where guilt ends and love begins.
After the race, the weekend becomes louder. Parties. Interviews. Statements. Guests leaving. Helicopters lifting into the sky.
You think you can leave Monaco before the conversation happens. Naive. Sweet. Embarrassing.
Toto has always been better at strategy. The message comes late.
Toto: We need to talk. I’m coming to your suite.
Not asking. Of course not. Still, when there is a knock at the door, you open it. Because love is many things, but in your case, it is apparently also poor decision-making with excellent eyeliner.
Toto stands in the hallway. Dark suit. No tie. Tired eyes. He looks older than he did in Milan. Or maybe you are only seeing him clearly now.
You step aside. He enters.
The suite is too beautiful for this. Cream walls. Soft lamps. A terrace overlooking the harbor. A bottle of champagne on the side table from the hotel, untouched.
Expensive anxiety. Full circle.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he turns to you and says your name.
Quietly. Like it already belongs to the past.
You feel something in you panic and hold still at the same time.
“So,” you say, because apparently your dignity would like to die standing. “This is the part where you tell me I’m imagining things?”
His face shifts. Pain. Guilt. Something softer.
“Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what?”
“Make this harder.”
You laugh — a terrible sound. “Harder?”
He closes his eyes for one second. When he opens them again, he is composed. Of course he is. Toto Wolff can probably perform surgery on his own heart if the room is quiet enough.
“This has gone too far,” he says.
There it is.
Your body goes cold. You stare at him. “What?”
His face is controlled. Too controlled. “I can see that you’re getting more attached.”
The words hit strangely. Attached. Like you are a ribbon caught on his sleeve. Like you are not a woman whose life he entered with flowers, phone calls, hotel rooms, tenderness, mornings, and hands that made promises his mouth never did.
He continues, voice firm, almost gentle, which is worse. “I don’t want you to think this is permanent.”
Something inside you tears. Quietly. Cleanly. You look at him for a long moment.
The man who kissed you in London rain. The man who watched you wake in Milan like morning had given him something sacred. The man who called you sunshine with terrible manners. The man who held you through the night and made you feel like the most important thing in the world.
Now standing in your hotel room, explaining you were never allowed to believe him.
“You don’t want me to think,” you repeat softly.
His jaw tightens. “That is not what I meant.”
“No. You meant you don’t want consequences.”
His eyes flash with pain. Good. You want him to hurt. Not as much as you do. That would be impossible. But enough to know this is not just a conversation. Not just damage control. Not just one more crisis to manage before dinner.
He breathes in. “My life is complicated.”
You nod. “Yes. You’ve mentioned.”
“Susie and I—”
You flinch. There. The name. Finally allowed in the room.
He stops. You wrap your arms around yourself. “Are you going back to her?”
Silence. Toto looks at you. And in his eyes, you see it. The answer. He does not say yes. He does not have to.
Your lips part slightly. “Oh.”
One tiny sound. The smallest shape of heartbreak.
He steps toward you. You step back.
This time, he does not stop because he wants to. He stops because there is nothing left he can touch without making it worse. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he says.
That sentence. God. You almost hate him for choosing it.
“You should have thought of that before making me feel loved.”
His face breaks for half a second. Only half. But you see it. The control slips. The man beneath looks out, devastated and afraid and guilty.
Then Toto Wolff returns. Cold. Composed. Powerful. Safe behind himself.
“I never promised you anything.”
You go still. That is the cruelest thing he has said. Because it is true. And because he knows it is true.
The room blurs. You blink quickly, but the tears come anyway, filling your eyes before you can stop them.
“No,” you whisper. “You didn’t.”
He looks away. Coward. Just for a second. But you see that too.
“You didn’t promise me anything,” you say, your voice trembling now. “Not a future. Not a place in your life. Not even honesty, apparently. But you held me like I mattered. You looked at me like I mattered.”
His hand curls at his side. “You did matter.”
You laugh then. It breaks on the way out. “Did I?”
He says your name. Softly.
You shake your head. “No. Don’t.”
The tears slip down your cheeks. You hate them. You hate how young they make you feel. How predictable. How easy. Beautiful young girl cries because powerful older man chooses his real life. How original.
You look at him through the blur. “Was I ever real to you?”
The question hangs between you. A terrible, naked thing.
Toto does not answer. Not immediately. One second. Two. Three. Too long. And there it is. The answer.
You nod slowly. A strange calm moves through you. Not peace. Shock.
“You were real to me,” you say.
His face twists. “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Your voice is quiet now. “Because if you did, you would not be able to stand there and end me like a business arrangement. You know...” you whisper. “You know that I am in love with you.”
