Summary: Yn, the new driver for a Ferrari, has a ritual before every race. Before the Monaco GP, she finally gets asked about it.
The 2026 season had already earned a reputation for being something special. After Lewis retired at the end of 2025, the world wondered who could ever fill the seat at Ferrari beside Charles. No one expected an eighteen-year-old girl with a sunshine smile, soft voice, and a heart big enough to hold the whole grid.
But Yn did.
And from the first test day in Bahrain, everyone fell in love with her.
She was polite to a fault, the kind of person who thanked mechanics for tightening wheel nuts and apologized to cameras she accidentally bumped into. She brought homemade cookies to the Ferrari garage during pre-season. She called the crew her “big red family.” Charlie practically treated her like a little sister from week one.
But what made fans love her even more was the ritual.
Every single race, right after the national anthem, she would return to her Ferrari, kneel in front of it, place one hand gently on the nose, hold her necklace with the other, bow her head, and whisper something no one could hear. The Ferrari crew always stepped away, forming a loose half-circle around her, guarding the moment like sacred ground.
And somehow, no one ever asked.
Until Monaco.
The press conference room buzzed in that familiar way Monaco always brought—glamour mixed with chaos. Yn sat between Max and George, with Carlos and Fernando on the far side. She looked tiny next to all of them, legs crossed, fingers anxiously playing with the chain of her necklace.
Max leaned over and whispered, “You okay?”
She smiled softly. “A little nervous.”
“Don’t be,” George said reassuringly. “It’s just Monaco. Everyone’s nervous.”
Fernando smirked. “Speak for yourselves, chicos. I am never nervous.”
Carlos elbowed him. “Liar.”
The room laughed, tension easing just as the moderator handed the floor to the first journalist.
Questions came and went—car setups, track evolution, strategy predictions. Yn answered sweetly, always careful, always grateful, always smiling like she didn’t quite believe she deserved to be there.
Then someone raised a hand at the front.
A journalist with a calm voice asked, “Yn, this question is for you. There’s something fans have been curious about. Before every race, you do a ritual. You kneel in front of your car, touch the nose, hold your necklace, and whisper something. Could you share what that means to you?”
The room went very still.
Yn froze. Her eyes widened, and her fingers gripped the necklace slightly. George turned his head toward her. Max’s brows lifted. Carlos and Fernando both leaned in just a bit.
She swallowed.
“Oh… um… that.” She let out a shy breathy laugh, cheeks turning pink. “I didn’t know people noticed it that much.”
“Everyone noticed,” Max said under his breath with a teasing smile.
Yn nudged his arm. “Max…”
“Go on,” George whispered. “Only if you want to.”
Yn nodded, looking down at her hands for a moment before lifting her head.
“It’s… not really anything dramatic,” she said softly. “It’s just… something I’ve done since karting. When I kneel like that, I pray.”
Max blinked. “You pray?”
“Yes.” Yn took another breath. “I pray to… Niki Lauda.”
The room gasped gently.
Fernando’s brows raised in visible surprise. Carlos’ expression softened noticeably.
Yn continued in her quiet voice. “I ask him to watch over all of us. All the drivers. I ask him to keep everyone safe and make sure no one gets hurt.” She fidgeted with the necklace, eyes glimmering. “And sometimes I ask him… if he has a little extra time… to help me get a podium.”
George’s smile melted into something pure and warm. Max leaned back, shaking his head with a soft laugh.
“That’s unbelievably sweet,” Carlos murmured.
Yn shrank. “It’s silly, I know—”
“It’s not silly,” Fernando cut in, surprisingly gentle. “Chica, that’s… that’s beautiful.”
She blushed again, staring down at her hands. “I also… um… I also pray to Senna sometimes.”
Max tilted his head. “Sometimes?”
“When it rains,” she whispered. “I ask him to help Niki watch over everyone. Just extra… extra protection.”
A collective soft “aww” swept the room.
Max couldn’t help it. “You’re actually the sweetest person I’ve ever met.”
Yn hid her face in her hands. “Stop.”
George laughed. “No, he’s right.”
Carlos nodded. “You always do your ritual with so much heart. Now we know why.”
Fernando said, “And now we will all think of it every race. Especially when it rains.”
