summary: what starts as an accidental visit to the mclaren garage quickly turns into an inescapable paddock superstition when lando convinces himself that you are his personal lucky charm.
pairing: lando norris + fem!driver!reader
It started as a joke. At least, that's what you thought.
The first time it happened, you weren't even thinking about Lando. You were wandering into the McLaren garage on a Thursday afternoon because you were looking for one of their senior race engineers.
Three weeks prior, during a frantic airport transit, you had accidentally swept his technical notebook into your backpack along with your laptop.
You'd spent the long flight home accidentally memorizing a very confusing breakdown of McLaren's floor updates before realizing it wasn't yours.
You had the note book gripped tightly in your hand, eyes scanning the back of the garage, when Lando nearly collided with you.
"Whoa," he said, stepping back. "You're in the wrong place, mate. You guys are that way."
"I'm returning something," you said, holding up the notebook. "And I don't need navigation from someone who almost spun out."
Lando gasped, a dramatic, wounded look instantly taking over his face. "That was a wind gust! A massive one! And wait, whose notebook is that? Are you spying?"
"Goodbye, Lando," you laughed, finally spotting the engineer near the racks, handing it over, and quickly making your exit before anyone could accuse you of anything.
Fifteen minutes later, the green light illuminated for the first qualifying session of the season.
By the time Q3 wrapped up, Lando had put his car on the front row, splitting the otherwise dominant Red Bulls. When you saw the timing screens from your own garage, you shook your head, genuinely happy for him.
It was a great lap. You didn't think about it again.
The second time happened in Silverstone, and it was driven entirely by starvation.
Your FP2 session had been a complete disaster. Your team had suffered an electrical issue that kept you stranded in your garage for forty out of sixty minutes, and Luca had dragged you through a brutal, exhausting debrief.
By 5 PM, you were completely drained, completely miserable, and completely starved.
Mercedes's hospitality unit had run out of those specific protein bars you liked, so you decided to raid a rival. McLaren was closer, and more importantly, their catering staff was usually too distracted by celebrity guests to notice a driver from another team slipping past.
You snuck into the back of their hospitality kitchen, successfully took three bars, and made a clean getaway through the back door.
"Stop right there."
You froze, a bar halfway to your mouth. Lando was sitting on a tire stack outside, a water bottle in hand, watching you with narrowed eyes.
"I'm starving, Lando," you mumbled around a bite.
His eyes went from the bar in your hand to your face, a strange expression crossing his features. "You walked through the back door."
"Yes. Because it was the shortest route away from your terrifying manager."
"Right," Lando murmured, nodding to himself. "Okay."
"Are you... okay?" you asked. "You're being weird."
"Just remember this moment," he said, pointing a finger at you.
Sure enough, amid a chaotic, wet-to-dry race that featured two safety cars and crumbling grid, Lando drove an absolute masterclass. When the checkered flag waved, he crossed the line in first place.
While you were walking through the media pen after finishing a quiet, respectable P4, Lando caught your eye from across the barrier.
He was drenched in champagne, his hair plastered to his forehead, holding his trophy. He didn't wave. He just pointed at you, then pointed at the trophy, and gave you a big smile.
You raised an eyebrow, entirely confused, and kept walking.
By the fifth time, it had become an actual problem.
In Miami, the paddock was incredibly long, hot, and humid. You had just finished a grueling engineering meeting and needed to get back to your team's media unit for an interview.
Looking at the crowded walkway, you realized that taking a direct cut through the middle of the McLaren garage was the fastest, coldest route back to the paddock.
You ducked under the barrier, gave a quick, apologetic nod to a mechanic who looked up, and walked briskly down the central lane. Lando was standing by the data screens, his race suit tied around his waist.
The moment he saw you, his head snapped up.
"Ah!" he shouted, pointing a finger so dramatically that multiple mechanics dropped their tools. "I knew it! You're here!"
"I'm just walking through, Lan. I'm late for an interview—"
"No, no, no!" Don't leave yet!" He literally scrambled across the floor, grabbing you by the sleeve of your team shirt. "Stand right there. Just for ten seconds. Stand by the front wing."
"Lando, let go of me, you look insane," you laughed, trying to pull your arm away as a couple of photographers turned their lenses toward the commotion. "Everyone thinks you've lost your mind."
Oscar walked past, saw what was happening, and immediately did a 180. "I'm not getting involved," he muttered, walking straight back out.
"See that?" you pointed at Oscar's retreating figure. "Even he thinks you're nuts."
Lando ignored him entirely, looking at you with completely sincere, desperate eyes. "Please. Just... touch the wing. Or the nose. Just a little tap."
"I am not touching your car. I could get disqualified because of you." You broke his grip, shaking your head in pure exasperation. "You're an actual child."
You jogged out of the garage, throwing your hands up. Two hours later, the graphics on the televisions screen updated.
LANDO NORRIS SECURES FASTEST IN MIAMI!
You stared at the monitor in your driver room for a full minute. Then, you buried your face in your hands and groaned.
You knew, with absolute certainty, that you were nevery going to hear the end of this.
The next morning, you stepped out of your driver room into the crisp morning air of the paddock, holding a steaming cup of coffee. You stopped dead.
Lando was leaning against the railing of your team's hospitality building. He was fully dressed in his race kit, arms crossed, staring directly at your doorway.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, taking a long, slow sip of your coffee. "Hello to you too."
"You haven't been in the garage yet," Lando said. His tone was flat, completely stripped of its usual humor.
"You realize I don't work for McLaren, right?"
"I know."
"Then why are you standing here?"
"Because it's qualifying," he said, as if explaining the alphabet to a toddler. "And we have a system now. A routine."
"We do not have a routine! You had a good lap because you're a good driver and a good car!"
"No," Lando countered, stepping forward and poking a finger at you. "The data doesn't lie. Bahrain, your stolen notebook, I got front row. Silverstone, your snack heist, podium. Miami, shortcut through ours, I scored fastest."
"It's just a coincidence. Did you skip school?"
"Just walk through the garage, c'mon."
"Lando."
"Please."
"Lando."
"Please. Just one walk. A quick one. You don't even have to look at anyone. Just breathe the air in there."
You looked around. At least twenty people were watching you now, including Toto, your own team principal, who was leaning over the balcony above you with a highly amused smirk on his face.
"Fine!" you snapped, throwing your hands up in defeat. "Fine. But you're buying my dinner for the rest of the races."
"Consider it done," Lando beamed, his face lighting up with a radiant, satisfied grin.
Twenty minutes later, you found yourself being formally escorted through the McLaren garage by a very smug Lando.
"Morning, lucky charm," one of the men called out.
You covered your face with your hands, letting out a long, suffering groan. "I hate you so much," you muttered to Lando.
He just nodded cheerfully. "Maybe. But if I get pole today?"
And pole he got indeed.
Lando had converted his pole position into a stunning race win, fighting off a relentless charge from the Red Bulls in the final five laps. You had managed a brilliant recovery drive yourself, clawing your way up from a messy midfield start to take P2.
Because of the joint podium, you were seated right next to each other on the stage, facing a sea of journalists, blinking lights, and snapping cameras.
"Question for our winner," the journalist said, leaning forward. "Lando, your form over the last few weekend has been incredibly consistent. There's a rumor circulating through the team units that you've adopted a superstition or lucky charm before you get into the car. Can you tell us anything about that?"
You instantly froze, your water bottle pasuing halfway to your mouth. Your eyes widened as you stared ahead at the back wall of the media room.
Please don't say it, you prayed silently, your soul leaving your body. Please, for the love of God, do not say it.
Lando, however, let out a massive, delighted grin.
"Oh, it's 100% real," Lando said. He slowly turned his head to look directly at you. "Every single time I've qualified front row or won a race recently, it's because a certain driver from a certain team walked through my garage."
"Lando, shut up," you muttered, keeping a tight, fake smile plastered on your face.
"She thinks I'm crazy," Lando continued. "But the data doesn't lie."
The journalist looked highly amused. "So, are you saying she's officially on the McLaren payroll now?"
"I mean, if she wants to," Lando nodded. "Though Toto might complain about stealing her. We might have to trade a few people for her services."
You leaned forward, pulling your own microphone closer.
"I would just like to state for the record that I am a professional athlete, not a lucky pot of gold," you announced, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"And if Lando doesn't stop telling every I control his race pace," you continued, "I am going to start walking through the Ferrari garage instead."
The entire room erupted into loud laughter. Lando gasped, clutching his chest with both hands as if he had been physically shot across the stage.
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," you shot back, finally breaking into a real, genuine laugh as you shook your head. "I'll wear red next week."
The headlines the next morning didn't even mention tire degradation, pit stop strategies, or track temperatures. Every single sports page across the globe featured a photo of the two of you on the FIA stage, with the bold, sweeping caption: MCLAREN'S LANDO NORRIS' LUCKY CHARM.
You stared at the front page of the paper on your flight home, smiling despite yourself. The problem was that now, you were never, ever going to convince him it wasn't connected—and deep down, you weren't sure you wanted to anyway.
Summary: When Yn has a scary accident on track, Nico is immediately there for her. After all, she is just a kid.
Rain still clung to the edges of the track from the morning showers, thin beads glistening on the curbs as the grid buzzed with anticipation. Spa had always felt alive, breathing with the mountains and forests around it, but today it throbbed with something else — excitement, nerves, a strange electricity in the air.
And for Yn, it meant everything.
At eighteen, standing in her Red Bull suit, helmet tucked against her hip, she felt like the world had finally opened up to her. Spa was her favorite track. She had told Max so more than once during the week — excitedly, shyly, and with that spark in her eyes that always made him smile.
“It feels like flying here,” she had whispered to him on the track walk two days earlier.
Max had ruffled her hair. “Then let’s make sure you fly in the good way. Not the other one.”
She had laughed. She always laughed with him.
Now, hurtling through Eau Rouge on lap 17, she wasn’t laughing — but she was alive with adrenaline, her heart hammering as she pushed the car as hard as she dared.
Max was P1.
Oscar was P2.
And she — she was right behind them in P3. Holding strong. Holding steady.
Except for the pressure behind her.
Lando.
He was quicker in the middle sector. She could feel him breathing down her neck through the radio static.
Her engineer’s voice crackled in. “Yn, Lando is half a second behind. Keep your line. You’re doing great.”
She swallowed. “Copy… but he’s moving weird. I— I don’t like it. He’s weaving a lot.”
“We see it. Stay focused.”
Her fingers tightened on the wheel.
She knew Lando wasn’t dirty. He was aggressive, sure, but never reckless — except today, something felt off. Maybe the pressure, maybe the championship, maybe the rain still lingering near the edges of the asphalt.
Or maybe he simply wanted P3 too much.
They approached Les Combes.
She exhaled shakily, trying to keep the car steady.
But Lando dove.
Too fast.
Too close.
The world snapped.
A violent jolt.
Metal against metal.
Her car’s rear lifted.
The radio dissolved into static.
She felt herself leave the ground — weightless — then slam, hard, as the car flipped.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
She lost count after that.
Her helmet hit something with a crack that echoed inside her skull. Her arms curled instinctively into her chest, her body thrown around as the chassis spun like a toy in a storm.
When the car finally crashed down on its side and skidded to a horrid, scraping halt, everything went silent.
Her ears rang.
Her breathing was thin and sharp.
The world blurred.
Then, faintly, she heard it:
“Yn? YN! If you hear this, please respond!”
She tried to speak, but only a painful breath escaped her lips.
Everything felt far away.
The marshals were running before the dust even settled. Cameras zoomed. The crowds had gone eerily quiet.
Seven minutes.
Seven unbearable minutes.
The medical team waited for the car to be stabilized. The marshals surrounded her, one shouting instructions, another checking the fuel leak, another making sure the fireproof foam was ready.
Then — finally — she moved.
A trembling hand gripped the halo. Her helmet tilted up.
A collective gasp rolled over Spa.
She pushed herself free — legs shaking, arms weak — and slid out of the destroyed car. Her knees nearly gave out the moment her feet touched the ground.
A female marshal — mid-30s, kind eyes, blonde ponytail — reached her first. “Hey, sweetheart, I got you. I got you…” She wrapped Yn in her arms without hesitation.
Yn clutched her suit, shaking uncontrollably. She wasn’t crying yet — shock sat like cold hands around her throat — but she was close.
More marshals crowded around.
But someone else was running.
A figure sprinting across the runoff area, helmet discarded somewhere behind him, breath heavy with panic.
Nico.
Nobody had realized he had stopped his car on the side of the track. Nobody knew he had jumped out and ran straight toward her.
He slid the last few feet, catching himself with one hand on the ground before grabbing her shoulders.
“Yn! Yn, look at me. Hey— hey, look at me.”
She blinked, finally focusing on his face.
He gently removed her helmet, hands shaking. “Are you hurt? Talk to me. Come on, kid. Talk to me.”
Her lips parted.
No sound.
Her breath hitched instead, chest jolting.
“Yn, answer me, please.” He cupped her face now, thumbs brushing her temples. “Are you hurt anywhere, Liebling?”
A tiny nod. Barely perceptible.
His eyes softened, but fear still shadowed them. “Where?”
She swallowed a sob. “M-my ribs… and my head… and— I don’t… I don’t know…”
“Okay. That’s okay. It’s okay, you’re okay—” He pulled her against him, hugging her so tightly she finally let go.
The dam broke.
She sobbed — real, shaking, broken sobs — her fists gripping the front of his suit. Nico held her, one hand on her back, the other cradling her head.
“Shh… shh… you’re safe now. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, Liebes.”
The female marshal stroked Yn’s back, whispering soft words. “Just breathe, darling. Let it out. You’re okay. You’re so, so brave.”
Yn cried harder.
Her legs finally gave out, and Nico lowered with her, keeping her pressed to his chest as he knelt on the tarmac.
The medical car arrived minutes later.
“We need to get her checked immediately.”
Nico stood, still holding her. “I’m coming with her.”
Nobody argued.
They put her in the medical car. Nico climbed in beside her, taking her hand instantly when she reached for him without even looking.
Her voice was weak. “Don’t go…”
“I won’t. I’m right here.”
At the Medical Center, Max was pacing when they arrived, hands shaking, eyes red. Isaac and Ollie stood behind him, equally anxious.
He rushed toward the door the second it opened.
“Yn!” His voice cracked. “Zusje, come here—”
But she was still clinging to Nico’s arm, too scared to move without him.
Nico whispered to her, “It’s okay. Max is here. You’re safe.”
She finally released him.
Max pulled her into his chest instantly, wrapping both arms around her head, pressing a kiss to her helmet-less hair.
“I thought—” His breath broke. “God, Yn, I thought we lost you.”
She whimpered softly, burying herself into him.
Ollie arrived right after, eyes wet. “Yn, you scared the hell out of us.”
She reached a trembling hand toward him. He took it and squeezed.
Isack hovered nearby, unsure if he should hug her or not, but she leaned into him when he approached. Isack rubbed her shoulder gently while whispering, “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
The doctor called her name, and she was guided into the exam room.
Max stayed outside, pacing again.
Ollie sat down, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “That crash— it didn’t look survivable…”
Nico was the only calm one, leaning against the wall, trying to slow his own breathing.
He had seen a lot in his career.
But nothing had hit him like watching her car flip through the air.
Max looked at him suddenly. “You were with her. Thank you. I mean it… thank you.”
Nico nodded once. “Anyone would’ve done it.”
But Max shook his head. “No. Not anyone.”
Nico didn’t respond.
The moment Nico stepped outside, cameras surged toward him.
“Nico! Why did you stop?”
“What made you run to her?”
“You abandoned your car on track — why?”
“Were you the first one to reach her?”
He lifted a hand to quiet them, jaw tight, eyes tired.
“Look…” He exhaled slowly. “If it were my kid out there flipping like that, I would want someone — anyone — to run to them. Not wait. Not watch. Act.”
The reporters fell silent.
Nico glanced back toward the medical center door.
His voice cracked just barely. “You can all thank God she’s alive.”
And for the first time in a very long time, the media didn’t ask anything else.
Inside, Yn was cleared for major injuries, but she had bruised ribs, a mild concussion, and emotional shock.
When she stepped out of the exam room, she looked smaller, wrapped in a blanket around her shoulders, eyes swollen and red.
Max walked to her. “Want a hug?”
She nodded.
He held her again, arms protective. Ollie hugged her after, gentle and careful.
“Don’t scare us like that again.” He whispered.
She let out a weak laugh. “Wasn’t… really my plan.”
Nico approached last.
She reached for him without hesitation.
He picked up her hand, squeezing it. “How are you feeling now?”
“Tired… sore… and scared.” Her voice cracked. “Thank you for coming to me. When I got out… I didn’t know where I was. And then you were just there.”
His eyes softened. “Of course I was. I’m glad you’re talking now.”
“I’m sorry I cried on you…”
“Don’t be stupid, kid. Cry all you want. I’ll be there again if you need it.”
She smiled weakly.
Max wrapped an arm around her shoulders again, pulling her gently against his side. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet, yeah?”
As they walked out together, Nico lingered behind for a moment, watching her.
Alive.
Shaken.
But alive.
He let out the breath he’d been holding since the crash.
summary: Oscar and his teammate have a close hilarious relationship
Masterlist / TipJar
ynusername
liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, lewishamilton and 2,109,851 others
ynusername Photo of oscar accurately describes how I feel going into my home gp
view all 10,293 comments
oscarpiastri how do you always find the worst photos of me
ynusername i take them bb
oscarpiastri oh my god
user best teamates on the grid
user if only the mclaren car was better for them
user i think mclaren should be more worried about yn's insane internet presence
ynusername omg no..... dont tell them
mclaren you are mistaken we live for this
lewishamilton home race !
georgerussell silverstone !
ynusername Brit squad assemble !
landonorris here we come !
user YN is my favourite driver by a landslide
ynusername
liked by oscarpiastri, lewishamilton, georgerussell and 1,992,938 others
ynusername he may've been schooled in this country but he is in desperate need of an education on pure culture
view all 41,291 comments
user I love the fact the minute she is not racing she has the craziest nails
user are they acrylics
ynusername they are press ons, easy on easy off
ynusername easy way to be hot
oscarpiastri I love that these are the photos you post, you're education was not coffee shops and bookshops
ynusername what nope it was very mundane
oscarpiastri nothing with you is mundane
user shots fired
user petition for yn to release the other photos
landonorris petition signed
alexalbon petition signed
lewishamilton the most cultured driver crown might be passed down soon
ynpiastri omg can you knight me too
lewishamilton i wish!
user the crown needs to be passed on now
oscarpiastri
liked by ynusername, landonorris, lewishamilton, and 802,439 others
oscarpiastri Just shy of a podium but got to witness the united kingdoms honorary princess on a podium. (also its not her birthday, her birthday is in 8 months)
view all 99,204 comments
user its always her birthday!
user always !!
ynusername it is!
oscarpiastri I am not getting you gifts everyday
user he gets her birthday gifts..
ynusername mclaren domination in the foreseeable future
oscarpiastri so soon
user i love them
user they should date
f1fanupdates
liked by 3,420 users
f1fanupdates For the uneducated and borderline uncultured, meet the McLaren cuties. Teammates YN LN and Oscar Piastri channel the Gen Z unmedia-trained craziness. Having known each other from F3 days, their social media makes McLaren admins have heart attacks. Both having wins under their belt, it makes them a very strong team, a force. Would I be lying if I said they would be cute together...
view all 198 comments
user I love them, they are my parents, together or not
user they are iconic I hope they never get trained
user they are the hottest drivers, McLaren slayed with this pairing
user preach
user I already thought they were dating
user no they are just friendly
user I bet there are underlying feelings
ynusername
liked by oscarpiastri, lewishamilton, landonorris, and 2,202,420 others
ynusername checking out the opposition. checking OUT the opposition
view all 70,436 others
user she is unhinged
user she is iconic
user is she dating lewis
user nah lewis is married
user since when?!?
oscarpiastri don't you dare jump ship
ynusername can't promise anything pooks
oscarpiastri you better
mclaren you better
ynusername till death does us part x
lewishamilton you are not smart with this caption
ynusername innocent until proven guilty
lewishamilton you are baiting him
user WHO, LEWIS TELL US
user OMgggg drama
oscarpiastri
liked by ynusername, lewishamilton, landonorris and 892,104 others
oscarpiastri pov we were meant to be at the technology centre at 9. One of us was
view 67,241 comments
ynusername nooo youve made me look bad, it was traffic
oscarpiastri So, thats not an ice cold coffee in the selfie you sent me
ynusername no one was meant to see that
oscapiastri nothing you send me is safe sweetheart
ynusername I ... okay
user omg is she lost for words
user thats possible??
user omg they sent each other photos
user thats not a crazy thing
user just let me believe they have feelings
mclaren ohhhh thats why you were late
ynusername no not at all mother
mclaren mother is disappointed
oscarpiastri what is happening?
mclaren its okay son
oscarpiastri oh hell naw we are not siblings
user hes not helping the rumours
ynusername
liked by oscarpiastri, lewishamilton, mclaren, and 2,579,546 others
ynusername A visual representation of me trying to soft launch a relationship
view all 278,543 comments
oscarpiastri is this why you have been screaming/wheezing in your drivers room for the last 30 mins
user omg she is just like the rest of us
oscarpiastri shes been in tears screaming 'why do i have none without his face!!'
ynusername you are out of line Piastri
oscarpiastri wow, not the surname
lewishamilton very very accurate
ynusername huh
lewishamilton we are going to talk soon
ynusername @ anyone HELP ME
oscarpiastri nothing can help you now
user okay so who do we think it is
user oscar
user oscar
user oscar
user ah so a universal thought
f1fanupdates
liked by 8,250 users
f1fanupdates It has been five months since this soft launching started! We are almost in Abu Dhabi, and YN is still just teasing her partner. We all think it is Oscar, but it is still unknown. No matter who it is though, they look good together
view all 942 comments
user OSCARRRRR
user Imagine it is not oscar and it is some poor guy and now he's upset
user oh
user thats a good point
user OscarYN for life
oscarpiastri
liked by ynusername, lewishamilton, landonorris, and 1,240,567 others
oscarpiastri Hoping on the soft launching YN's relationship train
view all 82,459 comments
ynusername wow, thats my next post ruined
lewishamilton for the love of all that is good, just post him
ynusername booo
oscarpiastri no booo its getting boring
ynusername you think that, really.. ?
oscarpiastri i do yn girl
user this is hilarious
user i thought this was an YN post at first
user same!
user oscar is getting sick of it lol
mclaren There were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded
user not mclaren quoting princess Diana
user wouldn't it be four, mclaren, oscar, yn, yns partner
user i think you are delusional
user i think they are right
user mclaren outing there relationship...
ynusername
liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, lewishamilton, and 2,520,636 others
ynusername my man my man my maaaan
view all 97,577 comments
user its officalllll guys
user im so happy i was right
user they look amazing together
user hot couple
oscarpiastri finally a hard launch pookie
oscarpiastri was wondering when you would do it
ynusername i was teeing it up
lewishamilton its been a good 8 months of you two sneaking around the paddock
landonorris we all knew
maxverstappen i walked in on them making out fully behind the mclaren hospitatility
alexalbon we all did that day, it was basically public information
mclaren our evil plan finally worked
ynusername your what...
oscarpiastri your what...
mclaren nothing, doors sometimes just lock on accident
user not mclaren admin confessing to playing cupid
mclaren not just me, everyone, Zak once hid YN's car keys so Oscar had to drive her home
ynusername WHAT OMG I FEEL BETRAYED
oscarpiastri
liked by mclaren, ynusername, landonorris, and 1,924,250 others
oscarpiastri HR approved of photos 1 and 2 of my girlfriend
view all 45,266 others
user goddamm
ynusername OSCAR
oscarpiastri hey georgus
ynusername georgus?
oscarpiastri thats you
landonorris you guys make me sickkk
ynusername love you toooo
oscarpiastri hey...
ynusername x
mclaren we do not approve of the 3rd
oscarpiastri I do not want another HR meeting
ynusername THIS ONE WASN'T MY FAULT! DON'T MAKE ME SIT THROUGH ANOTHER
user what happened last time..
mclaren setting work place phyiscal intimacy boundaries
ynusername Oscar is not a good influence on me
oscarpiastri you aren't a good influence on anyone love
user I love these two so much
user best teammates on the grid
user the next brocedes
ynusername we arent having a dramatic public break up
lewishamilton oh
Soooo, after a long break, I am back with my favourite driver 🫀😌. Hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it (I cried…a bit)
Everyone’s Favourite
Max Verstappen x Mercedes!Reader
He is the Rain of Milton Keynes, she is the Sun of Brackley — together they make the Rainbow of the grid
Because another one of their interaction prompts a random YouTuber to make a compilation of each time the Storm smiled for the Sunshine and each time the Mercedes Princess bowed down for the Golden Boy of Red Bull.
