Warnings: Pure fluff. Swearing. Nothing illegal or early, Kimi's 23 in this fic and reader's 22. Reader is fem. Italian from Translate.
Description: Kimi is too busy with the heavy racing schedule until reader hits him with the pregnancy news and he's running around panicked and excited and too into protecting reader. Lil moments from month 1 to 9, extra giving birth scene. Kept it short cause oneshots hihiihihihi
Requested? : yes!
Word count: 3.3k
It was pretty scary to vomit every day from the starting of a race week.
Kimi was worried so much. He kept on checking you while having to do media and briefing meetings before sprints, quali and the actual race.
He was lowkey panicking. You tried to keep it light and try to stop the headaches, the vomiting and the terrible morning sickness but it never worked.
It calmed down for an hour before coming back and ruining your day.
The suspicion in your head hit you like a rock when it was Sunday and you had to stay in bed instead of going to watch Kimi.
Even if you insisted on coming with him.
He pinned you to bed and convinced you to stay in it. So you did and listened to his advice. To relieve the exhaustion you got up and made yourself mint lemon tea but thankfully, it didn't help.
It made it worse.
"Eugh-!" You coughed the tea out. The nausea made you want to cry because who the hell vomits every single day with painful everything and the smell of anything effects them?
Pregnant people.
"What the fuuuhkkk-" You groaned while vomiting.
You finally decided to get some tests and try to see the results. You wished for the best with your heart doing 50 laps in a few seconds.
You panicked.
Wore Kimi's hoodie and pulled up some random jeans and walked to a pharmacy with messy looks. You snatched and paid the money of four different pregnancy tests.
Just to be sure since they could lie, right?
And the tests came out.
You stood in the bathroom with a shocked expression. Eyes wide open and mouth finding the floor.
Four of them are positive.
Oh, hell no.
Your hands froze.
Your eyes found your stomach with a blurry gaze, you were carrying a fucking kid in there. A human was living inside you and it scared the fuck out of you. The bigger question was, how were you going to tell Kimi?
What'd he say?
Will he want it?
You stared at your phone after changing into something more warm. Checking the time and seeing that the race was already over.
He was probably getting ready or was ready to come home.
Hands snatched the phone and pressed his name in the call section.
Dialing,
Dialing…
"What happened, cara? Are you fine? Are you still nauseous?" Kimi's words were rapid. He was completely thinking about your well-being while you sat there with a positive test result on the bathroom sink.
"Kimi…" You managed to whisper.
"Come on, talk. You're scaring me." He insisted. The shuffles coming from the back and talking noises made it obvious he was with the other drivers but you had to tell him now or never.
"I'm pregnant."
A big silence…silence, silence and-
"I'm going to be a dad? Like a real one? I'M A DAD NOW?!" He almost screamed to the speakers, you flinched and held the phone a little far from your ears. "Oh my god-" You heard him breath out before you heard a few men shouting from behind.
"A WHAT?"
"A DAD, GUYS, IM GOING TO BE A FUCKING DAD!"
You took a deep breath, you expected worse but he was like a ball of energy now. "Kimi, a little bit quieter, please." You murmured, chuckling.
"…I'm going to be a dad… yaaaayyyy…" He said again, this time a whisper before he laughed.
"I mean, do you want it?" You asked, fingers fidgeting and eyes focused on the wall in front of you. A soft swallow, a hand on your stomach already.
Like an instinct.
"Is that even a question! Yes, yes I do want it and I'Il take care of you two. I'm on my way, don't even dare to get out of that bed." Kimi ordered, his voice was shaky, as if he was crying.
You pressed your lips into a thin line, an attempt to not laugh. "Are you crying?"
"We are going to have a family, bella and I'm totally not crying." Your heard a soft sob again. Made you smirk to yourself before he murmured again. "I'm closing now, on my way. Ciao, cara."
"Bye, Kimi."
You ended the call and wrapped yourself with the blankets like a burrito until Kimi arrived with a complete panic and happy energy that you smelled from meters away.
He cuddled you and started talking rapid Italian to the little thing in your stomach.
You understood nothing.
╰┈➤1-3 Months
The first month was stressing enough.
Visiting the doctor, getting supplements and learning that everything was okay and safe.
With the race weeks going on, It was hard for Kimi to be there for you 24/7 but he learned to carry you like a baby to everywhere. Made you wear stuff that kept you warm, constantly searched stupid stuff to help you with the vomiting and actually found the foods and drinks that didn't affect you.
It was like a victory.
Even you were cheering before the little thing decided to make you vomit while Kimi rubbed your back and held your hair up with gentle hands. Whispering sweet things that could make you feel better.
He was stupider from the second month.
He was glued to his phone watching Top 10 things new Dad's should now or How to parent videos while rubbing your stomach with affection and kissing your forehead time to time while you slept like a baby in his arms.
You kept joking about how Kimi already had a favorite youtube channel that gave out tips. He groaned and hid his face.
He was ridiculous when he learned classical music calmed them down. He started blasting Mozart pieces like it was an everyday music, handfed you, stood still in front of the closed bathroom door like a soldier when you showered and kept on yapping in Italian to your stomach.
Since you travelled with him sometimes, he kept your supplements nearby.
He knew the hours by heart and scolded you if you acted lazy.
"Oh my god, there's a human in there, right?" Ollie asked with wide eyes, staring.
Kimi stood behind you like a proud man and jumped right in, "Yes." he said.
You rolled your eyes, your hand gently rubbing the little bump starting to form. "No, no fully human in there. It's still like a tiny slime." You murmured, Kimi wrapped his arms around you protectively.
"Slime is still impressive though." Gabi blurted out.
"Stop it, you're hurting my kid's feelings." Kimi said grumpily. "Isn't it right, cara?" His puppy eyes found your and made you cackle.
"Yes, Kimi." You murmured before giving him a kiss on the cheek.
The whole paddock congratulated you and Charles was determined to learn about the whole pregnancy thing for personal purposes.
Lando bowed his head dramatically and gave you a dog plushie and called himself the best unc ever and made you laugh.
Oscar wished you two the best before disappearing with Lando and all that stuff.