Yn peeked at them shyly. “No one is allowed to make fun of me.”
Max put a hand dramatically over his chest. “I would never. This is sacred.”
George added, “If anyone makes fun of you, they have to deal with me.”
Carlos chimed in, “And me.”
Fernando snorted. “And me. I am scarier.”
Yn giggled softly, and the room collectively melted at the sound.
The next question turned to someone else, but the moment lingered like a warm glow. Even after the press conference ended, the drivers stayed around her.
As they walked out, Max bumped her shoulder lightly. “You know, if you ever need a podium, you can ask me too.”
“Max…” She laughed. “That’s not how it works.”
“Worth a try.”
George nudged her gently. “You okay? You got quiet.”
“I just…” She shrugged, holding her necklace again. “I didn’t think anyone would ask. It felt… private.”
“They asked because they care,” Carlos said. “And you answered honestly. That’s brave.”
Fernando smirked. “And adorable.”
Yn groaned, covering her face again. “Please stop calling me adorable.”
“You kneeled in front of your car and asked legends to watch over everyone,” Max said. “You’re adorable.”
“Max!”
Carlos raised a finger. “But you’re also a Ferrari driver. A fast one. Never forget that.”
Her cheeks flushed again. “I won’t.”
Race day arrived, and after the anthem, Yn walked back to her Ferrari. Cameras watched from a respectful distance. Fans fell silent. The Ferrari crew stepped back.
She knelt.
One hand reached out to brush the nose of the red car. The other curled around her necklace.
She whispered, barely audible even to herself.
“Watch over us. Keep everyone safe. Please.”
Then, after a heartbeat:
“And… if you can… maybe help me get a podium today. Just if you have time.”
When she stood, she found Max a few meters away, helmet already on. He tapped his chest twice, then pointed at her.
She blinked.
He pointed at the sky.
She realized what he meant.
They’re listening today.
She smiled beneath her balaclava and returned the gesture.
hi!! i was wondering if you could do a Toto Wolff x Wife!TeamPrincipalFerrari!Reader story on how they met! love ur writing as always <333 reallyyyyy fluffy if you can, thanks!!
The Beginning of Everything
🐺 main masterlist | Enemies on Track, Lovers at Home
Toto Wolff x Wife!TeamPrincipalFerrari!Reader
Summary: Before you were his wife, before Ferrari, before the chaos became family tradition, you were the new Mercedes strategy engineer who dared to argue with Toto Wolff in your first week. Toto was divorced, dating a Miss Austria type, and very sure he had his life under control. Then you walked into Brackley, challenged his call in front of Niki Lauda, and ruined his peace forever.
Warnings: pre-relationship, workplace tension, age gap (10 years), Toto dating someone else at the beginning, witty banter, Niki Lauda matchmaking, slow-burn, no cheating.
Word count: 2.6k
a/n: This is a universe where Toto was never with Susie — he’s divorced from his first wife, has Ben and Rosa, and around the time he becomes Mercedes team principal, he’s dating a model and Miss Austria. So yes, I’m bending reality a little… but hey, it’s my universe, so I can 😉 and Niki Lauda is there too!
The first time you met Toto Wolff, you told him he was wrong.
In your defense, he was.
It was your fourth day at Mercedes, your second strategy meeting, and the first time anyone had let you sit close enough to the main table to do more than quietly absorb information and pretend your pulse was not trying to escape through your throat.
You were young, new, and very aware that this room contained people who had forgotten more about Formula 1 than most people ever learned.
And then there was Toto. Sharp-eyed, three years into running Mercedes, already with that terrifying calm authority that made grown men suddenly remember they had urgent emails to check.
Beside him sat Niki Lauda, cap on, face unreadable, eyes very much not unreadable.
He had noticed you the second you walked in. Of course he had. Niki noticed everything.
The discussion was about tyre strategy for the upcoming race, and someone had just presented a model that looked neat, logical, polished, and in your opinion, painfully optimistic.
Toto leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
“So we commit to Plan A unless degradation exceeds threshold by lap eighteen.”
Several heads nodded. You looked at the data. Then at the weather model. Then at the track evolution estimates. Then back at Toto.
Your mouth opened before your survival instincts could stop you. “That’s too late.”