Warnings: None. Fluff. A YouTube video description—mostly
Word Count: 3.2k
The title of the video was simple—yet powerful enough to captivate every Formula One fan who knew them.
The pair who proved that love and rivalry could coexist at 300 km/h.
“The MercBull Couple Being in Love for 7 Minutes”
The video began with a clip from Barcelona 2022, the season she burst onto the grid—a rookie with fire in her veins—and he, a reigning World Champion with a crown forged in dominance. The final notes of the Dutch national anthem lingered in the air, merging with the deafening cheers of the crowd. But the camera wasn’t on Max.
Instead, it found her.
She stood on the lowest step of the podium, just to his left. The so-called Mercedes Princess—cheeks flushed with adrenaline, eyes alight with joy, and a grin too wide for someone who’d just finished P3. But it wasn’t just a third place. It was her second podium of an already electric debut season, earned under the weight of global scrutiny and a teammate with a godlike legacy.
Her high wasn’t from champagne. It was from proving herself.
And then he turned.
Max looked at her—not with the cold composure of a titleholder, but with a warmth no one had ever associated with the man who shattered records with clinical precision. As the camera zoomed in, he leaned toward her and said something that made her laugh, the kind of laugh that spilled out before she could contain it.
The video froze mid-frame.
His grin lingered, soft and boyish. His blue eyes stayed locked on her, not with mischief, but something closer to awe. She looked down, lips curled, face glowing, and suddenly—viewers weren’t sure if her flushed cheeks were from the victory…or from him.
Text appeared on screen, playful and glowing, while animated hearts danced around the couple:
“Everyone’s Favourite Slow Burn Duo Being Absolutely Whipped for Each Other (for 7 Minutes Straight).”
It was followed by chaos—pure, unserious chaos.
A hilariously off-key rendition of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” began to play—sung, or rather butchered, by Max in an old interview no one quite remembered… until now. The Internet had resurfaced it, of course. His accent was thick, his pitch nonexistent, but the soft look in his eyes while singing said everything. The comments were immediate: “He wasn’t trying to impress the world. He was looking at her.”
Then the scene cut to Azerbaijan, 2022.
Another podium, another round of Dutch dominance. Max stood at the top, flanked by Checo in P2, the gap between them almost insulting. And in P3—once again—the Mercedes rookie, carving her own path one race at a time. A brilliant defensive drive, strategic maturity, and sheer racecraft had earned her that step.
But it wasn’t the race fans remembered.
It was what came after.
The screen shifted to the post-race interviews—specifically, hers. She was mid-answer, breaking down telemetry data and strategy with all the calm precision of a veteran, when he appeared from just out of frame.
Max.
He stepped in with a casual confidence, uttered a quick “congratulations”—but it wasn’t just words. It was the way he did it. The way the camera caught the hug, full and easy, like second nature. His hands rested low, just where her fire suit hung tied around her waist. Her arms wrapped around his neck, drawing him close like it was the most natural thing in the world. He leaned in—his head ducking to meet her height—and said something against her ear.
Whatever it was, it worked. Her grin cracked wider, cheekbones high and eyes sparkling. And that flush? That flush wasn’t podium joy. It wasn’t exhaustion or track heat. It was brighter than the Ferrari she’d battled on track—and twice as telling.
That was the moment.
The moment the rumors became whispers, the whispers became theories, and the theories? They became speculations with receipts.
The video shifted again—this time to the sun-drenched tarmac of Circuit Paul Ricard, Le Castellet. The familiar grain of race-day footage gave way to another iconic moment in the MercBull love story.
She had started the race from P6—mid-pack, disadvantaged, and boxed in. But chaos has always been her playground. With a masterclass in patience, well-timed overtakes, and a safety car that played right into her hands, she clawed her way up the grid. When the chequered flag waved, there she was again—on the podium. P3, behind her seven-time World Champion teammate Lewis Hamilton, and the man who’d won the race—Max Verstappen.
But what followed was pure cinematic gold.
The champagne bootlegs were popped, the corks flew, and the crowd roared.
Tradition dictated Max would turn and drench whoever came up to collect the Constructors’ trophy on Red Bull’s behalf. But that tradition—like many others—was quietly rewritten that day.
Instead, Max turned straight to her.
She was still fumbling with the wire cage of her bottle when he struck. In one swift move, he tipped his bottle forward, and drenched her—completely and unapologetically. Head to toe, sparkling champagne soaked into her fire suit as her shoulders jumped with silent giggles, mouth open in shocked laughter. The broadcast microphones didn’t catch the sound, but the video didn’t need it. The joy on her face—the glint in his eyes—told the whole story.
The crowd noticed. Their cheers grew louder.
Lewis, never one to sit out a party, turned with a grin and joined in the chaos, spraying them both, but the real show? It was between the two of them.
Two drivers from rival teams, standing amid bubbles and roaring fans, not looking at the cameras, not acknowledging the world watching—
Just watching each other.
In that moment, surrounded by carbon fibre, champagne, and championship tension, it became blindingly clear:
They only had eyes for each other.
The screen faded into the next clip—grainier than the rest, because it wasn’t filmed by a professional broadcast team. No. This was fan footage, the kind that would live on in Twitter threads, Tumblr GIF sets, and TikTok edits titled “he was never the villain to her.”
Hungarian Grand Prix Qualifying.
It hadn’t been a great session for Max. Power unit issues plagued his final run, leaving him stranded in P10—a rare sight for the reigning World Champion. But the cameras weren’t on him that day.
Because that day—history was made.
She had taken pole position. The first woman ever in the history of Formula One to do so. Her name blazed across every timing screen, outpacing world champions, silencing critics, and writing herself into the sport’s history books with raw speed and ice-cold precision.
The video began with her standing outside the Mercedes motorhome. Her fire suit hung open around her waist. No helmet. No cameras. Just her, talking animatedly to her race engineer about tyre degradation, her hands moving with the passion of someone born to be on track.
Then—he walked in.
Max Verstappen. Still in his Red Bull team kit, a half-empty can of the energy drink in one hand, hair still damp from the helmet. And the moment he saw her, the entire vibe shifted.
The camera caught it.
That smile.
Not a grin. Not smirk. Something softer. Like a secret bloomed between them in real time, a language of looks and timing no one else could decode.
He walked up, unhurried. She turned to greet him—and the air shifted again. He didn’t speak, didn’t tease. Instead, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
And she glowed.
Her smile broke across her face like sunlight cresting a horizon. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes flickered to the ground—and for a moment, she didn’t look like a pole-sitter. She looked like a girl being seen as more than a driver.
The phone recording the moment shook, the fan behind the lens letting out a muffled squeal that was lost in the noise of paddock voices. But the footage—the moment—was already immortal.
Then, he held out his Red Bull can. Already opened, clearly sipped. But she didn’t hesitate. She took it with a laugh, fingers brushing his like they’d done this a thousand times before.
Her race engineer glanced at Max, then at her—and quietly slipped away.
Because even though he’d qualified tenth, and she stood atop the motorsport world, he looked at her like he’d won something far greater.
The screen dimmed to black, lingering just a second longer than expected.
And then—a split screen appeared.
On the left: a grainy video feed from an interview so notoriously evasive it had spawned entire Reddit threads.
On the right: the footage that had, quite literally, shaken the foundation of the motorsport fandom.
Left side—Max Verstappen.
The reigning World Champion sat in front of a sterile grey backdrop, posture loose but eyes sharp. He looked every bit the man who’d won a championship fight against Lewis Hamilton. The interviewer, mid-forties, buttoned-up and clearly out of his depth, smiled politely before diving in:
“Are you dating someone?”
Max’s reaction was instant. A shrug. A faint scoff. That trademark curl of the lips—the kind that told you he was in on a joke no one else understood.
“I’m currently focused on racing,” he replied smoothly, voice laced with disinterest, eyes darting somewhere off-camera.
“And racing alone.”
Right side—chaos in stillness.
A video posted—and almost immediately deleted—by Charles Leclerc. The off-season had arrived, and so had Charles’ annual yacht party, which was less a party and more a Mediterranean fever dream. The posted video had meant to show him and Carlos doing tequila shots and pretending not to flirt with each other across the bar.
But the background?
That changed everything.
Because just behind the chaos and clinking glasses, just past the laughing drivers and Ferrari crew, stood them.
Max and the Mercedes Princess.
Slow dancing.
No music audible. No choreography. Just them—swaying in a rhythm only they could hear. She rested her head on his chest, eyes closed, safe and small in the quiet corner of a world too loud. His hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through her loose hair, circling the base of her neck with an absent-minded tenderness that told the world: he knew exactly what he had.
He wasn’t looking around. Wasn’t worried about cameras, phones, or the internet.
He was looking at her like she was the only finish line that had ever mattered.
Meanwhile, Charles had realized his mistake. The video vanished within thirty minutes. But the fandom had already downloaded it, enhanced it, slowed it down frame by frame. Hard launch achieved. Reversal? Impossible.
And now—played side by side, the irony was delicious.
On the left, Max’s cold, clinical deflection: “I’m focused on racing and racing alone.”
On the right, Max—completely in love, utterly undone, swaying with her like the world had stopped spinning.
The edit cut to black again, and a single line faded onto the screen:
“And racing alone… sure,” with a smirking emoji.
The screen faded from the split-screen chaos of Charles’ yacht party, and this time, it opened to something grander. Louder. Unignorable.
São Paulo Grand Prix.
A race already etched in memory—not for the usual rivalries or lap times, but for what it came to mean.
The camera opened on pure history. Her car—trimmed in black and silver—flashed across the finish line, victorious. After months of near-misses, late-safety-cars, and bad luck, the Mercedes rookie had won her first Formula One Grand Prix.
A woman. On the top step. In Brazil.
She had done it.
Held off her own teammate—the seven time world champion, Lewis Hamilton—with iron determination and clean, defensive driving that made even the most cynical pundits call her a generational talent. The crowd roared. The commentators choked on their disbelief. Her name echoed through the paddock, loud enough to drown out everything else.
Except… not everything.
Because for Red Bull, the race had been a mess.
Max and Checo had clashed—tensions boiling over when Max refused to follow a team order to let his teammate through. The headlines were already being written, the media swirling. But the next moment—no one had seen coming.
Because when the podium ceremony began, and the Mercedes team gathered beneath the stage in celebration, Max was there.
No Red Bull gear. No media interview.
Just him, standing quietly among the Mercedes engineers, tucked near the back—watching her.
The cameras, of course, found him.
There he was, expression unreadable but eyes locked on her like gravity itself had pulled him into place. She stood on the top step, helmet off, curls wind-swept, eyes shining with disbelief and joy. Champagne dripped down her race suit. Confetti tangled in her hair. A goddess in victory.
And then—her eyes found his.
The noise of the crowd seemed to dim in that moment, like the world itself leaned in closer.
And Max, the man so famously composed, so often guarded, mouthed the words the cameras caught in perfect clarity.
“Ik ben de jouwe.” (I am yours)
The words that detonated across the fandom like a starter light going green.
It wasn’t speculation anymore.
It wasn’t an edit, or a fanfic, or a whisper behind paddock doors.
It was real. It had always been real.
The screen faded again, soft and slow.
And then came the final clip.
The one that shattered even the last holdouts, silenced the cynics, and left every fan reaching for tissues with shaky hands and full hearts.
Las Vegas, 2024.
The city of lights burned brighter than ever that night, a kaleidoscope of champagne, neon, and pure, undiluted history.
Because on that night—Max Verstappen clinched his fourth consecutive World Championship, solidifying a legacy that few in the sport’s long history could rival.
And yet, that wasn’t the only record broken.
Because just ahead of him, under the glare of the Vegas lights and the shadow of the Sphere, she stood on the top step of the podium once again—having led the race from start to finish with precision so ruthless it could’ve been scripted.
He won the title.
She won the race.
They won each other.
The camera cut to the pit lane, Red Bull’s garage a whirlwind of celebration—engineers and mechanics losing their minds, flares in team colours lit like fireworks. Max was there, in the middle of it all, grinning as if someone had carved the weight off his shoulders.
And then the camera panned.
She appeared from the far end of the lane, still half in her fire suit, tied around her waist, undershirt clinging to her like armor. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes gleaming, adrenaline still crackling under her skin. Her smile—God, that smile—stretched wide as she made her way to him with determined steps and arms outstretched.
He didn’t hesitate.
His smile bloomed before she even reached him. And the moment she collided into his chest, he folded around her like she was the one trophy he truly cared about.
The Rain of Milton Keynes beamed down at the Sun of Brackley, and kissed her. Fully, deeply, right there in front of his team and the cameras and the roaring crowd.
And the cheers? They got louder.
She melted into him like she always had, and when they broke apart—she giggled, breathless and flushed, and he blushed.
Max Verstappen, who had once said he was only focused on racing.
Max Verstappen, who once shrugged off love like it was a distraction.
Now standing in the heart of his team, holding the woman who made even winning feel better.
And then—
The screen shifted—just two pictures now, side by side, while Can’t Help Falling in Love played gently in the background, the lyrics curling through the silence like a confession long overdue.
Wise men say
Only fools rush in
But I can’t help
Falling in love with you
On the left, a photo from Barcelona 2022—her first podium. The moment that had started it all.
She stood grinning, fresh-faced and glowing, cradling her first Formula One trophy in both hands like it was a piece of the stars themselves. The camera had caught the joy in her face, unfiltered and radiant. But just off to the side—him.
Max.
His gaze wasn’t on the crowd or the cameras. It was on her. A look so soft, so full of something quietly devotional, that only the slow-motion replay had made the world notice. He looked at her like a man already falling, even then.
Take my hand
Take my whole life, too
For I can’t help
Falling in love with you
On the right, a newer photo—more intimate, more telling. The FIA Prize Giving Ceremony in Rwanda.
She wore black, elegant and understated, silver embroidery glinting on the sleeves. He was beside her in classic formal wear—sharp lines, soft eyes. His hand extended toward her, steady and sure, as she placed her own into it, trusting, careful. The rumor was she’d twisted her ankle the day before. The truth was—he wouldn’t have let her walk alone, injury or not.
He helped her up the stairs, not as a world champion escorting a fellow driver, but as something more ancient. Something sacred. His smile was the same—the smile he wore only for her. His gaze unchanged from the one on the podium years ago—like she was still the girl with the trophy in her hands, and he, the man who never stopped choosing her.
And her smile?
That smile told the entire story.
And just below the photos, in tiny, silver letters barely visible against the fading screen, a final line appeared:
“He never needed to say the words.
He loved her like they were already understood.”
The screen faded to black—soft, final, and aching with the kind of silence that only follows something true.
And then, in the centre of the dark screen, a small white circle appeared.
The universal symbol for restart. For reliving. For never being ready to let go.
“Replay.”
Seven minutes of unscripted, unguarded, unfiltered love.
And one by one, across continents and time zones, on laptops and phones and projector screens, fans tapped it again.
Because the story these two drivers told—without ever saying the words—wasn’t just romance. It was devotion. Rivalry. Respect. Vulnerability. Fire and calm. Rain and sun.
Red Bull blue and Mercedes silver.
A storm and a sanctuary.
They were opposites, yes—but in their love, fans had found something sacred. A kind of rainbow that formed between two corners of the paddock, between two people who should’ve never fit but did—flawlessly.
So they watched it again.
Not because they had missed anything—
But because they couldn’t not.
Because some love stories aren’t about grand declarations.
Some are just about a glance on a podium. A shared drink in parc fermé. A hand outstretched on a darkened stage.
"if you could be teammates with anyone else, who would it be?"
you stood in front of the camera and thought on it for a moment before you answered, "oh, easy! i'd choose charles! i'd say we're pretty close and i'm hopeful this year is the year we wins... but he'd have to beat me first!" then winked at the camera with your hands on your hips.
your teammate, max, was behind the camera and his ears were burning. he knew the question was a joke, but he didn't want to see his favourite teammate be on the same team with his most loathed rival.
in the hotel room, max's hand lingered across your back a little more as he guided you away from your hotel room and towards his. his nose brushed against your neck, taking in your scent before he went to open the door.
when he got the door closed behind you two, his hands were on you once more. his lips at your neck and between kisses he asked, "you'd pick, charles, huh?"
you squeaked, "they said pick someone else." you looked into max's eyes, "we're already teammates." and your eyes went a little wide as he pressed himself further against you. you two have had sex before, it was no secret - with the amount of time you spent together it was inevitable.
"could have picked anyone else." he said lowly as he rubbed up against you further and touched your chest, "you know how i feel about him. how he gets under my skin. i wouldn't want anyone to be on the same team as you. you're mine."
you knew his reaction was overbearing, but you knew that max deeply cared for you. he yearned for you deeply. the thump of his heart was in time with how much he adored you, needed you. so the idea of charles taking you away from him only poked at something in his brain.
you gasped when he bit into the skin of your neck, you knew it would bruise. but something curled in your gut as you felt the a certain lust wash over you.
"you're red bull or nothing." he said lowly, "by my side, or off the track." he said as he started to play with the front of your jeans, "i don't want charles to get the wrong idea, so tonight. i'm going to make sure you firmly remember who you belong to." he placed another kiss on your neck before you ended up in the bedroom and on the bed.
you could have said no, you could have stood your ground and had him slink away with his tail between his legs. but there was something about the domineering max that just made you wet. the looked in his eye, cold, commanding. he looked like the villain that everyone thought of him as.
you took off your branded t-shirt and you felt his gaze linger on your breasts. he licked his lips and you got your bra off, slowly your jeans came off too along with the rest of your under garments. socks throw in two different directions and your panties on the other side of the bed. max was quicker to get undressed before he got on top of you in bed. he pushed you up against the pillows and gazed down at you.
his cock was fully erect. you knew he got off to submitting you under him. he told you once that he liked when you posed a challenge on the track because that meant he could fuck you harder. a real champion can take anything, he told you once when he had you in a headlock and bullied your poor pussy.
"look at you." he said as he hiked your hips up closer to him, "see, this is what no other driver can have. you're just so sweet on the track, you're their little star. but you need someone to actually keep you safe. and charles would never do that." max said lowly and rubbed the tip of his cock up against you, "too trusting. you should only be trusting me."
you swallowed, "please, max." you held onto the pillows under your head and you lifted your hips a little to give him better access to your cunt. you were wet and max knew it. he loved that he carried that bit of control over you, easily making you soaked between your legs.
he remembered after a rough practice he spent what felt like half an hour rubbing your cunt through your driver's suit and he knew that you raced the next round with stickiness between your legs. risky move, but max had to plant those seeds early.
that after formula one, you wouldn't become an engineer or a reporter, or whatever else ex-drivers seemed to do. no, you'd be max's wife. and hopefully married after after that season ended.
he looked at you and licked his lips. you met his gaze as he sank his cock into you. you arched your back a little and he relaxed against you. and so did you. he planted his hands on either side of you, he leaned in to kiss you on the lips as you wrapped your legs around him.
"look at you." he said.
you shifted yourself on the bed a little and reached for him. your arms wrapped around his neck. you held on while he moved against you. pleasure moved through both of you. you loved the feeling, even with max's harsh words, you still felt affection for him. both as a teammate and a lover.
"i'm always looking out for you." he said, he drank in the sight of your face, "i want you well, i want you safe. and i want you as mine." his strokes started to move faster, he felt a slight fire in his gut from the feeling of his cock buried inside of you slick pussy.
you were on birth control, but still it was a risk to take you this way. to have him bare inside of you. but, it eased his jealousy just a little bit to know that he was the only man to ever take you this bare. to take you as his, all his.
"please, max. it feels so good." you encouraged him as you held on tighter, the pleasure was growing in your core as he rutted against you. there was something about how his cock moved inside of you that hit all the right areas that made your eyes roll a little out of pleasure.
"you don't know what you do to me." he said lowly, "i don't want you to ever think about having another teammate ever again. i want you to only need me by your side. matching cars, matching uniforms." matching last names.
he continued to thrust into you, he held onto the bedding a little tighter and felt the sweat at his brow. it was hot between you two. the movements of him against you only had you holding onto you tighter.
"max. fuck."
"i know, it feels good. you love how you feel under me. do you like being my teammate?"
you nodded and your nails nipped at the back of his neck as you held on, you swallowed before you said, "i love being your teammate, max. you know that!"
"do you want another teammate? want another man to fuck you the way i do?"
you shook your head, "never. never in a million years. i want us to win the constructor's this year!" you arched your back a little when his cock nudged against just the right spot that made you feel tingly all over. he laid another heated kiss on your lips and continued to fuck you quickly and roughly.
the headboard slammed against the wall from the force that he was fucking with you. you whined into the kiss and he held onto your hips tightly, you were pinned under him while he fucked you. he felt your body quake under him, the feeling of heat under your skin. you were the sparks in his brain and the fuel in his blood.
fucking you was the same intensity as driving. except he could let his mind grow hazy with each powerful thrust. to know you'd never want another meant the world to him, to know that you were all his. you moaned against his lips and clawed down his strong back.
you didn't last much longer. you broke the kiss and made a strong yet whiny noise as you came around his cock. you arched your back and squeezed your eyes shut as you climaxed. it only spurred him on, it made his heart hammer along with yours. the pleasure flooded your head and after you reached your peak, you let go of him and let him have his wicked way with you.
"beautiful." max said as he continued to fuck you strong thrusts. he left himself feel all of you, every inch of you felt warm under him. you were sweaty and hot. he licked his lips and the pleasure throbbed in his body.
"please, max. i'm sorry that i made that comment. i knew i couldn't pick you." you whined.
max kissed at your neck, "next time, pick someone else. alex, george, even carlos. just not charles, i won't let that sweet talker take you from me." you could feel the possessiveness in his tone.
he knew he was close, with a few more heavy thrusts he finished inside of you. he groaned under his breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. your cunt fluttered around him and he drank in the feeling. you felt amazing, warm all over and so soft. he knew he had to have you always.
"perfect." he cooed before he pulled out and laid out next to you in bed. he cupped your face with his large hand. those large hands on your soft skin. he leaned in, "tell me again."
you opened your eyes and asked, "tell you what?"
"that you don't want charles."
you shook your head, "i don't want charles. only you, max." and you curled up closer to him. his touches were more gentle, the jealous beast in him calmed down. for now.
-
"if you could be teammates with anyone else, who would it be?"
you thought about it for a moment, the reminder of last time tickled in your gut. but quickly you looked back to the camera and said, "i'd have to pick, lando! he got really close to the wdc last year, but if we were teammates he'd have a little more competition."
and you knew behind the camera, max verstappen was seething. <3
summary: y/n and max are longtime rivals and former friends who find themselves colliding on track in spain and being forced to confront the feelings they've both been burying
pairing: max verstappen x driver!reader
fc & warnings: none and angsty, bad language, suggestive if you squint
requested: nope just inspired by spain
masterlist | pt. 2
ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ
f1 has made a post
liked by user1, user2, yourbff, yoursibling, mercedesamgf1, user4, user5, user6 and 634,530 others
f1: following an on track incident with mercedes driver, y/n y/l/n, max verstappen has dropped to p10 with a 10-second penalty.