On the third month,
Kimi was hyped to know the gender. He simply said he didn't give a fuck about the gender he just wanted to hear his kid and praised you in Italian in the most paragraphic way ever and you fell asleep because you couldn't take it.
He made your mood find the sky through the whole car ride. He made cheesy jokes, normal jokes, silly faces and laughed with you.
He kept yapping about how fun it would be to a mini version of you running around or a mini version of him jumping on the couch.
You called him cheesy but yours and he groaned, fixing his hair with one hand.
Kimi was impatient but he had to be patient for you, he held your hand. Listened to the doctor with pure focus. Noted down some things on his phone and he almost fainted listening to the heartbeats.
It was a girl.
The moment you two left the hospital, he was proud that he had a sister so he learned braiding hairs or brushing them. You whined about being too lazy to decor the room but he gave you an ipad and just told you to pick items, he'd buy it and put it.
╰┈➤4-6 Months
Your mood shifts were quick.
Crying to sweet and sweet to angry as fuck.
You had a whole tantrum about the wall color bothering you, bit Kimi's bicep and started crying and whimpering sorry while Kimi tried to stop you from crying and cuddled you while feeding you your favorite meal.
You both were thankful you weren't vomiting anymore. Supplements helped a lot.
It was 2PM and you were staring at the oven like it personally bothered you. "Kimi." You called out.
"Hm?"
"What do you mean 'hm?', say yes, dear or whatever and don't piss me off." You started bitchy. Pouting as your arms crossed over your chest.
The baby bump was bigger now. Bothering you a little.
Kimi chuckled, "Yes, cara?"
"Was that oven tilted to the left side before?"
"It was always like that, what do you mean?"
"Andrea, don't speak up to me and please tilt it to the right a bit or I'Il cry." You manipulated, tears stinging your eyes because of the frustrations and hormones hitting heavy.
He walked to you, pressed a soft kiss to your lips, reassuring before he whispered. "Don't cry, hm?" He brushed his nose against yours, making you chuckle before walking to the oven and tilting it so you could be pleased.
When he looked at you for approval, you nodded.
"Now, do you want more of that chocolate bar?"
"YES!" You quickly answered. Holding the empty package while the blanket wrapped around your head stayed still.
╰┈➤7-9 Months
It was like a disaster.
The baby kept punching your poor stomach while you tried to stop the emotional rollercoaster.
"I swear if this baby kicks me one more time I'm kicking it too!" You yelled, frowning, pure anger. Kimi who was trying to complete an assignment given to him quickly stood up and scooped you in his arms.
A hand moved up to replace yours on your stomach, "Non stanchiamo tua madre, eh?" (let's not tire your mother, hm?) He whispered and the baby who was feral over kicking and hurting stopped.
You gasped dramatically. "Traitor!" You scolded the baby in your stomach.
"What can I say, she's my girl."
╰┈➤In the middle of some random night in month 9
You were sleeping soundlessly until you felt a warmth of liquid leaving your thighs.
Your eyes snapped open and you panicked, pretty much panicked. Not wanting to panic Kimi who's sleeping next to you, facing you and one arm wrapped around your waist. You swallowed, not knowing what to do.
"Kimi…" You whispered.
No answer.
"Kimi… wake up."
"Huh, what-?" Kimi murmured in a sleepy voice, grunting as he sat up in the bed, looking at you with confused eyes. "What happened?" He asked. "Are you okay?"
"I think my water just broke…"
And Kimi's head was sirens which screamed red. It was 2 milliseconds before he jumped out of the bed, dressed himself, cleaned you and dressed you while carrying you and grabbing the keys. Leaving everything behind but his phone and keys, rushing to the car. "Hold on." He murmured, his breathing rapid. He was panicking. "Oh my god, you're about to give birth! How could I even sleep!"
"Kimi-"
"I'm such a bad partner-"
"Kimi! Calm down."
"Yes, cara."
And the ride to the hospital was a blur, he drove too fast and got there in time. Whispered sweet nothings into your ear and tried to calm you down by little kisses and it worked.
The labor continued 5 hours until you were fully dilated and the doctors decided it was time.
Kimi was wide eyed like he'd seen someone get tortured in front of him. Hand holding yours as you squeezed his hand violently and screamed while doctors said push.
"I fucking hate everything!" You screamed. "owhowhowhOUWHHH!"
"One more push!"
"Come on, bella, please. It's almost over, hang on-" Kimi begged. Wiping off the sweat from your temple and forehead. "It's almost over-" he repeated. An attempt to calm you down but you still screamed.
"I'm dying over here, bro!"
Nurses chuckled, even the doctor laughed and Kimi pressed his lips together. "Bro?"
"Yes, bro-AUGHHHAAAA!" You pushed one more time and that was when everything went silent. Then a violent, loud cry of a baby was heard.
They cleaned and gave the baby to you. It was like a piece of meat but with legs, arms, eyes and a whole face. You were exhausted.
"She's beautiful…" Kimi murmured, taking the baby with careful hands with your approval. "So fragile." He hummed. "Hi, I'm your dad."
"Of course she's beautiful 'cause I'm her mother, idiot." You chuckled while sleep took over.
"I'Il take care of you both for the rest of my life." You heard Kimi whisper before he pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Rest now, cara."
And he could already imagine your newborn daughter being completely like you.
I admit that ts is cheesy but well.. heh... hope you like it!
cw: fluff, a little bit more fluff, tiny bit angsty nothing tooo bad
wc: 2.9k words
an: IM BACK BITCHES, based on this req!
When this debate had started, you could not remember, but now you were trying your best to not show how red your face looked as you laughed along with the rest of the table.
It was a regular post-race dinner, and Carlos was talking about how he couldn’t think of dating a fan of his.
“I just don’t think I could. I mean, what if they only like me for the money or this sweet bod?” You tried to stifle a grin.
You didn’t think much of it until your own boyfriend chimed in.
“Me too, it would weird me out, y’know?”
Now, you should have probably mentioned this to Lando at some point during the beginning of your relationship. But to be fair, he never asked, and you’d also only been dating for 8 months—so is it really such a crime to have not told him? You’d never found the chance to tell him you were a major fan of his prior to you meeting.