He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, they are wet. But not crying. Toto would never give you that much. But close enough to hurt.
You wipe at your cheek angrily. “So what now?”
He looks at you. That awful control still in place. That terrible carefulness. Even now he cannot simply ruin your life like an ordinary man. No. He must do it elegantly.
“I’ll arrange a car for you.”
Of course he will. Even when breaking your heart, he does it in first class.
“I don’t need—”
“I’ll arrange a car,” he repeats, firmer, because control is the only language he trusts when emotion becomes too large.
You look past him. On the table near the window, there is a cream envelope. Beside it, a small box.
You already know. You do not have to open them. Keys. A card. A way to make his guilt useful. A soft landing bought with money.
Your stomach turns. “What is that?”
His silence answers. You walk to the table and pick up the envelope.
Your name is written on it. His handwriting. For one second, you remember the card with the white roses.
For the girl who thinks champagne tastes like expensive anxiety.
Your fingers tremble. Then you place the envelope back on the table. Carefully. Almost politely.
“No.”
Toto’s expression tightens. “It’s for you.”
“No,” you say again. “Keep it.”
“You need somewhere—”
“I said no.”
Your voice cracks at the end. You hate that too. But not enough to stop. “I don’t want it.”
His jaw shifts. “This is not charity.”
That almost makes you smile, but not kindly. “I know. That would be less insulting.”
He flinches. Small. Almost invisible. Still counts.
You look at the envelope again. At the neat expensive apology sitting beside the keys.
“I don’t want my broken heart to come with a receipt,” you say quietly.
That lands. Good.
You pick up your small bag, which you packed earlier, from the chair.
Your hands are shaking so badly it takes two tries. You are wearing the same dress from months ago. The one he sent you. Ivory silk. Open back. Simple. Perfect. The one he once said made you look like sin in the sunset.
You almost laugh at the cruelty of it. Life, apparently, has a stylist.
You walk toward the door. He does not move.
For one second, foolishly, you wait. Some final small piece of you waits for him to say your name. To stop you. To choose wrong. To choose you.
He says nothing.
You turn the handle. Then you turn back once.
Toto stands near the window, half-shadowed by Monaco’s golden light. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are not. His eyes are full of grief.
“I hope she makes you happy,” you say.
It is not cruel. That is the worst part. You mean it. Because love does not vanish just because it has nowhere to go.
You open the door. Then, because apparently heartbreak has made you reckless instead of wise, you say the one thing you should not.
“I love you, Toto.”
The room goes completely silent. You do not turn around. You cannot. Because if you see his face now, you may never leave.
After a moment, his voice comes, low and rough and wrecked in a way you have never heard before.
“I know.”
That is it. Not I’m sorry. Not I love you too. Not stay. Not don’t go.
Just: I know. And somehow that is the saddest sentence of all.
You walk out. The door closes behind you.
*
Inside the suite, Toto does not move for a long time. There is no dramatic collapse. He is not a man built for spectacle.
He stands by the window, staring at the closed door. Then, slowly, he places one hand on the table. The other follows.
His head lowers. His shoulders rise once. A breath. Sharp. Broken. As if something inside him has finally cracked under the pressure of being contained.
On the table, the envelope remains untouched. The keys. The card. The useless generosity of a man who could buy nearly anything except courage at the moment he needed it most.
He closes his eyes. Your name leaves him once. Barely a sound. Too late...
*
The car waiting downstairs is black. Soft leather. Dark windows. A driver who does not ask questions. You slide into the back seat with your bag in your lap.
The city moves past the glass as the car pulls away from the hotel. Monaco is still beautiful. Cruelly beautiful. The harbor glitters. Terraces glow. People drink champagne under string lights, laughing as if hearts are not breaking above them in suites with sea views.
You look out at it all and feel strangely calm. Numb, maybe. There is a difference.
You came into his world through beauty. Through silk and flowers and expensive rooms. You are leaving it the same way. In luxury. In silence. In a car he arranged because even his goodbye has better manners than most men’s love.
Your phone vibrates once. You do not look. Then again. Still, you do not look. You keep your eyes on Monaco until the lights blur.
Then you realize you are crying. You press your hand to your mouth. And finally, finally, you let yourself understand.
Some fairy tales end exactly where they began. In wealth. In gold. In beauty. In loneliness...
*
A few days later, the headlines come.
You are in Milan again. Different hotel. Same kind of room. White sheets. Tall windows. Fresh flowers you did not ask for.
You wake up to your phone vibrating across the bedside table. Your manager. Your best friend. Notifications. Too many.
You already know before you open them. Some part of you has been waiting for the final cut.
You tap the first article.