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user1: DESERVED!!!!
user2: should've been more than 10 second penalty are you kidding
user3: nah max did nothing wrong
user4: max needs to leave y/n alone i'm so serious
user5: these two are always fighting
user6: i stand with my cancelled wife (max)
✿
you took a deep breath as you shut off the engine, your hands still trembling as you pulled the wheel out of its place and put it on the car. you had just spent the last five laps screaming over the radio, accusing max of deliberately turning in on you after he’d been instructed to give the position back. the contact had nearly put you both out of the race but somehow you’d limped over the line and managed to finish 4th despite the damage you sustained.
a forceful tap against your helmet broke through your thoughts and you looked up to find george standing at the side of your car. he offered his hand, no words, just calm eyes and quiet support. you hesitated for a moment, the tension in your shoulders refusing to ease but eventually took it. his grip was firm and grounding as he helped you out of the car.
“i heard what happened,” he said quietly once your feet hit the tarmac.
you ripped your gloves off, jaw clenched, gaze locked across the parc ferme where max’s red bull was being wheeled back into the garage.
"yeah," you snapped, pulling your helmet off your head. "and this won't be the last you hear of it either."
✿
f1 has made a post
liked by user1, user2, yourbff, yoursibling, mercedesamgf1, user4, user5, user6 and 634,530 others
f1: two very different takes following the incident involving these two rivals in spain 🫢
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user1: y/n is handling this so much more gracefully than i would’ve
user2: i’d give anything to be a fly on the wall for when these two inevitably run into each other in the paddock
user3: max doesnt need to say anything! he did nothing wrong!
user4: i dont understand why people are giving max the benefit of the doubt here.
user5: y/n should be legally allowed to punt him off the track in canada
user7: ofc the big baby doesnt wanna talk about it.
usr6: y'all are so sensitive. max was just racing her! not his fault she was in the way
user8: taking it out on y/n as if she was the reason red bull had a shit strategy??? have some shame max
✿
“frankly he cost his team and himself a lot of points by pulling what he did today,” you said, voice clipped as you adjusted the collar of your fireproofs trying to keep your breathing even. “i mean i’m 4th in the race and 4th in the championship and that’s really all that matters to me.”
the skysports mic hovered just a little closer, hoping to get a good sound bite from you. “if max wants to be a big crybaby and ruin his own races... i’m all for it.” and with that, you finished out the interview with short answers about canada and your plans to not talk things out with max.
the walk back to your motorhome felt endless especially as fans called out your name and cameras flashed around every corner. you didn’t stop like you usually did... not for selfies, not for questions, not for anything. the last thing you needed was to see his smug face again so the quicker you got out of there the better. but as it usually does... fate had other plans.
you stepped into mercedes hospitality, finally exhaling, only to be met with an agitating grating voice.
“a crybaby, huh?”
you turned sharply, the door still half-open behind you. max stood with his arms folded, his jaw tight, his cheeks still red from the heat of the race and his narrowed eyes were locked onto you like a missile. “yes,” you said dryly. “an ego-driven man child with no concept of accountability.”
a couple of mechanics quickly ducked past, awkwardly pretending not to hear. you and max had a reputation especially after a few incidents last year... max stepped forward, voice low and sharp. “a man child? you’ve got to be kidding me.”
you scoffed turning on your heel. “max, I don’t want to fucking talk to you.”
“too bad,” he bit out, already following behind you, his footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway. “i don’t give a shit what you want.”
you reached your driver’s room and threw the door open, stepping inside quickly trying to shut it behind you but max caught it before it slammed in his face.
“get out!” you snapped at the dutchman.
“no!” he snapped right back. “not until you drop the ‘poor me’ act and admit you knew exactly what you were doing out there.”
“you are insufferable,” you hissed, tossing your gloves onto the couch. “you turned in on me, ignored the team and nearly wrecked both of us.”
“you dive bombed into that corner like you had nothing to lose!” he shouted.
“first of all, i did not dive bomb you and second of all, I don’t drive scared unlike the rest of the grid when big bad max comes by!”
silence crackled between you, thick and heavy, your chests rising and falling in sync as the adrenaline refused to die down. “you are the fucking worst, max verstappen,” you whispered, voice shaking with anger, frustration, maybe something else you didn’t dare name.
his eyes flicked to your lips for a half second before narrowing again. “funny. i was about to say the same thing about you.” the air between you sparked like static. neither of you moved. neither of you dared to blink.
"i hate you." he said, almost like he was trying to remind himself of it. max’s jaw ticked and for a second you thought he might back down. but instead, he took another step forward, closing the space between you. the door clicked shut behind him, whether by accident or intention, you weren’t sure.
“you think I hit you on purpose?” he questioned, voice lower now. “you think I’d throw away a podium just to mess with you?”
you let out a dry laugh, “wouldn’t be the first time you let your ego drive the car.”
he smirked, “thats so rich coming from you. you're the only person on this grid who wants to win more than they care about keeping the car on the track.”
“because I’m not here to play safe.” your eyes burned into his. “i race to win and if you can’t handle that -”
“i can handle you,” he said, stepping so close your chest brushed his. “that’s the problem. you don’t scare me, lieverd.”
the dutch slipped off his tongue like a challenge, like something heavier than an insult, something personal. your heart thudded against your ribs. “oh, you think calling me ‘darling’ in dutch is going to make me melt?” you scoffed, shoving at his chest. “newsflash, verstappen! i’m not one of your fans.”
his hand caught yours as it hit him, holding it firm between your bodies. his touch was calloused, warm. infuriatingly familiar.
“no,” he said, not taking his eyes off you or letting go of your hand despite you trying to pull it away. “you’re worse. you get under my skin and stay there.”
you hated how close he was. hated how your body betrayed you and wanted nothing more than to lean further into him. and before you could stop yourself, before logic could win over impulse... you grabbed his face and crashed your mouth against his.
it was teeth and frustration, months of tension and post-race fury unraveling all at once. his hand came up to the back of your head messing up your hair and anchoring you like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had.
a loud knock pounded at the door a short second before it swung open, "y/n/n, i wanted to check on you after -" the familiar sound of lando's voice filled the room and despite the speed at which you and max had pulled away from each other.. he absolutely saw it all. "oh wow! ok so…. you're fine i guess." he smirked.
you quickly patted down your messy hair and took a few steps away from max, "lando for the love of god you have to wait until someone replies back to your knock before barging in!!"
lando looked between you and max, completely ignoring your comment. "is this some sort of weird foreplay for you both?"
"lando," max warned. "please pretend like you never saw this."
"uhhh yeah, sure mate!" lando nodded but he was just about the least capable person you knew when it came to keeping secrets.
"i'm dead ass begging you to not tell anyone," you pleaded again.
"i won't."
✿
lando has added to his private story
view all story replies
maxverstappen1: say 1 word and no more trips on air max
lando: mmmm i think id survive mate
maxverstappen1: lando im begging you. this was the first and only time this has ever happened and i think her and i need to figure out what’s going on before the whole paddock gets involved
lando: 🫣 you two are no fun!! tho i really think you both need to be honest with each other because i am fairly certain you both have a thing for the other one and i just need all this feuding to end
ynuser: you literally stepped out of the room 2 seconds ago!!!!!!
lando: and? i’m efficient
ynuser: lando you’re my best friend and all but don’t think i won’t pull a max and try to run you off the track if you leak this
lando: only if you kiss me afterwards
ynuser: UGH NO
lando: don’t worry i’m just making you both sweat i won’t explicitly tell anyone
ynuser: 😔😔😔😔 in the 15 years i’ve known you you have never once been able to keep a secret
lando: slander! i kept the secret when you hid max’s gloves in karting and he couldn’t find them
lando: now that i’m saying that … have you had a crush on him since karting?????????
ynuser: you did not keep that secret you gave them back to him and no!!!!! i don’t know!!! i don’t think so!!!
lando: ughhhhh you don’t think so?! how do you not remember girl
ynuser: i mean maybe i did! i was more focused on hating his guts because he wouldn't stop beating me
lando: sounds like a crush to me
ynuser: shut UP!! i need to process this
oscarpiastri: story time !
lando: YIPPEEEEEE
georgerussell63: TELL NE TELL ME TELLLLL MEEEEE
lando: i unfortunately can’t
georgerussell63: you’ve gotta be kidding me mate
lando: the subjects of the story have threatened my safety
georgerussell63: so the story involves max?
lando: HAHAHAHAHA
lando: it doesn’t not include max
georgerussell63: and from there i’m gonna guess it also involves y/n/n
lando: you’re too good george
georgerussell63: i’m gonna keep stewing on the rest of this story. will report back when i think i figure it out
maxfewtrell: is it even a question mate???
lando: well … no!
carlossainz55: spill the beans mi amigo
lando: technically not allowed to spill any beans but catch me in the paddock and i might whisper some hints
✿
thankfully, max’s place in monaco was only a short walk from your own. under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t have minded driving but in a place where everyone had a phone and every movement became a series of photos on some fan page as it often did in moncao, the last thing you needed was to be spotted pulling up to his building in one of your unmistakable cars. if someone clocked you heading toward the max verstappen’s apartment, alone, it wouldn’t take much for the internet to piece things together.
so instead of hopping into your mercedes, you opted for stealth. you dressed down in plain athletic shorts, a random hoodie you stole from george and a baseball cap repping some obscure american university with oversized sunglasses and headphones in, you looked more like a jet lagged tourist than a world-class driver sneaking off to see her biggest rival.
each step of the 1 km walk was filled with overthinking and stress. you kept replaying the past in your head, combing over all the little things max had done through the years, things you hadn’t ever though too hard about until now. maybe lando was right even though it pained you to admit that he may know something. max had unfortunately made it obvious you just hadn't been paying attention. from the karting days when he’d chase off any guy who got too close on track, to f3 when he picked fights with anyone who so much as looked at you twice in the paddock.
and then there was your 17th birthday party, mid-f3 season, when max had looked you dead in the eyes and told you you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. you thought he was just being nice since it was your birthday and you had a pretty rough race the day before but maybe he’d been serious. maybe you’d just been too naive to see it for what it was and too busy gaslighting yourself into believe max would never be interested in little old you.
you groaned under your breath, frustrated with yourself. how could you have missed all of it? you’d chalked up his distance after the f3 season to the pressures of moving up to f1 but maybe it wasn’t just that. maybe it was you.
by the time you reached his building and knocked softly on the door, your heart was already racing. there was a beat of silence then the sound of shuffling footsteps before the door swung open.
“you’re late,” max said, eyes scanning your face and outfit with that unreadable expression of his.
you glanced at your watch. “only by 2 minutes.”
he rolled his eyes and stepped aside to let you in. “can I get you anything? dinner’s still cooking.”
you slipped off your shoes and dropped your bag onto the counter, trying to steady your nerves. “just water.”
he moved through the kitchen quietly and when he placed the glass in front of you, he didn’t say a word just went back to stirring the pot on the stove. the silence was heavy and the tension was palpable.
without turning around he cleared his throat. “so… I wanted to talk and I thought it would be better face to face. so, thank you for coming.”
you nodded, picking nervously at your nails. “yeah. no problem.”
he turned off the burner and set the pot aside before finally facing you. “first off, i’m sorry. for spain that is... i shouldn’t have driven like that.”
you raised your hands slightly, voice soft. “it’s okay. we’ve both made dumb decisions on track.”
max shook his head. “yeah, but I could’ve hurt you. and if I had… i don’t know how I’d live with that.”
there was a moment of silence as his words sank in. “my behavior’s been childish,” he admitted. “i’ve been bitter and i'm fully ready to admit that i've also been jealous. i was so very jealous of the friendship you, lando and george had and still have and of how you're always able to light up a room when you walk into it and of how you so effortlessly always get everyone to like you."
"max-" you started before he continued.
"i know it sounds pathetic but i wanted nothing more than to be your friend all through karting and through f3. i did everything i could to try and get you to like me and i got so stupidly infatuated that i ended up messing it all up in the end. i just... i don't know... i pulled away after f3 because I was embarrassed. when I asked you out at that party and you rejected me, I didn’t know how to face you again. and then when you didn’t reach out either, i assumed you didn’t want me in your life anymore.”
“i didn’t realize you were asking me out,” you whispered. “i thought you just wanted to hang out as friends which we already did. and when you moved to f1, i figured… i just figured you wouldn’t want to waste time on someone stuck in f2. you were and are so good and focused and determined that i always felt intimidated and like a silly little distraction.”
max let out a short, breathy laugh. he ran a hand through his hair and leaned against the counter, still not fully looking at you. “god, we’re idiots,” he muttered and this time you cracked a small smile despite the lump in your throat.
“yeah,” you agreed softly. “world class athletes and total emotional amateurs.”
that got a quiet chuckle out of him, and finally, he brought himself to look at you. "why did you kiss me?" he asked and you could see the vulnerability written all over his face.
"because despite our silly year long feud which we apparently could have avoided, i haven't been able to let go of the crush i've had on you since we were kids."
he pushed off the counter, slowly stepping toward you. “so then you feel the same way about me?”
you looked up at him, heart hammering in your chest. “max… i--”
“i’m not asking for you to tell me that you love me or anything like that. not right now. i just want to stop pretending like i hate you. i want to stop turning every interaction into a fight because i don’t know how else to act around you. i want to be around you… properly. at the very least just as your friend.”
your stomach flipped at his words. all the years of missed chances and misread signals crashed into you like a wave. “and if i say i want that too?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.
he smiled it was soft and hopeful, a little nervous. “then i'll do everything in my power to do it right this time. starting by actually communicating my feels instead of bottling everything up.”
you stood from the stool, your steps slow but steady until you were right in front of him. “i guess i can give you a chance,” you said, teasing gently.
max raised a brow, a smile creeping to his lips. “just a chance?”
you let your head fall back with a laugh. “don’t push your luck, verstappen.”
he grinned, and for the first time in what felt like years, the tension that had formed between you began to finally unravel.
✿
f1 has made a post
liked by mercedesamgf1, lando, yourbff, redbullracing, isackhadjar, ynuser, yoursibling, maxverstappen1, and 834,222 others
f1: looks like our two favorite rivals have squashed their beef! y/n y/l/n and max verstappen arrived to the montreal paddock for media day together 👀🇨🇦
view all comments
user1: too worried about how shes out mogging him so hard to even be able to comprehend whats happening
lando: war is over! if only anyone listened to me EVER
danielriccardo: or me!! a certain dutch lion didn't listen to me either
lando: SMH
user2: not them walking in like they didn’t try to kill each other in spain 😭
geogerussell63: confused? ynuser unlock your driver room door rn i've been knocking for 3 whole minutes
ynuser: girl i'm not in there. i'm at the briefing YOU ARE ALSO SUPPOSED TO BE IN
georgerussell63: RUNNING
user63: nah i love yngeorge duo so much i wanna be their friend
lando: apparently everyone wants to be friends with y/l/nnorussell user63
ynuser: lando keep his mouth shut challenge failed
user63: WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?!
user3: we’ve entered the enemies to lovers era and i’m not emotionally prepared for this. i give it 3 more races till we get pics of them kissing behind the garages
isackhadjar: the plot twist of the century? are we being for real right now?
liamlawson31: i saw them with my own to eyes laughing together earlier
yukitsunoda0511: should we be afraid?
user4: this is why i trust slow burns. THIS is why!!!!
estebanocon: i’m scared
oscarpiastri: real
user5: now what in the fanfiction is this
skysportsf1 has posted an interview
view transcript
[reporter] “max, I have to start with the question everyone’s asking. you showed up to the paddock today with y/n y/l/n. should we be expecting fewer fireworks between you two this weekend?”
[max] “that depends. if she stops driving like shes in a demolition derby, maybe.”
[reporter] “so... not exactly a truce, then?”
[max] “we had a conversation and we’ve cleared a few things up.”
[reporter] “ok but things got heated after spain. you were both pretty vocal over the radio. what changed?”
[max] “sometimes you say things in the heat of the moment. doesn’t mean they’re the full story. we’ve known each other a long time and i think we forgot that for a while.”
[reporter] “so where does that leave things now?”
[max] “we’ll race like we always do. hard. but with a bit more respect, i think. maybe less screaming but who is to say.”
[reporter] “should we be reading into that very coordinated arrival this morning?”
[max] “you can read into whatever you want. i'm just here to win races.”
[reporter] “right, right. and if you win this weekend, will y/n be the first to congratulate you?”
[max] “she better be.”
ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ
a/n: i love a past friends to enemies to lovers fr. part 2 perhaps?????
ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ
disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction
Summary : Fans compiled clips of their favourite moments between Lando and Aston Martin driver!reader.
Words: 2.2k
Warnings: swearing
Speculation continues to swirl around McLaren’s Lando Norris and you, Aston Martin’s young star, with many fans convinced there's more than just friendship between the two of you. Though neither you, nor Lando had confirmed anything, and no solid evidence had surfaced—your playful interactions and unmistakable chemistry have only added fuel to the fire.
these moments do not help your case.
The water bottle
It was post-race at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. Lando, Max and you, sat slumped on the nearest sofa, drained after securing P1, P2, and P3 respectively. The heat still clung to the air, even off-track, and your race suit stuck uncomfortably to your skin. The podium made it all worth it—but right now, all you wanted was a cold drink and a second to breathe.
You reached for the bottle water baside you lazily, hand sluggish and aching, half-listening to Lando as he answered a journalist's question about race strategy. The exhaustion weighed on your limbs, making the simplest takst of uncapping the bottle feel like such a challenge.
“The team knew what was needed to stay ahead of Max and—ugh, sorry. Here, let me.”
Without skipping a beat, he set down his mic, reached over, and easily twisted the cap open before handing the bottle back to you. You blinked in surprise, lips parting, but all that came out was a quiet, breathless “Thanks” as you took a sip.
Max let out a snort of laughter beside you. “Sorry, let’s pause the whole interview for this sweet little moment,” he teased, shaking his head.
Lando just rolled his eyes and grabbed his mic again, continuing as if nothing had happened. But judging by the grins from the journalists, and the certainty that the clip would be everywhere within the hour—it hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Lando is known for his champagne celebrations on the podium. Sure, it looks glorious, basking in victory, champagne flying through the air—but no one ever talks about the reality: it burns your eyes, floods your nose, and leaves your skin and hair sticky.
You stood tall on the top step, your first-ever win still sinking in. The crowd roared as your national anthem played, and you could feel your heartbeat thundering in your chest, pride swelling with every note. On either side of you stood Lando and Lewis, but it was Lando’s cheeky grin that caught your attention just as the anthem reached its peak.
The second it ended, chaos began.
Corks popped. Champagne exploded. And Lando, of course, immediately slammed his bottle down and aimed it straight at you.
You barely had a second to react. The cold spray hit from both sides, soaking you instantly as you struggled to open your own bottle. It poured down your face, into your suit, burning your eyes and blurring your vision. Lando’s laugh, loud, carefree, unmistakable, rang out over the madness.
You blinked rapidly, trying to wipe your face, unable to see a thing. Your expression probably said it all: somewhere between shocked and helplessly amused.
Then, through the chaos, you felt his hands on your face, gentle and steady. Lando’s fireproof sleeves brushed against your skin as he carefully wiped away the champagne from around your eyes, his thumbs moving with a softness that contrasted sharply with the wildness around you.
“You good?” he asked, laughing quietly, his grin now more sincere than mischievous.
You nodded, finally able to meet his gaze again, still catching your breath. “I swear, I’m never letting you near me with champagne again.”
Lando’s smile widened as he gave you a pat on the back. “I had to make it memorable!”
This video clip sent your's and Lando's shippers into a full-on spiral. After the Mexico Grand Prix, where Carlos Sainz and Lando secured an electrifying 1-2 finish, the pair were spotted celebrating with Carlos’ friends and family over dinner. A few lighthearted posts even made their way onto social media.
But what really caught fans’ attention was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it detail in one of the photos. In the background, seated next to Lando, was someone who sharp-eyed fans quickly identified, you. Wearing the same distinctive sweater you were seen in earlier that day when leaving the paddock, and the unmistakable bracelets you frequently wore throughout the season.
There was no official mention or tag, but that didn’t stop the speculation. For many fans, it was another subtle breadcrumb confirming what they’d suspected all along. The internet lit up with theories, edits, and speculation, convinced that yet another quiet public appearance had just taken place this time, tucked into a cozy moment with the Sainz family.
Lando and you have made several unexpected appearances on Daniel Ricciardo’s iconic JPG Instagram account. While it wasn’t unusual for the three of you to be seen together, given the tight-knit friendship between Daniel, Lando, and yourself—fans didn’t hesitate to dive deep into the posts, convinced they were subtle clues feeding the long-standing theory that there’s more between you and Lando than just friendship.
One photo showed the three of you in a mirror selfie inside an elevator. Daniel, played photographer, camera in hand, while you and Lando stood casually beside him. At first glance, it looked like a typical group pic, until fans zoomed in. Slung over Lando’s shoulder was your bag, resting there like it belonged, as if it had found its place without either of you thinking twice about it.
Another upload showed a moment at a karting track. You were standing beside your kart, preparing to head out, when fans noticed the figure next to you. Though his helmet covered most of his face, there was no mistaking it, Lando. He stood close, hands carefully adjusting your helmet strap, focused and steady. The gesture was small, but intimate, and the natural ease between you didn’t go unnoticed.
Within hours, the comment sections were flooded with theories and heart-eyed emojis. To the internet, these weren’t just photos, they were proof.
The truck moved at a crawl, weaving past grandstands packed with fans shouting your names and waving flags like their lives depended on it. You kept your sunglasses on, smile practiced, waving just enough to look friendly, nothing more, nothing less.
Lando stood beside you, doing the exact same thing. Waving, smiling, keeping the conversation low between the two of you. Like you weren’t both trying not to laugh at the stupid inside joke he’d just whispered about a guy holding a "Marry Me, Lando" sign.
He’d helped you into the truck earlier, hand out like a reflex, fingers brushing yours a second longer than necessary. No one caught that. At least, you thought so.
And then came the moment. You were both waving, smiling, still laughing at something only you two found funny, when Lando’s hand casually dropped to the small of your back as the truck began to make a turn at a corner. Barely there. Light. Familiar.
Too familiar.
It lingered for just a second before he suddenly realized. His hand flew back like he’d touched something hot, and he looked ahead like nothing happened. But you could see the panic flash across his face for a split second.
You didn’t say anything, just smirked.
Unfortunately for both of you, Charles did notice, and so did your fans. From the truck behind, he leaned over dramatically and yelled, “Oooohhh! I saw that, penalty for Norris”
Lando groaned under his breath. You tried, and failed, not to laugh, biting your lip as your shoulders shook.
“Smooth,” you teased him, still smiling to the crowd.
“Tiny slip up, just a friendly hand” he whispered, eyes still forward like a guilty schoolboy.
He glanced over his shoulder, then muttered with a grin, “If this ends up on a fan cam—”
You bumped his shoulder playfully. “Please. They’ve already made ten TikToks about us just from this truck ride alone.”
The rain had been relentless, hammering down onto the track, forcing a red flag that left drivers scattered around the paddock like bored students on a rainy field trip. Some retreated to their garages, napping, listening to music to stay focused, while others found creative ways to pass the time. A few were even caught playing football with balled-up tire warmers.
You, Lando, and Carlos had ended up in a quiet corner of the paddock, chatting while waiting out the weather. The broadcast cameras, desperate for content, eventually found their way to your little trio, panning slowly toward the three of you laughing at something Carlos had said.
Then the focus shifted—subtly, but noticeably—to just you and Lando.
Lando stood close, holding an umbrella tilted almost entirely your way, rain spattering off the edges while he stayed mostly outside the shelter himself. His hoodie was already damp, but he didn’t seem to care. You nudged him at one point, trying to shift it so he wasn’t fully out in the wet, but he just gave you a boyish grin and said something that made you laugh.
That’s when the Max Fewtrell, Lando's good friend, side eyes his running twitch stream, knowing full well the moment the camera just caught would send fans into a full blown spiral.
Max paused. Blinked. And then, slowly, looked straight into the camera with the most dramatic, expression he could manage.
“Right,” he said, eyes wide, the corners of his mouth twitching with a grin. “So it’s that kind of weather delay, huh?”
The chat exploded within seconds, fans already reading into the umbrella, the body language, the fact that Lando didn’t seem remotely interested in moving.