Of course, you recognised him when you first met—which was at a dinner party hosted in his honour for the company you worked at, who happened to be one of McLaren’s sponsors.
You internally tried your best to not lose your mind when you saw him, choosing to hide with your colleagues as they teased you for how worked up you seemed.
But what you hadn’t expected was for him to walk over to you with two flutes of champagne and then spend the entire night in conversation, with him even sneaking out early with you to get gelato and walk you home.
Ever the gentleman, he made sure to get you home safe and even waited till you reached your apartment—but not before getting your number and a promise that you’d meet him for lunch the next day.
You didn’t sleep a wink that night, too overwhelmed at the idea of going out to lunch with maybe your favourite male celebrity. And if there was a mini helmet of his from Silverstone 2024 on your bedside table, that was nobody’s business but your own.
Okay, maybe you weren’t a psycho stalker fangirl or whatever, but you did know your way around the fandom. You could list all his wins in chronological order, his podiums at each circuit, and could claim to be an owner of at least 4 (!) ln4 hoodies.
You never really admitted you used to be a fan because it was plainly embarrassing. Not to mention, it wasn’t like you actively hid it; you just didn’t care enough to remember.
Now, however, with him talking about not dating a fan, you couldn’t help but sip your wine a bit nervously as you nodded along. It was safe to say you and Lando were still in the honeymoon phase of your relationship, but honestly neither of you ever thought it would stop.
To say you were enamoured by each other was an understatement, especially with the man completely wrapped around your finger—you could ask him for the world, and he’d show up with it and the stars too.
But with this new revelation, you weren’t sure how to really bring up the topic.
🪻🪻🪻
The next morning, after Lando woke you up to the scent of eggs frying and coffee being brewed, you decided to bring your line of questioning forward. He placed your plate in front of you along with your morning latte, and in that moment you tried to bring up last night’s conversation as nonchalantly as possible.
“So, last night was kind of silly, huh?’
“Whaddya mean?” He replied through a mouthful of toast.
"You know, the whole 'I’d never date a fan' thing you and Carlos were talking about. ” You took a sip as you tried to not make eye contact.
“How was that silly?”
“Like, it’s a bit childish, no? What’s wrong with being with a fan?”
“It’s just weird, like, how do I know you’re not with me because of the fame and all that?” Lando argued.
You didn’t have a response to that without sounding weird for arguing over the subject, so you let it go.
Lando, however, didn’t.
He didn’t think much of it at first. He had just shrugged and continued eating, too focused on trying not to burn his tongue on the eggs he insisted on making for you every Saturday morning.
He found it kind of funny at first. The way you suddenly seemed defensive over the topic. He didn’t think too much of it in the moment, but after he kissed your cheek and cleared your plate, he caught himself thinking about it again as he stood at the sink, running water over your empty mug.
But later, while you were out on the balcony, curled up with your laptop and replying to emails, Lando stood in the kitchen drying a mug and thinking about what you’d said.
He played the memory back in his head more times than he’d admit, narrowing in on the way you fidgeted with your coffee spoon, how you didn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t like it when you looked unsure, especially not around him.
Still, life carried on. He flew off to another race weekend while you stayed back to finish a big work presentation, and your FaceTime calls stayed as sappy and full of inside jokes as ever. If anything, he only missed you more.
He didn’t bring up the fan thing again, not when he had you smiling sleepily at him over a video call at 1 am, wrapped in your fluffy robe with your hair still damp from a shower.
He didn’t even think about it when you sent him a care package to his hotel, with snacks and vitamins and a small note that said “you got this, superstar.” He even found himself re-reading that note like a lovesick idiot while sitting in the team garage between sessions.
You, on the other hand, were doing your absolute best not to spiral. The guilt wasn’t huge, but it was persistent, like a little pebble in your shoe. You’d been such a fan, not just a casual “oh yeah, he’s a good driver” kind of fan.
You were active on Twitter, defending him to the death, posting edits of him and liking every one of his photos that came on your timeline.
But you’d changed; that version of you had been real, but so was this one. The same girl who had Lando's toothbrush in her bathroom and who knew exactly how he liked his tea. You weren’t faking anything.
Still, something about admitting the truth just felt risky. What if he took it the wrong way? What if he thought the whole relationship was some long game, like you’d schemed your way into his life?
So you didn’t tell him. And time passed.
You watched more races, cheered from the sidelines or from the hotel room, always with your heart in your throat. You memorised his travel schedule better than your own. You kissed him good luck in the mornings and held him close at night when he was too tired to speak. And Lando just fell harder.
Every time he saw you waiting for him in the paddock, holding out your arms for a hug and smiling like he was the only one in the world, he swore he’d never get used to it. He was so gone for you.
🪻🪻🪻
“Don’t you get bored of me always talking about racing?” Lando questioned you as you shared a bowl of popcorn while watching some of his racing clips. He liked doing that sometimes; it was a way for him to check his mistakes while also being able to observe his victories.
“If I were bored of racing, I don’t think I’d be in a relationship with a racing driver, now would I?” You quipped, flicking his forehead affectionately.
He simply smiled at you, one of his signature cheesy grins, as he laid his head down on your lap.
You softly brushed your fingers through his curls, at the risk of him whining about you messing with the products he spent 20 minutes applying this morning.
The two of you were fixated on the screen, your eyes concentrated on his car zooming down the straights.
“Wait, which race are we watching again?” He questioned as he reached for the remote.
“Monaco 2022”. You replied deftly, popping a few kernels into your mouth.
Lando had a slightly amused look on his face, not expecting you to be so engrossed, but happy nonetheless.
“God, this one still makes me nervous,” you muttered, watching a particularly intense on-track battle.
Lando looked over at you, eyebrows raised. “Still?”
You froze. “I mean, it was a good race. Real classic, y’know?”
“You watched this live?”
You tried to smile casually. “Sure. With some friends.”
His eyes narrowed just a bit, suspicious but intrigued. “Wait, how do you even remember this overtake?”
You shrugged. “I guess I was into racing.”