Toto and Susie Wolff reconcile after separation: “Time apart made us realize what truly mattered.”
There is a photo. Monaco. A quiet street near the harbor, maybe. Taken from a distance but clear enough this time. Toto and Susie walking together. Jack between them. Susie is smiling up at Toto. Toto is smiling back. A family.
That is what the photo says before any headline can. A family.
You stare at it until your vision blurs. The article says there will be no divorce. That the separation allowed them to reflect. That they have chosen to work on their marriage. That family remains their priority. That love, sometimes, needs distance to find its way back.
Lovely. Really. Very elegant. Very mature. Very headline-friendly.
Your phone slips from your hand onto the bed.
You sit there in the morning light, unable to breathe.
So that is what you were. The distance. The reflection. The soft place he went while deciding whether he could return to the life that already had his name carved into it. A comfort. A mistake. A beautiful interruption.
You press both hands to your face. No. That is too easy. Too cruel.
Because you know he felt something. You know it. Not because you are foolish. Because you were there.
You know the way he looked at you when the world was locked outside. The way he touched you like prayer. The way he said your name in the dark, as if for those few hours nothing else existed. The way he laughed with you, really laughed, nose wrinkling, years falling from his face. The way he held you after nightmares he never explained. The way his silence sometimes trembled with things he would never allow himself to say.
He felt something. You are sure of it.
But something is not enough. Something does not make a man brave. Something does not erase a wife. Something does not rewrite a family. Something does not turn a secret into a home.
You curl forward, hands gripping the sheets. The pain comes all at once. Not sharp. Worse. Heavy. Like your whole body has finally understood what your heart refused to accept.
You love him.
You love him.
You love him.
The words repeat inside you, useless and brutal.
You love the man who chose not to choose you. You love the man smiling in a photograph with his family. You love the man who broke your heart gently, firmly... professionally.
You love him so much it feels humiliating. And still, beneath all the humiliation, beneath the anger and the grief and the terrible jealousy, there is something even sadder.
You are glad he is not alone.
That nearly destroys you. Because what kind of love survives its own ending like that? Yours, apparently. Terrible taste. Consistent, at least.
You wipe your face with shaking hands. Then you get up. Because there is a fitting in two hours. Because models do not get bereavement leave for relationships that were never official. Because you cannot call in sick with a broken heart and write “older powerful man returned to wife, please advise” in the email subject. Because life goes on, rude and badly scheduled.
You shower. You dress. You sit in the chair while someone paints your face back into something expensive.
The makeup artist says you look tired.
You smile. “Long night.”
She nods like she understands. She does not. Or maybe she does. Women usually do.
Later, under bright studio lights, they tell you to look soft. Dreamy. Untouchable. You do. Of course you do. You are very good at becoming what people need you to be. Ethereal. Beautiful. Silent.
Only once, between shots, your gaze drifts to the side where a rack of ivory dresses hangs beneath the lights. For one second, you see Milan. His jacket around your shoulders. His morning smile. His hand brushing your hair from your face.
You hear his voice.
Not anyone.
Your throat tightens.
The photographer calls your name. You turn back to the camera. Smile but not too much. Just enough. Perfect.
And somewhere far away, in a world of paddocks and private meetings and family photographs, Toto Wolff returns to the life he was always going to choose.
While you remain exactly what you were to him. A beautiful dream. A secret. A summer. A girl he almost loved.
And you?
You become the woman who learns that sometimes the most luxurious thing a man can give you is not a dress, or a car, or a hotel room overlooking Monaco.
Sometimes it is the lesson that being chosen in private is not the same as being loved in daylight.
You learn it. It breaks you but you learn it.
And still, late at night, when the city outside your window turns gold and lonely, when your phone is silent and your heart is not, you think of him.
You think of his rare laugh. His tired eyes. His hand on your back. His voice saying your name like it belonged only to him.
Then you close your eyes. And whisper into the dark, like a prayer you hate yourself for keeping: “I love you.”
Again. Softer. “I love you.”
And finally:
“I love you...”
THE END
National Anthem – Lana del Ray (monologue):
“And I remember when I met him, it was so clear that he was the only one for me. We both knew it, right away. And as the years went on, things got more difficult – we were faced with more challenges. I begged him to stay. Try to remember what we had at the beginning.
He was charismatic, magnetic, electric and everybody knew it. When he walked in every woman’s head turned, everyone stood up to talk to him. He was like this hybrid, this mix of a man who couldn’t contain himself. I always got the sense that he became torn between being a good person and missing out on all of the opportunities that life could offer a man as magnificent as him. And in that way, I understood him and I loved him.
I loved him, I loved him, I loved him.
And I still love him. I love him.”