Max leaned in, voice dropping and thick with teasing.
“Alright chat, calm down—cut our boy some slack and give him a fighting chance.”
Back on screen, Lando caught the camera out of the corner of his eye, shifted the umbrella just enough… and casually rested a hand on your back, if only for a moment.
Carlos caught it. You caught the smirk.
Max definitely caught it.
“Look at these two—already causing more buzz than the race itself.”
To this day, fans swear the annual driver Christmas gift exchange was the clearest sign that something more was going on between you and Lando Norris.
It was already suspicious enough that, out of all the names in the bucket, you and Lando somehow ended up picking each other. But what truly sent the internet into a frenzy were the gifts—thoughtful, personal, impossibly specific. The kind of presents only two people who knew each other too well would give.
Lando was mid-unwrapping, his usual excited grin slipping into a confused frown as he rotated the box in his hands, trying to make sense of it.
“Oh, sh—” His eyes widened. “—Sorry, cut that out,” he added quickly, glancing toward the crew with a sheepish grin.
Inside the box: a 1:1 LEGO replica of Lando’s first-ever karting helmet. Every detail was there—from the exact color scheme to the little decals only a handful of people would remember. Attached to the side of the box was a small envelope. He opened it and read aloud:
“From someone who knows how much this still means to you.”
Lando went quiet. Just for a second. The camera zoomed in slightly, catching the subtle shift in his expression.
“Who do you think your Secret Santa was?” someone asked off-camera.
“Oh, I know exactly who it was,” Lando said, chuckling softly. “Still kinda freaky how she managed to pull this off—I’m guessing my mum or dad helped her out.”
“Did they do a good job?”
“It’s perfect,” he said, smiling as he gently patted the box. “I love it. Definitely looking forward to building it and putting it on display.”
“And do you think the person you got will like their gift?”
Lando laughed under his breath. “I mean… I got her. And she’s already beaten me in the gift department—but yeah, I really hope she does.”
The video then cut to you, sitting just outside Aston Martin’s hospitality unit, carefully unwrapping a paper bag handed to you just before filming began.
“Who do you think your Secret Santa is?”
You glanced up, laughing as you peeled away the last bit of tissue paper. “Charles, maybe? He’s been asking me about my hobbies recently—like, weirdly specific questions.”
Your eyes dropped to the contents of the bag: a vintage film camera and a leather-bound journal. Your race number and initials were engraved on the cover in gold. You flipped it open slowly, revealing a message on the inside page:
For every moment you want to remember, and the ones you think you’ll forget.
You let out a breath, covering your mouth with your hand. “No way. This is so—” You shook your head, smiling. “This is so nice. You guys… best Secret Santa season ever, I think.”
Then you paused, adding with a laugh, “No offense to Alex—he got me that spa voucher last year and it was amazing.”
“Any idea who your Secret Santa was?”
You smiled, chuckling as you hugged the journal to your chest. “Yeah, I do.”
“Still think it was Charles?”
“Nah, I’m pretty sure he was just genuinely curious about my hobbies,” you laugh.
“Any other guesses?”
You shake your head with a grin. “Nope. I know exactly who it was—and I really hope he liked what I got him, too.”
Summary: You rise from an overlooked F1 Academy talent to the object of Toto Wolff’s fixation, handed a coveted Mercedes seat because he sees himself reflected in you. What begins as mentorship becomes obsession, and the two of you spiral into an affair that could destroy everything.
Warnings: age gap (20s/50s), power imbalance (team boss × young driver), smut, dom!Toto, infidelity / collapsing marriage, emotional manipulation, obsession, unhealthy dynamics, heavy angst, betrayal, and guily, scandal.
Words count: 25k
a/n: Based on following request, @tcwsupremacy. This story has been in my drafts for weeks, but this request finally pushed the idea into its full shape, thank you for that! It’s not a simple or easy story, and I’m sooo curious to see how you’ll all react to it! Give me some feedback, pls!
And if I only could,
Make a deal with God,
And get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building.
If I only could, oh…
You don't want to hurt me,
But see how deep the bullet lies.
Unaware I'm tearing you asunder.
there's a thunder in our hearts, baby.
Placebo, Running Up That Hill
I. The Reflection
You stand on the starting grid in Las Vegas with your hands tight on the wheel, the lights of the strip reflecting on the visor of your helmet, and for a moment you feel the weight of every year you spent trying to climb a ladder that was never built for you.
You are young, mid-twenties, Austrian, the girl who should already be in F2, maybe even close to a rookie test, but instead you are in your second and final season of F1 Academy because you never had the sponsors, the marketing charm, or the right kind of story that investors wanted to see.
You know you’re brilliant, not in an arrogant way, just in the honest, stubborn, painfully clear way that comes from years of fighting for scraps, fighting for chances, fighting to be seen, and this last race feels like your only window left before everything closes for good.
Mercedes is supposed to be your home, their junior programme your path forward, but no contract ever came, no offer, no promise, nothing more than polite words and official photos, and you try not to think about how it stings every time you pass the Mercedes garage and wonder if they even remember you exist.
Toto Wolff does. He always does. He treats you with respect, always formal, always calm, but there are moments — small, strange moments — when you catch him watching you a little too long, his expression unreadable, as if something about you touches a place in him he can’t quite name. Maybe it’s the Austrian in you, the way you talk, the sharpness in your voice when you get defensive, the same background of broken families and scraped-together ambition, the kind of upbringing that teaches you to work twice as hard just to stand in the same room as everyone else.
You tell yourself you admire him because he made it out, because he built an empire from nothing, because he never let the world crush him. But admiration doesn’t make your pulse jump. Admiration doesn’t fill your stomach with heat every time he says your name. Admiration definitely doesn’t make you fall in love with a married man, especially not with the husband of Susie Wolff, the woman who runs the very series you race in, the woman who supports you in private, the woman who tells you she believes you’ll break through one day.
You keep telling yourself you respect them both. You keep telling yourself that’s all it is. But your heart does not listen.
The engines around you begin to rumble, lights flashing overhead, and the grid marshals move aside. You close your eyes for one breath, feeling the hot desert air press against your suit, knowing that tonight could change everything for you — your career, your future, maybe even the thing you fear admitting the most.
You don’t know if the change will save you or destroy you. But it’s coming. And the moment the lights go out, you push forward into whatever fate waits for you on the other side of the first corner.
*
The race is brutal and beautiful at the same time, tight corners, long straights, the city glowing under you like a stage built for one last performance, and you drive as if every lap is a message, every overtake a demand, every braking point a refusal to let the world forget you. When you cross the finish line in P1, almost ten seconds clear of the field, the radio explodes with shouts from your engineer, but you barely hear anything through the pounding in your chest.
You scream, loud and sharp, the kind of sound that comes from years of being told “wait your turn,” “maybe next season,” “we’ll see,” and the cameras catch it all, your fist in the air, your laugh breaking free, the fire in your eyes that no sponsor ever cared to look at properly.
The broadcast switches to the pitlane. And standing there, unexpectedly, is Toto. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He doesn’t usually come to F1 Academy races unless he’s with Susie. And yet he’s here now, just outside the Mercedes garage, hands in pockets, eyes fixed on you crossing the line.
There’s something strange on his face — pride, yes, but also something quieter, something that feels almost personal, as if watching you win hits a place inside him he didn’t know existed until this moment.
Susie stands beside him, arms folded, smiling that warm, calm smile she always has when one of her girls does well.
“Well,” she says, glancing up at him with a teasing edge, “your protégé has your fire.”
Toto lifts an eyebrow. “My protégé?”
“Oh please,” Susie laughs softly. “She talks like you. The same sharp tone. The same ‘I dare you to doubt me’ energy. Even lifts her eyebrows the same way when she’s annoyed.”
He tries to play it off, pretending he’s focused on the times on the screen, but the corner of his mouth moves, and the expression is not neutral at all.
“We’re Austrian,” he says quietly. “Maybe it’s just… familiarity.”
Susie watches him with something unreadable in her eyes, then turns back to the monitor.
“Maybe,” she murmurs, but her voice says she isn’t convinced.
*
Later, when you climb onto the podium, the adrenaline still burning under your skin, the spotlight feels almost warm. The anthem plays, confetti falls, photographers call your name like it finally means something.
And then, when the ceremony ends and you step down from the top step, he’s suddenly there.
Toto. Tall, precise, perfectly controlled, except for the way his eyes meet yours with a focus so intense you feel it down your spine.
He extends his hand. It’s a simple gesture. Professional. Expected. But when your palm touches his, something sharp and electric sparks under your skin, a small jolt that steals your breath for one impossible heartbeat.
“Good job,” he says, his voice low, the accent smoothing each word. “Really. Austria can be proud of a driver like you.”
You almost choke on the air you pull into your lungs.
He doesn’t say things like that lightly.
“Danke,” you manage, though your voice comes out softer than you intended.
His thumb brushes your knuckles as he lets go — perhaps an accident, perhaps not, and you feel the loss of his touch far too strongly for your own good.
Susie appears beside him then, smiling warmly.
“You were incredible out there,” she tells you, squeezing your arm. “Enjoy this moment. You earned it.”
But Toto is still watching you, even when Susie turns away. Even when you look down. Even when you try to pretend you don’t feel the burn of his gaze following you as you step off the stage. And somewhere in the back of your mind, as the cameras flash and the crowd cheers, a quiet thought blooms, dangerous and bright: something just changed. And neither of you knows where it leads.
*
That night, long after the podium ceremony ended and long after the champagne dried on your race suit, you sit alone in your hotel room. The adrenaline has drained from your body, leaving a hollow mix of exhaustion and disbelief behind.
The lights of Las Vegas blink through the window — too bright, too loud, too alive — and you sit on the edge of the bed with your hair still damp from the shower, clutching the trophy you won today like it might disappear if you look away too long.
You replay the day in your head: the race, the crowd, the podium and then… his hand. His voice. His eyes.
You shake your head, trying to ground yourself, reminding your heart that Toto Wolff is your boss’s husband and the most powerful man in the paddock, not someone you are allowed to think about like this. And still, the image of him watching you from the pitlane won’t leave you. The strange softness in his expression won’t leave you. The way his thumb brushed your hand when he let go won’t leave you.
You exhale, long and shaky.
“You’re being dramatic,” you scold yourself under your breath. “Get it together.”
But your heart keeps racing.
*
Meanwhile, across the city, Toto sits in the dark of the hotel suite he shares with Susie. She fell asleep an hour ago, exhausted from the whole weekend, the emotional whirlwind of F1 Academy’s finale finally catching up with her. He should sleep too. He knows he should. But he doesn’t. He sits on the sofa with the TV off and his laptop open, replaying every interview you gave today. Not to check your media training. Not to look for mistakes. But because something in your voice pulls at him in a way he cannot immediately rationalize.
He notices the way you smile when you’re uncomfortable, the way you speak too quickly when you’re excited, the way your eyes dart away when you’re hiding something. He knows these things because he does them too. You even tilt your head the same way he does when someone asks a question you don’t want to answer. It makes him smile — a quiet, strange smile, the kind he hasn’t worn in years.
For one long moment he sees himself in you: the ambition, the hunger, the loneliness, the Austrian fire that never quite dims, the rough edges you try to sand down for the world.
He leans back, staring at your frozen image on the screen, and feels something shift inside him — something soft, something old, something he thought was buried.
And before he fully understands what he’s doing, he reaches for his phone. He types slowly at first. Deletes. Types again. Deletes again. Then finally settles on a message that is both formal and far too personal.
Toto: Congratulations on your win. You were exceptional today. If you are free tomorrow, would you like to watch the F1 race from the Mercedes pit wall? I would like you to join me.
He hesitates for three seconds. Then sends it. And once the message is gone, he exhales — long, deep, and unsteady — realizing that something has begun, whether he meant for it to or not.
*
Your phone buzzes against the blanket, one short vibration that makes your stomach twist. You pick it up, expecting a message from a teammate or a journalist. But it’s not. It’s him. Toto Wolff.
Your breath stutters as you open the message, and the words hit you like a shot of electricity straight to the spine.
Congratulations on your win. You were exceptional today. If you are free tomorrow, would you like to watch the F1 race from the Mercedes pit wall? I would like you to join me.
– T.W.
Your hands go weak. Your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your throat. Because this isn’t a normal invitation. This isn’t casual. This is Toto Wolff, the man choosing between Max Verstappen, Andrea Kimi Antonelli, and half the world’s driver market, asking you to stand beside him during a Grand Prix. Only senior drivers stand there. Only people he trusts. Only people he is considering for something bigger. And you are just a girl from Austria with no sponsors, no money, no powerful name behind you, only raw talent and a voice that sometimes comes out too sharp for the cameras.
But for the first time in your life, something impossible opens in front of you. A door you never thought you would be allowed to touch. A chance you thought was meant for other people. A possibility that feels so much bigger than a simple message.
Your fingers shake as you type your answer. You have to delete it twice because your hands won’t stop trembling.
Finally, you send: Yes. I’ll be there.
You put the phone down, press your palms to your eyes, and let out a breath that sounds more like a laugh. Because tomorrow you won’t just watch a F1 Grand Prix. You will stand next to Toto Wolff, the man who could change your life with a single decision. And you have no idea what that decision will be. Or how much it will cost you.
*
You barely sleep. Your mind spins the entire night, you try to tell yourself it’s just an invitation, just professional interest, just kindness, but deep down you know it isn’t only that. You feel it in the way your chest tightens, in the way your pulse jumps every time you picture his name on your screen.
When you walk into the paddock the next morning, the sun is sharp and bright, and the noise of a Grand Prix weekend hits you like a wave. People stare. They always stare, but today it feels different, heavier. Your F1 Academy suit is replaced by casual team gear, Mercedes logos on your chest and shoulders, and you already know what everyone is thinking.
What is she doing here? Why is she walking toward the Mercedes garage? Whose idea was this?
You try to ignore it, but the whispers stick to your skin like static. Then you see him. Toto Wolff stands just outside the garage entrance, talking to a mechanic, and the sight of him almost makes your steps falter. Tall, controlled, sleeves rolled up, expression focused, but when he notices you, something shifts. His posture straightens slightly, his eyes warm by a fraction, just enough that you feel it even from meters away. He steps toward you. Not a rush, not a dramatic gesture, but a deliberate move, like he is choosing to close the distance.
“Good morning,” he says, and the low warmth of his voice makes your stomach flip. “Thank you for coming.”
You swallow, unable to keep the nervous tremor from your voice, “Thank you for inviting me. I… wasn’t sure you meant it.”
He studies you for a second longer than he should, “I always mean what I say.”
Your heart beats faster. Too fast. Before you can answer, Susie walks out from behind one of the trucks, wearing her usual calm professionalism.
“Ah, you’re here,” she says, smiling. “I’m happy you accepted the invitation. It’s not every day we get to show an F1 Academy champion the real chaos of a F1 Grand Prix.”
You nod, trying to breathe normally. Susie’s kindness always steadies you, but today it only reminds you that this moment sits on the edge of something dangerous.
When she walks ahead to talk to a cameraman, Toto leans closer, dropping his voice.
“I’d like you to stay with me on the pit wall for the race,” he says. “Not in the back. Next to me.”
Your breath catches. That position is sacred, reserved for strategists, senior engineers, and occasionally a VIP. Not a junior driver. Not an F1 Academy girl. Never someone like you.
“Toto, isn’t that… too much?” you whisper.
His eyes harden in that familiar, decisive way, the way that ends arguments before they start.
“No,” he says simply. “It’s where I want you.”
Before you can process the shock of that sentence, Andrea Kimi Antonelli walks past — calm, the golden future of Mercedes. He gives you a polite nod, but you can see in his eyes the faint confusion.
Why are you here? Why did he choose you?
A moment later, Max Verstappen crosses the paddock, talking with Christian Horner, and Toto’s gaze flicks instinctively toward him. There is something like calculation in his expression, something sharp, something territorial, and when he looks back at you, it softens again.
You feel tiny between these giants. Kimi, the prodigy. Max, the unstoppable force. Toto, the architect of empires.
What are you compared to them? A girl with no sponsors. No backing. No guaranteed future. Only raw talent and a beating heart that reacts too strongly to one man’s voice. And yet… He invited you here. Not Kimi. Not any of the ten drivers waiting for a seat. You.
“Come,” Toto says quietly. “Let me show you how we work.”
Your legs move before your mind can catch up. He leads you past the garage, past mechanics adjusting the nose of the car, until you reach the pit wall — tall screens, rows of data, headsets waiting.
He takes one and holds it out to you. A gesture far too intimate for how public it is. When your fingers brush his, there it is again, that electric jolt, small but unmistakable.
“Ready?” he asks.
You nod. Though you are not sure if you are ready for the race…. or for everything that may follow this single, dangerous step.
*
You stand beside Toto on the pit wall, headset pressed to your ears, eyes fixed on the screens in front of you while Lewis and George fight through the Las Vegas chaos. The noise of engines shakes your bones, but everything around you somehow feels distant, blurred by the focus that settles over you when you watch racing from so close, from the place you’ve always dreamed of standing.
Lewis is running smooth, consistent, clever, the kind of drive that comes from years of experience, but George is pushing harder than he should, too eager, too aggressive, and you can see it before it happens. The data on the screen jumps. His sector time is too hot. He brakes a fraction too late.
“Scheiße…” you whisper under your breath, so quietly you barely hear yourself.
And then it happens, the car snaps sideways, hits the wall with a violent crunch, and the entire pit wall jumps. Engineers swear under their breath, mechanics freeze mid-step, and Toto goes completely still in that terrifying way only he can, like a storm compressing into a human body.
“Yellow flag. Car 63 in the wall,” the radio announces.
Toto doesn’t shout. He doesn’t argue. He just inhales once — slow, heavy, dangerous — and pulls his headset off with a sharp movement.
“Come,” he says to you, not even looking back.
He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t grab your wrist, but his gesture is enough, commanding and absolute. You follow him instinctively, your heart pounding not from fear of him but from the intensity that rolls off him like heat from asphalt. He walks fast, long steps eating the distance from the pit wall to the Mercedes hospitality building, his jaw locked so hard you see the muscle twitching. The entire team watches him pass like he’s a bomb with a broken pin.
You follow him up the stairs, through the narrow corridor, and into his temporary office. He closes the door behind you with a quiet click. No slam. No raised voice. Just a silence that feels heavier than shouting. He stands by the window, one hand braced on the glass, shoulders tight, staring at the track as if he could will the broken car back into shape.
You don’t say anything. Not yet. You recognize this. This is the moment before the explosion, the moment when anger and disappointment coil inside you so tightly you can barely breathe. You have felt it too many times. You know the violence of wanting to scream and knowing you shouldn’t. So you stand quietly. You match your breath to his. Slow. Deep. Controlled. Like two people on opposite sides of the same storm. After five long minutes, he finally speaks. His voice is steady, but there is steel underneath. He still faces the window.
“What would you have done,” he asks slowly, “in George’s place?”
You blink, surprised by the question. It’s not small talk. It’s not distraction. It’s analysis — raw, instinctive, almost intimate — because asking another driver what they would do is like giving them access to your mind.
“You reacted,” he adds quietly, “before it even happened. I saw your face.”
You swallow and step a little closer. Your hands are still clasped behind your back, trying to keep them from shaking.
“If I were in his position,” you say softly, “I wouldn’t have sent it there. Not with those tires, not with the track cooling that fast, and not when the data showed the rear stepping out lap after lap.”
Toto’s head tilts slightly, listening, absorbing. Still not looking at you.
“I would have backed off,” you continue, breath steadying. “Taken fourth. Or fifth. Points over glory. You know the saying... to finish first, first you must finish.”
There is a short silence. Then: “You would have finished the race,” he says quietly.
You nod, even though he still isn’t looking at you. “Yes.”
Another moment of silence stretches between you — tense, thick, strangely intimate — as if you are both aware that this is not just about George, not just about a crash, not just about strategy.
It’s about judgment. Instinct. Temperament. The way you think. The way he thinks. And how frighteningly similar the two often are.
Finally, he exhales and turns his head slightly toward you, not enough to fully face you, but enough that you see the edge of his profile, sharp and cut from shadow.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
You step closer when Toto calls you, the air between you strange and tight, like someone pulled an invisible thread taut from your chest to his. He stands tall, serious, still facing the window at first, but when you move beside him he turns, fully this time, and the closeness hits you like a physical thing.
He studies you without speaking, his eyes darker than usual, focused in a way that makes your breath catch. There is something intense there, something sharp, something that feels too intimate for a man who is supposed to be only your boss’s husband.
“You see things,” he says quietly, almost to himself, “that most drivers your age don’t. You analyze differently. More precisely. More… carefully.”
You swallow, heat rising in your chest. You’ve heard compliments before, but never from him. Never in this tone.
“I’ve worked with many drivers,” he continues, his voice lower now, “but you think… like me.”
The words hit you so hard your fingers curl slightly. Because he’s right. Because you’ve always felt it. Because the way your brain reacts to racing, pressure, mistakes — it all mirrors him. And hearing him say it out loud feels forbidden.
His eyes drop to your mouth for one breath and you feel your pulse spin out, but just as the moment stretches too far... the door opens. Susie steps in. The bubble bursts instantly. The air goes cold.
You take a small step back without thinking.
“Toto,” she says, gentle but firm, “the race is over. Lewis finished P3.”
Toto straightens, rubbing his jaw once with irritation still simmering under his skin.
“Well,” he says, “at least Lewis never loses his head. Without him… things will be much more difficult.”
Susie’s eyes sharpen just slightly, the way they do when she’s evaluating something deeper than the words being said. She looks at Toto, then at you, then back at him. And in that small tilt of her head, you can tell she saw something she’s not going to ignore.
You clap your hands softly, forcing a smile to break the tension, “Well, congratulations for the podium. I should probably go. I don’t want to get in the way.”
Toto nods politely, too quickly, like a man trying to cover something. You walk toward the door, your heartbeat loud in your ears... but he calls your name. Soft. Quiet. Strangely gentle.
You turn back. He stands in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back, eyes on you with an intensity that makes your spine warm.
“Thank you,” he says. “For a different perspective. And for making me... see things I hadn’t considered before.”
You’re not sure what he means — the crash, the race, or something else entirely, but you nod to him and to Susie, then slip out of the room before the tension swallows you whole.
The moment the door closes, Susie crosses her arms and looks directly at her husband.
“Toto,” she says slowly, “you’re… interested in her.”
He doesn’t look away from the door you just left through. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say anything at all.
Susie’s voice tightens, “You’re not seriously thinking about putting her in the Mercedes seat...?”
Nothing. No reaction. No protest.
She steps closer, her tone turning sharper, “What about Kimi? What about the plan you built for years? He’s your golden boy, Toto. And Max...”
Toto’s jaw flexes, but he still doesn’t look at her.
“You told me,” Susie continues, “that you spoke to Max today. That he said he wants to join Mercedes next year. Do you realize how impossible that is? How insane? The best driver in the world wanting to drive for you, and you’re thinking about... her.”
Toto finally exhales, long and slow. But he still does not turn. He still watches the door.
Susie’s voice softens, but the danger in it remains, “Are you really going to throw away years of planning… for a talented but unproven girl?”
Silence. Thick. Heavy. Unsettling.
Then she whispers, as if afraid of the answer: “Toto… what are you doing?”
He closes his eyes for a moment, and the truth sits in the space between them like a ticking bomb he hasn’t yet admitted exists. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand it. He can’t explain it. But he feels it... and he can’t stop it.
II. The Decision
You barely had time to breathe after Las Vegas. You left the chaos, the noise, the cameras, the impossible tension of standing next to Toto Wolff on the pit wall, and you returned to the only place that ever felt like safety: your tiny wooden house in the Austrian mountains. A place so small you could walk across it in twelve steps. A place so quiet that sometimes the only sound was the wind brushing the pine trees. A place you once thought would be your refuge after a career that never escalated past F1 Academy.
You dropped your bag on the floor, kicked off your shoes, leaned your forehead on the kitchen counter, and whispered to yourself: What now?