“You were a fan.” He said it slowly, like the idea was just now clicking into place. “Of me.”
You didn’t say anything. Just pulled the blanket up higher and stared at the screen, hoping he’d move on. But he turned to face you fully, grinning now.
“No way. Wait, no. You were. That’s why you brought it up over breakfast months ago. You were embarrassed.”
“I wasn’t,” you mumbled, cheeks heating up. “I just didn’t think it was relevant.”
“You little liar!”
“I’m not!”
“Then why did you hide it?”
You shook your head, but the words were already rising in your throat. “I didn’t tell you because—I was scared.”
He frowned, tilting his head. “Scared of what?”
You played with the edge of the blanket between your fingers, not looking at him. “That you’d think I was with you for the wrong reasons. That I was just some fan trying to get her five minutes of attention or—or chasing after your money or your name or the whole WAG circus. I didn’t want you to look at me and wonder if it was all fake.”
Lando was quiet for a moment.
You could feel your heart in your ears.
“I know it sounds stupid,” you continued quickly, cheeks hot. “But you said you couldn’t date a fan, and it just stuck with me. I didn’t want to risk it. Things were too good. You were too good. I didn’t want to lose you over something so embarrassing.”
“You really thought I’d leave you over that?”
You tried to smile, but it faltered. “I just didn’t want you to think I was one of those people.”
Lando let out a breath, shaking his head. “God, you think so little of me.”
The words hit you like a slap, but before you could say anything, he reached for you. Gently, he pulled you over and settled you into his lap, your legs straddling his thighs as he held you close. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, like he needed to anchor you to him.
“Listen to me,” he said, voice steady now, no trace of laughter left. “I don’t care if you used to have posters of me on your wall. I don’t care if you knew all my stats or made edits or wrote fanfiction, for all I know. None of that matters. You matter. What we have now matters.”
You didn’t trust your voice, so you stayed quiet.
“I know you,” he whispered, fingertips tracing soft circles against your back. “You don’t care about the spotlight. You hate the cameras. You’ve never once bragged about us on social media or cared about being seen. You’re not here for the parties or the designer tags or the lifestyle. You’re here for me. And I see that every day.”
Your hands slid up to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the small scar on the bridge of his nose. He looked so serious, so impossibly sincere, it made your chest ache.
“I didn’t mean to lie,” you said softly. “I just didn’t want to ruin anything.”
He was still holding you, still cradling you in his lap like you were made of glass and something he’d never let slip through his fingers again. His hands were warm against your back, one resting at the base of your spine and the other slowly running up and down the curve of your side like he needed to remind himself you were real.
“I mean it,” he said again, voice low and sure, brushing his nose against yours. “I don’t care if you knew every stat I ever had. I don’t care if you had a shrine of mini helmets or screamed every time I got on the podium. You could’ve painted your walls neon yellow, and I’d still think you’re the most genuine person I’ve ever met.”
Your heart squeezed. “I didn’t paint my walls, but I did have a sticker on my laptop.”
He let out a soft laugh, eyes lighting up, but it was full of love now; that kind of warm, weightless love that made your skin feel sun-kissed even in the dim light of the living room.
“You’re ridiculous,” he whispered, and then leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours.
“And you’re in love with someone who once told off a stranger on Twitter for calling you overrated,” you whispered back.
“And I am so in love with her,” he said with a grin that made your stomach flip.
Then he kissed you.
His lips brushed over yours in a way that made your heart stutter and your breath catch. He kissed you like it was something he hadn’t done in a while, like he was rediscovering you. His thumb traced your cheek, his hand sliding into your hair, holding you close without crowding you.
You kissed him back with everything you had.
All the fear you’d carried, all the silly embarrassment, melted into the way he tasted—a little like the popcorn he’d eaten earlier, a little like the mints he always kept in his pocket. It was soft and familiar and brand new all at once.
He pulled back only slightly, his nose brushing yours again. “You’re mine, yeah?”
You nodded, eyes a little glossy, mouth still tingling. “Always.”
And then he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand slid up your back, pulling you closer, like even this much space between you was too much. You could feel the way he smiled into it, could feel the quiet little sigh he let out like he’d finally exhaled after holding his breath for months.
You curled your fingers in his hair and kissed him harder, laughing softly against his mouth when he let out a quiet, dazed ‘fuck’ under his breath.
All was well, until—
“Wait, you were on Twitter?”
“…Maybe,” you mumbled, a bit disoriented by his random questioning.
His eyes lit up. “Oh my god. You did. You tweeted about me. Find them. Show me.”
“I’m not showing you anything.”
Lando was already rolling off the couch and grabbing your phone. “C'mon. You have to. Please. I’ll never ask you for anything else in my life.”
“That’s a lie, and you know it.”
“Okay, but this time I’m serious.”
Sighing dramatically, but secretly already giggling to yourself, you reached for your own phone. You opened the app and scrolled for a moment before finding it. The long-forgotten fan account: locked, dusty, and inactive for over two years.
You held it out wordlessly.
Lando took it, eager.
And then immediately burst into laughter.
“@ln4everangelbaby?! Are you kidding me?”
You snatched it back. “I was seventeen when I made that, Lando.”
He was already breathless, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “No, wait. I need a minute. Angel baby? What was that even supposed to mean?”
You covered your face with your hands. “You had these really cute photo from your debut year, and someone called you that on Tumblr, and I thought it was cute, okay?”
“Oh my god.” He leaned back, shaking with laughter. “This is better than I could have ever imagined.”
He tried to scroll, but the account was locked, and you weren’t about to log in and let him dig through the archives of your cringe era.
“Let me read some tweets,” he begged, tugging at your sleeve like a child.
“Absolutely not.”
“I’ll buy you dinner every night forever.”
“You already do that anyway.”
“I’ll take you to the Maldives for a week.”
“You’re kidding.”
But his face remained unmoved, completely serious.
“Make it two weeks.”
He hesitated. “Ten days.”
“Twelve.”
“Deal.”
You unlocked the account with the kind of grim resolve one might have before jumping into shark-infested waters and handed it back.