Silence. Beautiful, career-ending silence.
Every person at the table turned toward you.
Toto’s eyes landed on you slowly. “I’m sorry?”
You sat up a little straighter.
“That threshold should trigger by lap fourteen, not eighteen.”
Someone coughed. Niki’s eyebrow lifted.
Toto didn’t move.
“And you are basing that on?”
You clicked to the next slide before anyone could confiscate your laptop.
“Track temperature variance, rear-left wear from last year, and the fact that our sim assumes clean air for too many laps. If we wait until lap eighteen, we’ll be reacting, not controlling.”
Another silence. Different this time.
Toto stared at the screen. Then at you.
“You’ve been here four days.”
“Yes.”
“And you already want to rewrite the strategy model.”
“Only the wrong part.”
Somebody at the end of the table made a tiny sound that was either horror or admiration. Niki leaned back, mouth twitching.
Toto’s gaze sharpened.
“You think it is that simple?”
“No,” you said. “I think pretending it isn’t obvious makes it complicated.”
That was when Niki laughed. Enough to ruin the tension completely.
Toto turned his head. “Something funny?”
Niki pointed at you with his pen. “I like her.”
You tried not to look too pleased. Failed.
Toto looked back at you, expression carefully controlled. “Noted.”
It sounded like a warning. It felt like a beginning.
*
For the next three weeks, you and Toto disagreed professionally. Aggressively professionally.
You disagreed about pit windows. You disagreed about risk tolerance. You disagreed about whether “marginally possible” meant “worth attempting” or “absolutely not unless you wanted everyone in the garage to age ten years.”
Niki loved it. He loved it far too much. Every time Toto walked into a strategy briefing and found you already prepared with a counterargument, Niki’s entire mood improved.
“Good,” he said once, watching you challenge Toto over undercut probability. “Now he has someone who does not nod like a donkey.”
Toto shot him a look. Niki ignored it. You, unfortunately, laughed.
Toto turned that look on you. You stopped laughing. Mostly.
“You find this amusing?” he asked.
“A little.”
“Dangerous answer.”
“I work in strategy. I like danger.”
“No,” he said dryly. “You like giving me headaches.”
Niki pointed between you two. “This,” he said, “is better than television.”
At first, you told yourself Toto irritated you.
That was safe.
He was older than you by ten years. Your boss. Divorced. Father of two. Recently photographed with a woman who looked like she had been assembled by a luxury skincare brand and crowned Miss Austria just to prove a point.
He was not someone you were supposed to notice.
So you noticed practical things. His handwriting on printed reports. The way he went quiet before making a decision. The way people listened when he spoke. The way he never raised his voice unless he had already run out of patience with stupidity. The way he said your name when you annoyed him. Especially that.
You hated that. You liked that. Which was worse.
Toto, for his part, seemed determined to treat you like a professional inconvenience. A smart one. A useful one. An attractive one.
No.
You refused that thought immediately. You were not doing this. Except sometimes you caught him watching you after meetings when he thought you were focused on your laptop.
Sometimes his eyes stayed on you half a second too long. Sometimes your arguments became less about the car and more about whether either of you could get the last word.
“You are impossible,” he told you after one particularly brutal debrief.
You gathered your papers.
“You say that like it’s a flaw.”
“It is a workplace hazard.”
“You hired me.”
“I am reconsidering.”
“You’d be bored.”
He looked at you then. And for one brief second, the room seemed to shrink around the two of you.
Then Niki’s voice came from the doorway. “He would.”
You and Toto both turned.
Niki stood there, unimpressed and delighted. “He was boring before you came,” he added.
Toto sighed. “Niki.”
“What? It is true.”
You pressed your lips together, fighting a smile.
Toto noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Back to work,” he said.
“Yes, boss.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. Niki laughed all the way down the corridor.
*
The Miss Austria girlfriend appeared at a Monaco event in a gold dress and perfect hair.
You knew this because you were there with Mercedes, wearing a black jumpsuit, heels that were beginning to feel like a personal betrayal, and the expression of a woman trying to network while secretly wishing she could be back in the data room.
She was beautiful. Obviously. Elegant. Polished. Camera-ready.