Your heart hadn’t stopped racing since Vegas, but your mind kept reminding you of the truth, you were not a real candidate, you were not meant for F1, you were a girl with no sponsors and no powerful last name, while the world speculated about drivers who were galaxies beyond your reach.
Max Verstappen — the man who dominated the era.
Andrea Kimi Antonelli — Toto’s golden project, the boy built for greatness.
Half the grid — established names, experienced, sophisticated, marketable.
And you? You had a house with creaking floorboards, a kettle that barely worked, and a heart stupid enough to beat faster every time you remembered the way Toto looked at you.
You made tea, sat on your threadbare couch, and tried to convince yourself that Las Vegas was a strange dream that would fade soon. That Toto’s attention had been professional. That the way he stared at you in that office was nothing more than a stressed team principal looking for distraction. That Susie didn't notice anything unusual.
You were just starting to breathe normally again when your phone buzzed. A single vibration. Nothing dramatic. You reached absentmindedly for the device on the table.
One new message. From: Toto Wolff.
The mug slipped slightly in your hand. Your breath froze. You blinked at the screen, thinking your mind was playing tricks on you.
Dinner in Brackley? Tomorrow? – T.W.
You stared... and stared... You sat down slowly, as if the floor might shift under your feet. Your hands shook so hard you had to put the phone down. Your heartbeat hit your ribs in sharp, uneven beats. Because this wasn’t a congratulations message. This wasn’t a friendly follow-up. This wasn’t casual.
This was an invitation. From Toto Wolff. To you. Alone. In Brackley.
You pressed your palms to your mouth, trying to stop the rush of panic and excitement that flooded you all at once. Your mind raced. You remembered the headlines. The endless rumors. The constant speculation.
“Verstappen in talks with Mercedes.”
“Antonelli confirmed as internal favorite.”
“Mercedes to reveal second driver before Abu Dhabi.”
Every journalist swore Max was the obvious choice, because why wouldn’t he be? He was fast, ruthless, consistent, and he wanted the seat. Even crazier, he said it publicly, practically begging Toto to let him in, something unthinkable for a driver of his stature.
And then there was Kimi — the prodigy, the future, the boy raised under the Silver Star. They were the choices. They were the men who shaped the narrative. They were the drivers the world argued about. And yet Toto hadn’t announced anything. Not one hint. Not one leak. Not even a cryptic smile to the media. Only silence. A strange, heavy silence. And now, a message. To you.
Was this a joke? Was this a test? Was this… real?
You whispered it into your empty living room, barely audible: “Am I… an option?”
The very idea made you dizzy. It was insane. It was impossible. It was everything you never allowed yourself to dream. You picked up the phone again, your fingers trembling. Just rereading the message made your chest tighten.
Dinner in Brackley? Tomorrow? – T.W.
No explanation. No reason. Just that. A door. A chance. A man whose gaze had already started to rewrite your pulse. And for the first time in your life, you felt the terrifying truth rising inside you: maybe Toto Wolff is considering you. Really considering you. A seat in Formula 1. A life you never thought you’d touch. And a man you thought you’d only admire from a distance.
You pressed the phone to your chest, closed your eyes, and whispered the only word you could manage: “Scheiße…”
Because tomorrow, everything might change. And you were not ready for where that path might lead.
*
You barely slept. Every hour of the night you woke up, heart racing, mind spinning, replaying the same impossible question over and over again, why does Toto Wolff want to see me?
By morning you were exhausted and restless, and the drive to Brackley felt longer than any race you had ever run. Your stomach twisted the whole way, and every time you imagined sitting across from him you felt heat rise to your face, making you angry at yourself for reacting like a child.
When you arrived at Mercedes HQ, your hands were cold despite your racing jacket. You walked through the glass doors wearing sport clothes, clean, simple, nothing special, while he waited in the lobby looking exactly as he always does: elegant, composed, suit perfectly fitted, posture straight as a blade, expression unreadable.
Your breath caught for half a second. You hated that it did. You hated even more that he noticed.
“Good morning,” he said, voice low and warm, as if today were normal.
You forced a small smile. “Good morning.”
He led you upstairs to his office, the polished one with the big window overlooking the factory floor, and you sat across from him while he handed you a cup of coffee, the kind he prefers, strong and bitter, nothing added.
You wrapped your hands around the cup to steady yourself. At first the conversation stayed formal — future plans, post-season options, potential roles in the Mercedes development program — but it didn’t take long for something to shift.
He leaned back slightly, studying you, and you could feel the moment the air between you thinned into something else. He asked about Austria. You answered. He asked about your childhood. You hesitated, then answered anyway. He asked about the way you learned to fight for everything you have, and you saw his eyes sharpen, not with judgment but with recognition, like he was watching a younger version of himself reflected back in your words. And then he spoke about his own past, not the corporate version, not the polished biography, but the real pieces few people get to hear. The loneliness. The pressure. The anger. The way ambition felt like a lifeline and a curse at the same time.
You listened, silent, and when he looked away for a moment you saw through the cracks he usually hides.
You surprised him when you said quietly: “It must have been hard to carry that alone.”
His eyes lifted to yours sharply, almost startled. As if no one had ever spoken to him like that. As if no one had ever dared to see him that clearly.
“You are very perceptive,” he murmured. “Too perceptive.”
You shrugged, heat creeping into your cheeks, “I’m a driver. You learn to read people. Especially the complicated ones.”
A small smile ghosted across his lips, not amused, not patronizing, something more like… appreciation. It made your chest tighten.
The conversation drifted in and out of personal and professional topics, and you weren’t sure when exactly the line blurred so much that there was no line left at all. He told you he admired the way your mind works. You told him you admired the path he carved from nothing. He leaned in sometimes when you spoke, listening too intently, and you found yourself doing the same. It felt dangerous. It felt inevitable. Time slipped. You didn’t even notice an hour passing. Then another.
You were mid-sentence about your final race when he suddenly cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and set his coffee cup down very carefully, the way a man does before saying something serious. You fell silent. Your pulse jumped. He looked at you directly. No mask. No distance. No harmless professionalism.
“I asked you to come,” he said slowly, “because I have a proposal.”
Your breath stilled. Your fingers tightened around your cup. A proposal. From Toto Wolff. Directed at you. For a moment you don’t breathe. You just stare at him, waiting for the punchline, the clarification, the part where he says development role, reserve driver, sim work, something manageable, something realistic, something that fits the world you know.
But he doesn’t. He looks straight at you, calm, composed, terrifyingly serious, and repeats, “I want you in Mercedes.”
The words hit you like a blow to the chest. You feel them in your ribs, in your throat, in the hot rush of blood behind your eyes. Your hands go weak around your coffee cup, and you set it down before you drop it.
“Toto…” you whisper, voice barely forming the syllables, “I... what?”
He nods once, slow, deliberate, “As you heard. Our meeting has one purpose. I want you driving for Mercedes next season.”
Your mouth falls open before you can stop it. Shock, disbelief, fear, joy, all of it floods you so fast it almost feels like pain.
“But... but how...? Why...? What about...?”
He lifts a hand slightly, not to silence you, but to guide the chaotic storm inside you back into focus.
“Listen,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, voice softer now, “I have not spoken to anyone about this. Not the board. Not the media. Not even Susie. This is my decision. Mine alone.”
You swallow, hard. Your pulse is loud in your ears.
“You know how controversial this is,” he continues, tone factual, emotion tucked carefully beneath the surface. “A driver straight from F1 Academy. A woman. No F3, no F2, no junior categories in between. The paddock will scream. They always scream.”
You manage to exhale a shaky breath, “Then why choose me?”
His jaw tightens, like he’s fighting with the truth inside him. When he speaks, it’s low, “Because I see something in you that I cannot ignore. Not anymore.”
Your skin prickles. Your heart twists. You don’t know if he realizes how intimate those words sound, how they hit you with more force than the offer itself.
He sits back, composes himself, returns to the controlled team principal.
“I will give you a one-year contract,” he says. “A full season. Of course, there will be an option to extend if you succeed, if the team is satisfied, if your performance warrants it.”
“And if I’m not good enough?” you whisper.
Toto doesn’t flinch. He never lies, “Then I will replace you with Kimi,” he says frankly. “If you fall behind the field, if your pace is not competitive, if you cannot match George… I will make the switch. This is Formula 1. No mercy.”
Your chest tightens, but not from fear. From honesty. From the respect of it. From the knowledge that he is giving you the same terms he gives every man on the grid.
“But...” your voice shakes slightly, “Max… and Kimi… the whole world thinks...”
He cuts you off, voice sharp, exact, “The media does not choose my drivers. I do.”
You shut your mouth instantly. The authority in his tone washes over you like heat.
He looks directly into your eyes as he finishes: “And I want you.”
Your breath stutters. Something inside you collapses and expands at the same time.
“This will cause controversy,” he says, leaning back again, hands clasped loosely. “People will protest. Some loudly. But this is not the first fire I’ve walked into, and it won’t be the last.”
You nod slowly, still overwhelmed, still trying to hold reality in your hands without dropping it.
“But until then…” he continues, his gaze sharpening, “this stays between us. No one can know. Not your team. Not your family. Not Susie. No one.”
You blink in disbelief, “Not even your wife?”
“No,” he answers calmly. “Especially not her. I want this to remain fully under my control until the announcement.”
“Why?” you ask, breathless.
He smiles at that — small, knowing, dangerous, “Because I intend to make a little… impact.”
You stare. He continues.
“I’m going to announce it next week, at the FIA prize-giving gala. You will be there as the F1 Academy champion. They will hand you your trophy. Cameras everywhere.”
Your stomach drops. Your hands go cold.
“And when the applause dies,” he says quietly, “I will walk on stage, take the microphone, and tell the world that they are looking at the new Mercedes Formula 1 Team driver.”
You freeze completely. Not breathing. Not moving. Not knowing how to exist in your own body.
You whisper, “I… I don’t know what to say.”
Toto stands slowly, steps closer, and the room feels suddenly too small.
“Say nothing,” he murmurs. “Just start looking for apartments in Brackley and Monaco.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. He adds, softer, lower, slipping past every barrier inside you:
“I’m going to want you close to the factory in Brackley… and close to me in Monaco.”
Everything in you burns. Everything in you trembles. Everything in you knows... This is only the beginning.
*
You drive back through Austria with the contract beside you on the passenger seat, still crisp and smooth, the ink barely dry where you and Toto both signed your names. Every few minutes you look at it again, as if it might vanish the moment you blink, as if this entire day might dissolve into smoke if you stop checking whether it really happened.
You are a Formula 1 driver.
You say it out loud once. Very quietly. And you almost choke on your own breath, because hearing the words spoken in your voice feels unreal, impossible, like something stolen from someone else’s life.
Your hands tighten around the steering wheel as you drive deeper into the mountains, the autumn air turning colder the higher you go, and every part of you trembles with a mixture of excitement and fear so strong it almost hurts. Because you didn’t just sign a contract. You signed your life away to the biggest team in the world. You signed yourself into the spotlight. You signed yourself into his orbit.
You signed yourself into him.
You know how Toto is with his drivers. Everyone knows. He protects them, defends them, guides them, pushes them, treats them like family. He invests himself deeply in people he believes in. And he believes in you.
The thought alone sends a line of heat down your spine. Because when he said he wanted you close to Brackley, you accepted it. When he said he wanted you close to him in Monaco… you felt your whole body go still. Those were words meant for a driver. Professionally. Rationally. But the way he said them, the tone, the quiet certainty, the intensity in his eyes, it wrapped around you and held you in place long after you walked out of his office.
You keep seeing his hand in your mind. The way he reached out after the signing. The way his fingers curled around yours, warm and firm, far too gentle for a man who leads with steel and pressure. The shake lasted only a second, but your heart hasn’t come down since. You can’t stop replaying the way he looked at you, the tiny shift in his gaze, the analyzing sharpness softening, something warm pulsing through it for just a moment before he pulled back and put the mask on again.
By the time you arrive at your tiny Austrian house, your entire body feels electrified, like you’ve swallowed an entire thunderstorm. You sit on the floor, back against your couch, the contract spread across your lap, and you try to breathe normally. You scroll through social media to distract yourself, but instead your heart plummets.
Headline after headline:
“Toto Wolff to attend FIA Gala with MAJOR announcement.”
“Sources say Wolff is preparing a shock reveal.”
“Not Verstappen? Not Antonelli? Then who?”
“Mercedes second seat still a mystery — expected bombshell incoming.”
You swallow hard. Your mouth goes dry. You knew it would cause noise. But seeing it written out, the speculation, the pressure, the hunger for answers, it hits you in a new way. This will be bigger than when Lewis announced Ferrari. This will be bigger than any silly paddock drama. This will be chaos. And it will be directed at you. All the questions. All the comments. All the hate. All the doubt.
You wrap your arms around your knees, trying to steady your breath, but then you remember Toto’s voice from earlier:
“You focus on driving. Let me and the team take the bullets.”
“I will handle the rest.”
“I asked for you. I will protect you.”
And just like that, your chest loosens. You stand up, walk to your tiny wardrobe, open it, and stare at the hangers. You have nothing for a gala. Not a proper dress. Not heels that aren’t scratched. Not jewelry that isn’t cheap. You have old jeans, worn T-shirts, and two decent jackets, nothing that belongs on a stage next to billionaires and world champions.
But then you imagine Toto standing under the lights of the FIA gala, tall and elegant, waiting to say your name into the microphone while the entire world holds its breath. You imagine the moment his eyes find you in the crowd. You imagine the shock, the applause, the cameras turning toward you. And you shiver, a full-body shiver so strong you grip the wardrobe door to steady yourself. Because for the first time in your life, you aren’t invisible. You aren’t disposable. You aren’t fighting alone. You are his driver. His choice. His gamble. His statement to the world.
And part of you, the part you’re terrified to name, wonders if that means more than racing. You exhale slowly, fingers touching a black dress you bought years ago and never wore.
“What will he think?” you whisper to yourself, and heat crawls along your skin.
Because the truth is simple, terrifying, impossible: you care, too much. More than a driver should. More than a subordinate should. And in the quiet of your tiny Austrian house, you admit it to yourself for the first time: you want him to look at you on that stage. You want to see that spark in his eyes again. You want to belong in the world he just pulled you into. And you want to see what happens the moment he says your name in front of the whole planet.
*
The moment you arrive at the FIA Gala, the air changes. The building glows with white lights, flashes burst across the entrance every few seconds, and the crowd is filled with the biggest names in motorsport — champions, legends, CEOs, team principals, engineers, the people you used to watch on television while sitting on your worn-out couch in Austria. And now you are walking into the same room as them. Invited. Expected. Celebrated.
Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you step onto the red carpet, and every photographer turns. You keep your chin high, even though your knees feel weak under the dress you chose, the one you ironed three times because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Inside, the hall is huge, glittering with chandeliers, filled with tables decorated in gold and white. The kind of place where only people who breathe motorsport politics for a living belong.
And then, near the front, you see them. Toto and Susie. Hand in hand. The power couple of motorsport. Elegant. Perfect. Untouchable. Your chest tightens. He looks incredible in his tuxedo — sharp lines, crisp collar, exactly the kind of presence that commands a room without effort. And she glows beside him, beauty and confidence wrapped in grace, smiling with genuine warmth as people greet her.
You force yourself to breathe. They are everything you are not, established, admired, loved, respected and yet… you are here too.
The ceremony begins. Awards for rally champions, karting prodigies, F2 and F3 winners, endurance legends. The room claps politely, flashes go off, and each person walks across the stage with poise and pride.
Then the host announces the next category: F1 Academy Champion.
Your heart leaps. Your hands tremble. When your name echoes through the hall, the applause is warm, genuine, encouraging. You walk up the steps slowly, feeling the weight of every eye on you, and you force yourself not to look at Toto. Not yet. You accept your trophy. You smile for the cameras. You say a few simple words, nothing extraordinary, just gratitude, determination, a promise to keep pushing.
But then, the air shifts. You feel it like a drop in pressure before a storm. Because someone else is walking onto the stage. Someone who wasn’t listed in this segment. Toto Wolff. Tall, deliberate, unhurried. The room stills.
Toto steps forward, taking the microphone from the presenter with a calmness so sharp it slices through the noise in the room.
The hall goes still, as if every person senses that something unusual is about to happen, something that wasn’t planned, something that wasn’t rehearsed, something only one man in that room understands.
He stands tall beside you, his hand resting lightly but firmly on the small of your back, guiding you a half step closer to him, and the gesture makes your pulse hammer in your throat. He looks out at the sea of cameras and faces, waits just long enough for the tension to tighten, and then says, his voice deep and steady,
“Ladies and gentlemen, before we move on… I would like to make an announcement.”
A ripple moves through the hall — small gasps, shifting chairs, the unmistakable sound of hundreds of people leaning forward at once.
Susie’s head snaps up. Your breath catches. The host looks confused. But Toto continues as if the entire room belongs to him, calm, controlled, certain, as if he had planned this moment down to the second.
“Tonight you have honored the best of motorsport,” he says, eyes scanning the audience, “but I believe we are also looking at the future.”
He gestures to you, not politely, not in a quiet ‘congratulations’ manner, but with pride, with certainty, with ownership.
“This young woman has proven herself again and again,” he continues, voice rising slightly, “with talent, with discipline, with intelligence that is rare even in this sport.”
Your knees nearly buckle. Flash after flash explodes as photographers begin to realize something huge is coming. Somewhere in the crowd you hear someone whisper your name. Someone else curses.
Toto breathes once, a slow breath that steadies him, and then delivers the line that detonates the world:
“I am proud to announce that you are looking at the new driver of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team.”
Silence. Pure, absolute, impossible silence. Like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. You feel your heart stop, literally stop, in your chest. Your fingers go numb around the trophy. You feel Toto’s hand steady you, subtly, firmly, like he expected this reaction.
And then... chaos. A wall of voices slams into the stage. Journalists stand, shouting questions. Cameras strobe so violently you have to blink through the bursts of white. Team principals twist in their seats, stunned. Drivers stare at you with disbelief written across their faces.
And Susie... Susie sits frozen, eyes locked on her husband, her smile gone, her expression unreadable, her posture rigid like glass that has just begun to crack. She looks up at her husband, the man she thought she knew, and for a moment she doesn’t recognize him. Because the man on the stage is not the cautious strategist she married. Not the diplomat. Not the political mastermind. He is someone else, someone bold, reckless, and completely consumed by conviction.
But Toto does not look away. Not from the audience. Not from the noise. Not from you. He lifts his chin slightly, his voice cutting cleanly through the uproar:
“Please welcome the newest Mercedes F1 driver...”, he looks at you, directly, intensely, “...she has earned this seat.”
The photographers nearly trample each other to get the shot. Toto slides an arm around your waist, steadying you, anchoring you, claiming the moment as yours, and turns you toward the cameras. And the flashes rain down like lightning.
*
The moment you and Toto step off the stage, the air behind the curtains is even hotter, heavier, louder than what you left behind. People rush past, staff shouting into headsets, journalists already trying to slip behind the security ropes, flashes still firing from every angle.
Toto keeps his hand steady on your back, guiding you through the chaos, his voice low and calm beside your ear as he leans closer so only you can hear him.
“Breathe,” he murmurs. “It’s alright. You did perfectly.”
You nod, but your body is trembling, your heart beating too fast, your vision still full of lights and questions and the weight of what he just did to your life. You barely notice your own footsteps until a voice — sharp, urgent, cutting — slices through the noise.
“Toto.”
Susie appears in front of you like a storm. She isn’t smiling. She isn’t composed. She isn’t the gentle, warm woman who supported you through F1 Academy. She looks furious. Genuinely furious. And she doesn’t even look at you, not at first.
Her eyes lock on her husband like he is a stranger.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands, her voice low but trembling with anger. “You should have told me. She’s from F1 Academy, for God’s sake. My series. My girls. How could you do this behind my back?”
Toto’s jaw tightens. He stands tall, unmoving, shoulders squared like he has been preparing for this moment all night.
“Susie...” he begins, but she cuts him off.
“No. No excuses.” She steps closer, ignoring everyone around, “You should have told me. You owe me that. You owe these girls that.”
He inhales once, slow and controlled, but before he can form a single word, Susie steps closer, her eyes sharp and burning with something deeper than simple anger.
Her voice cuts through the hallway like a blade: “This isn’t about her talent anymore, is it?”
The sentence hits harder than anything said tonight. Her tone isn’t sarcastic. It isn’t cold. It is wounded, raw, trembling at the edges, the voice of a woman who knows she’s looking at a truth she doesn’t want to name.
Toto’s jaw tightens. You see his shoulders stiffen, the muscle near his temple twitching as he forces control back into his expression. He doesn’t answer immediately. He doesn’t deny it. And the silence says more than words ever could.
Susie’s eyes widen — hurt, disbelief, fury folding into each other like sharp-edged metal.
“Toto,” she says, voice cracking just a little, “you know exactly what this looks like.”
He finally speaks, but his voice is low, almost corporate, like he’s building a wall between himself and the truth she’s trying to pull out of him.
“It’s about what the sport needs.”
But the words don’t land as defense. They land like a stone thrown into glass. You feel the air break. You feel something between them fracture in real time.
Susie shakes her head, stunned.
“And I’m just supposed to trust that?” she asks quietly. “That this decision is only about the sport?”
Her gaze flicks to you — sharp, searching, almost accusing — as if she’s trying to see what, exactly, her husband sees in you. You straighten instinctively, your pulse racing, the weight of her stare almost unbearable. You freeze where you stand, still trembling from the stage, unsure what to do, unsure where to look. You take a small step back.
Toto notices instantly. His eyes lock onto yours, and in that moment he seems to remember you’re standing there like prey caught between predators. But before he can say anything, the sound of cameras starts building again.
Reporters spilling into the corridor. Shouting your name. Calling “Mercedes driver! Mercedes driver!” Questions in English, German, Italian, French — all at once. Microphones are already being pushed forward. Lights are flashing. Chaos is climbing toward you.
You freeze, completely. Your breath gets stuck in your throat. Your fingers curl helplessly at your sides. You are seconds away from being swallowed alive.
And then... Toto moves. He steps directly in front of the journalists, shoulders broad, posture dominant, voice raised just enough to silence them instantly.
“She will speak later,” he says firmly. “Right now, give her space. This is her moment, let her breathe.”
Then his arm comes around your shoulders, strong, steady, protective, and he guides you away from the crowd with a control that makes every camera lower.
You don’t speak. You can’t. He leads you through a door into a quieter corridor, away from lights, away from noise, away from Susie.
Only when the door shuts and the world muffles behind it does he turn to face you. You stand there trembling, heart pounding, lungs refusing to behave. You can still hear the chaos outside, muffled but relentless. You can still feel Susie’s anger. You can still feel the weight of a room exploding around your name. But Toto steps closer, very close, his expression softening in a way you have never seen before. He says quietly, almost like a confession, “I made the right choice.”
Your chest tightens so hard you nearly stagger. Your eyes meet his, and the intensity in them is too much, too direct, too raw. You feel the tears burning at the edges of your vision, fear, relief, shock, everything all at once.
And then he does something you never expected. He closes the distance. Slowly. Carefully. He wraps his arms around you, solid, warm, grounding, and pulls you into his chest. You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You just fall into him, your hands gripping the fabric of his suit, your face pressed against him as your whole body finally breaks from the pressure of everything that happened in the last hour. You stand like that in the quiet, shaking, holding onto him like he’s the only solid thing left in a world that has just spun off its axis.
And he holds you tighter, like he knows exactly what kind of storm he just pulled you into.
III. The Obsession
January, Brackley Factory
A few weeks pass after the gala, hectic and chaotic and unreal, and by the time January settles over England in a blanket of cold grey sky you find yourself living in a rented apartment ten minutes from the Mercedes factory, waking up every morning with the strange knowledge that you are no longer an outsider peeking through the glass but a driver of the most successful team in Formula 1, even if half the people inside the building still look at you like you don’t belong here.
Walking through the corridors of Brackley feels like stepping into a cathedral of machinery, everything is clean, sharp, metallic, humming with purpose, and yet you feel the weight of every whisper that follows you — the disbelief, the judgment, the polite but unmistakable skepticism that comes from engineers and technicians who spent years working with world champions and cannot understand why a young woman from F1 Academy is sitting in the seat Lewis Hamilton left behind.