He kept reading out tweets in dramatic fashion, doing voices, quoting your old replies to trolls, and fake-crying when he got to a heartfelt race reaction after his first podium.
You just curled up smaller and smaller on the couch, your face buried in a pillow while Lando had the time of his life dragging you, groaning occasionally at particular posts you didn’t even remember making.
When he finally calmed down, he tossed the phone gently onto the coffee table and pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“I think this might be my favourite thing about you.”
You blinked up at him, confused. “My terrible teenage Twitter?”
He smiled. “No. That you loved me then, even when I was just some kid in a fast car. And you love me now, even when I’m an idiot who makes fun of your old username.”
“You really can’t let that go, can you?”
“Angel baby,” he whispered, laughing again, and you groaned and buried your face into his chest as he wrapped his arms tighter around you.
DID U GUYS MISS ME (the only answer is yes) i missed writing so much im so happy i could put this out :DD enjoy! and im so sorry it’s so short i just am so drained with my first sem in college ! :(
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.
❀ Summary : The Belgian Grand Prix race was delayed due to too much rain to be safe for the drivers. Everybody in the paddocks have to wait, but it’s already been two good hours and the rain is not going to stop. Ollie and his lover take this to their advantage to have a cuddle session, not knowing that they will be the stars of this Grand Prix.
❀ Pairings : Ollie x Reader
❀ Themes : Fluff, established relationship
❀ Song : none found
❀ Warnings : none
❀ Based on this request
❀ AN : I finally finished one of my requests. This one was sent to me a little while ago, and I rewrote it, but I'm still not really satisfied with it. I hope you will still like it. Sorry for keeping you waiting that long.
Enjoy !
The FIA had finally made a decision : the start of the race would be delayed. It was raining too hard for it to be safe for the drivers to race on a track with too little grip and no visibility. All the drivers had prayed that they would not have to race in the same conditions as at the 2024 Brazilian Grand Prix, which Ollie did not have fond memories of.
So when it was announced to the teams that they would have to wait a while before revving up their engines, it was a relief for some. For the first hour, everyone stayed sheltered in the paddocks, but when they entered the second hour of waiting, they realised that the downpour was not about to let up. The drivers were allowed to return to the motorhomes to wait.
Ollie found his girlfriend, who had preferred to stay in the hospitality area rather than face the chaos of the paddocks. They found a comfortable sofa and initially contented themselves with cuddling up together, but then Ollie decided it was the best time to get some rest. So they lay down, the young woman on top of him, trapped in his embrace.
They had quickly fallen asleep, at least Ollie had fallen asleep, while Y/N was drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. She could hear everything that was going on around them. There was one thing she didn't pay attention to, and that was the sound of footsteps approaching and a few whispers. These noises remained close for a few seconds before moving away again.
After a total of four hours of waiting, Ollie was able to return to the paddock to get ready. Y/N whispered a word of love to him before letting him go. She settled back comfortably on the sofa and focused on the television screen, which was replaying the race. She didn't notice the few glances that were directed at her.
Ollie, on the other hand, noticed the smiles on people's faces when he arrived at his garage. The team principal approached him, patted him on the shoulder and asked him teasingly if he had had a good nap.
The young man was confused, but innocently replied that he had recharged his batteries, which made the few people around him laugh. He chose to ignore it and focused on the race.
But he finally got an answer to this strange behaviour when he left his seat at the end of the race. He headed to the media area and began his interview with SkySports, with Esteban by his side.
' You two are cute. '
' With who ? '
' You and your girlfriend. I saw the photo. '
' The photo ? '
' Yeah, the admin took a photo of you while we were waiting for the start. '
Esteban took out his phone to show him the famous photo. Ollie and Y/N were on the sofa, his girlfriend's face was completely hidden as she was pressed up against him, but it was clear from the photo that she was a young woman.
Ollie finally understood the reactions he had received from the team, as well as the teasing from the other drivers. Nico had told him he had chosen the right girlfriend, Carlos had told him to make the most of the relationship. He hadn't been able to understand all the chatter surrounding his romantic relationship. Even Kimi had come to tease him. But not a single one of them had explained the reason behind it all.
Wanting to keep his girlfriend away from journalists and fans, Y/N mostly stayed in the hospitality area when she came with him to a Grand Prix. Ollie didn't know that so many people knew he was in a relationship – even though it wasn't a secret – it had been a strange Sunday, he wasn't going to lie.
So when he saw this photo, thanks to Esteban, he couldn't help but understand the hype about his girlfriend. But Ollie wasn't going to let that stop him; he could only be even more proud to have a girl like Y/N by his side. And above all, knowing that the drivers he admired told him he was lucky to have someone by his side, he couldn't help but agree.
Ollie was lucky. Y/N was extraordinary, and he knew it. If he wanted to, he would shout it from the rooftops, show the whole world who she was. But maybe that would be for later. His girlfriend was still a student, and they had both agreed that she would remain relatively anonymous until she graduated, and then they would see.
But one thing was certain, Ollie wasn't going to let her go. He intended to keep her safe by his side until the end. Cherish her as much as he could.
' So Ollie, how did you feel about this weekend ? '
' Hmm… well, we still have some things to work on with the team, but overall it was pretty good. Spa is a pretty special race, and the rain added to the difficulty for us. But I think for my first time on this circuit in Formula 1, I did pretty well. We'll see how we can improve for the next Grand Prix. '
' This race is special for you. Is there a particular reason behind that ? '
Ollie hesitated for a few seconds before a smile appeared on his lips.
' This is the first Grand Prix I've attended with someone. And even though I know I've made mistakes, there's someone who's still proud of me. '
' Can you give us a name ? '
' I'd rather keep that to myself for now. She doesn't like to draw attention to herself. But I can tell you she's a very good person. '
Esteban nodded, pleased with his response.
The interviews continued for a while longer, then Esteban and Ollie were able to return to the Haas hospitality area to finish the debrief.
When they arrived, he quickly felt arms wrap around his waist.
' You were great, Ollie. '
' Thank you. You were there. '
' I'm proud of you. '
' I know. '
' I love you. '
' I love you too. I have to go. I'll see you after the meeting. '
' Yes. I'll wait for you here. '
' Okay. I'll be back. '
They shared a quick kiss before Ollie joined the team for the last debrief of the day.