She touched Toto’s arm while he spoke to sponsors, smiled up at him, laughed at the right moments.
You watched for exactly three seconds too long. Then looked away.
Niki appeared beside you with champagne.
“No,” you said immediately.
He held the glass out. “You need it.”
“I’m working.”
“You are staring.”
“I am observing.”
“Same thing when stupid.”
You took the champagne.
“I’m not stupid.”
“No,” Niki said. “That is the problem.”
You frowned at him.
He nodded toward Toto across the room.
“He watches you too.”
Your heart did something very unprofessional. “He does not.”
Niki snorted. “I have eyes. Also, I am not dead.”
“Niki.”
“What?”
“He has a girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“And I work for him.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s ten years older.”
Niki waved a hand. “Ten years is nothing. In Formula 1 that is one bad regulation cycle.”
You nearly choked on your champagne. “Niki.”
He looked pleased with himself.
Across the room, Toto glanced over. His eyes found you. Then Niki. Then the champagne in your hand. His expression shifted. Not much but enough.
You looked away first. Which annoyed you for the rest of the evening.
*
The thing with Toto did not happen all at once. That would have been too easy.
It happened in pieces. Small ones. A coffee left on your desk after a brutal late-night sim session. No note. Just your exact order. You knew it was him anyway.
A message at 1:13 a.m.
Toto: Your tyre model was correct. Don’t look too pleased tomorrow.
You replied:
You: No promises.
He sent back:
Toto: Unfortunately expected.
Then there was Silverstone. Rain threatened all weekend, the pit wall was tense, and your call during the race saved Mercedes from losing track position.
Afterward, the garage exploded. People clapped your shoulder. Someone hugged you. An engineer shouted your name.
You turned, breathless, and found Toto standing a few feet away. He didn’t cheer. He didn’t need to. He just looked at you with quiet pride so direct it made your chest tighten.
“Well done,” he said.
Two words. Ridiculous.
You thought about them all night.
After that, something changed. Not publicly. Never publicly. But in the margins. His hand at your lower back when guiding you through a crowded paddock. Your shoulder brushing his in narrow corridors. His eyes finding yours across the garage after a risky call landed perfectly. Your voice softer when you said his name after midnight in strategy rooms empty enough to feel dangerous.
And Niki, always watching. Always smirking.
One evening in Brackley, after Toto left the room to take a call, Niki looked at you over his glasses.
“You know he ended it.”
You froze. “With who?”
He gave you a flat look. “With the Queen of Austria. Who do you think?”
You nearly dropped your pen. “That’s none of my business.”
“Everything is your business. You are strategy.”
You stared at your notes. “I’m not discussing Toto’s private life.”
“Good. Then discuss yours.”
“My private life is boring.”
“Not for long.”
You looked up at him sharply.
Niki smiled like a menace. “I am old. I can say these things.”
“You’re impossible.”
“No. I am right.”
Unfortunately, Niki Lauda often was. Terrible habit.
*
Toto confessed after a race you lost.
That was the funny part. Not after a victory. Not after champagne. Not under fireworks or podium lights. After a messy race where Mercedes finished lower than expected, half the pit wall wanted to murder the weather radar, and you had spent twenty minutes in a debrief arguing with Toto so intensely that one of the junior engineers looked like he wanted to crawl under the table.
When the room finally emptied, you stayed behind to gather your things. Toto stayed too.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then you said, “You were wrong about the second stop.”
He exhaled slowly. “Are we really doing this now?”
“Yes.”
He turned toward you. “You also pushed too hard on the first stint estimate.”
“Because the data supported it.”
“The data was incomplete.”
“The decision window was closing.”
“And your ego was driving.”
You looked up.“My ego?”
“Yes.”
You stepped closer. “That is very interesting coming from you.”
His eyes darkened slightly. “Careful.”
“Or what?”
The silence that followed had nothing to do with strategy.
Your pulse changed. So did his.
He looked at you for a long moment, the argument fading into something heavier, something both of you had been walking around for months.
Then he said, very quietly, “I cannot keep doing this.”
Your stomach dropped. You straightened. “Doing what?”
“This.”
His hand moved once between you, sharp with frustration.