Bono becomes your anchor almost immediately. He greets you with that gentle, slightly amused smile of someone who has seen everything in this sport and refuses to be rattled by anything new, and from the first day he speaks to you with a level of calm that softens the tightness in your chest. He explains things carefully, checks if you understand, asks for your feedback, encourages you when you hesitate, and never once makes you feel like you’re undeserving of standing beside him.
You feel the pressure ease every time he says, “Alright, let’s go again,” as if nothing in the world could surprise or disappoint him.
The seat fit is the first time you feel the true magnitude of this world. They take your measurements, weigh you, scan you, adjust the mold around your body, all while people hover around you with tablets and tools, murmuring about placement, balance, ergonomics.
You sit in the carbon shell, knees close to your chest, arms stretched toward the wheel, and you try not to think about the fact that this is the seat Lewis once occupied, the cockpit in which he fought and won and built history. The engineers move around you like planets orbiting a sun, except you are no sun, you are something new, unpredictable, untested, and you feel the doubt in their silence, the way they never ask you personal questions, the way they rarely smile except out of politeness, the way they look at each other when they think you can’t see.
Sometimes you hear it in the corridors.
“She’s too green.”
“Straight from F1 Academy? Seriously?”
“Toto must be losing his mind.”
“She’s no Lewis. No one could be.”
“At least Kimi would’ve made sense.”
And every time a whisper cuts you, every time you feel that sting in your ribs, you tell yourself to breathe, to stay quiet, to keep working until they run out of bad things to say.
But the strangest part, the part nobody can ignore, is Toto. People notice it immediately. He is in Brackley every day. Every single day. Toto never does that. Not in January. Not during early winter prep. He usually visits for meetings, for briefings, for the big-picture strategy sessions, but now he walks into the simulator room as if it’s his second office, stands during your seat fit with his arms crossed as if he’s personally inspecting every millimeter of the cockpit, and lingers in the wind tunnel control room watching the data that relates only to you.
You feel him everywhere, his presence, his attention, his eyes following your progress with a focus so sharp and unwavering that even senior engineers trade confused glances. When you spend hours in the simulator, sweat sticking your undershirt to your spine, fingers aching from endless laps, Bono sits beside you guiding every run, and Toto stands behind both of you, silent, tall, observing in a way that makes your skin prickle.
Sometimes he speaks. Sometimes he doesn’t. But whenever you look over your shoulder, his eyes are already on you. And the factory notices.
You hear mechanics whisper:
“Why is he here again?”
“He didn’t even micromanage Russell like this.”
“What the hell is going on with her?”
“Did she break his brain or something?”
They don’t say it cruelly, not entirely, but with genuine confusion, like everyone is trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what to think. But you feel your heart beat faster every time Toto enters the room, and your breath catches every time he stops beside your simulator seat and speaks your name with that low, deliberate tone he uses only with you.
You remind yourself constantly: He treats his drivers like family. He protects them. He supports them. He lifts them up. This is normal. This is professional.
And yet... something in the way he watches you something in the way his voice softens when he speaks to you, something in the way he stays close instead of leaving, something in the way he doesn’t look at anyone else with the same intensity... none of it feels normal. None of it feels like the way he treated anyone before you.
You try to focus on work. On learning. On proving yourself worthy. But at night, when you return to your apartment with sore muscles and a mind buzzing with data and laps and feedback, you find yourself replaying every small moment, the way his eyes narrowed in approval when you corrected your braking style, the way he stepped closer during the seat fit, the way he brushed past you to hand Bono a tablet and your whole body tensed from the closeness.
It is January, and everything is moving too fast. The car. The preparation. Your life. Your heart. His presence. And every day you keep asking yourself the same terrifying question: is he doing all of this because I’m his driver... or because something inside him is beginning to slip?
*
Australia hits you harder than any test, any simulation, any meeting in Brackley ever could, because when you step into the paddock on Friday morning you feel all the eyes burning into you at once — reporters whispering, fans pointing, cameras tracking you with a strange mixture of curiosity and doubt, because you are not just a rookie, you are the only woman in the field, and every single person here wonders whether Toto Wolff has lost his mind.
You remind yourself to breathe, to walk straight, to keep your chin high, to ignore the noise, but the pressure sits heavy on your chest like an extra twenty kilos strapped under your race suit.
Qualifying feels like drowning and flying at the same time. Your hands shake before the first push lap. Your stomach twists at the thought of disappointing him. Your mind repeats every instruction Bono gave you. And then you go out and deliver a miracle none of them expected — P6. Just two tenths behind George.
Even the commentators gasp. The paddock stirs. The garage erupts in cheers. You see it in Toto’s face — the tight, proud little nod he tries to hide behind folded arms, and for the first time you feel like maybe, just maybe, you deserve to be here.
But the race… the race destroys you. It happens too fast. A lunge from Liam Lawson, a misjudged angle, the tiniest touch on your rear left, and suddenly the world explodes into spinning asphalt and torn carbon fiber.
Your car slams into the wall. Sparks fly. The halo shakes. Your radio crackles with Bono’s alarmed voice. When the car stops, your hands are trembling on the wheel.
Your breath comes in shudders. The crowd roars somewhere in the distance. And inside your helmet, one thought screams louder than anything: First race. First failure. You climb out, confirm you’re physically okay, wave halfheartedly to show the medics you’re fine, and then you walk straight to the motorhome.
You don’t wait for anyone. You don’t listen to the commentary. You don’t look at the screens. You close your door behind you, sink onto the small sofa, and the tears you tried to hold back all race finally break. Your chest aches. Your throat burns. You keep telling yourself you ruined everything, the trust, the opportunity, the belief Toto placed in you, and you can barely breathe from the weight of it.
Then you hear a knock. Soft. Short. Controlled.
Your heart freezes. You wipe your face quickly, even though you know it’s useless.
“…come in,” you whisper.
The door opens.
Toto steps inside. He closes it behind him with the quietest click. Then he leans back against it, arms at his sides, eyes fixed on you — too intense, too knowing, too focused.
He doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at you.
You try to stare at the floor, but he sees your tear tracks instantly, and something sharp flickers across his expression — not anger, not disappointment, but something deeper, heavier.
After a long moment, he exhales.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says quietly.
You shake your head, but he cuts you off with a small gesture.
“I know,” he repeats, voice low but firm. “You think you don’t belong here. You think maybe everyone was right. You think this seat should have gone to someone safer, someone predictable, someone with the right resume.”
Your breath stutters, because he is saying out loud the exact words that broke you minutes earlier.
He takes a slow step toward you.
“And you think,” he adds, softer now, “that maybe this… was a mistake.”
Your hands clench in your lap. Your vision blurs again. You cannot speak. But Toto moves closer, one step, then another, until he stands in front of you, his presence filling the cramped room, his voice steady and unshakable.
“Listen to me,” he says. “You do not listen to them. You do not listen to the paddock. You do not listen to the media.”
He kneels slightly, enough to be level with your eyes, not towering above you.
“You listen to me,” he says firmly. “Only me.”
Your breath falters. Your heart slams against your ribs.
He reaches out, not touching you without permission, but close, close enough that you feel the warmth radiating from his hand.
“You crashed because someone hit you,” he continues. “Not because you were reckless. Not because you were out of your depth. Not because you weren’t good enough.”
Your eyes sting. Your chest shakes.
“You will make mistakes,” he says, voice softer now, almost gentle. “You will learn. You will grow. But this? This moment does not define you.”
You swallow hard, tears falling again.
“Toto…” your voice cracks, “I... I didn’t score a single point. I let everyone down. I let you down.”
He straightens, and his jaw tightens like the words cut into him.
“You did not let me down,” he says, and his voice is so intense it pins you in place. “I chose you. I will stand by that.”
Your breath catches.
He leans slightly closer, not touching, but close enough that the air between you burns.
“I believe in you,” he says. “And you are not going anywhere.”
The room is silent. You are shaking. He is steady. The air between you and Toto is heavy, fragile, something unspoken hanging there that neither of you is brave enough to name yet, and for a long moment it feels like the world outside the motorhome doesn’t exist, until another knock breaks whatever spell held you both in place.
Toto’s eyes flick to the door.
You straighten instinctively, wiping quickly at your cheeks, trying to erase the traces of your breakdown, but there is no time, because the door opens before either of you can say anything.
Susie steps inside. Her presence fills the room differently, calm, composed, steady, but her eyes move from you to Toto in a single sharp, assessing sweep, and you can tell immediately she already understands the emotional storm she just walked into.
“Toto,” she says quietly.
He stands up straight, walls snapping back into place around him in real time, the softness draining from his expression as he nods at her.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” he says, and his voice is controlled again, professional, maybe a little too controlled.
He leaves without another word. The door clicks shut behind him. And then it’s just you and Susie.
For a moment she doesn’t speak. She just stands there, her hands folded, her eyes taking in the small room, the mess of your emotions, the exhaustion on your face, the tremor in your shoulders you’re trying so hard to hide.
Then she exhales softly and sits beside you on the small sofa. The silence stretches. Not awkward, thoughtful.
Finally she says quietly, “I reacted with anger earlier. And that wasn’t fair to you.”
You swallow hard, surprised. You look down at your hands, unsure how to respond, but she continues gently:
“My frustration was not with you,” she says. “It was with Toto. Because he made a decision that affects both of us without saying a single word beforehand.”
Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge of vulnerability beneath it, something more human and real than you ever expected to hear tonight.
She places a steady hand on your shoulder.
“But I want you to know something,” she adds. “I’m proud of you. I’m proud of what you’ve achieved. And I’m rooting for you... truly.”
Your throat tightens again, but this time not from shame, from the unexpected kindness in her tone.
She gives you a small smile, one that reaches her eyes.
“Toto threw you into the deepest water imaginable,” she says, “and that means you’re going to feel like you’re drowning for a while. But that doesn’t mean you’re not meant to swim.”
Her arm wraps around your shoulders then, warm, supportive, grounding, and the gesture breaks whatever composure you were desperately trying to hold onto.
You fold into her side and start crying again, the stress, the shame, the disappointment, the pressure, all spilling out in silent, shaking waves.
Susie holds you without saying a word. Just steady, patient, letting you fall apart because she knows you need to. And when your breathing finally steadies, she brushes your hair back gently and says:
“This is only the beginning. One race. One crash. That’s not your story. Not even close.”
You nod slowly, wiping your face, something inside you sharpening, something fierce, something stubborn, something steel forged through fire.
You sit up straighter, inhale deeply, and make a quiet promise to yourself.
From now on, you’ll be a machine. No weakness. No panic. No tears.
You will show them all why you deserve this seat. You will prove Toto right, you will earn the respect of every engineer in that building, and you will not let this moment define you.
Susie squeezes your shoulder once more.
“I believe in you,” she says softly. “And so does he. For better or worse, that man will burn the world down before he lets you fail.”
Those words settle deep in your chest, unsettling, comforting, dangerous all at once. And you know, with sudden clarity, that nothing about this season will be simple.
*
You kept your promise. You became the machine you swore you would be, cold on the outside, disciplined, unreadable, your face a calm mask even when your pulse raced like a second engine beneath your ribs.
You trained harder than anyone. You attacked every lap like a soldier charging into war. You shut down fear, silenced doubt, and learned to breathe through pressure until pressure itself became your second skin.
And it worked. God, it worked.
You started collecting points. Slowly at first — a P9 here, a P7 there — until one day, in a rain-soaked chaos of a race, with the visibility near zero and the world sliding sideways around you, something clicked inside your chest.
Instinct took over. You found rhythm where others found panic. You overtook with a clarity that didn’t feel human. One car. Then another. Then another. You climbed from P16 to P5, carving through the spray like you belonged there from the beginning, and when you crossed the line the paddock erupted in disbelief.
Mechanics clapped your shoulders. Engineers hugged you despite usually keeping their distance. Even rival teams nodded in grudging respect.
And Toto… Toto stood at the pit wall with his hands on his hips, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on you with pride so sharp it nearly brought you to your knees.
It wasn’t the usual team-principal pride. It wasn’t corporate satisfaction. It was something deeper. Something that burned.
You bowed your head. Kept your expression steady. Held the machine mask in place.
But inside? Inside you were shaking. Because no matter how emotionless you trained yourself to be, no matter how much steel you forced into your voice, no matter how much ice you poured into your veins, your emotions didn’t die.
They didn’t even quiet. They grew. Especially when it came to him.
At night you dreamed of Toto, dreams you could never say aloud, dreams that left you breathless and guilty and aching before the sun even rose. His hands on your hips. His voice at your ear. His body close enough to feel his heat. Every dream worse, or better, than the last.
During the day, every glance he gave you set your skin on fire. Every time he stood too close, your breath snagged in your throat. Every time he placed a hand on your shoulder, guiding you through a debrief, correcting your posture, adjusting a detail on your race suit, your pulse surged so violently you thought surely he could feel it.
You wanted him. You wanted him with a desperation that terrified you. You didn’t just want his approval. You wanted his attention. His touch. His desire.
You wanted to be the one he saw first, the one he thought of, the one whose name lingered in his mind long after the garage closed for the night.
And it only got worse when you watched him with Susie. The way he leaned in when she spoke. The way he brushed her hand when passing her notes. The way they looked like a perfect, united team, married, powerful, stable, and you stood there with an ache so deep it felt like a bruise blooming beneath your ribs.
Jealousy was a cruel, acidic thing. It burned quietly, privately, relentlessly.
And yet… sometimes you caught him looking at you differently. Not like a boss. Not like a mentor. Not like a man proudly watching a driver he had discovered.
Something else.
You felt it when his gaze lingered too long on your face after a difficult session. You felt it when he looked away too quickly, as if afraid you’d notice something in his eyes. You felt it when he stood behind you in the garage, close enough for the heat of him to press against your back, his breath brushing your neck when he leaned in to speak.
And then there was his behavior, the part you couldn’t rationalize, the part no one could ignore. Whenever a male mechanic smiled at you too warmly, whenever a driver lingered beside you after a briefing, whenever someone so much as joked with you... Toto appeared. As if conjured by the slightest threat. As if your proximity to other men triggered something.
He wouldn’t say anything inappropriate. He wouldn’t touch you possessively. But he would stand close. And stare. And the message was always the same: She’s mine to protect. Mine to supervise. Mine to keep close. Mine.
Mechanics noticed it. Drivers joked about it.
You pretended not to hear. But you felt it. Every time. Whether it was your imagination or something far more dangerous, you couldn’t tell.
All you knew was that when his eyes found you across the garage, dark, intense, unreadable, the machine inside you cracked.
And the woman beneath it wanted him.
Badly.
*
Monaco nights carry a strange kind of quiet, the kind that sits beneath the hum of luxury cars and distant parties, the kind that makes every apartment window glow like a private world. And inside the Wolffs’ penthouse, elegant, minimalist, perfectly arranged, something is unraveling.
Toto sits on the sofa in his crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses sliding a little down his nose as he scrolls through reports on his laptop.
Race simulations. Telemetry comparisons. Your cornering deltas versus George’s. Notes from Bono. Everything that concerns you, everything he has been obsessively tracking.
Susie stands by the window, arms crossed, looking out at the lights of the harbor, there is tension in her posture.
It’s been building for weeks. Tonight, it finally breaks.
“Toto,” she says quietly, without turning around, “you know the paddock is already talking.”
His eyes stay on his laptop. He barely reacts.
“About what?” he mutters, pretending to read, pretending not to understand.
“You and her.”
Those words freeze the air.
Susie turns slowly, leaning against the counter with a tired sigh that carries both frustration and worry.
“They’re saying you’re too close,” she continues. “Too protective. Too… involved.”
Toto exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost like a sarcastic laugh.
“I am always close with my drivers,” he says, voice clipped, still not looking at her. “They are my responsibility. And she is the only woman on the grid... somebody has to watch over her.”
Susie doesn’t move. She just watches him. Long, steady, dissecting him the way only a wife of many years can.
“Toto,” she says softly, “I’ve been observing you.”
That makes him pause. His fingers stop moving. His jaw clenches.
“And I’ve been observing her,” she adds. “And I’ve been observing… the two of you.”
The silence that follows is deep and painful.
“This is not a normal team principal–driver relationship,” Susie says.
Her voice is calm, but underneath it there is a note of fear.
“This is different. And you know it.”
Toto finally closes the laptop — too fast, with a soft thud that betrays irritation, or panic, or both, and rests his palms on the casing as if grounding himself.
“You’re imagining things,” he says.
His voice is firm, but his eyes refuse to meet hers.
“You’re reading into it like the media do.”
“But you’re not denying it,” Susie replies, barely above a whisper.
He goes still. His composure cracks, just a fraction, but enough. His exhale is shaky. The confidence drains out of his shoulders. And for the first time he looks… cornered.
Susie steps away from the window, heading toward the bedroom. But before she disappears behind the doorframe, she stops and looks back at him one last time.
“Be careful, Toto,” she says. “Because this could destroy all of us.”
Her footsteps fade. The door closes.
And Toto is left alone in the soft, dim light of the living room, with only the sound of the waves outside and the weight of the truth pressing against his skull. He leans back on the sofa, runs both hands over his face, and exhales the kind of breath that seems to empty something inside him.
Because Susie was right.
Deep down, he knows it. He knew it long before she said the words aloud. Whatever he feels for you, whatever hunger twists low in his stomach when you walk into the room, whatever heat rushes through him when your eyes meet his for too long, whatever instinct makes him push other men away from you, it is not professional. It is not harmless. It is not something he can pretend he doesn’t feel.
He drops his hands, stares at the dark ceiling, and mutters a curse in German under his breath. Because he knows exactly what this is.
Obsession. A relentless, burning obsession.
You have become the one thing he cannot control. The one danger he cannot strategize around. The one desire he cannot extinguish. And now that he’s admitted it to himself, even just in the privacy of his own mind, he also knows there is no turning back.
He presses his fingertips to his temples, eyes closing, as your voice, your smile, your laugh, your fire on track flood his memory with brutal intensity. He thinks of how you look at him. How you combust under pressure. How you steady him just by existing.
His breath shudders. He thinks of you far too often. At night. At work. During races. On long flights. In hotel rooms. In quiet moments with Susie where he should be present but isn’t.
He knows it. He hates it. He craves it.
You are his obsession. His weakness. His downfall in the making. And he is not sure he wants to stop it anymore.
IV. The Affair
Monza feels different the moment you arrive. The air hums with a kind of electricity you can’t explain, the kind that settles under your skin and crawls up your spine, the kind that whispers that something big is coming even before the engines fire for the first time.
But nothing prepares you for what actually happens. Because in the Temple of Speed, you finally become the driver you always knew you could be.
You start from P4 with a calm heartbeat, a steady jaw, and Bono’s voice grounding you through every corner, and then the lights go out and instinct takes the wheel. You dive into the chicane perfectly, slipstream George on lap six, out-brake Norris with a move so bold the commentators shout your name in disbelief, and every lap feels like another piece of your soul locking into place.
The strategy is flawless. Your nerve is unshakeable. Your speed is deadly. And when you cross the finish line P2, you scream so loudly you almost break your radio.
You don’t even care.
You throw your hands up, you shake, you laugh, you shout your engineer’s name over and over until your voice cracks, because for the first time in your life the world sees you the way Toto always said you deserved to be seen.
On the ground below the podium platform stands Toto — tall, impossibly proud, arms folded, head tilted slightly as if memorizing the moment.
He’s smiling in that rare way he only does when something cuts straight through his armor. Not polite. Not corporate. Real. Warm. A little undone.
You hold his gaze through the champagne spray, and something inside your chest stretches too far, too fast.
Later, after the interviews, after the chaos, after being hugged by half the garage and congratulated by the other half, you escape to your motorhome.
You’re still soaked in champagne, hair dripping, race suit tied at your waist, undershirt damp and clinging to your skin, adrenaline slowly bleeding out of you. You sit on the edge of the sofa, breathing hard, hands trembling as the reality sinks in, your first podium.
Your name on the screens. His eyes on you the entire time.
You barely hear the knock.
“Come in,” you say, still dazed.
The door opens, and Toto steps inside.
He closes it quietly behind him, but the moment he turns to face you, you feel the shift, the air thickening, the space shrinking, the invisible line between you burning like it’s about to snap.
He looks at you for a long time. Long enough that you feel it in your lungs. Then, with a breath that sounds almost unsteady, he says, “Congratulations. That was… extraordinary.”
You open your mouth to answer but the words die because suddenly he’s stepping forward and pulling you into him, not a professional hug, not a mentor’s embrace, but something fierce, tight, almost desperate.
Your body collides with his chest. Your arms come up automatically. Your cheek presses against his shirt, and you feel the heat of him through the damp fabric. You feel his heartbeat. You feel everything you’ve tried so hard to bury.
“I’m covered in champagne,” you whisper into him, half laughing, half trembling.
“I don’t care,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, guiding you gently toward him.
And you melt. Your forehead rests against his sternum, your fingers curl into his shirt, and for a moment neither of you breathe, because this isn’t a driver hugging her boss, this is something else entirely, something that has been simmering for months finally touching the surface.
Slowly, you tip your head back. You look up at him.
You’re small compared to him, painfully small, your head barely reaching his chest, and he looks down at you with that height, that power, that quiet intensity that makes your stomach twist in ways you can’t hide anymore.
Your voice barely makes it out.
“You don’t… see me as your driver anymore, do you?”
The words hang between you like a spark suspended in oxygen.
His jaw clenches. His breath hitches. His eyes shut for half a second, not to avoid you, but because the truth hits him too hard.
When he opens them again, he looks wrecked. He leans down, slowly, like a tide closing in, until his lips are almost brushing the shell of your ear.
His voice is a whisper, rough and honest in a way you’ve never heard from him before.
“No.” A pause. A tremor. “And that terrifies me.”
His breath is still warm on your ear when he pulls back just enough to look at you, and something in his expression, raw, shaken, unsheltered, makes your heart stop.
His hand comes up slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. He touches your cheek with the backs of his fingers first, barely graze-light, testing, almost reverent.
Then his palm slides along your jaw, cradling it, his thumb brushing along the edge of your cheekbone in a slow, trembling stroke.
Your skin burns under his touch.
His thumb drifts lower, along the curve of your jaw, following it until it reaches the corner of your mouth, and the moment he touches your lip, even lightly, a shiver rolls through your whole body so hard your breath catches.
Your hands move on instinct. You place them on his chest, first for balance, then because you can’t not touch him, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the strength under your palms.
He leans in. Closer. Closer still.
His forehead nearly touches yours. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then to your eyes again, searching, torn, undone.
Then his lips brush your temple. Soft. Careful. Like a man terrified of his own hunger.
He trails lower, kissing your cheekbone, then the edge of your cheek, lingering there for a heartbeat that makes your knees go weak.
“Toto…” you whisper, because you can’t hold it anymore.
He stops. Looks at you.
And you feel everything he tries so hard to hide, the restraint, the desire, the fear, the inevitability.
Then he kisses you. At first it’s gentle, trembling, as if he’s giving you one last chance to pull away. You don’t. You lean into him, melt against him, and something in him breaks, the kiss deepens, grows fiercer, hungrier, the kind of kiss that takes months of silence and burns them down to ash in seconds.
His hands slide to your waist, strong, certain, pulling you against him like he can’t stand the space between your bodies.
You grasp his shirt, holding him just as tightly, losing yourself in the heat of his mouth, the way he breathes your name against your lips.
He lifts you, sudden, impulsive, possessive in a way that steals your breath, and sets you down on the small table behind you, stepping between your legs, still kissing you like he’s starved for it.
His hands frame your hips, fingers curling, holding you as if grounding himself.
He stops just long enough to search your face, voice breaking as he murmurs,
“Are you sure? Do you want this?”
Your answer comes without hesitation, without fear, only truth. You tug him closer, your lips brushing his, your breath trembling.
“I want you,” you whisper. “I need you... I’ve wanted you for so long.”