He mustn't forget to ask the admin for that photo. It would be his new wallpaper from today onwards.
Tag list : @angelluv16-blog ; @cchewhaz
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Let me know in the comments !
Lewis family loving reader like she's their own daughter. You can include how his mom, step mom and dad treat her like they do Lewis. How his siblings act like reader siblings, always laughing, how reader and his sisters go out for girls day. And how much his niece and nephew adore reader that they always want to come over by Lewis so he can invite reader and they can sleepover and watch movies and play games.
We All Love You
Lewis Hamilton x fem!reader
Summary: Lewis' family was always kind, at least that's what he said. One day when Lewis took you to meet his family, they included you in like you had the Hamilton name to you. When secretly you would.
Second person POV
Second request: Lewis proposing to reader, in a simple but romantic way.
Notes: requests are open!
Main Masterlist
You and Lewis were on your way to his parents' house in London. After he practically begged and dragged you to go. You were nervous, to say the least. He reassured you that everything was going to be fine, but you felt something in you that said it wasn't.
Your leg bounced, Lewis' hand linked with yours the whole time as he pulled into the driveway. "Are you ready?"
"No." You answer nervously.
He leans over the console, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You'll be fine. They'll love you so much." He reassures. You nod, slowly getting out of the car, linking hands with Lewis as you walk up to the front door. He walked right through, practically pulling you along with him through the house.
"They're probably in the bac- why are you gripping my hand so hard?" He looks back at you, confused, your arm and his fully extended, creating a gap between the both of you.
"Because..." You trail.
"Love you'll be fine, they are incredibly sweet people." He reassures again, closing the gap between you.
"You don't know that." You say nervously, looking behind him through the glass door. Outside his whole family was standing around the barbecue.
"I- I don't... know that? Uhm- last I checked, they are my family."
"You don't know anybody could change." He grabs your hand, pulling out of the back door where his family turns, greeting him nicely.
"Mum, dad, this is my girlfriend Y/n. Y/n that's my mum Carmen, my dad Anthony, and my step mom Linda." Lewis says.
"Hi." You say quietly.
"It's lovely to meet you." Carmen smiles. Linda popped up next to Anthony. "Nice to meet you, dear."
Anthony put a gentle hand on your shoulder, slightly startling you. "He treating you okay kid?"
"Uh- yeah. Yeah I mean... you know." You reply nervously.
"Good. Might've had to shape that boy into place if not." He smirks, patting you on the back.
"Alright, dad, let's not make her think I'm some monster, yeah?" Lewis chuckles, wrapping an arm around you. Anthony waves him off jokingly as both you walk further into the yard, up to the group that was sitting under a fancy wooden pavilion.
"Alright, this is Nick, my younger brother." Lewis starts, Nick politely reaches his hand out, which you shake. "Then over there is Nicola and Sam, my two sisters." He smiles, pulling out a chair across from them, sitting you down before sitting next to you.
"It's great to meet you Y/n." Sam smiles.
"It's nice to meet you too."
"So what do you do for work?" Nichola beams.
"I'm a P.A."
"A P.A, that sounds cool. For anyone in particular?" Sam asks.
"She works for Mercedes. That's how we actually got to know each other." Lewis answers, you let out a breath of relief.
"That is awesome!"
"Yeah their team is so great."
"Definitely better than Ferrari." Nick pipes in.
"Okay Nick. I didn't know Ferrari would be bad. And didn't you literally crash last weekend? I don't want to hear it." Lewis jokes.
"So do you know all of the personal details about the team and stuff?" Sam asks, enthused by the topic.
"Well I know that Lewis' DNF rate is a lot higher than when he was in Mercedes." You giggle.
"Wha- I thought we weren't going to talk about that."
"I don't know, your brother seems nice enough to not be picked on."
"A true woman." Nick says.
"Why did he switch in the first place?" Sam asks.
"Because..." Lewis shrugs.
"Better pay?" Nick asks.
"Well, yeah, according to Alex."
"Worst mistake in the history of mistakes." Sam says.
"Woah, alright now, take it easy." Lewis chuckles, putting a slight hand up.
"Oh my God, you need to come with us." Nicola says, jumping up excitedly, grabbing your hand in the process.
"Nicola." Lewis says in a stern manner.
"Right now, I'm just showing her the house. Don't get your panties in a twist." She rolls her eyes as you stand, you, Nicola, and Sam all walk into the house, the girls dragging you into the living room.
"Get ready for this." Sam smiles, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder as she sat down to your right. Nicola grabbed a small box from the entertainment center, popping the lid of and sitting on your other side.
"Alright, where shall we start first..." She trails, flipping through small pictures. "Ah! This is Lewis' first karting win." She says, gently handing the picture to you.
"Wow..."
"He's never shown you these types of things huh?" Sam asks.
"No. He only has pictures of him, roscoe, me, and his formula cars." You chuckle, handing the picture back to Nicola.
"What a narcissist." She jokes, pulling out another picture, this time of Lewis during karate class.
"Karate?"
"Yeah, very unexpected of him. You know... when Elvis Presley did karate but know one knew." Sam smiles.
"Oh! Here's one of Lewis in his first bath." Nicola says happily, sliding the picture into your hands.
"Awe." You smile slightly. "Why was he crying?"
"He thought he'd get eaten by the drain."
"Th- the drain?"
"Yeah. He sat on the opposite side of the tub as the drain so it wouldn't suck in him." Sam says. You and the girls burst out laughing, quickly getting interrupted by a throat being cleared. You all look up to see Lewis standing against the door frame.
"Glad to see you lot are having fun." He smiles.
"Oh we are."
He steps closer to the three of you. "And the only reason why I was scared of the drain was because I saw the swirly thing it made when the water drained and I didn't want that to happen to me." He says, snatching the photos from you.
"I can't believe that." You laugh.