“The arguments that are not only arguments. The looks. The late nights. The way I think about what you will say before you say it. The way I look for you in every room before I remember I should not.”
Your breath caught. “Toto…”
“No,” he said, voice low, controlled, but not cold. Never cold. “Let me say it once, properly, before one of us hides behind work again.”
You went still. He stepped closer.
“I ended my relationship because it was not fair to her. Or to me.” His jaw tightened. “And because somewhere between you telling me I was wrong in your first meeting and proving it repeatedly afterward, I started wanting a life that made no practical sense.”
You swallowed. “That sounds inefficient.”
His mouth twitched despite everything. “Very.”
You tried to smile. It came out shaky.
He saw it. His expression softened.
“I know this is complicated,” he said. “I know I am your boss. I know I am older. I know people would talk. I know all the reasons we should be careful.”
“And yet?”
“And yet,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “I am in love with you.”
The world went very quiet.
You had imagined many things. Arguing with him. Beating him in strategy meetings. Making him laugh when he tried not to. Maybe, stupidly, hearing him say something almost like this one day.
But actually hearing it? That was different. That knocked all the air from your lungs.
“You are?” you whispered.
His brow lifted faintly, that familiar dry humor returning just enough to steady you both.
“That was generally the meaning of the sentence, yes.”
You laughed. Softly. Helplessly. Then your eyes stung, which was deeply inconvenient.
“Toto.”
“I don’t expect an answer now.”
“Good, because my brain has briefly left the building.”
His smile was small. Tender. The kind you had only ever seen by accident.
“I only needed you to know.”
You looked at him then. At the man who annoyed you. Challenged you. Protected the team like it was an extension of his own body. Stayed too late. Noticed too much. Made you furious. Made you better. Made you feel seen in a way that was almost unbearable.
“I’m in love with you too,” you said.
He went still. Completely. For once, Toto Wolff had no immediate response.
And you liked that very much.
Then he stepped closer, slow enough to give you space, close enough to make your heart pound.
“Say that again.”
You smiled. “No.”
His eyes narrowed. “No?”
“You heard me.”
“I did,” he said, voice lower now. “I want to hear it again.”
You tilted your head.“Bossy.”
“Always.”
You should have said something clever. You really should have. Instead, you rose onto your toes and kissed him.
For half a second, he didn’t move. Then his hand came to your waist, careful but firm, and he kissed you back like a man who had been holding his breath for months and finally remembered how to breathe.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“This will be difficult,” he murmured.
You smiled.
“You run Mercedes. I rewrite your strategies. We’ll survive.”
He let out a quiet laugh.
From the doorway, a voice said, “Finally.”
You both froze. Niki stood there, arms crossed, looking deeply satisfied and not even slightly apologetic.
You closed your eyes. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.”
Toto sighed. “Niki.”
“What?” Niki said. “You were both taking too long. I am old. I don’t have time.”
You hid your face against Toto’s chest because laughing openly at your boss after kissing him seemed like a questionable career move.
Toto’s hand stayed at your waist. That told you everything.
Niki pointed at him. “You. Don’t be stupid.”
Then at you. “You. Keep telling him when he is wrong.”
You looked up, smiling despite yourself.
“I can do that.”
“I know,” Niki said. “That is why I like you.”
Then he turned and walked away as if he had personally solved the greatest operational challenge in Mercedes history.
Maybe he had.
Toto looked down at you. “You realize he will be unbearable now.”
“He already was.”
“True.”
You smoothed one hand over his shirt, suddenly shy again in the aftermath.
“So… what now?”
His expression softened.
“Now,” he said, brushing his thumb gently along your waist, “we do this properly. Slowly. Carefully.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Carefully?”
He gave you a look.
“I am capable of being careful.”
“Debatable.”
“You are impossible.”
You smiled.
“You keep saying that.”
“And yet,” he murmured, leaning closer, “I seem to like impossible things.”
This time, when he kissed you, you smiled against his mouth.
Outside the room, Mercedes carried on.
The season continued. The paddock would talk eventually. Life would become complicated, because of course it would.
But for that one moment, before the headlines, before the marriage, before Ferrari red ever entered the story... there was only you, Toto, and the beginning of everything.
And somewhere down the corridor, Niki was probably already telling someone he had seen it coming.