His eyes close, as if the confession hits something deep inside him he can’t hide anymore. He leans into you again, forehead pressed to yours, breath unsteady, hands tightening on your hips.
“Mein Gott,” he murmurs, almost a groan, “you have no idea what you do to me.”
His mouth crashes onto yours again, not gentle this time, not careful, but starved, desperate, like weeks of restraint finally snapping under the weight of everything you both feel. His hands move with purpose, tugging down the zipper of your race suit, peeling it off your shoulders, baring your skin inch by inch despite your shaking breath and the way you cling to him, pulling him closer instead of helping.
You’re half laughing, half moaning, fumbling blindly for his belt, yanking it open with trembling fingers because all you care about is getting him out of those trousers, getting him against your skin, getting him inside you.
In seconds you're naked on the table, the cold surface shocking your spine as he lifts you up, settles you there like you weigh nothing, spreads your thighs with hands that tremble only because he’s been holding himself back for far too long. His cock is already in your hand — thick, hard, hot, heavy — pulsing in your grip as you stroke him from base to tip, your thumb circling the head until his breath shudders out of him.
“Scheiße…” he growls against your throat, hips jerking helplessly into your palm, “you’re going to drive me insane.”
His fingers slide between your legs, finding you soaking for him, dripping with need, your body practically begging without words. The moment he touches you, your head tips back, a gasp ripping itself from your lungs as your thighs tense around his wrist.
“So wet for me already,” he murmurs, voice dark, reverent, undone, “you want me that badly?”
You nod, breath broken, hips pushing into his hand, chasing the pressure.
His mouth moves to your chest, warm lips closing around your nipple, sucking hard enough to make your hand slip on his cock, your fingers tightening as the shock of pleasure shoots straight to your core. His other hand grips your hip, grounding you as he overwhelms you — lips, teeth, tongue — marking you with every kiss.
You stroke him harder, faster, the velvet heat of him throbbing against your palm, and he groans into your skin, biting lightly before lifting his head to look at you, eyes blown wide, jaw clenched, breath uneven.
You can hear it in his voice when he speaks next, no control left, no restraint, nothing but pure need.
“Kleine… I need you… I want you…” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours again, his cock pressing against your entrance in your hand.
His cock slides along your slick folds, teasing you, barely giving you what you crave. You whimper, desperate, rubbing your soaked entrance against the thick length, every nerve in your body screaming for him.
And the only thing you can think, the only thing you can breathe, is:
“Yes. Toto... please,” you beg, voice ragged, need breaking through all shame. “Please, I need you, too. Take me now.”
He hesitates, breath trembling, the last shred of reason in his eyes. “… we don’t have a condom. No protection...”
You shake your head, wild with want, clutching at his shoulders. “I’m on hormonal therapy, Toto. It protects against pregnancy. I promise. Please, I need you inside me... now.”
That’s all it takes. The last bit of self-control slips from his face. With a guttural groan, he lines himself up and pushes inside you, filling you deep, thick, hard, making you cry out against his neck as you bury your face in his skin to muffle the sound. You cling to him, legs wrapping tight around his waist, heels pressing into his back, desperate to keep him as close as possible.
Toto grabs your hips, holds you steady, and starts to fuck you hard, driving into you with deep, punishing thrusts that make the small table shake under your ass, the wood creaking as he pounds into you, over and over, deeper every time. His breath is hot and frantic against your ear, words tumbling out in German and English, half-growled, half-moan: “So beautiful… meine, only mine… meine Wölfin, nur meine…”
You whimper, losing all control, your cries growing louder with every thrust, the sound swallowed against his shoulder as he holds you tight. The pace is brutal, relentless, exactly what you need, what you’ve been aching for, every thrust sending sparks through your whole body.
He lifts you higher, pressing you down onto his cock, making you take him deeper, your body arching, legs shaking, your mind going white with pleasure. You feel yourself getting close, the tension coiling tight, ready to snap.
He groans your name, voice breaking, his hips slamming up hard. “Come for me, meine Kleine... Let me feel you.”
And you do, your orgasm ripping through you, intense and overwhelming, making you cry out as your pussy clenches and pulses around him. Toto holds you tight, thrusts growing frantic, and with a deep, broken moan, he lets go, buried as deep as he can get, filling you with his release, his lips crashing against yours to swallow your cries of pleasure.
You cling to him, panting, boneless, every nerve still buzzing with the aftershocks, the world narrowed to nothing but his arms and the frantic beat of both your hearts.
Your breath is still uneven, trembling against his skin, the air around you thick and warm, filled with the remnants of something you both fought far too long.
Your bodies stay pressed together, chests rising and falling in the same broken rhythm, his hands still holding your hips with a grip that feels more like claiming than steadying.
Your face rests in the hollow of his neck, your cheek against the warm skin just above his collarbone, and he keeps you there, one arm tight around your waist, the other sliding up your back in slow, grounding strokes, like he can’t bring himself to let go.
His lips brush your temple.
Once. Then again. A softer, lingering press that makes your eyes flutter shut.
He’s the first one to find his voice.
“This…” His breath shakes. He swallows hard. “…this shouldn’t have happened.”
But he doesn’t pull away. His hand stays on your back. His forehead leans into your hair. His thumb strokes your waist in slow circles that send heat down your spine.
You stay there, wrapped in him, listening to the frantic beat of his heart under your hands. You know he’s waiting for you to step away, to apologize, to retreat back into safety.
But you don’t.
Quietly, softly, you whisper against his throat:
“I know…but every part of me wanted this. Wants you.”
You feel his breath catch, a sharp, powerless sound, and he finally lifts your chin with trembling fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes.
What you see there is dangerous. What you see there is real.
“This,” he says slowly, voice low and wrecked, “stays between us. No one can know. You understand?”
You nod. Not because he tells you to, but because you already understood the moment your lips first touched.
“I know,” you breathe.
You lean in and kiss the line of his jaw, a soft, reverent touch that makes his eyes flutter shut. He exhales your name like a confession. Then, after a long moment, he asks in a voice that sounds almost afraid:
“Do you understand what you’re agreeing to?”
You don’t hesitate.
“I want to be yours,” you whisper. “Only yours. I already belong to you… the moment I signed with Mercedes, I think I did. And now…”, you swallow. “…now I don’t want to belong to anyone else.”
Something in him snaps at those words, not restraint, but acceptance. His hand slides to the back of your neck, gently but possessively, drawing you closer until your foreheads touch again. His voice drops to a whisper, thick with an emotion he shouldn’t feel and cannot hide any longer.
“Meine,” he whispers, breath hot against your lips. “Meine schöne, furchtlose Wölfin.” (My beautiful, fearless she-wolf.)
The words curl around your heart, powerful and quiet, a secret only you two share. You close your eyes and let them sink into you, let them claim you, let them change you. Because in this moment, you both know the truth: there is no going back.
*
After that single breathless night in your tiny room in Mercedes motorhome, after the champagne and the cheers and the way he whispered Meine schöne Wölfin into your skin, everything changed in ways you never could have imagined.
You and Toto became lovers, not in the safe, simple way you’d dreamed of in your loneliest nights, but in the way that felt like falling off a cliff together and loving every second of the fall, knowing the crash was coming and reaching for each other anyway.
You learned to live in stolen moments, eyes meeting across crowded rooms with a secret that burned so hot it nearly left scorch marks on your skin.
You became an expert at finding him in the blur of travel and team schedules: brushing hands in the corridors, a fleeting touch in the garage as he handed you a tablet, a graze of knuckles under the table at debriefs when no one was watching.
But it was never enough.
Desire lived under your skin, hungry, reckless, desperate.
There were nights when he took you hard against his office desk, one hand tangled in your hair, the other silencing your gasp as you clung to the only man who ever made you feel real. There were afternoons in empty hotel rooms, the world spinning on the other side of a locked door, your bodies coming together with a need so fierce it almost hurt.
Once, in Brackley late at night, the factory empty and echoing with ghosts, he pressed you up against the glass wall, his mouth finding yours with a hunger that could never be mistaken for anything but obsession.
You both tried to be careful. You lied to yourself that you were careful. But you knew the truth: if anyone found out, it would destroy you both.
For Toto, it would mean the end of his reputation, his power, the respect he’d spent a lifetime building.
For you, it would mean your career gone in a heartbeat, finished as quickly as it began, and in the most humiliating way.
But you couldn’t stay away. You loved him with the wild, consuming passion of a woman who has only ever truly fallen once, and you fell for him so hard that sometimes it scared you how completely you belonged to him.
He became your air, your gravity, the person who made the rest of the world blur and fade until there was nothing left but the two of you.
His love wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was an obsession, a need to possess you, to have you completely.
He was jealous, almost violently so, If he saw you talking to anyone else, especially men, if you laughed a little too easily, if you seemed too comfortable, he would find a way to end it.
Later, alone, he would remind you with his mouth, with his hands, with every inch of his body that you were his, only his.
“Meine Wölfin,” he would growl against your throat, breath hot, voice hoarse with need. “Mine. Only mine.”
And every time you said yes, you meant it with everything you had. Because you were his, completely, in ways you couldn’t hide and didn’t want to. And for as long as you could steal these moments, no matter the cost, you would belong to each other with a hunger that made you forget there was ever a world before him.
*
Your relationship with Toto changed you in ways you hadn’t expected, not just privately, not just in the shadows of hotel rooms or the silence of locked offices, but out there, under the floodlights and cameras and microphones, where the rest of the world was finally forced to see you.
You became sharper. More confident. More dangerous on track. More composed in interviews. You didn’t flinch at questions anymore. You didn’t shrink. You didn’t apologize for existing.
While other rookies struggled, you thrived, point after point, overtakes that made headlines, battles that proved you weren’t just a novelty, not just a political move, not a token.
You were good. So good that soon you were fifth in the standings, ahead of veterans who had been in the sport for years.
But with success came whispers.
Favoritism.
The Wolff girl.
His little project.
Her career rides on his obsession.
They said it behind your back, never to your face, but you could feel it in the way people looked at you, sideways glances, half-hidden smirks, lowered voices when you entered a room.
And Susie… she heard everything. She knew the rumors long before anyone dared repeat them to her. She knew the pattern of gossip in the paddock better than anyone.
But what frightened her wasn’t the gossip, it was how real it was becoming. She saw the way Toto changed. How he hovered. How his eyes found you even in a room full of people. How he stood a little too close, listened a little too intently, followed your movements without meaning to.
She saw it all.
And on the night of the Mercedes sponsor banquet in Monaco, it became impossible for her to ignore.
The ballroom was enormous, glittering with chandeliers and full of the wealthiest partners Mercedes relied on, executives in tailored suits, socialites dripping in diamonds, drivers in crisp black tie. George was there, laughing with his girlfriend. The engineering leads were there.
Susie was radiant as always, poised and polished, speaking to representatives from F1 Academy with that grace she wore like armor.
And you… you stood at the edge of a conversation, glass in hand, answering questions politely, trying to be neutral, invisible, professional, anything that wouldn’t feed the rumors.
But Toto’s eyes found you anyway. No matter where he stood. No matter who he spoke to. His gaze hunted you across the room, checking, tracking, drawn to you like something magnetic he couldn’t fight.
Susie noticed instantly. Every time he laughed politely at someone’s joke while his eyes were fixed on you, she noticed. Every time his body angled toward your direction despite the distance, she noticed. Every time your laughter made his shoulders relax, she noticed.
And then it happened.
In the far corner of the room, away from the crowd, you became trapped in a conversation you couldn’t easily escape, one of the major sponsors, a man twice your age, drunk on power and too much champagne, leaning far too close, his hand brushing your arm once, twice, testing boundaries you didn’t want him to test.
You stepped away politely. He followed. You tried to steer the conversation back to racing. He ignored. His hand landed on your waist, too low, too slow, too deliberate. Before you could react, before you could speak, before you could breathe...
Toto appeared. Not walking. Not approaching. Storming.
His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscle near his temple twitched, his eyes dark and cold, and when he grabbed the sponsor’s wrist, the entire room seemed to freeze.
“Toto...” you began softly, but he didn’t even hear you.
His voice cut through the music, sharper than a blade.
“Take your hand off her.”
The sponsor blinked, startled, half drunk, half offended.
“It was just...”
“I said,” Toto growled, stepping closer, towering, dangerous, “take your hand. Off. Her.”
The man yanked his hand back immediately, muttering something under his breath, face pale.
But Toto wasn’t done. He stepped between you and the man, blocking him completely, his body rigid with fury, his breath sharp.
You had never seen him like this, not in paddock disputes, not in heated strategy meetings, not even in the darkest Mercedes years.
The room watched. The sponsors watched. George watched.
Susie watched most of all. And she saw it. Not professionalism. Not protectiveness.
Possession. Obsession. Territory.
She saw her husband ready to start a fight for you. And when Toto finally turned to you, voice low, shaking with something he couldn't hide anymore, he said, “Come with me.”
Not a request. A claim.
He took your hand without waiting for permission, leading you away from the crowd, from the whispers, from the widening eyes, and every step behind him made your pulse climb higher, because the entire room had seen what you two had been trying so desperately to hide.
Toto doesn’t slow down until you reach the terrace, a wide balcony overlooking the dark Monaco harbor, the night air cool and sharp against your overheated skin, the muffled music from the ballroom still vibrating through the glass behind you.
He lets go of your hand only when you pull slightly, forcing him to stop, and he turns to you with that wild, furious look still burning in his eyes.
“Toto,” you whisper urgently, “you need to calm down. The entire room saw that.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His chest rises and falls too fast, anger still radiating off him in waves, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s trying to burn off whatever violent impulse had taken over inside the ballroom.
“He touched you,” he growls finally, voice low and trembling with barely contained rage. “He put his hands on you.”
“I can handle myself,” you say, raising your chin, trying to steady your voice even though your heart won’t stop hammering. “You know I can. I don’t need you to fight my battles.”
He steps closer, eyes darkening with something you can’t decode — fear, desire, territorial instinct, all of it twisted together into something dangerous.
“I will not stand there and watch someone put their hands on what’s mine,” he says, barely above a whisper, and the moment the words leave his mouth you feel your breath catch.
“Toto...”
He reaches for you. His hand moves toward your waist, slow, deliberate, as if pulled by instinct rather than reason. He leans down, your faces only inches apart, his breath warm against your lips, and you know exactly what he’s about to do, he’s about to kiss you, here, outside, in public, where anyone could see, where the consequences would be catastrophic.
Your pulse spikes. Your body leans into him without thinking. And then...
“Toto.”
The voice slices through the charged air like ice. You both freeze.
Susie stands in the doorway of the terrace, framed by the golden light of the ballroom, her expression sharp, controlled, but the tension around her mouth betrays her shock.
“What was that scene inside?” she asks quietly, her tone calm but cutting, like she already knows the answer and is only giving him a chance to lie.
Toto straightens, walls slamming back into place so fast you can almost hear the impact.
His jaw tightens, shoulders squaring, but he doesn’t look at her for long, his eyes flick back to you for a heartbeat, full of something raw he can’t hide.
“He crossed a line,” Toto says stiffly. “I will protect my drivers. Always.”
It’s an excuse. A thin one. Even you can hear the crack in it.
Susie steps closer, gaze now shifting between the two of you, sharp, analyzing, catching every breath, every twitch, every unfinished gesture.
“Toto,” she says quietly, “there’s protecting your drivers… and then there’s whatever that was.”
He inhales, too sharp, too defensive, and without offering anything more, he says, “We’re done here,” and turns on his heel.
He walks past her, leaving you both on the terrace together, the door shutting behind him with a finality that makes your stomach drop.
The silence he leaves behind is suffocating.
Susie stays where she is. She doesn’t step closer, doesn’t speak immediately, just watches you, with a searching intensity that makes your spine stiffen.
You straighten your posture, lift your chin, hide the tremor in your hands.
“I’m fine,” you say before she can ask. “It’s not the first time a drunk sponsor got too close.”
Your voice is steady. Too steady. Like you’ve rehearsed this line a thousand times before.
Susie doesn’t smile. She doesn’t nod. She just studies you, eyes narrowing for half a second, as if trying to pull the truth out of the space between your ribs.
Finally she says, softly but pointedly, “I’m sure that’s true.”
A beat. A breath.
“But do not lie to yourself.”
And with that, she turns and walks back inside, leaving you alone on the terrace with nothing but the cold air and the echo of the truth she didn’t say aloud: She knows something is happening. And she knows it’s not going to stay hidden forever.
*
The ride back to their Monaco apartment is silent in a way that feels dangerous, the kind of silence that doesn’t simply rest between two people but grows and coils, thickening the air until it feels like breathing is no longer natural, and Toto can feel Susie’s emotions even though she never looks at him once during the entire drive.
When they step inside the penthouse, the soft click of the door closing is the only sound in the room.
Toto sets his keys on the counter.
Susie stands motionless for several seconds, her back to him, shoulders rising and falling in a slow, controlled pattern that tells him she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.
Then she turns. And she explodes.
“Do you fuck her?”
The words slam into the room like a grenade, sharp and violent, echoing off the glass and stone until there is nowhere for Toto to hide.
He jerks slightly, as if she slapped him.
“No,” he says immediately, his voice low, steady, almost too controlled. “No, Susie. Absolutely not.”
But she laughs, a short, broken sound that carries no humor, only disbelief and hurt.
“Oh, please,” she spits out, stepping closer, her jaw tight. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t see her? The way she looks at you like some starstruck teenager, eyes shining like a girl who’s fallen in love for the first time?”
Toto flinches, just barely, but enough for her to notice.
“And tonight?” she continues, voice rising. “Tonight you put on a show for an entire room full of sponsors and team members. Dragging her out, dragging him off her, looking like you were ready to tear someone’s head off because he spoke to her.”
Toto looks away, jaw clenched so tightly it might crack.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?” she snaps, taking another step toward him. “Because from where I stood, the entire paddock saw exactly what it looked like.”
“It meant nothing,” Toto says quietly, almost pleading. “She is my protégé. She is my responsibility. She is a young driver I took a chance on and I have to protect her, guide her, make sure she can handle the pressure. She’s only performing at this level because of the work we’ve done, because I’ve...”
“...unlocked her potential?” Susie interrupts, her voice dripping with bitterness. “Helped her find confidence? Lifted her talent? And I assume the next part is that you’re only ‘protecting’ her. Right?”
He swallows hard.
“Yes,” he says. “Exactly that.”
Susie stares at him. Long. Cold. Devastated.
And then she asks, “Is that all, Toto? Is that really all you’re doing?”
He doesn’t answer. Not quickly enough. Not convincingly enough. And that silence is everything she needs to know.
Susie lets out a breath, shaky, angry, exhausted.
“You’ve changed,” she says softly, and that softness hurts more than her shouting. “You changed the moment she won Las Vegas last year. I saw it begin then, and I tried to tell myself it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was the start.”
Toto closes his eyes for a moment, pressing his fingertips to his brow as if this could make the truth less real.
“You’re imagining things,” he mutters, but even he can hear the weakness in his voice.
“No,” she says.
Her voice is steady. Almost eerily steady now.
“I’m watching things. I’m watching you. The obsession. The way you orbit her. The way you can’t look away. The way you stand too close. The way you react whenever another man speaks to her.”
He takes a shaky breath.
“Susie, enough.”
“Is it enough?” she pushes. “Because if it’s true... if you’re sleeping with her, if you’re touching her, if you’re sneaking around with a girl barely out of the F1 Academy while she’s under your contract... if that ever comes out, it will be a scandal that destroys all of us.”
Her voice cracks then, the first fracture in her armor.
“And she will suffer the most. She always will. Women do.”
Toto’s head snaps up, anger and panic flickering in his eyes.
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“Yes, well,” Susie replies with a broken laugh, “truth isn’t something you get to choose.”
Toto grabs his jacket from the back of the chair with movements that are too sharp, too desperate.
“I’m not doing this tonight,” he says, voice rough. “I refuse to have this conversation with you.”
He heads for the door.
“Toto,” Susie calls out, one last time, voice trembling with disbelief and hurt, “if you keep going down this path, you won’t be able to hide it. And when it comes out, it will destroy her first. Is that what you want?”
He freezes in the doorway. But he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t answer. He just leaves.
The door slams behind him, loud, violent, final, and the silence that follows is heavy with the truth neither of them dared speak fully: He’s already too far gone to turn back. And you… you are already the center of a storm that is no longer just his obsession, but the beginning of the end for everything he built.
*
It’s almost midnight when you hear the knock, one sharp, restrained tap, the kind that doesn’t belong to a neighbor or a delivery but to a man who is trying not to fall apart in a hallway.
You open the door. Toto stands there, still in the suit from the banquet, hair slightly disheveled, breath uneven, eyes dark in a way that makes your pulse trip.
He doesn’t speak. He steps inside, closes the door behind him, and then his hands are on your face, his mouth crashing into yours with a hunger so fierce it steals the breath from your lungs.
You don’t have time to think, you simply melt into him, into the desperation of it, into the way he holds you like he needs you to stay alive, like everything inside him is unraveling and only you can stop it.
He kisses you hard, again and again, until your back hits the wall and your fingers tangle in his shirt, pulling him closer.
Clothes fall away without words, not thrown, not ripped this time, but removed with urgency and shaking hands, yours and his, until you’re both warm skin and pounding hearts, the world shrinking to the tiny apartment and the taste of each other’s breath.
He lifts you easily, carries you to the bed, but instead of the fierce, wild intensity you’ve come to expect from him, the way he usually takes you like a storm breaking open, he pauses.
He looks down at you. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his eyes searching your face as if trying to memorize every detail.
Then he lowers himself over you, slowly, carefully, kissing your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, your neck, each kiss unhurried, reverent, as if worshipping you piece by piece.
He rarely touches you like this. Rarely lets himself be soft. Rarely lets the love show.
Tonight he can’t hide it.
He moves down your body, his lips mapping every inch of skin like he’s afraid he might never get another chance, and you feel something inside you twist, ache, bloom in a way that steals your breath.
When he finally settles above you again, his forehead touches yours, and his voice breaks as he whispers your name — not “mein Schatz,” not “Wölfin,” but your name, spoken like a confession.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, voice rough, shaking. “You’ve always been mine.”
Your hands slide to his back, pulling him closer, your own breath trembling as you whisper, “Yes. I am. I always have been.”
He lets out a shuddering breath, half relief, half torment, and moves with a slowness that almost hurts, every touch deliberate, every movement filled with a tenderness he usually hides behind dominance and control.
His lips stay near your ear, brushing your skin as he murmurs your name again and again, each time softer, more undone.
You hold him, you feel him, you anchor him, and the moment becomes something deeper than desire, something terrifying and real.
When the world finally dissolves in heat and breath and whispered German endearments, he holds you tightly, his hands splayed over your spine as if shielding you from everything outside the room.
And even afterward, he doesn’t move away. He stays pressed against you, breath unsteady, arms wrapped around you like a man terrified of letting go.
You lie there with him above you, your bodies joined in a slow, fading rhythm, his breath brushing your cheek as both of you gradually return from the place where nothing existed except skin and heat and whispered need.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t move away. Instead, he lowers his mouth to yours again, a soft, grounding kiss, then another against your cheek, and then he murmurs against your skin, voice low and tender in a way he rarely lets himself sound:
“Meine kleine, tapfere Wölfin…”
Your heart stutters.
He finally shifts, settling beside you, and pulls you firmly into his chest, one arm sliding under your shoulders, the other draped across your waist like a shield.
For a few long minutes you lie like that, your leg over his thigh, his breath evening out against your temple, your heartbeat finally slowing.
It would almost feel peaceful. If not for the storm waiting behind his next breath.
“Susie… suspects something... maybe even know,” he says quietly.
You don’t tense, not because it doesn’t hurt, but because you’ve known this moment was coming.
“Of course she does,” you murmur, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over his ribs. “She’s not stupid. And what you did tonight at the banquet certainly didn’t help hide anything.”
He exhales sharply, the sound equal parts guilt and frustration.
“I know,” he mutters. “I know it was reckless. I know I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. But when it comes to you I...”
He stops, jaw shifting against your forehead.
“...I stop thinking like a rational man.”