⋅˚₊‧ ♤ ‧₊˚ ⋅
After that day, Lewis' siblings came very close to you. It started with the classic 'Let's show you Lewis' baby pictures and quickly escalated. You were now at Sam's house in Monaco. You, Sam, Nicola, Willow, and Kaiden were all spread along the couch. Willow was cuddled into your chest as everybody, including you, was fixated on the movie in front of you.
"What's for dinner?" Willow asked. The three of you looked at each other while the two kids glanced between you.
"Right, hang on." Sam smiles, waving a hand for you to come along. You gently move Willow aside and walk into the kitchen with Sam.
"So. I was thinking we could stop at-" Sam cuts herself off, looking at the door as it swings open. Lewis walks in holding two large pizzas, immediately flashing a smirk and walking into the kitchen. "Uh- what are you doing here?" Sam asks, swinging her phone around in her hand.
"Figured I could stop by and drop some food off." He shrugs.
"Lewis." She whines. "This is girls night. Not 'crash my girlfriend's party night.'"
"Party?" You ask.
"Well, the kids miss me." He says, opening the boxes up and grabbing plates out of the cupboard.
"Kids? They can barely go a day without watching cartoons. I'm pretty sure you're far down the list."
He clutches his chest, gasping. "Wow Samantha." She smirks, stepping to your other side and grabbing a slice of pizza, leaning against the counter. "Wow."
"Now... what were you talking about?" He asks, sitting at the island in front of you.
"Just saying how I was going to bring Y/n up to this fancy hotel up the coast."
He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head. "Really?"
"Really." She nods. You look back and forth between the two confused.
"Yeah Well I hope your not talking about doing to much?" He questions.
"No. Just a nice getaway." She smiles. He nods because stepping over next to you, sliding a hand around your waist and hugging you.
"I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Bright and early." He jokes pulling away, smiling before walking out of the house.
"God he's such a simp." Sam chuckles. You giggle to yourself, grabbing a slice of pizza. "Seriously. I've never seen him in love it's like, damn. We- I mean not that your doing anything wrong but you should have seen him before he asked you out. Stressed as hell Y/n, I'm talking shaking, twitching, sweating, the works."
"Oh no way." You laugh.
"Yes, I kid you not-"
"Mom the pizza's here!" The both of you look over to see Willow and Kaiden running into the kitchen happily, jumping near the counter to see the food.
"Yeah baby." She smiles, filling their plate. "Uncle Lewis brought it by."
"He did?"
"He did."
"Oh well." Willow shrugs, walking over to the island and sitting on a stool.
"Oh. You don't like him anymore?" Nicola asks, strolling into the kitchen as well.
"We have Y/n." Kaiden says, the room slowly erupting with laughter as you and the girls go to sit down.
The night flew by. While the kids went off to bed shortly after dinner, you, Sam, and Nicola stayed up late, drinking wine, watching movies and doing each others nails. You hadn't realized you fell asleep on the couch when you heard the front door swing open.
The three of you shot up, looking over as Lewis entered the house again. "Hey-" He cuts himself off, looking around the living room like someone had just set his career on fire. "What happened here?"
You looked at the wine bottle and glasses on the floor, nail supplies tossed everywhere and the sappy rom-com channel that was on the TV.
"Oh shit." Sam giggled. He gave her a warned look. "Okay... so we fell asleep. But we had fun." You, still half asleep, giggled, draping your arms across your face to block the light from the lamp on the table side next to you.
Lewis walked over, crouching down by your side. "Are you drunk?'
"Tired."
"At least your nails look nice." He pointed. You uncover your eyes, looking down at your nails. They were longer, and a red and black ombre with diamonds.
"What?"
"They look nice." He repeats.
"These aren't even what I did. I did pink. And way more functionable then these." You say, tapping them together.
"Maybe the nail fairy came and fixed them." Nicola smirks.
"Alright. Well we have to go." Lewis stands, reaching out a hand down to you.
"But I thought-" Sam starts.
"Don't worry. I got it."
You quickly hug the girls goodbye, thanking them for the night before walking out of the house with Lewis. "I'm going to take you home so you can change and do your hair." He smiles, opening the passenger door for you.
"When you said bright and early, you really meant it." You joke. He sat in on the drivers side, speeding off down the road to his house. "What's this all about?" You ask, pointing to the dash that said: '82/55'
Lewis immediately slowed, mumbling a 'sorry' before turning into the buildings parking garage. "We are going to have the best day." He smiles.
"Really?"
"Really."
"So... are you the reason why my nails are black and red?"
"Maybe you painted them. I- I mean how could I know. I wasn't there." His smile slowly transformed into a smirk, exhaling a laugh in the process.
"I was sure I painted them pink. And short."
"Well I mean you were drunk." He shrugs off.
"Hey!" You playfully hit his shoulder. He parks the car, getting out and rushing over to your side of the car and opening your door.
The both of you quickly walked up to the penthouse, and Lewis walked into the kitchen while you walked into the bedroom. A short maroon velvet dress lay smoothly on the bed, sleeveless, running high on the left leg and swooping down to meet just below your knee.
You quickly changed into it, adjusting it and having it fall just right. The house was oddly silent when you walked out, and Lewis wasn't anywhere to be seen, instead, you see Sam and Nicola sitting at the dining table.
"Oh- hi guys." You smile. "What are you doing here?"
They instantly jump up, swarming around you.
"Well we just wanted to visit you of course." Sam utters, sliding a diamond necklace around your neck.
"And we just wanted to see how you were doing to. You know.." Nicola beams, clipping a pair of diamonds earrings to your ears and a diamond bracelet to your wrist.
They both stand in front of you have running their hands through your hair, getting picture perfect. "Ugh this dress." Sam says.
"He did good. I'll give him that." Nicola admires the dress, fixing slight parts with her fingers.
"What?'
They both turn, smirking to you. "Where the hell did Lewis go?" You ask confused. "He had an important day for us he said." Sam silently grabbed your hand, handing you a pair of heels that were waiting at the door. You quickly slipped into them, strapping them around your ankles before they rushed you downstairs.
A slick black SUV was waiting out front, the driver got out and walked around to your side, revealing Arthur.
"Hi hun." He smiles, giving you a small hug. You smile, getting in the back of the car along with Sam and Nicola. Carmen and Linda shared a space in the back behind you, both saying 'hi' before Arthur drove off down the east coast.
You looked out the window ass the car moved, passing by rocky and bays.
"Let's see those nails." Nicola smiles, you bring your hand over to her view, Sam appearing over her shoulder and nodding in approval.
"What the hell is happening?" You ask.
"Your going to love it. Trust me." Carmen reassures, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. Arthur turns onto a steep dirt road, the sun peeking over the cliffside as he drove up.
"Alright, we have to park here." He says, parking in a rocky area off to the side of the road.
"Wait we have to walk?" Nicola asks.
"Yeah." Carmen smiles, her and Linda climbing out of the back of the car.
The group piled out of the car, gathering around each other.
"Y/n why don't you go first, scope out the place to make sure it's perfect." Linda smiles.
"Perfect for what?"
"For our day. You know, time on the coast, a picnic, a- you really ask to many questions." Sam giggles, ushering you up the path.
"Okay..." You trail, walking up. It wasn't a far walk, not that you minded, you overthought a lot, more so curious about what was so special about this spot.
You climbed the path, finally getting to the flat part at the top which led into grass... and a red walk way. You followed it quickly, candles slowly appearing one after another until you were led to the cliffside.
By now the sky was a shade of pink and orange, blending perfectly together and casting a golden affect on the cliffside. You slowly look over, the waves from the ocean falling upon the rocks at the bottom.
Your phone buzzed in your hand, Nicola had texted you asking if you were there, you replied with a quick yes before turning around, seeing Lewis who stood a few feet away from you.
"Hi." He smiles widely.
"Hey, I thought you-"
He steps closer to you, grabbing your hand. "I know, I'm sorry I left." He starts. "I just wanted to surprise you."
"You definitely did." You giggle. He slowly lowers himself down on one knee, pulling out a black velvet box.
"Oh my God." You mumble, your lips curling into a bigger smile.
"I know... that the first day we met you liked things 'simple.'" He chuckles. "Y/n, I love you so much, since the first day we met, you have made my life so much better, more exhilarating, more positive. Will you marry me?"
"Yes! I will!" You say excitedly. He jumps up, sliding the ring on to your finger before embracing you in a hug.
彡DISCLAIMER ; Everything written here is FICTITIOUS.
彡AUTHOR'S NOTE ; Sorry if here are any mistakes, english isn't my first language
boyfriend!Oscar who… kisses your temple every time before a flight. Doesn’t matter how early it is, how tired he is, he always does it. It’s his little routine to make sure you know you’re loved before he leaves.
boyfriend!Oscar who… holds your hand under the table or plays with your fingers while you’re talking. Doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, he just needs to be touching you, always.
boyfriend!Oscar who… gets way too happy when you wear his hoodie to bed. He sees you in it, grins like an idiot, and goes, “Yep… you look better in it than me. It’s yours now.”
boyfriend!Oscar who… always gives you the last bite of whatever he’s eating, even if it’s his absolute favorite. Acts like it’s no big deal, but deep down? Yeah, that was love.
boyfriend!Oscar who… notices the tiniest things. New shampoo? “You smell different. It’s nice.” New dress? “Wait, that’s new, right? Looks really good.” Always paying attention to the little details about you.
boyfriend!Oscar who… listens to everything you say like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Even if it’s just about something random like a drama. “Wait, wait, what did she say after that??” Fully invested in the conversation.
boyfriend!Oscar who… sends you dumb TikToks of him doing random filters. Zero context, just pops up on your phone.
boyfriend!Oscar who… sends voice notes when he’s busy. Sometimes it’s just “I miss you” or “Talk soon,” other times it’s him whisper-yelling from the paddock while Lando makes weird noises in the background.
boyfriend!Oscar who… insists on doing groceries together. Pushes the cart, lets you pick the snacks, then sneaks in something random like “Should we try this cereal? Looks good.”
boyfriend!Oscar who… gives you his jacket without hesitation. Says he’s not cold, even when he’s obviously freezing, still holding your hand like it’s fine. He’ll survive.
boyfriend!Oscar who… gets you paddock passes even if you said you might not come. Tells the team, “Just save her a spot anyway,” like it’s no big deal (but it really is).
boyfriend!Oscar who… lights up the second you show up at the track. He doesn’t have to say anything, but you can see it, in his face, in his mood, in the way the team starts teasing him the moment they realize why he’s smiling like that.
✿彡did you enjoy this? comments, likes, and reblogs are immensely appreciatedミ✿
heyy! can u write a fanfic abt wiping off f1 drivers’ kisses. like what would their reaction be if you wiped ur lips or cheeks after they kissed you? (preferably lando!) thank you!!
K I S S I N G - LN4
listen up : no warnings!! ovi kisses!!! thanks for the request i only have the energy to write for one driver rn!! <33
word count : 285
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Lando’s mouth is on yours, his body pressing against you as you lay slanted on the couch. “Lando, we have to go.” you whisper into the kiss.
He groans and just pulls you closer, his hands dangerously gripping your leg. You actually stop him this time, sitting up, and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, “We actually have to leave!”
Lando frowns, clocking your movement immediately. He kisses you quickly just to test it. You wipe your lips again.
“Excuse you?” He frowns, tilting his head.
“Hm?” You look up at him.
“You wiped your mouth.”
You try to hold back your smirk, “So?”
“So!? So, am I slobbery?” He scoffs, clearly offended, his curls moving as he looks away from you.
You roll your eyes, starting to stand before he pulls you back down, “Lando!”
He kisses you once more, pulling back to look up at you; as soon as your hand goes to your mouth, he lets out a laugh and kisses you again.
This has you both laughing now, he kisses your lips, then cheeks, your jaw, then neck. He’s peppering kisses all over you as you just squirm and laugh under him.
“Lan!” You scream as he kisses your shoulder.
“This is what you get for wiping away my love for you!” This makes you laugh more.
“Death by kiss.” You sigh and lean back into the cushions, resting a hand over your forehead, “Lovely way to go.”
He shakes his head, “I hate you.”
You grin and place your hand on his chin, kissing him softly, “No you don’t.”