A small, tired smile forms on your lips.
“Funny,” you breathe, “I’m the same when it comes to you.”
His chest rises, then falls, as if your words both soothe and wound him.
You nudge your nose against his collarbone, but then you feel his hand still on your waist, his whole body growing tense with something unsaid.
“Maybe,” he begins, voice low and strained, “we should consider… slowing things down. Or..”
A pause.
“...being more careful. For a while.”
The words hit you like cold water. You don’t pull away. You don’t let him see how deeply it cuts. You simply ask, steady but aching: “Do you want to end it?”
Immediately, he drags you closer, almost fiercely, his hand sliding to the back of your head.
“No,” he whispers, breath hot against your hair. “No. Don’t ever think that. I could never...”
His voice breaks enough to betray the truth.
“...I’m trying to protect us.”
You swallow, blinking against the burn in your eyes.
“I know,” you say softly. “And who’s giving this lecture?”
You tilt your head up with a wry, wounded smile.
“You, of all people?”
He huffs out a humorless laugh, forehead resting against yours.
“Touché,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your hip. “You’re right. I should listen to myself… but when I look at you I forget that caution exists.”
His hand curls against your spine, the gesture both possessive and terrified. And as he holds you tighter, his voice drops into something raw, something close to confession:
“Just… stay close to me. Even if we have to pretend we’re not.”
You nod slowly, your cheek pressed to his chest, your fingers gripping him like he might disappear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
And neither is he, even if the world outside your small Monaco apartment is already beginning to crack under the weight of a love you’re both trying, and failing, to hide.
V. The Fallout
In the weeks after that night in your Monaco apartment, you and Toto didn’t break things off, not truly, but you both stepped back just enough to fool yourselves into thinking you were being rational.
You pretended to draw a line. You promised each other you would “slow down,” “be careful,” “focus on racing,” words spoken with trembling voices that neither of you fully believed.
It was less a boundary, more a bandage placed over a wound still bleeding.
Toto shifted his posture in public, leaning harder into being a father, a husband, a team principal. He apologized to Susie for his outburst at the sponsor event, speaking calmly, telling her she had been right to call him out, that he had been too protective, too emotional, too involved in your development as a rookie.
He told her he saw you almost like a daughter, a protégé he needed to protect. And because he looked sincere, because you both behaved with military precision afterward, she believed him. Or she chose to. Or she hoped to.
The intimacy between you and Toto didn’t disappear, it simply quieted. There was no more frantic sex on desks, no more wild, urgent moments pressed against walls, no more hands dragging desperation out of each other in the shadows of a motorhome.
Instead, there were softer nights, careful nights, hotel rooms far from cameras and gossip, where he touched you with tenderness instead of fire, where he whispered your name like something fragile he shouldn’t be holding but couldn’t release.
And in between those stolen, fragile nights, the season pressed on.
Mercedes surged at the end of the championship. You and George climbed to P2 in the Constructors’ standings, overtaking Ferrari and Red Bull with a final push that felt like a war fought with pure willpower.
You stood on podiums, you carved space for yourself, and by the final checkered flag of the season you were crowned Best Rookie of the Year, the whole world forced to admit that Toto Wolff might have been mad, but he had been right.
Traffic. Cameras. Flashing lights.
And then — FIA Gala Night.
Susie takes the stage first, speaking about ethics, equality, the duty of leaders in motorsport to cultivate safety and integrity.
Her voice is steady. Her poise is perfect. The room is hanging onto every word.
And you, you sit at the same table as the Wolffs. Toto sits beside his wife, but the distance between them is a chasm you can feel even from where you are. He watches her speak with a soft, polite expression… but his thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
On you. Always on you.
There comes a moment, small, accidental, devastating, when Susie pauses to sip water and the room shifts with whispered applause.
You look up. And find him looking at you. Not the way a mentor looks at a driver. Not the way a boss looks at a rookie. But with the same quiet yearning you feel buried deep in your chest, the one that curls around your ribs and squeezes until you need to breathe him in again.
Your eyes lock. The noise fades. Something in his expression softens, almost breaks, a flicker of tenderness he should never let slip in public.
Then the applause swells. You both snap your gazes toward Susie. Both of you rise to your feet at the same time. Both of you clap for her. To anyone else, it looks normal. Professional. Respectful. But under the surface, beneath the glittering lights and applause and cameras, you both feel the ground beginning to shift. Neither of you knows it yet, but this quiet gala night, this polite applause, this shared, forbidden glance… is the last peaceful breath you will take before the world of Formula 1 catches fire around you.
*
Two days later, you wake slowly in your little wooden cabin in Austria, the kind of place where mornings are quiet and soft and untouched by the speed and violence of your real life, the kind of place where, for the first time in months, you thought you might finally breathe without the weight of expectation pressing down on your ribs.
The winter light is pale and cold, slipping through the curtains in thin silver lines, and there is nothing but silence, no engines, no radios, no cameras, no people, just the stillness of off-season peace.
Then your phone vibrates. Once. Twice.
Then again, and again, and again, until the sound is no longer a simple notification but a constant trembling that crawls beneath your skin, setting off every instinct you’ve learned to trust since the moment you entered Formula 1, the instinct that whispers something is wrong, something is very wrong.
Still half-asleep, you reach for the device, expecting some harmless burst of messages, maybe a group chat from mechanics, maybe a congratulations from a sponsor, maybe a meme from George, but when you unlock the screen, the light from the phone bleaches your face and your blood turns to ice.
Dozens of notifications. Hundreds. Emails. Texts. Mentions. Alerts.
Your name and Toto’s name tangled together in the preview lines like a warning you are not ready to face.
You open the first email. And your entire world tilts violently beneath you. Attached is a photo so damning, so intimate, so unmistakably real that you feel your breath lodge painfully in your throat.
There you are, pressed against the hallway wall of your Abu Dhabi hotel, your hands buried in Toto’s hair, your mouth on his, his hand gripping your waist with desperate, unrestrained familiarity, his other hand tangled in your hair like he couldn’t bear to let you go.
You don’t have to guess the moment. You remember it instantly. It was after qualifying — you had taken P2, and he had been so proud he shook with it, and you both had been so overwhelmed, so exhausted, so full of adrenaline and relief and the private ache that had been smoldering for months, that you didn’t even make it to your room before you crashed into each other.
You swipe to the next photo. Your fingers intertwined as you open your hotel door, both of you smiling — not professionally, not politely, but softly, knowingly, the kind of smile two people only share when they are already too deeply bound to pretend otherwise.
Your stomach drops harder, sharper. You scroll again. More photos. More angles. More proof.
Every fear you ever had, every whispered rumor, every suspicious glance, every warning from Susie, every tremor of guilt, all of it is suddenly carved into digital evidence.
Then you look at the timestamp. Sent five minutes ago. You scroll to the bottom of the message, your hand trembling so violently you nearly drop the phone.
The list of recipients fills the screen. Team principals. Drivers. Engineers. PR directors. FIA officials. F1 Management. Major journalists. TV networks. Sponsors. Everyone who matters. Everyone who could ruin you. Everyone who should never have seen this. All of them received the photos at the exact same time.
You see your name in the subject line:
“The Wolff Affair – Evidence Attached.”
For a long moment you simply stare, unable to process, unable to think, unable to breathe, the frostbitten air of the cabin suddenly too thin as your pulse thunders against your ribs, too fast, too loud, too crushing.
Your phone keeps vibrating, more emails, more notifications, more messages, but you can’t look at anything else because you already know what it means.
The secret is gone. The lie is exposed. The line you and Toto tried so desperately to hold has snapped.
Someone followed you. Someone watched. Someone waited. Someone knew exactly what they were doing.
Your hands shake harder, your breath breaking apart in short, shallow gasps as the thought slams into you with brutal clarity: they sent it to the entire world.
Your phone buzzes again, lighting up with a call you can't answer, and you whisper into the empty room, voice cracking beneath the weight of panic and disbelief:
“Fuck…fuck…fuck…”
Because this isn’t a rumor anymore. This isn’t gossip or suspicion or whispers behind hands in the paddock. This isn’t a fan theory or a tabloid guess or a suspicious glance from Susie or a jealous look from another team.
This is real. This is evidence. This is the kind of scandal that doesn’t just wound, it destroys.
And it will destroy him too. Toto Wolff. Your boss. Your mentor. A married man. The most powerful figure in Formula 1. The man you should never have touched. The only man you can’t imagine letting go. The man whose reputation, career, marriage, and entire world will now detonate around him, because of you, because of him, because of the two of you together.
Your breath breaks again, your fingers gripping the edge of the bed as your chest tightens painfully. You whisper it out loud, as if saying it might make it less devastating:
“Everyone knows…”
And as the snow falls softly outside your cabin, the world of Formula 1, your world, his world, is already igniting into a firestorm that will burn everything you’ve built.
Everything is spiraling. Everything is slipping. Everything is falling apart. And there is no way to stop it.
*
Morning in Monaco arrives gently, the kind of soft golden light that slips past half-drawn curtains and rests quietly on marble countertops and untouched coffee cups, and for a brief, fragile moment the Wolff apartment resembles the life Toto has spent years constructing, a place of order, of routine, of calm breakfasts with Susie while Jack builds racetracks out of toy cars in the next room, a place where nothing hurts and nothing threatens to tumble out of control.
He sits at the kitchen table in a plain white T-shirt, hair still slightly damp from his shower, listening as Susie talks about packing for their planned winter trip to Austria, her voice light and steady, the two of them speaking like any normal married couple making holiday plans, both believing, or perhaps pretending to believe, that the world will stay still long enough to catch their breath.
Then their phones vibrate. At the exact same moment. A single vibration at first, then another, and then a rapid, escalating storm of alerts, buzzing and chiming over and over again with an urgency that immediately freezes the air between them.
Susie reaches for her phone first, expecting perhaps a group message from the F1 Academy girls or an update from her assistant, but the second she unlocks the screen her entire posture changes, her shoulders stiffen, her breath stumbles, and her fingers curl around the device so tightly her knuckles go white.
“Susie?” Toto asks, his voice low, uneasy, not yet understanding but instinctively bracing.
She doesn’t answer. She just stares at the screen, unmoving, unblinking, her expression falling apart so quickly it almost seems unreal, like watching glass crack in slow motion.
Toto reaches for his own phone, confused but increasingly alarmed, and the moment the first email opens, it feels as though the floor drops out from under him entirely. Because staring back at him is a high-resolution photograph of himself, pinned against the hallway wall outside your Abu Dhabi hotel room, one hand buried in your hair, his mouth on yours, your body pressed flush to his in a way no reasonable explanation could ever distort or excuse.
He scrolls, his pulse spiking painfully, and the next image is even worse, your fingers intertwined as you open the door to your room, your expression soft and bright and unmistakably intimate, his face melted into a smile that does not belong to a team principal or a mentor but to a man who has already crossed every line he ever swore he wouldn’t.
Another photo. Another angle. Each one more damning, more devastating, more impossible to deny.
He feels his throat tighten, a sick, hollow pressure settling behind his ribs as he whispers under his breath, “No… no, God, no…”
The silence stretching between him and Susie is no longer silence at all, it is a living, expanding rupture.
Then Susie inhales, a sharp, broken inhale that sounds nothing like the strong, composed woman he knows, and she looks at him with eyes that are bright with betrayal and disbelief.
And she asks the question that detonates the moment:
“How could you?”
She doesn’t shout at first. Not yet. Her voice shakes with something far more dangerous, sorrow curdled into fury.
The first blow comes without warning.
Her palm strikes his cheek with such force that the sound ricochets through the entire apartment, startling even Jack in the next room, and Toto stumbles half a step from the impact, his head snapping to the side as the burn spreads across his face.
“You lied to me,” she spits, voice splintering as tears slip down her cheeks faster than she can wipe them. “You lied to me every single day, in this kitchen, in this home, in this marriage. You held our son, and you looked at me, and you pretended nothing was happening.”
“Susie...”
“Don’t you dare say my name.”
Her voice is rising now, gaining strength, hurt sharpening into something lethal.
“You told me I was imagining things,” she continues, her breath quick and uneven. “You made me question my instincts, my intelligence, my sanity. You told me she was like a daughter to you, that you were simply mentoring her, that I was being paranoid... and I believed you. I actually believed you.”
He tries to speak, tries to force an explanation past the knot in his throat, but the words come out thin, apologetic, useless.
“Susie, please...”
“Don’t.”
She points at him with a trembling, furious hand, “Don’t you dare try to soften this. Don’t you dare insult me any further.”
She laughs then, a short, broken, humorless sound that sounds more like a sob.
“You weren’t protecting her,” she says, her voice chillingly quiet. “You were fucking her. You let an entire paddock whisper about you. You let me stand there and defend you, defend both of you, like a fool.”
Toto closes his eyes. He can’t bear the look in hers.
“This,” she says, lifting the phone with the photos glowing on the screen, “is not a mistake. This is not an accident. This is not something that ‘just happened.’ This is a choice you made. Again and again.”
The tremor in her voice breaks fully then.
“You humiliated me. You humiliated our family. And you did it while carrying our child’s suitcase to the door like a loving husband planning a holiday.”
The words slice through him. He steps toward her, instinctively reaching out, but she recoils violently, as if his touch is poison now.
“I want you out,” she says, every syllable shaking but unwavering. “When I come back in one hour, you won’t be here anymore.”
“Susie,” he whispers, his voice breaking in a way he hasn’t heard from himself in decades, “please...”
“No.” Her eyes harden. “No, Toto. Not this time.”
She grabs Jack’s hand, her voice softening only for him, telling him gently that they’re going for a walk, that they’ll be back soon, her composure cracking only when she glances back at Toto one last time.
And then she says, with a quiet devastation that hits him harder than the slap: “You destroyed everything.”
The door closes. The apartment falls silent. The only sound is the vibration of his phone, messages, calls, notifications pouring in from every corner of the world, but Toto doesn’t touch it, he just stands there in the empty kitchen with the walls closing in and the world collapsing around him.
After a long, shaking breath, he forces himself to look up at the mirror across the room. He barely recognizes the man staring back. In a single, crushing moment he understands that everything has changed, that he has blown his entire life apart, his marriage, his family, his reputation, all because he let an obsession consume him, an obsession with a girl who reflected too much of himself, an obsession that turned into love so fierce it devoured him whole.
His voice is barely more than air when he whispers, to no one, to the ruins around him:
“What have I done?”
*
The days that follow feel like slipping into a long, suffocating nightmare where every hour repeats the same scene, headlines screaming your name, notifications multiplying like a plague, the world dissecting your private life with the hunger of vultures circling fresh blood, and no matter how tightly you close the curtains of your small house in the Austrian mountains, the darkness outside only grows heavier, because the one thing you cannot hide from is the truth that has now been exposed to millions of eyes.
The articles come in waves, each more brutal than the last, filling your phone, your email, the news apps you forgot to disable, each headline written like a weapon aimed squarely at your heart:
“WOLFF AFFAIR SCANDAL.”
“EXPLOITATION OR CONSENT?”
“THE RISE AND FALL OF F1’S FIRST FEMALE ROOKIE.”
“FIA INVESTIGATES POWER IMBALANCE IN WOLFF RELATIONSHIP.”
Every journalist with a keyboard and an opinion has suddenly become an expert on your life, your motives, your career, your integrity, as if the years you spent fighting through karting circuits, engineering school, academy training, physical rehab, and constant doubt from the world meant nothing at all compared to a few photographs taken without your knowledge.
The shame settles over you like a second skin, tightening every time another headline appears, every time someone tags you on social media, every time a journalist leaves a voicemail pretending to “want your side of the story” when all they really want is to sell your ruin.
You stop going outside. You stop opening the blinds. You stop watching the news because every segment, every tweet, every rumor twists the knife a little deeper.
The call from Mercedes comes quickly, too quickly, delivered in a cold, professional tone by someone you barely know, someone who sounds almost relieved to be handing down a verdict that was clearly decided long before you answered the phone.
“Given the circumstances, your presence in the team is no longer tenable.”
They tell you you’re “suspended indefinitely.” They tell you it’s “the appropriate procedural response.” They tell you “further decisions will be communicated in due time." They do not say your name. They do not ask if you are okay. They do not give you a chance to explain.
You learn only hours later, through the same media that is tearing you apart, that Kimi Antonelli has already been announced as the new Mercedes driver, stepping into the seat you fought for, the seat you earned, the seat you defended with every breath of your rookie year.
No one asks how you feel. Because no one cares. The narrative is simple, brutal, and permanent:
You got the seat because you slept with Toto Wolff.
You kept the seat because you slept with him again.
You lost the seat because you were discovered.
Years of work erased with a single click of an anonymous email. And the only person whose voice could have saved you, the man who once looked at you like you hung stars in his chest, did not speak in time.
He folded. He agreed. He let them push you out because the alternative was losing everything he had built for decades.
The betrayal hits deeper than the scandal. You whisper to yourself, over and over: “He didn’t fight for me. He didn’t protect me. Not when it mattered.”
And that pain is sharper than anything the media could ever write. And in the cruel silence of your cabin, that reality hurts more than anything.
*
You hear the news about Susie stepping down from F1 Academy, and it feels like drowning in guilt so thick it fills your lungs and presses against your ribs.
She had been your mentor, your supporter, the woman who told you that women could belong in motorsport, the woman whose pride in you had once felt like sunlight. But now... her resignation statement is short, polite, polished.
You read it twice, then three times, hoping to find a hidden message, a hint of forgiveness, but all you see is a woman who feels betrayed by two people she trusted most.
You dial her number with shaking hands.
She answers on the second ring. Her voice is calm. Cold. Controlled in a way that tells you she has cried already, perhaps for hours.
Before you can speak, she cuts you off: “Do not call me again.”
You whisper her name, your voice cracking, but she continues, softer now, heartbreak slipping through the cracks: “You destroyed my marriage. You destroyed the family I built. You destroyed the one thing I believed I could protect.”
You try to explain, but every word feels useless, every apology drowned under the weight of her grief.
“You didn’t just take my husband,” she says. “You took my trust.”
And then she hangs up. You stare at your phone until the screen goes dark.
Later, the media confirms what you already knew the moment she hung up: Susie has filed for divorce.
The guilt is so heavy you feel it in your bones.
*
And through all of it, the headlines, the isolation, the collapse, Toto calls. Every day. Every evening. Sometimes at dawn as if he hasn’t slept. Dozens of calls. Hundreds of messages. Voice notes that you can’t bear to listen to because they sound like a man losing pieces of himself.
Sometimes he texts:
“Please. Just let me hear your voice.”
“I am coming to Austria unless you tell me not to.”
“I never meant for this to fall on you.”
“I’m sorry for not protecting you.”
“I’m sorry I let them choose for me.”
“Please don’t shut me out.”
And the worst one:
“You mean more to me than you know.”
But every time his name lights up your screen, your chest twists painfully, because a part of you remembers the way he held you, the way he whispered to you like you were the only thing he needed…
…and the other part remembers the moment he chose survival over you.
The moment he let them strip your future away like it meant nothing. And it hurts. God, it hurts. Because the truth you refuse to say out loud keeps echoing inside you: If he loved me the way he said he did… he would have fought. He would have chosen me. He would not have let them sacrifice me.
But he did. And that betrayal cuts deeper than any headline.
In the end, the silence between his unanswered calls feels louder than the scandal.
You curl into yourself under the blanket, pressing your knees to your chest, shaking, breath thin and sharp as you whisper into the emptiness: “If he loved me, he wouldn’t have let them do this to me.”
And that realization breaks you in a way no crash ever could.
Epilogue: Ashes in the Snow
Snow falls quietly outside your window, a slow curtain of white drifting down the mountainside, soft and gentle in the way life has not been for weeks.
You sit curled on the floor in front of the cold fireplace, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders like armor, staring at nothing, breathing in shallow, tired breaths. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there when you hear it, the crunch of footsteps on snow. Heavy. Measured. Familiar.
Your heart stops before your body even reacts.
A knock follows, muted but urgent, and when you force yourself to stand, something inside you already knows who it is, because only one man would climb this mountain, walk through a storm, ignore your silence, and still try to reach you.
You open the door.
Toto stands there in the cold, breath turning to mist, hair damp with melting snow, shoulders hunched under the weight of something far heavier than weather. His eyes find yours immediately, and for the first time in all the years you’ve known him, he looks small. Broken. Gutted. A ghost of himself.
He whispers your name like an apology.
You shake your head.
“Don’t,” you say, voice trembling but firm. “Please. Don’t say my name like that.”
He steps forward, instinct, need, desperation, and you step back, the movement sharp enough that he freezes in the doorway as if he’s hit an invisible barrier.
“Let me explain,” he pleads, voice raw, cracked at the edges. “I never wanted this. I never wanted you to get hurt. I...”
“You did hurt me,” you cut in, your voice breaking on the last word. “In every way a person can be hurt.”
He swallows hard, eyes closing briefly as if bracing for impact. When he opens them again, the pain in them is almost unbearable.
“I tried to protect you,” he says quietly. “I thought I could keep everything together. I thought...”
“You thought you could have both lives,” you whisper. “Your wife, your child, your career… and me.”
He flinches because the truth hits him harder than even Susie’s slap did.
“And when it came down to choosing,” you continue, voice shaking, “you didn’t choose me. You let them take everything from me, and you signed your name under it.”
He looks like you’ve struck him. Like your words physically hurt.
“You don’t understand...” he begins.
“I understand perfectly,” you say softly. “You chose the world you built. And I was… I was just the part of you that didn’t fit into it.”
He steps inside without waiting for permission, not out of arrogance, but because he’s desperate, because he’s drowning, because he has nothing left to lose.
He stands in front of you, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
“I destroyed my marriage,” he says quietly, voice hollow. “I destroyed my career. I am seconds away from losing Mercedes. I’ve lost Jack’s trust. I’ve lost every piece of the life I built, and you are the only thing I…”
His voice breaks completely, “...the only thing I can’t lose.”
A tear slips down his cheek. Not the controlled kind men like him allow. A real one, heavy, helpless, unguarded.
You shake your head, tears blurring your own vision.
“Toto… you already lost me.”
He exhales shakily, hands flexing uselessly at his sides as if he wants to reach for you but no longer knows if he has that right.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he whispers. “You were the one thing in my life that felt like...”
“Like what?” Your voice trembles. “A reflection? A mirror? A younger, broken version of yourself you could try to fix?”
He stops breathing. Because you said it. The truth both of you avoided for months.
“We are too similar,” you say, quieter now, the words soft but merciless. “You saw yourself in me, and I saw myself in you. And we mistook that for love. For destiny. For something unstoppable.”
He steps closer, voice rough, wrecked, “It was love.”
You shake your head slowly.
“It was our damage recognizing itself.” You swallow hard. “And damage doesn’t build anything, Toto. It only burns.”
He closes his eyes, shoulders shaking with a breath he cannot steady.
“And I did burn you,” he whispers. “I burned everything.”
You wipe your face with the back of your hand, trying to breathe.
“This thing between us… it wasn’t a fairytale,” you say softly .“It was a wildfire. And wildfires don’t choose what they destroy.”
Toto looks at you then, and something inside him collapses so completely that he sinks to his knees in front of you, as if the weight of everything finally crushes him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, barely a whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”
You crouch down too, but you don’t touch him. You can’t.
“If you love me,” you whisper, voice painfully gentle, “then you have to leave.”
He lifts his head, eyes red, devastated, refusing to accept it, “Please...”
“Go, Toto.”
Silence falls... thick, aching, final. He nods eventually, slow and broken, like it costs him everything. He stands. You stand too. He hesitates in the doorway, snow blowing in behind him. He looks at you one last time, his voice barely holding:
“Everything I am… everything I lost… it was all for you.”
You close your eyes.
“I never wanted you to lose anything,” you whisper. “And now we’ve lost each other.”
He doesn’t beg again. He doesn’t fight. He just looks at you with that hollow, ruined expression, the look of a man finally understanding the price of his own choices. Then he turns. And walks away into the snow.
You close the door behind him. Not angrily. Not dramatically. Just quietly. Because some endings don’t explode. Some endings just… fall apart.
